Chapter 4
LILY
Creak.
I freeze. Someone’s in here. Watching me.
Creak.
My breath, my heart, my body all stop, but my mind races.
Creak.
Acid burns its way up my throat.
Fear is present, yes. It never really left, but it’s the anticipation now that kills me.
Creak.
Another slow shift of weight. Is he walking toward me? Is he simply shifting his feet to toy with me? Or is he standing above me, staring at me?
Inhale. Exhale. Slow it all down.
But my exhale is thready this time. The knowledge he’s near drawing me more alert. More on edge.
Is that even possible?
Peppermint.
I smell it seconds before the warmth of his breath feathers over my cheek. I flinch.
If I had any hopes that this wasn’t real, they’ve vanished. This is very fucking real.
He’s close, inches from me. Goosebumps chase over my skin, the chill coming from the inside.
I’m blindfolded. I’m gagged. I’m restrained. And a man is standing over me.
I’ve never been more aware of my nakedness, of my skin, than this moment.
My shoulders hitch with another silent sob. Control your emotions, Lily. He might get off on your fear. He might revel in your fight.
But how am I meant to fight anyway? And if I survive this, what happens after?
A finger touches the top of my shoulder and I flinch again.
How do I shut off my mind and disassociate from this?
He begins to trace from one end of my collarbone to the other, before moving torturously slow back to his starting point.
Even though bile crawls up my throat at the thought of his touch, should I endear myself to my captor?
He makes no sound, no other movement, just a fingertip pressed to my skin so all that rages in my ears is my shuddered breaths mingled with my thundering pulse.
Time passes. Seconds? Minutes? It feels like an eternity.
He sighs and it hangs there like a hand waiting to smother me.
“Bellisima, vuoi essere il mio amante?” His murmured voice hits my ears, a deception to my senses, because even though I don’t understand him, even though I’m petrified with fear, I know whatever he says is sexual in content.
The tone is as seductive as his touch was but—
“Don’t be scared, sweet bella. I won’t hurt you.” The words are a lie even before they finish leaving his mouth. The laugh he emits, rich and amused, tells me as much.
I try to draw into myself and away from him because I know that laugh is a ruse. To not fight him when I’m sure he’ll violate my body. Scar my mind. Steal my soul.
I whimper and his laughter stops when he hears it.
“You think I lie? You think that I want to hurt this beautiful body of yours?” His voice is firmer now with a touch of anger.
The bed shifts as he gets off it, and behind my blindfold my eyes move as if I’m watching.
My ears strain to track which direction he’s moving.
“This body is mine. Your body is mine. I do not hurt what is mine.”
Mine.
The trembling returns. My toes curl but I force them to relax. I can’t see his quiet scrutiny as he studies me, but I can feel it.
I am at this man’s mercy.
His slave.
His next whim.
“I will give your body pleasure. Take the pleasure you give me willingly—”
“Fuck you.” Like hell I’ll give him anything of me. The garbled sound is out of my mouth before I can think. I don’t realize how big of a mistake it us until a second too late.
Spikes of pain light across my right breast, pin pricks that sting. I am, however, aware that my nipples harden in response. A reflex I can’t help but that has shame flooding through me. I arch my back to combat the unexpected pain.
He’s not going to hurt me? Then what the hell was that?
My muscles tense and jaw clenches. My body vibrates in this constant game of anticipation.
Talk. Talk goddamn it. Give me something to focus on other than the never-ending silence. Or the creaks in the floor. Or the suspense over when he’ll next touch me.
Without warning he’s there. He’s touching me.
His hand presses on my neck, palm on my collarbone and fingers and thumb pressing just under each ear to force my chin up.
My vulnerable state’s quickly reinforced.
Silence screams between us, our only connection his hand pressed—a promise of a threat? I’m unsure. My lips shock apart when I feel the heat of his breath against my cheek. And yet he doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, just remains there, reminding me of his presence. Why?
When he finally speaks, there’s an unprovoked bite in his tone. “Do not fucking question me. Do not talk back. I am patient to a point, but I am also the one in control. Is that understood?” I don’t answer. Can’t. Fear has robbed me of my voice. “Don’t make me ask you again. Is that understood?”
I nod. It’s brittle at best, especially with his hand pressed there.
“I will fuck you as I see fit. I will use you, own you, make you mine.” I feel his tongue slide along the line of my jaw to the lobe of my ear.
I shudder in revulsion. His lips brush against my skin there in a kiss that feels more like a warning.
“And when I’ve taken everything I want from you, I will let you go. ”
My head startles at his last words. “What?” The word falls from my mouth but all I hear is an incoherent mess of sound. He’s going to let me go? How . . . what?
What madman takes everything from his captive . . . and then lets her go?
And when he’s done with me, what will be left?
“Hmm. Yes. I will let you go.” His words are a whisper of sound at my ear. It’s intimate in a way I don’t want it to be. “You were so beautiful as I watched you at the bar. So lonely. So in need of the things I want to do to you. I took it upon myself to make that happen. Can you fault me?”
Survive, Lily. Do what you need to do to survive.
Even if that means trusting his words right now when you fear what those words mean.
“No one will even know you’re gone.” He traces a finger down the inside of my palm. I jerk my hand but the restraint holds it still. “Twenty-four hours.”
Twenty-four hours.
A time frame for survival.
I steel my shoulders and even in this fucked-up of all fucked-up situations, know I can do it. I will survive this if it means I get to go home to my boys. When I—
His finger begins again at my collarbone. This time though, he traces over to my midline and starts to move between my breasts. I shiver at the contrasting sensations—the coarse tug of my skin against his finger.
He’s wearing gloves. Leather, I think. Their seams are coarse. The material pulls on my skin, an odd contrast to the gentle nature of the touch. Goosebumps follow their movement, my body’s armed response as disquiet owns every fiber of my being.
He stops at my lower abdomen, and although he leaves his finger there, the floorboards broadcast his methodical movements. I frantically track the sounds as he walks around the perimeter of my bed, my prison. My chest deflates—fear firing anew despite his words promising relief.
The bed dips by my feet, the anticipation almost as numbing as my constant fear.
His finger never moves. It stays pressed to the top of my pubic hair but the bouncing differences in pressure say he’s adjusting his position.
That he’s getting a better look.
A different angle.
Or maybe just mapping out what he’s going to do next.
I swallow over the fear that chokes me and mentally prepare myself for what’s coming next. The pain, the brutality, the loss of my consent.
Don’t tremble. He might be turned on by your fear. By your fight.
Will it be over quicker if I just comply?
Will it be easier of I simply act like I want it?
Only sick fucks get off on shit like this, Lily. Who knows what will satisfy or deter him?
He has to be lying. Is he lying? Is he not going to let me go but just said that to make me compliant?
“Argh.” My garbled cry fills the space when the seam between my thighs is met with the wet warmth of his tongue.
My thoughts snap in line but then crumble back apart as his tongue splits me and dips ever so slightly into me.
Fight.
Buck him off.
Stay still and live.
Inhale. Exhale.
And because my body is still and my senses attuned, I have no option other than notice the softness of his tongue.
How it’s firm in its movements but gentle in its actions.
He lingers briefly before starting a languorous, heat-inducing ascent up to my clit, circling over it not just once, but twice, before sliding back down and dipping back into me.
My breathing shallows, my teeth bite down on the gag, and I attempt to comprehend what the hell I’m feeling. How can I be scared boneless and yet still have that burning ache unfurling in my lower belly?
I must be crazy. My mind is playing games on me. My subconscious is shutting down so I can compartmentalize everything.
I’m kidding myself.
Concentration is as futile as my resistance because it’s impossible to deny the traitorous warmth that spreads through my core and simmers there. Amid the haze of desire that assaults me, my rationale tries one more attempt—one last-ditch effort.
It’s the drugs he gave me.
They must still be in my system.
They must be clouding or enhancing my responses.
My body shouldn’t be reacting this way, arching up this way, burning from his touch on my skin and his tongue delving into me.
It shouldn’t.
But it is.
This isn’t real.
I adjust my hips but the ache doesn’t dissipate.
Can’t be real.
The ache only burns brighter.
I squirm to escape his touch, needing a reprieve. Needing anything.
His finger leaves my skin for the first time but is back instantly, this time in a different place.
Hands grip my inner thighs and pin them wide and immobile.
I’m still gasping in the air from the sudden, bruising hold he has on my legs when his tongue plunges completely into me.
Not just a quick dart. Not a teasing taunt.
I’m talking nose in my clit, tongue to my G-spot, fingers spreading me as wide as possible, assault.
“Fuck!”