Chapter 19 #2
"Feel that? That's not just fear." His eyes lock onto mine. "That's attraction. Desire. Your body responding to mine even though you're terrified. Even though you know I could kill you right now."
"You're wrong—"
"Am I?"
Then he kisses me.
Brutal. Claiming. His mouth crashing against mine with no gentleness, no hesitation, just raw possession.
I should fight. Should push him away. Should do anything except what I actually do.
Which is melt into it.
Three weeks of tension explode all at once. Three weeks of watching him move through this house like a predator. Three weeks of listening to him through walls and touching myself while thinking about his hands on my throat.
All of it detonates in this kiss.
My hands come up to his chest—I don't know if I'm pushing him away or pulling him closer—and a sound escapes my throat that definitely isn't a protest.
He takes it as invitation.
His hand tangles in my hair, tilting my head back, deepening the kiss until I can't tell where I end and he begins. His tongue invades my mouth, demanding submission, taking what he wants without asking.
And I give it to him.
Because some broken part of me has wanted this since the shower. Since the gun to my forehead. Since every moment he's touched me and walked away, leaving me desperate and confused.
When he finally breaks the kiss, I'm gasping. Lips swollen. Body trembling.
He studies my face with dark satisfaction. "Still going to tell me you're not attracted to me?"
I can't answer. Can't form words past the arousal and shame flooding through me.
"That's what I thought." His hands go to my waist, and suddenly he's lifting me. Shoving me back onto his desk.
Papers scatter. His laptop slides to the side. And I'm sitting on the edge of his desk with my skirt riding up and his body between my thighs.
"Let me show you what happens to liars in my house." His voice is dark. Promising. "What happens to girls who spy on me and get caught."
His hand slides up my thigh. Slow. Deliberate. Giving me time to stop him.
I don't.
Can't.
Some sick part of me wants to know what happens next. Wants to see how far he'll go. Wants to feel something other than fear, and guilt, and the crushing weight of impossible choices.
His fingers reach the edge of my underwear, and he pauses. Eyes locked on mine. Asking a question without words.
Stop this. Push him away. This is insane.
But I don't move.
And that's answer enough.
He rips my underwear off in one brutal motion. The sound of fabric tearing echoes in the quiet study, and I gasp in fear. This could go wrong very quickly.
"These are in my way." He tosses the ruined fabric aside without looking at it. His hand slides between my thighs, and I feel his fingers brush against me. "And fuck, you're soaked, Valerie."
A scalding wave rolls through me, and I hate that he’s right. I'm wet. Embarrassingly wet. My body responding to violence and dominance and everything I should be running from.
"Please—" I don't even know what I'm begging for.
"Please what?" His fingers slide through my wetness, teasing but not entering. "Please stop? Please continue? Please make you come?"
"I don't—I don't know—"
"Yes, you do." His thumb finds my clit and presses—just enough pressure to make me gasp. "Your body knows exactly what it wants even if your mind won't admit it yet."
Then his fingers slide inside me.
Two at once. Rough. No gentleness. Just brutal invasion that makes me cry out and arch against him.
"That's it." His voice is dark satisfaction. "Let me hear you."
He doesn't give me time to adjust. Just starts moving his fingers with relentless efficiency, curling them inside me in a way that makes stars explode behind my eyes.
I should fight this. Should hate this. Should do anything except grip the edge of his desk and let him fuck me with his fingers while I fall apart.
But I can't.
Because it feels too good. Because three weeks of tension are unraveling. Because my body doesn't care that this is wrong—it only knows that it's finally getting what it's been craving.
His thumb circles my clit while his fingers work inside me, and the dual sensation is overwhelming. Building pressure low in my stomach. Heat spreading through my body like wildfire.
I'm close. So close. Just need a little more—
He stops.
Pulls his fingers out completely, thumb leaving my clit, and I make this sound—desperate and broken and begging.
"No, no—please—no"
"Shh." His fingers, wet with my arousal, come up to my lips. "This is what happens to liars, remember? They get fucked with. Denied. Made to understand exactly who's in control."
He slides his fingers back inside me before I can respond. Works me even harder this time. Faster. More brutal. Curling his fingers against that spot inside me that makes my vision go white.
Pleasure builds impossibly fast. Overwhelming. I'm going to come. Can't stop it. Can't—
He pulls out again.
"No!" It tears out as a sob. "Please, please—"
"Please what?" His hand goes back to my throat, tilting my face up. "Beg me properly."
"Please let me come." The words spill out shameless and desperate. "Please, I need—"
"What do you need?" His fingers slide back in, and I nearly scream from relief and frustration. "Say it."
"I need to come. Please. I'll do anything—"
"Anything?" His eyes gleam with dark amusement. "Careful what you promise, little mouse."
He works me to the edge again. Brings me right to the precipice where one more touch, one more second would push me over—
And stops.
I actually sob this time. Tears streaming down my face. Body shaking with need and denial and humiliation.
"Please—" I sob in a small, broken voice.
"This is what you deserve." His voice is cold. Clinical. "For lying. For spying. For thinking you could betray me and get away with it."
His fingers slide in one more time, and I think maybe—maybe this time he'll let me—
He pulls out and steps back completely.
The loss is devastating.
I'm left sitting on his desk, legs spread, skirt bunched around my waist, wet and wanting and so desperate I can barely think straight.
"Get out." His voice is flat. Final.
"What?" I can't process the words. Can't understand.
"Get out of my study. Go back to your room." He adjusts his cuffs like nothing happened. Like he didn't just take me apart with his fingers and leave me shattered. "And Valerie? Next time I catch you spying on me, it won’t be pretty. I will not be this kind.”
Kind?
There's nothing kind about this. Nothing kind about making me beg and cry and then denying me. Nothing kind about the humiliation burning through me.
But I slide off his desk on shaking legs. Try to smooth my skirt down even though my underwear is gone and I'm still wet and aching.
“You don’t get to touch yourself.” He growls on my way out.
I run out of there for the second time. Down the hallway on trembling legs. Past guards who probably know exactly what just happened. Into my room where I lock the door and slide down to the floor.
My whole body is shaking. Aching. The need between my thighs is almost painful.
And the worst part—the absolutely horrifying part—is that I'm not just crying from fear or humiliation.
I'm also crying because he stopped.
Because I wanted him to keep going. Wanted him to make me come even though it meant giving him that power over me. Wanted to feel something other than guilt and terror and the crushing weight of impossible choices.
I press my hands between my thighs, and they come away wet.
His warning echoes in my head: Don't touch yourself tonight.
But the ache is unbearable. The need is consuming. And I'm so close to just—
My phone buzzes.
I pull it out with shaking hands.
Patrick.
Got the photos. Good work. But I need more. His home security codes. You have 48 hours.
I stare at the message, and reality crashes back in.
I just betrayed Lev. Photographed his schedule. Gave Patrick exactly what he needed to plan whatever he's planning.
And Lev caught me.
Knows I'm a spy. He didn’t kill me.
He probably thinks I’m working for some useless person. That’s probably why I’m still alive because he didn’t kill me.
Instead, he punished me with pleasure I couldn't have.
And I let him.
Melted into it. Begged for it. Would have given him anything if he'd just let me come.
What's wrong with me?
I curl into a ball on my floor and cry for real this time.
Not from arousal or denial or humiliation.
But from the crushing realization that I'm trapped.
Patrick will kill my family if I don't give him more.
Lev will kill me when he decides I'm more trouble than I'm worth.
And some sick part of me is more terrified of Lev's punishment than Patrick's threats.
Because at least Patrick's violence is straightforward.
But Lev? Lev knows exactly how to break me. Knows my body responds to him even when my mind knows better. Knows I'm twisted enough to get wet when he threatens me.
And he's going to use that against me until there's nothing left.
I lie on my floor and listen to him moving around on the other side of the wall.
And I ache.
And I hate myself.
I'm caught between two predators with no way out.
The only question is which one destroys me first.