Chapter 25
Chapter Twenty-Five
EDIE
The Milaga is an ornate historic hotel in the South Bronx, much nicer looking than the Belmoreland Arms, where this whole thing began.
A doorman in a red suit and cap comes out from under a red awning and opens the door of my cab for me.
“Thanks,” I say, stepping out.
Orton is suddenly there. Where did he come from? “Luka’s delayed. Come on.”
“Hello to you, too.” I follow Orton into a bright, elegant lobby. There are flowers everywhere and fashionable people I’d like to spend more time looking at. We pass a large roped-off area laden with gifts and a marvelous fountain on the way to the ornate elevator.
The elevator doors clank closed and it begins to move. The inside of the elevator feels like a metaphor for my situation—enclosed by gold filigree walls, rising upward, but there’s definitely a chance I could start plummeting down.
The elevator ride takes forever, and I feel like Orton’s looking at me weirdly. Like he can see my nervousness .
Well, I am nervous. And the silence feels awkward. “So... are all those gifts down there for me?” I joke.
“Saudi wedding, probably. Saudis love this hotel.”
“So none of them are for me?”
Orton frowns at me. “Why the fuck would you think that?”
“Just joking around.”
“Don’t.”
We ride the rest of the way without a word.
Luka’s suite is on the eighth floor—the top floor.
“I’m in 802 down the hall,” Orton says, pushing the door open for me. “Knock if you need something, but it better be life or death.”
“Wait. How long will he be delayed?”
“He’ll get here when he gets here.” With that, Orton leaves.
“Thanks, jackass,” I whisper, closing the door behind him.
I wander around the huge, luxurious suite, marveling at what looks like very expensive art on the walls, and there’s an amazing view of Manhattan. I run my hand over the velvet couch back, making streaks of deep indigo in the royal blue fabric.
I’m trying to focus on anything but what’s ahead. Anything but the feel of his hands on me. The brutal way he takes me over and makes me feel things I’ve never felt. The way he makes me lose myself.
I’m hyperaware of the kiss of my linen dress against my body. Of the coolness of the air as I suck in nervous breaths. And, of course, the Brazilian wax.
What if he is delayed for hours? I force myself to make the best of it, pulling out my phone and doing some reading about how everyday medieval households worked—cooking, cleaning, expenses.
At first I can’t focus, jumping at every hallway sound, but I eventually lose myself in this obscure text I was lucky to find digitized.
Direct source material from the late 11th century is rare, especially when it’s about common people.
Anastasia Laskarina, the Byzantine princess and first teen historian, mostly recorded politics and rulers, though she did document village fears from her maids’ stories—crop failures, plagues, and especially the Pecheneg invaders.
These nomadic fighters terrified both peasants and royalty alike. They’d burn olive trees and grapevines that had stood for centuries and consumed stored food before moving on to destroy neighboring farms. Pure waste. They could have sustained themselves for years if they’d left them intact.
I grab a bag of chips from the minibar, not caring if Luka’s hospitality extends to snacks. I eat the whole bag of Fritos, my own little rebellion for making me wait for him in the middle of the night.
I burn through the Sun Chips and the mini-Pringles after that, staring out at the light on the other side of the Hudson River. There are small clusters of people down below, going home after a night out, probably, and not appreciating their free choice.
I’d be asleep in bed by now. That would be my choice.
I nearly jump out of my skin when I hear the door unlock.
Orton opens the door and steps aside to make way for Luka.
I gasp at the sight of him, all beaten up and bloody. His clothes are ripped, and his eye is so puffy it’s nearly closed. “Oh my God, what happened?”
Orton shuts the door and points in the direction of the bedroom. “Leave us. Close the door.”
I walk into the bedroom and shut the door. I sit on the bed and wait some more, clutching my phone. I can hear them arguing in low tones.
I hear the sound of water running. Are they cleaning him up out there? Angry voices. Arguing? Talking about somebody they mutually hate?
A door slams. The bedroom door bangs open a few minutes later, and there he is .
He stops at the foot of the bed, swaying like some sort of brute, bruised and battered and wild. A savage invader looking over his meal.
I’m more keenly aware of the Brazilian wax than ever. My heart pounds. Waiting.
His face is red and puffy in places, though the blood is washed off, thankfully, and he’s changed from his bloody designer suit into a new dark shirt, buttoned up and tucked into gray slacks.
The bottom part of him is a fashion plate, but his face is pure beast mode.
With shaking hands, I turn off my phone and put it aside. “Are you okay?”
He seems to be processing the question. For all that he’s beaten up, he looks beautiful, angelic eyes shining through his monstrously battered face.
“Luka?”
He points at a spot on the bed in front of him. “Need you to....”
“What happened?”
He points.
I scoot forward slowly. When I get near, he touches my hair and strokes a hand over it, movements clumsy, like a bear trying to be tender.
I let out a ragged breath, unsure what to do with the heat surging through me.
He grabs my hair, twisting it in his grip.
I gasp, thrumming with forbidden excitement.
He just holds my hair, twisting it more tightly. It’s not pain so much as delicious intensity.
“Need,” he breathes, swaying. “ Need .”
Yessssss, I think.
He pulls me off the bed and makes me kneel down in front of him. “Take me out.”
I press my hand to his ridge, hard as a stone. He groans and grips my hair harder.
The carpet is soft against my knees—a wicked counterpoint to the way he holds my hair.
I grab him through his pants. He growls like a beast.
I fumble with his belt, pulling it open.
He has both hands on my head now, one fisting my hair and one stroking it. It’s like he’s moving from a purely primal impulse.
I pull his underwear down. His cock springs up, hard and majestic. I grab him at the root and squeeze.
He makes a strangled sound that I find deeply gratifying. I hold him tightly and lick the shining bead off the tip of him.
“Yes,” he breathes.
My pulse races as I press my lips over him and take him into my mouth. I shouldn’t be so into this with him so dramatically injured. It’s perverse, really—this man should be recuperating.
But I love him like this.
I give him a hard suck, and he groans, tightening his hold on my hair and using it as a rope to maneuver my head how he wants, like I’m a puppet to use for his beastly pleasure.
I glare up at him. He fucks my mouth with an unforgiving, unrelenting rhythm, nearly choking me with his cock because he’s a bad, bad person.
I seriously can’t believe how savage he looks, unbound by the laws of man and beast and even gravity.
“Fuck yeah,” he growls.
I’m sucking harder, turning up the intensity. Not that I’m into it, I tell myself. It’s just that things are getting intense.
Rough calluses slide over my cheek. “Eyes. Scorn.”
When did I close my eyes?
I open them and give him the scorn he craves—easily. It’s all right there. My desire and my revulsion for what I’m turning into are all mixed around in a brew of lust I don’t even want to understand .
He tells me to touch myself, and it’s like I’m rubbing out an ache, rubbing and rubbing while he fists my hair. He’s made me into a base and senseless creature, masturbating while choking on his cock.
And the truth is that if he asked me to stop, I don’t know if I could. His harsh enchantments have gotten the best of me, and I need to get off—just like this—with his unforgiving fist in my hair.
“Fuck,” he gasps, coming into my mouth.
His rhythm becomes more animal, something dark and timeless, a primitive, punishing force.
His other hand spreads across the back of my skull, palming it and forcing my face fully into his cock, keeping and holding me there, choking me as his cock pulses.
I don’t know if it’s the shock of his brutality or what, but an orgasm explodes in me like a stormy ocean of pleasure crashing over my brain, crashing and crashing, consuming me.
I don’t understand how it keeps going, sweeping me in and out, drowning me in pleasure.
Dimly in the corner of my brain, still pulsing with electricity, I’m aware of him petting my hair roughly like he has paws instead of hands. Petting my hair, swearing softly, “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.”
He’s out of my mouth. He pulls me to him, my forehead against his warm, slightly furred belly.
And I’m spinning.
Finally, he lets me go, clambers up onto the bed, and collapses.
I stand up, dazed, wiping my lips and cheeks.
I go and clean myself up, then come back to Luka lying on the bed, eyes closed.
“Luka?” I whisper.
No answer.
Shit.
Did he pass out?
I crawl over next to him and touch his cheek in one of the few places that doesn’t seem to be bruised. I’ve heard of men sleeping after sex, but this isn’t that.
I shake him gently. “Luka.”
He’s not rousing. I pat his cheeks, and he groans and pushes me away. That’s when I notice a huge gash on his head. What the hell?
“Hey,” I say, slapping his cheek harder. Clumsily, he pushes away my hand.
Clumsy movements, slightly slurred speech.
“You’re really injured!” I exclaim.
Nothing.
“You could have a concussion.”
He mumbles something that sounds like, You should see the other guys.
“Did you actually just say, ‘You should see the other guys?’”
No answer.
I lift his right eyelid, then the left.
“Hey! Your pupils are really huge,” I whisper. “And they might not be the same size.”
I try to compare them again—not easy with him fussing. I grab my phone and look up what to do for a concussion.
One of the main things is to avoid activities that raise your heart rate.
Awesome.