“James,” I breathe, feeling sensation overload.
“What, baby? What’s wrong?”
Wrong? Is this wrong? “Nothing’s wrong.” I murmur, closing my eyes, floating away again. His fingers slip free and his cock slips in. “Oh, God,” I say over a sigh, my body shaking, my skin tingling, my core gushing.
He takes my hair and thrusts gently, and I feel the leather paddle smoothing over my bottom again. It leaves my skin. I brace myself.
Slap!
I jolt, the sting biting, but he thrusts on.
Slap!
I hiss, pushing my face into the mattress as blood floods to my head and my clit.
Thwack!
He drives deep at the same time. “More,” I beg.
And he gives me more.
His pace increases, and with the increase of pace comes more thrashes. My ass is full, my pussy full, my skin blazing. I’m being attacked full force in various ways, and I want more. I zone out, hypnotized by his ferocity, walking the path to nothingness. I go nowhere. I hear no words. I see no evil.
I taste only freedom.
My internal walls quiver as the friction builds. The slickness. The heat. The power. And then the tell-tale sign of a release is within reach, and it brings me back into the room. I gasp, drinking in air, starving for it, my clit pulsing. My thighs tremble, and with each drive, each spank, each constriction of my ass muscles, it edges forward, almost prowls, creeps, giving me time to prepare for it.
“Go on, Beau,” James yells over the ear-piercing sound of our colliding bodies. “Let it bend you. Let it break you.”
It hits me with so much power, it makes my eyes water. My body jacks off the bed. James fingers dig into my hips, holding me tightly, and he bangs on, slamming my orgasm out of me. I scream. My head’s spinning. I choke on nothing, gritting my teeth, as bolts of pleasure tear through me like a monster, leaving limp, listless muscles in their wake. The sensitivity becomes too much, my jaw aching from the force of my clenched teeth.
I really am utterly broken. Unable to move. Unable to speak. Unable to even think. James pulls out, and he helps me to my back. I can’t see him. Even my vision has failed me. Once again, he pushes my knees to either side of my ears, and I feel him watch me as his head falls south. His tongue meets the ring of muscles holding the butt plug in place, and he circles it slowly, working his way up through my pussy as he pulls the plug free with his fingers. He releases my legs. Kisses my navel. Each breast. And then my lips.
I force my heavy eyes to remain open, trying to clear my vision. Trying to see him. He spreads himself all over me, my bound hands fall limply over my head, and he enters me again, this time slowly. The fog leaves my sight.
And there he is, looking out of this world, soaked, like he could have just stepped out of the shower. His pace now is meticulous and lazy. He glides in and out with ease, in no rush, and when his piercing blues seem to turn up a notch in the brightness stakes, his face strains, and he quickly pulls out again, walking on his knees until they’re positioned either side of my chest. He wraps a fist around his girth and pumps over my face, the lust in his eyes crazy as he looks down at me, his lips parted. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything so magnificent. So powerful.
He reaches down and pulls at my bottom lip, and I open my mouth. He comes hard on a hiss, the tip of his cock bursts like a volcano, cum spraying my boobs, my face, hitting my tongue. I would close my eyes and savor the salty taste of him, if I could bear taking my eyes away from what’s towering over me, exuding supremacy, screaming sex.
His back arches, his hips push forward, the thrusts of his hand starting to slow, and then he falls forward onto a fist, struggling to hold himself up. “My God,” he whispers, dipping to kiss the corner of my mouth, not bothered by his seed spread all over my lips. “I’m broken.” He collapses and blankets me with his body, completely crowding me.
I have to agree.
I’m broken too.
But this kind of new broken hurts so good.
15
JAMES
There’s a fine line between want and need. Sometimes you can want something so much, you convince yourself you actually need it. Or, worse than that, think you’re entitled to it. It makes the withdrawal symptoms more prevalent. I no longer allow myself to want something. I refuse to fall into the realms of need.
I’m used to the misery.
The darkness.
The never-ending cycle of hate. Hate for the world. Hate for my family’s deaths. Hate for every person on this planet living.
Hate for myself for surviving.
Hate is easier to feel than love. It’s a consistent, reliable form of self-torture I’m in full control of. Other emotions are not. With that tainted, unnamed emotion, someone else is in control. Someone else delivers the torture.
I’m only capable of hate.
But as I stare at the woman beside me, her skin still damp, her screams of ecstasy still ringing in my ears, I feel no hate. I feel only purpose. I see a lost soul who’s fighting to navigate this world. I see desperation to escape. I see an equal, diabolical, deep-seated need for vengeance. And her scar? I reach forward and stroke down the length of her arm, from her shoulder to her wrist.
I see red. A mist of fury descends. It’s unstoppable.
I get up off the bed and stalk out, needing to walk it off before I wake her up and give her truths that unveil my darkness. No. Not happening.
I land at my desk and pull up the screens, loading the stock market and scanning the numbers. All numbers I like. There’s nothing to take my mind off things here. So I pull up my inbox and reply to every email. And once I’ve done that, I call Otto to check on the burner phone he’s been tracking for two years. Nothing.
Then it’s just me, my thoughts, and the darkness again. I close my eyes, and the first thing I see is our house. My family home in England. My father at the head of the table smiling as the maid serves dinner to his wife, son, and daughter. As the butler pours wine and water. As his best man, Otto, gives him a nod that all is well. In that moment, it was all well. The men were guarding the gate, ensuring we were safe. My father, the prolific Spencer James, lording it up on his country estate after finalizing a deal with the Serbians to supply London’s richest with the finest cocaine.
I was twenty-two years old. A master shooter. A fine gymnast. An unrivaled fencer. A genius mathematician. A university graduate. And my sister? An aspiring historian. Beautiful like our mother. Smart like our father. Nothing made Spencer James prouder than his multi-talented offspring. Nothing made my mother smile harder than her boy and her girl. That evening, my father declared world domination. He told us our future was bright and crime free. And the same evening, our home was blown up by the men my father took from.
My family lay in thousands of pieces amongst bricks and rubble. I dodged death. But watching Otto pull the teeth from my parents, my little sister, and our staff’s cindered remains, and then forcing me to neck half a bottle of vodka before he took one of mine, made me want to die.
And eventually, it made me want to kill.
16
BEAU
I open my eyes and stare at the ceiling, feeling James lying next to me. My breathing is still heavy. My wrists still bound. I turn my head on the pillow, finding him sprawled on his front, his eyes lightly closed, snoozing.