Page 59 of His Turn

Chapter Sixteen - Nadia

Bric’s words awaken something inside me. Anger. Fear. Regret. Shame. All these things run through my mind when I open my eyes and meet his gaze. “I didn’t surrender,” I say. My voice is so low it barely counts as a whisper.

He just grins like a man who has all the power. Fool. “OK,” he says, running his fingers through my hair as he leans in for a kiss. “I’ll let you think that for now. But you won’t feel that way tomorrow morning.”

He lets go, his hold on me gone, and steps off the small platform. Jordan is suddenly behind me, lifting a blindfold up to my eyes. “Do you want this?” he asks.

He wants my permission. Jordan is like that. He knows when to ask and when to command. He’s all about give and take. A stark contrast to Bric’s bullish, mandatory domination.

“Nadia,” Jordan says, irritated with my silent contemplation. “Answer me.”

Bric has retreated to an elaborate high-back silver chair, something akin to a throne, directly in front of me. He meets my gaze with a stern face.

“Yes,” I say. Because it’s easier to pretend I’m in control than it is to watch Bric’s smug satisfaction with my implied surrender.

“Good,” Jordan says, covering my eyes with the blindfold. It’s soft. Cotton, maybe. But it pushes the mask I’m already wearing against my face, making the stiff silver lace trim scratch against my cheek. If we were alone I’d ask to take the mask off. But we’re not. And he’ll say no because of that. So I don’t ask. “Just try to relax,” Jordan says. “We won’t let anyone hurt you.”

I trust him, I realize. I know he’s not going to let anyone hurt me. And I know if Bric wasn’t here, he probably wouldn’t even be doing this. But Bric is here. And Bric is in charge, not Jordan. So his promise doesn’t mean much.

He secures the blindfold without further comment and then moves away. His absence creates a chill up my spine.

“Master,” a male voice says off to my left. “May I play with your sacrifice?”

“Of course,” Bric says. “That’s why she’s here.”

The man’s shoes tap on the smooth marble of the pedestal as he steps close to me. The chill is gone now. Replaced by his heat. At least on the outside. Inside I’m ice. I don’t react when his hands move up and down my ribs. Or when they gather my breasts to squeeze. But when his mouth touches my nipple, it peaks. Hard and pointy. His tongue slips over it in small strokes. His teeth nip and make me hiss in a breath of air through my teeth.

“Master,” another male voice says. “May I play with your sacrifice?”

“Of course,” Bric says. “That’s why she’s here.”

This man doesn’t immediately approach. He takes his time. Probably studying me like a specimen. But then—hands. Now there are two sets of hands on me. Two mouths on my nipples. I lose track of who is who, and, after the tingle between my legs becomes a throb, I no longer care until one man leaves and I feel the cold rush in to replace his heat.

“Master,” a third voice says. “May I rip her dress?”

Oh, Jesus. I swallow hard. Imagining what everyone sees. There have got to be a hundred people here tonight. Well over a hundred including the servers.

“Yes,” Bric answers from his throne. “She is my gift to you tonight, gentlemen. Do with her as you wish. Just make it a good show, will you? I don’t want to be bored.”

More hesitation. Like they’re deliberately waiting to follow through to make me uncomfortable. Make me wait. Make me want it.

And then two hands grip the two sides of the bodice—already exposing my breasts to all the people in attendance, and rips the dress. All hope of being covered up tonight goes away with that rip. The sound of the thin mesh fabric tearing echoes in my head.

He doesn’t stop there. The back of the dress is ripped open too. And then the skirt becomes tatters of silk and falls down my legs.

This man doesn’t ask permission when he presses his fingers between my legs. He doesn’t need to. I am nothing but Bric’s offering to his members.

I lose track of the hands after that. I lose track of their mouths. Their tongues. Their faces. Their kisses.

Around me people become aroused. They are fucking, I realize. Getting off to the show called Nadia tonight. Moaning and writhing to the dance I perform with these strangers.

I want to resist the feelings. I want to hold up my head and be immune to them. Scream at them that I am not their plaything. Tell them I’m here because I chose to be and not because I was ordered.

But does it matter?

Either way, I’m here because he put me here. Elias Bricman put me here and I’m the one who gave him that power. I handed it over willingly.

So fuck it. I decide to enjoy it. Everything. Every man. Every mouth. Every finger inside me. Every tongue on my skin. I take every bit of it and picture Bric’s face as I give in.