Chapter 14
LILY
My head lolls forward, my forehead against my captor’s shoulder as his arms continue to hold and guide me.
My body still simmers, still burns for more, but I don’t know how much more I can handle.
I’m exhausted—physically, mentally, sexually.
For a girl used to one orgasm at a time, my body is fresh out of them.
My thighs tremble from overuse, muscles quivering in a way that feels weak and raw. My lips are parted, dragging in stuttered breaths, but each inhale tastes faintly of my captor—of sweat, of skin, of the faint trace of that ever-present peppermint on his breath.
It’s maddening.
It’s distinctive.
It’s calming.
And it feels intimate now.
I think the men realize this—my utter exhaustion—but they don’t relent as they chase their own releases.
There’s a shift in the air. A heavier, more poignant weight. Like they’re not just finishing for themselves, but staking a claim on me.
Time lapses and positions change.
I lose track of who is where, of whose hand is pinning my hips and whose mouth is grazing my shoulder. The moments blur, a carousel of heat and pressure and movement that leaves no room for thought—only instinct.
Murmured words are spoken from my captor.
The decadent language rolls over me in low, rich tones I can’t understand, but my body reacts as if it does. It’s as if some part of me recognizes the cadence as something meant for me alone.
Sleep comes without thought.
I’m gone before I realize I’ve drifted, slipping into darkness that’s more surrender than rest.
The dreams come. It’s Anderson’s voice I hear whispering through my psyche. It’s his deep tenor that floats there.
“Everything is going to be okay.”
“I love you.”
“Remember how much I love you.”
The smell of peppermint awakens me way too soon.
It threads into my dreams first, pushing away Anderson’s whispered reassurances. A phantom that pulls me toward consciousness until the heat of it becomes undeniable, coaxing me back into the harsh light of awareness.
Until I’m in the present moment. The room and the tethers and the soft bed beneath me.
I’m allowed to use the facilities.
Never alone.
The scrape of a chair or whisper of fabric is always present. A subtle reminder that both men are here and any thought of escape needs to be locked firmly away for now.
Never gone, just not front and center.
I’m offered some cookies and fruit. Then a bottle of water. I devour the food and then gulp the water down, wishing it could wash away more than just the thirst. Is that bitterness again? Or just the tinge from last time?
I’m refastened to bed for another round to begin.
On my back.
This time just Marco.
Still silent. Still daunting.
And that silence is louder than words, consuming me without sound.
His presence still dominates the room, and the only connection is where our bodies join.
First him.
Then my captor.
Begging with them to stop, as I am spent and can’t take anymore.
“Anderson.” It’s his name on my lips. Repeated over and over, a tether I cling to desperately. “Anderson.” Saying his name becomes a mantra that reminds me there’s a life beyond this moment. “Anderson.” Even as my voice cracks on the syllables, I repeat it.
Determined to survive, I stay focused on the peppermint rather than the continuous onslaught of sensation.
I feel like a rag doll.
Unbelievably, the orgasms still come. How? How can they do this to my body? Why are they bothering?
Each orgasm steals another piece of my will, scattering it into fragments I doubt I’ll ever get back.
My body’s traitorous, drowning in the unwelcome pleasure.
How I wish I had chocolate-covered strawberries.
The absurd thought flits in and out.
And then my head becomes fuzzy again, just like walking back to the hotel.
Darkness closes in.
And then . . . I’m weightless, cradled. Secure arms lifting me like I’m something precious, not something they’ve unraveled thread by thread.
Peppermint again.
The bitter taste on the back of my tongue again.
Cool air, bright lights.
The ding of an elevator. Where am I?
“My girlfriend.” My captor’s voice. A soft, knowing chuckle. “Silly American pride made her think she could handle our vino.” The warmth of a kiss pressed to my forehead. Polite laughter. Murmured good lucks.
Their laughter feels like another language I’m not meant to understand. But the press of his lips to my skin is fluent in a language I think I now comprehend . . . possession.
The ding of the elevator.
Sinking into softness.
Cocooned in blankets.
“Ora sei libero,” murmured against my ear.
Then darkness.