Chapter 23 Elias
TWENTY-THREE
Elias
I wake in the huge bed when the bedroom door opens and Andre walks in wearing the same black clothes he was wearing yesterday.
Morning light is streaming in through the huge windows that are high enough above the city to see the water.
I’m surprised to have slept so well, but then I am very comfortable.
I wasn’t at first. After Andre shut me in here last night, I sat on the floor for a long time. Then I did bad things. But Andre never came in. He knows how to punish me.
So I eventually went to bed. And now I don’t want to get out. I’m embarrassed to have Andre see what I’ve done.
He steps over the shattered remains of a vase that had no flowers in it. He doesn’t react to it. He ignores the damaged walls. He comes straight to the bed.
I clutch at the covers, but he rips them from my hands, yanking them away and exposing me. I try to cover my scratched thighs and belly, but Andre grabs my wrists and pins them above my head.
I close my eyes because his are too intense. I hear him breathing angrily above me, and I can’t help it: I get hard.
“You were very bad last night,” he says in low, dangerous voice.
I swallow hard and keep my eyes shut.
“Look at me, Elias.”
I open my eyes and shiver at the searing blue staring down at me.
“You were very bad,” he says again, but he hasn’t even see the worst of it, and as he hovers over me and I start shaking with anticipation and life, I worry that when he does see it, he’ll punish me like he did last night, that he’ll leave me here again, alone.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.
Touch me, I think. Fuck me. Hit me. Hurt me. Just don’t leave me.
Andre lets go of my wrists. I pull my arms in and fold them over my chest as Andre’s hands glide over the scratches on my belly and hips. I arch, pushing my cock up, but his hands slide past it to my scratched thighs.
“This is no,” he says.
Tears spring to my eyes. It’s been a long time since I’ve done this.
Andre grips my thighs, squeezing hard. “Do you hear me?”
I nod.
“Stay here,” he says.
My heart skitters as he releases my legs and straightens, but he doesn’t walk out. He goes into the bathroom and closes the door.
When I hear the shower, I think about darting into the closet to hide the evidence, but there’s nowhere to hide it. Besides, he told me to stay, and I’m afraid that if I disobey him, he’ll leave me.
I occupy my mind with analyzing the sounds from the bathroom.
After he showers, he shaves. I know it by the tapping of his razor against the sink.
Then he dries his hair. Smaller sounds I can’t discern.
I’m eaten up with curiosity. What does he use?
I know he doesn’t wear cologne. I’m glad because I love how he smells, though I only got to smell him once, and that was at Lush.
He smelled clean and masculine and delicious.
When he emerges from the bathroom, it’s with a white towel wrapped around his waist. My breath catches.
Despite all the times he’s fucked me, I’ve never seen any of his body before, and it’s every bit as beautiful as I imagined.
He has a carved but fluid look. He’s powerful but not bulky.
Muscle moves smoothly in his torso and shoulders and arms. I want to see the rest of him. I want to touch him.
But he walks past me and vanishes into the closet. I hold my breath. I brace myself. But he doesn’t yell at me or call me to him. He walks back out carrying the suit that I peed on. He carries it into the bathroom. I hear the faucet as he washes his hands.
He comes back into the room, still with the towel around his waist. His eyes look angry, but his cock is now hard. It’s pressing visibly against the hanging towel.
I draw in a stuttering breath. I shift on the bed, writhing against the sheets.
But he just walks past me again, ignoring my whine, and returns to the closet. It’s physically painful to stay in the bed. I want to go after him. I want to break more things so he has to deal with me, but I’m afraid. He told me to stay here.
When he finally emerges from the closet, he’s wearing a black three-piece suit.
His body distracted me before, but now I focus on his face.
Without the stubble that shadowed it yesterday, all the strong, chiseled lines are laid bare.
He’s so handsome. And in that suit, he looks like my boss: beautiful and stern.
But he’s more than that.
He’s my stalker and my monster. He’s my captor. My owner.
Elias is mine, he said.
Don’t leave me, I beg in my mind.
“Get up,” he orders.
The shudder of relief that goes through me has his eyes flashing, but I’m not sure what it means. I can’t tell if he’s still hard. I am. Not as hard as I was though. I’m too worried.
As I slide out of the bed, he turns away. My heart leaps into my throat as he opens the bedroom door, but he leaves it open as he walks out. I follow.
He leads me through the luxurious penthouse. He picks something up off the living room couch, but I don’t see what it is before it vanishes into his pocket.
I’ve been keeping a cautious distance, but I hurry when I see that he’s heading to the elevator. I dart inside. He doesn’t try to stop me.
It’s not until the doors slide shut that I wonder where we’re going.
He’s fully dressed, but I’m naked and still partially hard.
I’m filthy too. I never cleaned up last night.
Most of the cum on my torso wore off in the bed, but I can still feel it between my ass cheeks and legs. My deeper scratches bled.
I’m both terrified and thrilled to think that he’ll let people see me like this. But the elevator doors open a few seconds later to reveal Andre’s office.
I follow him out of the elevator and across the office to the bathroom.
“Get dressed,” he orders.
I’m confused. I don’t have any clothes. Then I see what he’s drawn from his pocket.
My breath catches at the sight of the collar. My collar. He must have gone into my apartment last night.
Andre must register my flash of annoyance because he says, “Your space belongs to me, just like your body.”
I’m confused and conflicted. On the one hand, that’s exactly what I want. But on the other, I’m upset.
I think Andre likes that because he smiles cruelly and tells me, “There are six cameras in your apartment.”
I frown.
Andre grabs my jaw and forces me to look at him. I see the danger in his eyes, the violence that killed two men last night. One of them was my cousin. And I loved it. I loved it so much.
And when he chased me through that apartment, when he caught me and fucked me on the floor beside the blood, he set me free. Free of myself.
I’m still free. I’m in a new, altered reality, and I love it. I don’t want to leave it.
So I let go of my annoyance. I submit.
Andre’s smile softens. His voice is almost a purr as he says, “Good boy.”
I draw a stuttering breath.
Andre releases my jaw and picks up my hand. He lays the collar across my palm. He could put it on me himself, but he’s testing my obedience.
As I step into the bathroom, he closes the door behind me.
Andre didn’t tell me to clean up and I don’t really want to. I like that I’m dirty. It feels right. But I do brush my teeth, wash my face, and comb my hair because I want to be pretty too.
And I am, I realize as I strap the collar around my neck and look at myself in the mirror. I feel like I see myself for the first time, like I’m finally fully visible. I’m beautiful with this black leather strap at my throat.
My cock stiffens fully again. I like this reality.
I even like the scratches marring my skin. I don’t know why. I just do.
I leave the bathroom and find Andre waiting for me in the middle of the office. He’s removed his jacket, exposing his white shirt sleeves with their cufflinks, his black vest and silver watchchain, and the hard ridge of his cock pressing against the front of his pants.
As I walk across the office to him, I catch my own movement in the wall of mirrors. I see our contrast: Andre in his beautiful clothes, his powerful body still, his arousal mostly hidden—and me, naked and collared, scratched all over, my hard cock bobbing freely as I walk.
I am, however, a little cautious. I haven’t forgotten how he reacted when I grabbed at him in the cell. This time, I show him that I’ll behave. He collared and claimed me. I don’t have to be as desperate now. I kneel at his feet. I look up at him.
He’s angry in spite of my submission. His blue eyes burn on me with a deep, simmering rage. I know he’s angry with me. I vaguely know why, but I’m not really thinking about it. I don’t want to. I don’t care right now.
Andre opens his pants and lets his stiff, engorged cock spring out. Veins thread heavily along his shaft to the fat, flared tip.
A shudder of pleasure goes through me. My mouth waters. My own stiff dick twitches. I’ve imagined his cock so many times, have felt it inside me—but I’ve never gotten to look at it before. I’ve never gotten to touch it.
Andre hooks his finger in my collar and pulls me forward.
My lips part, and his hot, hard cock slides into my mouth.
My eyelashes flutter at the slow filthiness of it as I take him to the back of my throat.
I start to suck. A breath hisses into him.
I glance up to see that his teeth are bared.
His finger is still hooked in my collar.
He’s so scary. I love it. I love him. I meant it when I said that. I love him.
I reach up to grip the part of his cock that doesn’t fit in my mouth. He growls at me, but I keep going. I’m not afraid to make him angry. I’m only afraid to make him go cold.
“No,” he says through clenched teeth.
It’s not a safe word, so I ignore it. He doesn’t really have a safe word, I guess. He just has power. He can use it if he wants. Until then …
I stroke and squeeze his cock as I suck him. My other hand goes to his swollen balls. He growls at me again, but I roll and massage them anyway.