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We might not be having sex by the strict definition of the word, but the net effect is just as devastating.
“Peter, please…” I resume struggling, desperate to get away before I lose sight of what matters. The water makes our bodies slippery, enhancing the erotic sensation of skin rubbing against skin as I tug futilely at his arm. “Please, stop.”
“Stop what?” His breath heats my neck as his hand leaves my breast and travels lower, to where my muscles are coiled tight, my flesh pulsing and aching for his touch. “This”—he licks the outer shell of my ear, sending goosebumps down my side—“or this?” His callus-roughened fingers part my folds and press against my clit as his middle finger dips into me, pushing in to the first knuckle. My nails dig into his forearm, my inner muscles clenching greedily at the shallow intrusion, and he chuckles as a faint moan escapes my lips. I want to tell him to stop all of it, but my mind goes blank as his fingers move farther back, past my sex. Oh, God, surely he’s not—
His finger finds the tight ring of muscle between my cheeks and presses on the tiny opening. “Ah, yes,” he murmurs, his voice dark and sinfully soft as I tense at the stinging pressure. “Maybe it’s this you want me to stop. Am I right, ptichka?” The pressure on my anus eases as his finger rubs the tightly clenched flesh, as if soothing the attempted violation. “Are you a virgin here, my love?”
The endearment confuses me nearly as much as the foreign sensations rocketing through my body. Something almost like sympathy warms his deep, crooning voice, yet I can hear the lust in it too, a hunger tinged with dark possessiveness. He likes it, the possibility that he’d be my first in this, and the knowledge intensifies the coiling tension inside me, the treacherous heat that thrums low in my core. I shouldn’t find this intriguing, shouldn’t want it in any way, but I can’t deny a certain perverse curiosity. At one point, when George and I were still dating, I brought up the idea of anal sex, but George seemed disinterested and we never discussed it again.
I am a virgin in this regard, but if I admit that to my captor, I probably won’t be for long.
Gathering the crumbling pieces of my willpower, I yank at his tormenting hand with all my strength. “Just stop.”
To my surprise, Peter complies, withdrawing his hand and lifting his other arm. “Go then.” His voice is tight. “Get out.”
I scramble out of the tub, my legs shaking. My wet feet slide on the cool tile as I rush out of the bathroom, barely pausing to grab a towel on the way, and it’s not until I’m standing in the bedroom, fully dressed and with the towel wrapped around my wet hair, that my heart slows its frantic beating.
He let me go. I should be glad for the reprieve, but I feel strangely unsettled, frustrated in more ways than one. Once again, my tormentor is pretending like I have a choice, like this is a normal relationship where I can say no. And maybe I can—for a while, at least. So far, he’s never physically forced me. But I don’t delude myself. He can do whatever he wants with me, and eventually, I will end up in his bed, either through more subtle forms of coercion or my own lack of willpower.
I’d almost rather he forced me—because then I could pretend too.
I could imagine I’m normal and sane, a woman who hates the man who ruined her life instead of craving him.
9
Peter
Sara avoids me until lunchtime, which is just as well. My self-control is fraying, the darkness clawing to the surface. I want to fuck her, and at the same time, I want to subjugate and punish her, make her understand that she is mine.
I want to take her to the edge and bring her over, no matter what it might do to her.
“Don’t do it, man,” Ilya says quietly as I finish slapping together Sara’s sandwich. He’s making his own sandwich next to me. “Whatever you’re thinking about, you’ll regret it.”
I bare my teeth in a humorless smile. “Really? You’re a fucking psychic now?”
“No, but I don’t think you’re thinking straight. She doesn’t deserve this.” He dips a butter knife into a jar of mayonnaise. “The least you can do is give her a little time.”
I picture grabbing the knife and crushing Ilya’s trachea with it. It’s too dull to slice his throat, but it would do a great job of choking him to death. Luckily for my teammate, he doesn’t say anything else, and I stride out of the kitchen with Sara’s plate.
I find her upstairs, going through a dresser in one of the empty guest bedrooms. Silently, I stop in the doorway and watch her, fascinated by the sight of her lithe, graceful body bending and twisting as she pulls out and closes the drawers one by one. There’s nothing in that dresser, but Sara doesn’t stop until she’s checked every drawer.
