Chapter 9 Vaughn
VAUGHN
Ihaven’t been able to sleep.
Or think properly.
Or even breathe without the sensation of an oppressive object sitting on my chest.
Ever since that waste of space Yulian showed up out of nowhere in my territory, under my own nose, as if he has every right to, I’ve been on perpetual edge.
A pressure I haven’t felt for so long has been simmering, the tension coiling at the back of my skull.
I’m restless.
Almost neurotic, if I’m being brutally honest.
I spent the early morning hitting the bag, then running, then swimming. My limbs ache to the point of exhaustion, yet nothing has eased the tightness in my muscles, my stomach, my bones.
Everywhere.
I walk into my penthouse in Manhattan. I got this place despite my parents’ objection about security, since, objectively speaking, the most secure place in NYC is probably their mansion. They bulletproofed it so well, no one dares to come close.
However, I needed to have a place of my own after I started college, mainly so Danika and I could have our own space. Or maybe it’s because I needed my own space.
Because, despite Danika’s numerous hints about moving in with me, I’d rather she doesn’t. At least, not yet.
The penthouse is huge, with a contemporary-style interior design.
There’s a large, bold impressionist painting with green and red hues in the living area.
It’s the only break of color in the beige tones—both of these were Danika’s ideas.
It’s not truly my personal preference, but I had to make the compromise so I could dodge her attempts to move in.
When I first decided to live here a few months ago, Dad bought the whole building, had most of it occupied by his security and the rest by people he trusts, so, in a sense, I didn’t really leave home.
I don’t blame him or Mom for wanting to protect me. For using every resource they have to ensure that I’m not only safe, but that I also have access to the best guards, who were personally trained by them.
Ever since the time I was almost killed at that cursed summer camp, my parents have become overprotective. They try not to infringe on my freedom to the point of suffocation, but there’s only so much they can do without having guards in my surroundings at all times.
Their goal is to ensure I’m never separated from my guards again.
Not that I object—I have better things to do than die.
And really, if I don’t focus too much, I don’t notice the guards shadowing me.
As the penthouse’s elevator closes behind me, I expel a lingering breath.
All right.
I need to focus on better things instead of uneven eyes and veiled threats.
With my new resolve, I unpack my gym bag, then put my workout clothes in the washing machine and start the cycle.
Yes, there are staff members who do this for us, but I always liked to take care of my own things. It’s not really controlling tendencies, as my cousin Lidya tells me.
Or maybe it is.
If the shoe fits, I guess.
I just like having everything in order in my structured space. There’s comfort in knowing everything is exactly where it belongs. The clothes in the washing machine, the sneakers in the shoe compartment, the bag in the closet, neatly tucked between other bags, all color-coded.
Mom says I take after Uncle Anton, and I guess I do. He’s also neurotically organized, dare I say more than my parents combined.
After I arrange everything in place, I walk into the kitchen and retrieve some eggs and milk from the fridge. As I set them on the counter, my fingers still wrapped around the neck of the glass bottle, I pull out my phone.
I should text Danika good morning and check on her.
Truth is, I wasn’t the best companion last night. At least, not after that pest showed up.
Break up with her and change schools, he said.
I release a huff.
Who the hell does that prick think he is, expecting me to follow his demands?
And they were demands.
He seems to have grown so much audacity in the past four years, transitioning from ridiculous to downright entitled.
At any rate, I was livid and distracted for the rest of the evening, and Danika got the short end of the stick of my changing moods.
We did spend time together, and I fucked her like I always do after dates, against the kitchen counter, making sure she orgasmed. After all these years, I’ve learned to touch her the right way to have her shake around my cock.
It’s kind of my favorite part about sex, just seeing her enjoy what I give. It’s how I manage to reach a climax myself.
Yesterday, though, I had to keep going for quite a bit. My thoughts drifted elsewhere, and my body was stiflingly not really into it.
Though really, sex is a habit at this point, which is natural for long-term relationships, I believe.
So when Danika said her dad expected her back to discuss their family’s situation, I just let her go, then proceeded to toss and turn in bed.
When that got to be too much, I indulged in bad habits—things I always told myself I’d never do again.
I swipe open my phone and see a message from an unknown number. My brow furrows.
My phone number is encrypted, so no one should have access to it, let alone someone unknown.
Every instinct tells me not to open it, but then again, I need to know who the hell got hold of my number.
Unknown Number
For your entertainment
With a deepening frown, I click on the cloud link attached, and it takes me to a video.
The footage is a little unsteady, with faint light barely illuminating what appears to be a hotel room.
At first, I can’t make out what I’m seeing as the camera trembles slightly, but gradually, it steadies, coming into sharp focus.
A huge hard cock lies between big breasts with brown areolas. I tilt my head to the side, a prickling sense of recognition washing over me.
“Damn, these tits are fucking amazing.”
The voice.
The deep, slightly raspy voice, low and raw, like smoke curling in a noose around my throat.
That damn voice I’d recognize anywhere.
Fucking Yulian.
“You don’t mind me filming, yeah?” he speaks again, thrusting his cock between the breasts cradled in a pair of scarlet-tipped hands.
“Why are you filming?” she asks in an extremely familiar breathy moan.
My fingers tighten around the bottle of milk.
“Because I want to keep this memory, beautiful.”
“It’s okay. Just don’t post it online.”
“I won’t. This will be our dirty little secret.” I can hear the smirk woven through the lazy drawl of his “dirty.”
I don’t need to see their faces to know exactly who’s speaking. They’re both etched so deep in my psyche, it’s impossible not to recognize them.
Still, a part of me refuses to accept it.
“You’re so fucking hot, did you know that?” The words fall from him in a soft growl.
The camera follows his cock as he slides it down her stomach and over the gold dress that’s bunched around her waist.
“So are you.” She moans, running her fingers over defined abs, and he films that, following the motion of her red nails. “Fuck me with your huge cock, handsome.”
“You want this cock pounding your little pussy?”
“Mmm.”
He puts on a condom, and I tilt my head as he strokes his cock in one rough go, humming deep in his throat.
“Like this?” He thrusts inside her, and she screams, and it sounds like, “Yess, fuck me, please.”
The camera shakes as he drives into her with long, harsh strokes.
In a way I’ve never fucked her before.
A way I wouldn’t fuck her.
Because Danika is the softest thing in my life, and I treat her like a treasure.
She is.
She was.
Not anymore, though.
Because in the video, she’s moaning and screaming as she’s being fucked to within an inch of her life by someone else.
That someone flips her around, hauls her off the bed, and fucks her doggie style, shoving her head on the carpet as she blabbers and asks for more.
He removes the condom, whirls her so that she’s facing him and fists her hair as she deep-throats his cock.
His fingers flex, his groans filling my ears as he fucks her face, making her gag, cum and saliva trickling down her chin.
Her face shows in those shots, so messed up with snot and tears and his cum, and yet she looks at him with big, wide eyes, her cheeks flushed, her expression eager.
Something I’ve never witnessed, because she’s never looked at me the way she’s looking at him—as if he’s a god.
She’s so into it, she comes more than once.
A few times, actually.
I can see it in her shaking limbs and hear it in the throaty moans and loud screams. I witness it in her eagerness to help him put a condom on. She even suggests removing it altogether, but he doesn’t.
The entire thing rolls before my eyes in high definition. I see the way his cock plunges in and out of her pussy again. I listen to degrading, dirty talk I wouldn’t dare say to her that she seems to get off on.
And I watch.
On and on.
Frozen in place as the video plays.
I witness the absolute sheer madness of how he fucks—going deep and slow, then harsh and fast as he kneads and slaps and parts her ass cheeks.
And I listen, really listen, to the way they moan and groan and how she whimpers and begs.
I’ve fucked Danika more times than I can count, and yet I’ve never seen her like this.
It’s like I’m watching a stranger—someone so removed from my memories, it’s as if I’m staring at an imposter.
But she’s not.
An impostor.
Or removed from my memories.
She’s just not someone who fits into my life or the scene in the perfect picture I imagined hanging in my future home.
My. Not our.
I don’t believe I’ve ever thought of us as an actual “us,” and I’d feel sorry for that under different circumstances.
That I’m not sentimental enough.
Not caring enough.
Simply not enough.
Not now, though.
As she rides Yulian and keeps praising his cock, his performance, and the way she’s “feeling him in her stomach,” I let my real emotions slip through.
Detachment.