9. Elle
ELLE
My fake strength is fading. Fast. I’ve been bullied into a vehicle with a psychotic billionaire who likes to kill people for fun, and I’m not sure how much longer I can stay stitched together.
The urge to cry wells up, but I push it back. I can’t. Not in front of him. Not yet.
The car slows. We turn onto a street where the houses don’t have cracks in the walls. Everything looks too clean. Too perfect. I look at my hands. They won’t stop shaking. I grip the handle of my backpack and know this is my opportunity to make a run for it as soon as the car stops.
The driver pulls up in front of an exclusive-looking building, but I ignore it as my hand inches towards the handle. I grip the backpack tighter and yank the handle of the door towards me, ready to launch myself to the road and run, but nothing happens.
The door is child-locked.
I feel Lorcan’s gaze on me, but I don’t look at him. I can’t. If I do, I will cry. I pull the handle one more time. It’s useless. It doesn’t budge.
Lorcan doesn’t laugh at me, or even say anything. He simply reaches over and grabs the strap of my backpack, pulling it from my lap.
The driver opens Lorcan’s door from the outside, and he slides out, his expensive coat billowing in the wind as he shuts the door and walks around to my side. He opens the door and holds out a hand. I just stare at it.
“Out, Miss Langley. We don’t have all day.”
“I do,” I mutter.
“Nice. I don’t, and my patience is wearing thin with this.”
“Take me home then.”
“No. Out of the car under your own steam, or I will drag you out.”
It takes me two seconds to my utter shameful resignation to place my hand carefully into his.
He grips it firmly but lets me get out of the car myself.
I can’t fight him. It’s pointless. He knocked a man out last night and brags about killing people.
If I think I’m smart enough or fast enough to outmanoeuvre him, I’m living in a fantasyland.
The foyer of the building is a beautiful area filled with silence and expensive art.
I follow Lorcan through the doors, on shaky legs.
A concierge in a sharp uniform bows his head as we pass.
He doesn’t look at me, and I realise with a sickening jolt that I’m invisible here.
I’m just another piece of luggage Lorcan Keane is holding onto.
We step into a lift that moves so smoothly I only know we’re ascending because the numbers on the digital display flicker upward.
It stops suddenly, and the doors slide open directly into a living space that is larger than my entire apartment block.
Floor-to-ceiling glass, heavy curtains, marble floors, white walls, more expensive art.
It’s beautiful, and I hate it. I hate that he can buy this while I’m worrying about the price of bread.
Lorcan tosses my backpack onto a sleek, white leather sofa. It looks like a stain against the pristine surface. “Welcome to your new reality, Miss Langley.”
“I want to go home,” I whisper, the words catching in my dry throat.
“You are home,” he states as the lift doors slide closed and a red light turns on above a security panel.
“You can’t get out through the lift without a security card, and there are locks on the front door.
We are on the fourth floor, here, the top floor is the bedrooms. If you jump, you won’t be able to get up and run. ”
“Jump?” I ask weakly, my eyes darting to the windows.
“Let me show you to your room.”
He takes off his coat and slings it over the back of the sofa. He is dressed in a navy suit that looks so good on him it was probably tailor-made. He leads up a sweeping staircase with his hand on my lower back, not forcing but definitely ushering me along. I go.
I have no choice. I’m a pretty prisoner now because Tia sent me to the wrong fucking place.
Bitch. If I ever get out of here, I will hunt her down and gouge her eyes out.
We reach the top of the stairs, and a wide gallery opens up, overlooking the cavernous living area below.
It feels like standing on a precipice. Everything is too sharp, too cold, and too white.
Too warm. Lorcan stops at a set of double doors and pushes them open, revealing an enormous bedroom.
The bed is a massive island of grey silk in a sea of plush carpet.
He ignores me as he walks to the mirrored wardrobe and slides the doors open. It’s a walk-in, with clothes lined up by colour and length.
“These are yours. I expect you to wear them,” he says, walking and opening a drawer.
He pulls something out and places it on top of the dresser inside the space.
He turns, his gaze scanning over the clothes, and he reaches up to pull something off the rail.
“Put this on.” He holds out a black dress, long with thin straps.
“I’m fine as I am.”
His gaze meets mine, his eyes hard. “I said, put it on.”
I cross my arms over my chest. “No.”
In three strides he is in front of me and throws the dress on the bed. He grips my elbow and walks me backwards until my legs hit the mattress. “You don’t say ‘no’ to me again, Miss Langley. Are we clear?”
I clamp my jaw shut, glaring at him instead of yelling at him to go to hell. He is scaring me.
“Put the dress on.”
I stand there, unable to move.
He waits three seconds before he takes my hands and pulls my arms down. He reaches out and undoes my coat, the zip catching at the bottom like it always does. “Is this how it’s going to be?” he murmurs. “Do you want me to dress you?”
“I’m nothing but a fucking doll to you, so you might as well,” I spit back and then regret it as his eyes darken.
He pulls the coat down off my shoulders and discards it on the floor.
His fingers brush the hem of my jumper, and he pulls it up slowly.
I let him, because fighting him will only hurt me and I’m too tired.
I stand frozen as the cold air of the room hits my stomach, then my chest. He pulls the jumper over my head and tosses it on top of the coat before he does the same with my tee.
I’m left in my bra, shivering under the scrutiny of his ice-blue eyes.
He doesn’t look away. He doesn’t give me a moment of privacy.
He just watches the rise and fall of my chest as my breathing turns shallow and panicked.
His fingers hook into the waistband of my leggings.
I want to slap his hands away, but my muscles feel like lead.
He kneels and slides them down my hips with a slow, agonising deliberation that makes my skin burn.
He removes my boots, and then I step out of the leggings, standing in front of him in nothing but my cheap black lace underwear. I feel small and exposed.
He breathes in deeply, but it is the only sign of emotion from him. His face is a blank mask.
His hands slide up my thighs and grasp the side of my underwear.
“No,” I murmur, but he pulls them down anyway.
“You are beautiful, Elle,” he murmurs. “I want to look at you.”
“Please,” I whisper as he discards the knickers and rises again, reaching around to unclasp my bra with one hand. It falls away. Of course he can do that. He has probably practised on a thousand women, and I’m here with my limited experience and trauma.
I hate him.
But when he steps back, and his gaze heats up, I can’t help the shiver that runs through me.
I stand there completely still as my skin prickles under the overhead lights. He does not look away. He takes his time. His eyes travel over my breasts and down to my stomach. I want to cover myself, but I force my hands to stay at my sides. I will not give him the satisfaction of seeing me hide.
“You’re letting me look at you,” he says, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear.
“It’s not like you haven’t already seen it.”
“True,” he says, a small smile playing on his sexy lips. “But this is better. This is just for me.” He takes my hand and places it over my pussy. “Show me again what you can do to yourself.”
“No,” I stammer. “Please.”
“You can beg me, Elle, but it won’t stop the inevitable.” He pushes my hand aside and slides his fingers over my clit.
I gasp as my body responds to the stimulation from this sexy, dangerous man that I know I should run from.
But I’ve got nowhere to go.
“Fucking gorgeous,” he says, his gaze pinning me in place.
I can’t look away from him.
“Fuck,” he says, moving closer as he thrusts his fingers gently inside me. “So wet.”
“No,” I say, shaking my head. “This isn’t—”
I choke back the rest of my words when his thumb lands on my clit and circles intently, making my knees go weak. “Please…”
He thrusts harder, mistaking my plea for more.
But maybe it is.
I’ve been starved of touch. I’ve been starved of love and affection, and while this is neither of those things, he is making a damn good case to my body to give him what he wants.
“Let me make you come, Elle,” he says, moving closer. “Let me see what I can do to you.”
“Lorcan,” I breathe, closing my eyes and trying not to feel utter disgust at my behaviour.
“Jesus,” he says as I stifle a moan. “Just for me, Elle. Come just for me.”
“I—I can’t,” I stammer.
“This wet pussy says differently.”
“Lorcan,” I whimper and then let it happen. I arch my back, and only feel his thumb. The friction is relentless. I hate that I recognise this as pleasure when my mind identifies it as a pain. My thighs shake. The pressure builds, and then it snaps.
A cry escapes my throat. I grip his arm as the orgasm hits me. My pussy spasms against his hand, and I sink onto the mattress as his fingers move, dragging out the sensation. He doesn’t let me hide.
“Eyes on me, Elle,” he commands, looming over me as I fall back.
I force my eyes open, blinking through the haze of the release. He has one knee on the bed, his hand still on my cunt, perfectly composed in his navy suit while I’m a mess of exposed skin and shame.