I run my tongue up the side of her neck, licking up her sweat. It’s clear and salty, exploding on my tongue. It’s better than caviar. I swallow it down.
And then I kiss her. Her lips are parched from dancing. I lick those lips, tasting the salty skin, and then I thrust my tongue into her mouth, and I lick every part of that, too—teeth, tongue, palate. I inhale her scent and her taste. I fuck her mouth with my tongue.
For a moment she’s frozen in my arms, tense and tight. Then, shockingly, she responds to me. She’s kissing me back, without skill or style, but with a hunger that almost matches my own.
We’re locked together, my fingers digging into her flesh, her hands gripping the material of my shirt.
How long it goes on, I have no idea.
We break apart, staring at each other, equally confused about what the fuck just happened.
There’s blood on her lip. I can taste it in my mouth. I don’t know if she bit me, or I bit her.
She touches her lip and looks at the bright spot of blood on her fingertip.
Then she turns and runs, sprinting out of the room like I’m snapping at her heels.
I’m not following her. I’m too stunned to do it.
I kissed her. Why the fuck did I kiss her?
I had no intention of kissing Nessa, or touching her at all.
Of all the evil things I’ve done in my life, and they are countless, I’ve never forced myself on a woman. It’s the one thing I won’t do.
So why did I kiss her?
She’s beautiful. But there are thousands of beautiful women in the world.
She’s innocent. But I fucking hate innocence.
She’s talented. But what good is dancing, in a world full of killers and thieves?
I pull out my phone, compelled to check in on her, as I’ve been doing more and more often.
I access the camera in her bedroom. There’s only the one, pointed at the bed. I don’t watch her in the toilet or the shower. I’m not that depraved.
Sure enough, she’s laying on the bed, face down. But she’s not sobbing, as I expect her to be.
Oh, no. What she’s doing is completely different.
She has her hand between her thighs and she’s touching herself. She’s stroking that sweet little pussy with her fingers, while grinding her hips into the bed. She’s still wearing her bodysuit. I can see the round muscles of her buttocks flexing with every roll of her hips.
Jesus Christ. My heart is racing, and I can’t take my eyes off the screen. The image is black and white, but totally clear.
I watch as she pulls a pillow between her legs and sits upright, grinding on the pillow instead of her hand. She clenches it between her thighs, grasping handfuls of the sheet, riding the pillow as if it were a man underneath of her.
Without even realizing it, I’ve taken my cock out of my pants. I’m gripping it in one hand, the phone in the other. My eyes are locked on the screen. I couldn’t look away if my life depended on it.
I watch Nessa ride the pillow, every muscle rigid down the length of her slim body—shoulders, chest, ass, thighs, all clenching as hard as they can. Her head is thrown back and her eyes are closed. Even in black and white, I can see the flush on her cheeks.
Her mouth opens as she starts to cum. I see the long, silent cry.
I explode into my hand at the same time. Shot after shot of cum, timed to the motion of Nessa’s hips. I didn’t even have to stroke myself.
My knees buckle under me. I squeeze my cock hard, trying not to groan. The orgasm is wrenching. It drains the life out of me.
Still I’m staring at the screen, at Nessa’s delicate features, her slender frame. She’s finally relaxing, falling face down on the bed once more.
I can’t take my eyes off her. Every line of her body is burned into my retinas, from the strands of sweat-soaked hair, to the bird-like shoulder blades, to the long lines of her legs.
I can’t look away.
16
Nessa
I wake in the morning, sticky and sweaty and flooded with shame.
The memories swirling around in my brain are just nightmares. They have to be.
There’s no way on god’s green earth that my very first kiss was with my kidnapper.
I could not possibly be that stupid.
And then to touch myself afterward!
My face is burning with humiliation, remembering it. I ran back to my room, intending to hide. But I was flustered, throbbing, aching for something. And when I put my hand there just for a second, it felt meltingly good. It felt like pleasure and relief and a desperate need to keep going, all at once.
And that orgasm . . .
Oh my god. You could take every time I touched myself before, grind it up in a blender, crank it up by a factor of ten, and it wouldn’t even approach what I just experienced.
It’s insane and impossible, so there’s no way it actually happened.
I keep telling myself that while I stumble into the shower, stripping off my nasty bodysuit and soaping myself for what feels like an hour. I scrub every inch of my skin, trying to rid myself of the sensations that keep popping up—the way his hands felt, yanking my hair. The way his mouth tasted, like salt and cigarettes and citrus and blood. The surprising warmth of his lips. And the way his tongue slid up my neck, igniting each neuron in my brain like a string of firecrackers.
No, no, NO!
I hated that. I didn’t like any of it. It was awful and crazy and it’s never happening again.
I step out of the shower, wrapping a towel around my body and swiping my palm across the foggy mirror. My own startled face looks back at me, lips swollen and eyes guilty.
I grab my toothbrush and scrub my mouth viciously, trying to remove the taste of him.
When I come out of the bathroom, Klara is standing by my bed. I give a little shriek.
“Dzień dobry!” she says cheerfully.
“Hey,” I say dully, too depressed to respond in kind.
She purses her lips, looking me over. After we created the perfect little dance studio just yesterday, she expected to find me cheerful.
“Popatrz!” she says, pointing to the bed. Look!
She’s already made the bed, pulling the covers tight and tucking them in as always. Then she’s spread out a dozen pieces of dancewear, including leotards, tights, warmups, socks, and two pairs of brand new pointe shoes.
This isn’t just any dancewear—it’s Yumiko bodysuits and Grishko shoes. The warmups are some of the newest pieces from Eleve. It’s better than what I have in my own closet at home. Picking up the pointe shoes, I see they’re the exact right size.
“Where did this come from?” I ask Klara weakly. “Did you buy this?”
She just shrugs, smiling.
She might have picked it up, but I don’t think she paid for it. Not that I’d want her to—I doubt she makes much money. But the alternative is worse. Did Mikolaj tell her to get all this? Because I let him kiss me?
It makes me shudder.
I want to pull it all off the bed and throw it in the trash.
I can’t do that, though. Klara looks too pleased, too hopeful.
She thought I’d be thrilled to have something better to wear than my one, increasingly tattered, bodysuit.
“Thanks, Klara,” I say, trying to force a smile.
Meanwhile, my stomach is clenched up in a knot.