Torment

30

I step into the shower, and the water sluices over my skin. It’s only then that I notice the purpling bruises coloring my inner thighs, and the smattering of bite marks in the shape of his teeth.

And I’m mortified when the sight only makes me more flustered.

I need to cool down.

I need to think.

I’ve hated this man for as long as I can remember.

At five, when I first heard fear in my father’s voice at the mention of him.

At sixteen, when he signed a contract to marry my sister without even taking a second glance at her.

And now, at twenty-one, after he shot my father, claimed me like an object and broke my sister’s heart.

So why, now, are the lines getting blurry? Is it because I’m so sexually repressed? Is my mind so sex-addled it’s deciding to think maybe he isn’t so bad after all . . .?

I’m attracted to him.

That much I can’t deny. And maybe, if I get him out of my system, I can go back to the way it was.

I can go back to hating him.

Numb, I get out of the shower and dry myself before slipping on underwear and a black cami paired with a tiny pair of sleep shorts. It’s hot, and right now, I can’t afford to be any more flustered.

I walk across the hallway into my room and slide into my bed, tucking myself under the cool covers. And somehow, sleep finds me.

It’s Papa.

A frown touches my lips. “Papa? What are you doing here?”

He pulls down his hand to reveal a gaping hole of blood in his chest, blooming over his cream dress shirt.

I suck in a breath, my eyes wide as my heart kicks up its beat in my chest. “Oh my God. What happened? You need to go to a hospital.”

I take a step towards him, but he puts out a hand, pointing to the dining table behind me, where something small and blue sits.

“I need that,” he says. “Freya, you need to get it to me.”

I shake my head. “Papa, you need to see a doctor, or—”

“Freya!” he shouts so loud I startle. “You are not listening to me. It’s the only way out. Get it to me.”

My heart is pounding in my chest. “Fine,” I say, “Fine, I’ll get it.”

I turn to walk to the table, but every step I take only pushes the table further away.

Something’s not right.

As soon as I come to the realization, the floor starts to tilt, and everything gets infinitely hazier.

“Freya!”

I turn to find my father on his knees, in a pool of his own blood.

My heart is stuck in my throat.

“Papa,” I yell, “Papa!”

I try to reach for him, but I can’t move. He slumps down, sinking into the ground, and I scream.

And then I wake up, my throat raw.

Raw enough that I know that I didn’t just scream in the nightmare, but in reality, too.

My skin is jittery and I’m shaking all over. The nightmares are back. And they won’t go away easily. As a kid, knowing that someone else was in the room helped. I slept with Ana for a whole year until they went away.

I need someone. And there’s only one person here.

I get out of bed and find myself walking out my room and upstairs, scaling the steps at breakneck speed. But when I reach the top of the stairs, my bravado wears down. There’s no sound coming from Torren’s room, so there’s a good chance he’s sleeping.

And for some reason, I can’t bring myself to simply enter and slip under his covers. It should be as easy as that. I don’t feel anything for him, and if the action annoys him, it’ll only be a bonus.

I take a deep breath, and I’m about to turn and go back downstairs to brave it out in my own room, when a strong hand closes around my wrist. I let out a sharp gasp as I’m whipped backward and pulled into the room.

“What the —?!”

I stumble until I find my footing at the edge of his bed, and I turn to meet Torren’s gaze.

It’s only then that I notice his appearance, shadowed in the swarthy dark.

My cheeks heat. He’s shirtless, only wearing a pair of black boxers.

All that tanned skin is bare and exposed — broad shoulder, toned abs, sculpted arms. The faint white scars and silver of the cross hanging from his neck glints in the moonlight.

His dark eyes hold an agitated disdain as they narrow in on me.

“I heard you scream,” he says, “and it wasn’t the kind I like hearing.”

“Which kind do you like?” I ask, dryly.

He says nothing, but the way his eyes light up with brief, dark amusement is telling enough.

“It was just a nightmare,” I mumble. “I shouldn’t have come up here.”

His jaw clenches, like whatever I’ve said has annoyed him to no end.

“What are you so scared of in the night?” he asks. “Don’t I scare you enough in the day?”

I purse my lips as I meet his gaze evenly. “I’m not scared of you.”

He glowers at me. “How unfortunate.”

Irritation pulses in my veins.

“Sleep on that side of the bed,” he orders, pointing to the opposite end of the bed. “Any part of you touches me during the night, and I’ll saw it off.”

I scrunch up my face as the image appears in my mind. “No, thank you. I would very much like to have my limbs attached to my body.”

He bites down. “Don’t be a brat. Listen, for once in your life.”

I frown. “Well now that you asked so nicely, let me think about it. How about no?”

His features harden.

“Get into the bed, Freya,” he warns, his voice low and dangerous. “Get into the bed and shut your fuckin’ mouth.”

My heart beats wildly in my chest, blood rushing in my ears. I lift my chin in stubborn defiance.

“If you want me in your bed,” I say, holding his gun-metal gaze, “you’ll have to fuck me in it.”

He pauses, something twitching in his jaw.

I want to hate him — I do — but somewhere along the way, the line got blurry. Somewhere along the way, I lost sight of my purpose.

I want it back.

“I think about you,” I blurt.

Everything goes still. His gaze seems to bleed into mine.

“And I hate—” I say, drawing a harsh breath, “I hate the way you make me feel.”

His gaze catches fire, tinged with something unrecognisable. “How do I make you feel?”

Like I’m at war with myself. Like I’m drowning, and you’re the one who’s holding me down, but you’re also the only one who can pull me out. Like you’re the poison, but somehow also the antidote.

“I want it out,” I say, “I want you out.”

His eyes darken. “And you think it’ll take one fuck to get me out?”

I lift a challenging brow. “If it’s good enough.”

“Oh, it’ll be good,” he says, his incisor digging into his lower lip. “It’ll be so good. So good that just once won’t be enough, little Morozov. I’ll be imprinted on your body. And your mind. You’ll want more . . .”

He pauses, his gaze meeting mine as he tilts his head, a brief flicker of vulnerability flashing over his face. “And I will, too.”

My stomach leaps, and a warm spiral cuts through my veins. Still, my lips lift. “You’ll want more, huh? How does it feel?”

He scowls, anger taking over his features. “Not sure. How does it feel to be a needy little girl, begging for a fuck?”

I roll my eyes, brushing aside his words. “Admit it, you liked it. Maybe more than me, and I’m the one who came.”

His eyes narrow.

“Maybe I just wanted a taste,” he says, his eyes turning dead and empty. “Do Morozov girls come in different flavors? If so, I’d like to try them all.”

A green spark of anger erupts up my spine. “Shut the fuck up.”

I lift my arm to slap him — to hurt him — and in a flash, he grabs it, twists it, backing me into the wall so fast it knocks the wind out of me. My cheek is pressed against the wall, my chest brushing against its surface every fees seconds as my chest heaves.

“Tell me what to do again,” he snaps.

“Shut. . .” I breathe, struggling against his hold. “Up.”

He snarls under his breath, grabbing my hair and tugging hard enough for a flicker of pain to skitter across my scalp. I feel the hard ridges of his body pressed into mine from the back. The warmth of his chest and clean woodsy scent of his cologne infiltrates my senses. It’s addictive.

Torren leans down until his breath brushes the side of my cheek, until his teeth graze my ear. And then he takes my earlobe between his teeth, biting down hard enough to make me hiss.

“This is how I fuck,” he says in my ear, bucking his hips into my ass through my sleep shorts. “Hard. Fast. Always from the back. Never raw.”

Blood pounds in my core, rushing to my head, every pore of my face.

His lips travel down the side of my neck. “Is that what you want?”

I clench my jaw, not giving him a reply. His hands tighten as he presses his fingers into the flesh of my hips through the thin material of my sleep shorts. “I’m selfish.”

I remember how he ate me out on his pool table and walked out like he didn’t want — or expect — me to reciprocate.

“I fuck them,” he says.

And how he let me on top of him, let me straddle his torso for seven minutes when we dry fucked.

He gives my body some room against the wall, only to lift the waistband of my shorts with his inked hand. And just like that, he shoves his big hand under, cupping me between my legs.

I whimper, sinking into his hand. It takes all my strength not to rock my hips — not to ride against his hand through my underwear.

He lifts the soaked black lace of my thong to the side, cupping my flesh, this time. The rough pads of fingers press hard into my clit. I shut my eyes and tip my head back to rest against his chest, sinking my teeth into my lower lip.

“You know what my father used to say,” he says, as he starts to rub hard circles into my clit. “He used to say that Russian women are only good as whores. Is that what you want, Freya? You want to be my little Russian whore?”

I swallow, focusing on the growing bud of pressure from where his fingers are still circling.

Suddenly, he stops, drawing his hand away. “Answer me.”

Not trusting myself enough with words, I nod, the back of my head brushing against his chest.

He exhales, tugging his hand out of my waistband and turns me to face him, so that my back is flush against the wall as I look up at him.

His gaze flares with lust as he reaches out to grab my face with one hand, his callused fingers burning into my cheeks as he squeezes them together. My lips form into a ridiculous pucker, and I cross my brows as I glare up at him.

He narrows his eyes. “So obedient when you want something from me.”

Still holding my face in his hand, Torren softens the grip of his fingers, so that my face returns to normal. He grazes his thumb across my bottom lip, pulling it down before letting it pop back into place. My bottom lip fizzes. I swallow, and his gaze tracks the movement.

He tugs my sleep shorts down easily, and I step out of them, leaving the material discarded on his floor. I’m standing in front of him in just a tiny tank top and black thong.

“My pretty little slut,” he murmurs, his gaze flaring as he takes me in.

He trails his rough hand down my throat, and his fingers wrap around it before he squeezes, lust flaring in his gaze. My airway constricts for a few seconds, and I allow it.

His gaze lowers to my lips, and his pupils dilate until they’re almost black. He’s breathing hard. It’s like he’s dying to taste himself on my lips. Something inside me coils back, and he shakes his head, like he’s trying to shake a thought.

Suddenly, he separates from me, leaving me standing there, high and dry, in just my thong and tank top as he gets back into his bed.

What the hell?

What the hell is wrong with him?

Grinding down on my jaw, I turn to leave, deciding that I’ve had enough. If I get another nightmare, I’ll just have to deal with it.

But once again, his hand shoots out to circle around my wrist, and he pulls me on top of him.

My breath hitches.

I’m straddling him. And all of him — exposed chest and arms and legs is pressed against my aching hot flesh. I settle my palms flat on the smooth skin of his abdomen, drawing to a harsh stop at his navel.

I’m walking a fine, fine line, but I can’t bring myself to go back. Cautiously, I tug down the waist of his boxers.

He doesn’t make a move to stop me.

I sit back for a moment, pulling a hair tie off my wrist before depositing it between my teeth, and then both my hands are threading through my hair as I lift the strands into a ponytail.

Wordlessly, I lower myself to his bottom half.

“Freya,” he warns, his voice tight, his tone warning.

I ignore him, slipping a hand down the waistband of his boxers, pulling it down with the other. His cock pops out, erect against his stomach.

He has the prettiest dick I’ve ever seen.

Thick, long, cut, and slightly curved. A few veins run from the base to the blush-pink tip.

My clit pulses.

He’s breathing hard. I’ve never seen the appeal of giving oral, but I’m starting to get it. Because right now, he’s under my control.

I reach out, wrapping a hand around him. My fingers don’t meet. The flesh of his cock pulses under my touch, and a morbid fascination erupts inside me.

“Freya.”

I move my hand up along his length, then back down. Slow. Languorous. There’s a bead of pre-cum on the tip. I lean down and open my mouth, tonguing his slit as I lick the cum off it. It’s not an unpleasant taste — salty and earthy on my tongue.

“Fuck,” he groans, threading his fingers through my hair and tugging. I wrap both of my hands around the base of his dick and twist, licking at the tip like it’s a lollipop.

“Keep playing with your food,” he threatens, “And I’ll fuck your throat till it bruises.”

I smile against his dick, letting my teeth graze lightly against his flesh. A growl bubbles up his throat, harsh and insistent. I ignore it, closing my lips around him before taking him deeper in my mouth.

His cock quivers in my mouth as I go back to working around him. He cants his hips forward, meeting my rhythm and fucking my mouth.

Then, I pull away.

I lean over him on all fours, my face hovering over his as I look down at him.

“Do Costa men come in different flavors? If so,” I whisper, “I’d like to try them all.”

He grits his teeth, seething.

Then, I lean back down. I take his length back into my mouth, and I bite.

“Fuck!” Torren growls. He grabs hold of my hair, wrenching my mouth off his cock. I’m pulled off his length, a wet pop sounding in the air.

White hot anger flares in his gaze as he glares at me, and a shard of moonlight cuts through the window to highlight the harsh line of his jaw.

He’s angry.

And all of that rage is laser-focused on me.

He spanks me between my legs. Hard. I gasp, flinching as my hips lift off him. His hands come up to the sides of my thong as he rips it clean off my thighs. And then, before I know it, he picks his cock up in his inked hand, and impales me. Raw.

A scream rips from my throat as I stretch painfully to accommodate him.

Torren’s groan rings around the room. His pupils are dilated as he looks up at me for a brief moment, his gaze drained of humor.

I can’t breathe, can’t speak, so I only manage to shake my head. Tears burn at the back of my eyes.

Full. I feel so full.

“I’m the only Costa you’ll ever fuck,” he says, gritting his teeth as he glares up at me, his voice dripping with possessiveness. “The only man you’ll ever come close to fucking.”

Livid, I squeeze my muscles around him. “How unfortunate.”

Lust and anger flares in his eyes, quickly taken over by challenging look. Almost immediately, he sits up and flips us over so that my back is pressed into the bed, and his cross dangles from his neck. His gaze singes as it latches on the bruises and bite marks painting my inner thighs.

“Take your top off,” he orders.

I don’t listen. “Ask nicely.”

He pulls out of me, so that only the tip of him is inside me. I gasp from the sudden loss of fullness. He lines his length along my center, grinding it against me. The friction almost drives me over the edge, and I grip the sheets at my sides. But he keeps grinding against me.

“Take your top off,” he says, brief amusement flickering in his gaze, “and show me your fucking tits.”

Clenching my jaw at his sarcasm, I cross my arms and pull the fabric of my tank over my head. The cool air hits the bare skin of my torso and the swell of my breasts, raising goose bumps. My nipples are hard and peaked with arousal.

Torren’s eyes rove over me, as they darken — hot with need.

He leans forward, his dick thrusting into me.

The bite of his blunt fingernails as his hands come up the sides of my waist is delicious.

I arch further into his touch. He squeezes, leaning down to latch his mouth onto my left nipple, swirling his hot tongue around it.

A moan bubbles up my throat. He plays with the other between his fingers, and then, at the same time, he bites on my left nipple while squeezing on my right.

I gasp. Pain shoots down my spine, intertwining with pleasure.

And then he starts fucking me.

Hard.

There’s something freeing about someone knowing the darkest parts of you. There are no barriers. No pretences. We both know how fucked up we are, and we aren’t trying to hide it.

“Unless you like the idea of showing up to our wedding pregnant,” he says. Thrust. “I hope you’re on birth control.” Thrust. “Because I’m going to come inside you.” Thrust. “More than once.”

Pure, unadulterated heat spreads from between my legs, skittering across my thighs as he fucks me slow, and I swallow. “I’m on the pill.”

He nods tightly, like the idea only temporarily satisfies him. And then he starts fucking me in earnest.

A mind-altering fever consumes my mind, and I meet his thrusts with my hips.

“Fuck,” he murmurs, “you take it good.”

I’m about to argue, but the words are stuck at the top of my throat. His thumb finds my clit again, and he circles the nub so that a hot white pulse of pleasure builds in my core, growing stronger each second.

Every curve of his spine, thrust of his hips meets mine, and the lewd sound of it fills the room.

“So fucking wet, you’re dripping all over my cock,” he says, voice strained as his cock twitches inside me. “You feel so fucking good.”

“Can’t say the same,” I lie.

“Little liar,” he snarls, pounding into me.

He’s vicious. Savage. Ruthless.

There’s nothing soft or sweet about it.

In this moment, every insult, every barbed word, and hate-tinted bit of fury builds and coalesces into a single lust-fuelled moment. It’s selfish. We’re using each other, with little regard for the other person’s comfort or pleasure.

His hands grip the sides of my hips so hard I know there’ll be bruises in the morning. I don’t care. My mind is in a haze, and I can only focus on him, on the growing ball of pleasure building at my core. And then he starts thrusting. Hard. Fucking me in earnest while his fingers burn into my hips.

Then he leans forward and presses me firmly against him while he’s still moving inside me. I can feel every ridge of his inked body against mine. Hard. Delicious.

I claw at him, my nails digging into his skin. It does nothing to deter him — if anything, it only seems to spur him on.

I wrap my legs around his broad torso, pressing him closer to me. He draws down to pepper kisses down my jaw and nip at the top of my breasts. “Such a tight little pussy.”

A slither of pain and pleasure intertwines as it snakes down my spine. A thin layer of sweat slicks our bodies. I graze my nails down his back, and Torren growls with the touch, sinking deeper inside me with each thrust. The way he moves his hips, arches his spine, in a perfect, fluid curve…

Each time I’m close, he draws back and slows his pace, drawing out the torture until I’m panting and practically begging for release.

His rough hand settles on my lower stomach. His thumb finds my clit, circling it. He pushes into me again, slower this time, and I almost moan from the feeling of being filled up. I’m being filled by him. He’s stretching me out, and the feeling is addictive.

I’m not used to this — to him. To his body. Every feeling is foreign and new, and it sends my mind into an overdrive.

He hits a spot so deep inside me that black dots line my vision. A whimper gets stuck in my throat. I can’t breathe. Can’t think straight.

My breaths grow quicker, harsher, more labored, and I know I’m close.

He knows it, too.

“Come for me,” he echoes. “Come all over my cock.”

My nerves are on end, blood heating under my skin. I can’t help but lean further back, arch my spine, and give him what he wants.

A wave of bliss rushes under my skin. I come around him, and the pleasure shoots to every inch of my body. I almost black out. There’s a dull ringing in my ears and my heartbeat thuds in my chest as I go limp for a few seconds.

But he still hasn’t climaxed yet, so I meet his thrusts with my hips. His bites my shoulder, and I feel his jaw clench. His muscles strain, and I can tell he’s close.

When I clamp down my walls around him, he closes his eyes and leans his head back with a throaty groan. His dark lashes spill into his cheeks as he shoots hot jets of cum into me with a final, deep thrust.

He pulls out, staring down at me with ink-black eyes.

I’m boneless and spent, and I can feel his cum spilling down my thighs. Feel his gaze as he watches his release spill out of me. Insatiable, he guides his length back in, fucking the cum back into me. I whimper, aching from overstimulation.

The haze on my mind is slow to clear, thick and foggy. But as he draws away from me completely, the reality of the situation hits me.

I just had sex with Torren Costa. The man I hate most. The man who hates me most. Who promised to hurt me and my family for the rest of our lives.

A small voice inside my head asks, was it worth it? Is he out of your system, now?

And my throat clogs up with heavy emotion, because I know the answer to both of those questions.

? ? ?

author?s note:

10 CHAPTERS LEFT!!!

spoiler for chapter 31 on my instagram @rhianovakauthor and more on my twitter @rhianovakauthor

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see you next chapter 3