Chapter 25
Angel
I reconsider pain being the best way to hurt someone as I watch Lauren struggle against her restraints as the podcast plays in its entirety.
My skin is itchy, and I know it has everything to do with her being in my home. The noise she’s making along with the recording only acerbates it.
I didn’t stop to think about my own suffering, my own consequences for letting her invade my space.
It makes me want to go in there and find my equilibrium between her thighs.
My cock jerks at the thought, but that’s what she expects to happen. I have no doubt she’s already made her predictions about how this is going to go, and I need to keep her guessing, keep her off-kilter for as long as possible.
I’d take things too far if I went to her now. I want my toy to last as long as possible.
In addition to the meds to keep her sedated, I’ve also pumped her full of antibiotics, not only for whatever sexually transmitted infections she might have contracted while captured but also to help her body heal.
She was covered in bruises, cuts, and scrapes, and it disgusted me to see those marks on her skin. I want to be the one to hurt her, to make her bleed.
I want to hit the intercom button and remind her that she’s only hurting herself, making the wounds at her wrists worse by struggling against them, but I resist. I’ll allow injury to herself while she’s in my care.
My hatred for her has only grown since she got here, and it has nothing to do with being responsible for her bathroom needs or the four-day period she had right after I got her here.
I hated that I wanted so badly to paint her skin with that blood but couldn’t. My desires lean toward her pain, and doing shit while she’s unconscious serves no purpose to me.
I know it’s crazy to be mad that she’s passed out because I’m the one drugging her. That’s why her IV now only has saline. I decided no more drugs. I want her awake. I want her to know who she’s with. I want her worrying about what my plans are for her.
I want her to regret ever getting into my fucking truck outside the Cerberus clubhouse. Her need for adventure and putting herself in harm’s way ends in this house. I’ll put an end to that desire inside of her one way or another.
The thrilling part is that it may be the death of both of us.
She settles against the mattress—my fucking mattress—as the podcast ends.
I don’t believe in any of the shit I just played in the bedroom, and I know she doesn’t either. That’s the fun part of torturing her with it.
I’ve spent the last week and a half watching her sleep, and I’m tired of it.
I make my way back into the bedroom, watching her as I cross the room to the bathroom.
Luckily, this house came with a bathtub or there wouldn’t be one.
I’m not the type of man who’s going to sit in a pool of water.
My showers are quick and economical. The only time I’ll spend any length of time in there is when I get hurt and need the water pressure and heat to ease the soreness in my muscles.
Honestly, I need it now because my couch is shit for sleeping, and I’ve been out there since she’s been in here.
Physically, I could easily fall asleep beside her.
The IV drugs ensured she’d stay sedated all damn night, but mentally, I found it impossible the very first night I brought her back here.
Nearness made me want things I had to wait for.
The distance is the only thing that kept me from punishing her long before she woke up.
I turn on the taps, making sure that the water is warmer than what would be comfortable for her. Each action of mine has purpose, and the thought of her skin turning pink from the heat makes me hard.
“I need to piss, and before you tell me to just do it in the bed, keep your fucking mouth closed.”
“That’s a lot of spitfire coming from such a weak person,” I tell her as I untie her legs.
She proves my point by trying to kick out at me and is barely able to lift her leg. After removing her IV, her arms are next, but they fall to the bed. She does manage to wring her fingers around the sore spots she created on her skin.
“You’re a dick,” she spits when I help her sit up.
She’s been inactive for two weeks now, and it’s astonishing how fast the body loses its ability to function after short periods of no movement.
“I’m being nice,” I say as I make sure to keep all parts of me away from her mouth. I wouldn’t put it past her to take a chunk out of me.
“Nice.” She scoffs. “What the fuck are you doing?”
I don’t answer her rhetorical question as I continue to tie her arms behind her back.
“You said you needed to piss.”
I walk her slowly across the room instead of carrying her. At some point in the near future, I’m going to need this woman to fight back, and I’m not doing either of us any favors by coddling her.
“You’re fucking kidding, right?” She glares at me as I sit her down on the toilet.
Silently, I stare at her, standing my ground.
Stubbornly, and very true to her character, she just glares back.
It isn’t until I step away to turn off the water in the tub that the sound of urine hitting the inside of the bowl can be heard.
Of all the things this woman has experienced and suffered through and she gets shy about peeing?
“What now?” she snaps.
With the water off, steam billowing up from it, I turn back to give her all of my attention.
I eye the toilet paper before looking back at her face.
“Untie me,” she growls.
“Kick me and instead of bathing you in that tub, I’ll fucking drown you,” I warn as I step forward.
“Don’t touch me,” she hisses as I grab some tissue and bend lower.
I know how she feels. She probably sees me cleaning her up after using the restroom as more degrading than anything I’ve ever done to her, so I take my time.
“You know how many times I’ve washed this cunt over the last ten days?”
Her chin trembles as I push her legs farther apart. I watch her face the entire time as I wipe, celebrating the tears welling in her eyes as she points her face toward the ceiling.
“I gave you antibiotics,” I tell her as I stand.
Her eyes find mine then, and there’s something about the gratitude in her eyes that hits me differently.
“Thank you,” she whispers, and I know that was so fucking hard for her to say.
I’m a very good judge of character, and I can easily tell she means it. I’m sure part of her aftercare while with the FBI included all sorts of medical checkups and testing.
Instead of focusing on how she’s able to control my emotions with her gratitude, I decide to keep as much footing with her as possible.
“Your period lasted four days, so it seems you aren’t pregnant either.”
Her eyes narrow. She knows the game. She knows exactly what I’m doing.
“Was never a worry,” she says as I lift her to standing from the toilet. “I have a birth control implant in my arm. Plus, I’m pretty sure they used condoms. Sick fucks for thinking we’re the ones with diseases when they’re the ones abducting and raping women.”
Three bullets each weren’t enough for those pieces of shit, but I don’t tell her that.
It honestly makes me hate her just a little more because she’s bringing back pieces of me that I was proud of before we met in El Salvador.
Those were the things that made me weak, looking out for others instead of only being concerned for myself.
“I can bathe myself if you just untie me,” she says as I walk her toward the tub.
“Good to know,” I say, lifting her over the edge without making a move to remove her restraints.
She hisses as she sinks into the water, but she doesn’t complain.
She doesn’t say a word or try to inch away when I run a bar of soap over her skin.
“Two in one?” she mutters as I pour shampoo into my hands. “Fuck, I don’t even have dandruff.”
“Neither do I,” I tell her as I rub the product into her wet hair. “Because I use this fucking shampoo.”
Without thinking, I swipe away a pile of bubbles rolling down her forehead. I hate myself for protecting her even in the smallest ways.
She narrows her eyes at me as I grumble to myself, but she remains silent.
Stupidly, she starts to struggle when I drain the tub and pull her out, but if she falls to the floor, that’s going to be on her.
I manage to dry her with her hands still tied behind her back. I know if given the chance, she’d claw my fucking eyes out.
I don’t think she’s playing a part any longer. She isn’t looking for ways to upset me so I overpower her the way she likes.
I want to ask her what happened in Tamaulipas to change things for her, but that would show concern, and I’ve been doing my best to fight that desire in me.
Instead of showing comfort, I toss her on the bed and pull her ass to the edge.
When she tries to scurry away, I flip her to her back. I know her arms are digging into her back. I know from experience how fucking painful it is to lay that way.
I enjoy the wince on her face as I tug her closer to me.
“What the fuck are you doing?” she snaps.
“Anything I fucking please. Spread your fucking legs.”
She doesn’t oblige, but I never really expected her to. That’s not part of how she operates, and as I spread them against her will, I realize she isn’t playing a game like she has before.
“Angel, don’t.”
“Beg me to stop,” I taunt as I rip down the front of my sweats and smack her pussy with the tip of my cock.
Her jaw clamps closed. She’d rather me take her any way that I want than beg.
“Have it your way.” I groan as I enter her, my fingers digging into the flesh of her thighs.
It feels so fucking good, I hate her for it.
“Don’t close your fucking eyes,” I hiss, grabbing ahold of her jaw and pointing her face at mine. “I want you to fucking watch.”
It doesn’t take long, a simple five snaps of my hips, before my balls grow tight.
My hand slides from her face to her throat as she stares at me defiantly.
“Fucking bitch. If you come, I’ll hurt you.”
I have no idea which way this is going to go. She could let herself experience that pleasure in defiance or she could refuse. As I watch her face, I know she’s struggling with the decision.
I don’t give her body the chance to decide as I jerk free of her and paint her bruised and mottled flesh with cum.
Her breathing is ragged, and it tells me she might have been close and is thoroughly pissed that I was done using her before she got hers.
A single tear rolls down her cheek, and I fucking hate everything about the way it makes my heart clench. She doesn’t deserve sympathy or guilt.
Knowing that and accepting it aren’t the same thing.
I lean forward to kiss her. Maybe it’s an apology of sorts, but I find I’ve met her threshold of tolerance when she bites my lip so fucking hard I taste blood.