As Cristiano paced by the pool on a call, I rationed what remained of my wine. I picked up the glass. Backlit by the turquoise pool, it glowed ethereal blue. It was tempting to drown myself in the wide, generous wineglass after the day I’d had, but I had to be smart.
I’d wasted too much time being gullible. I’d hated Cristiano for his elaborate plan to get me to the Badlands, but it was Diego who’d orchestrated the whole thing. Forty-eight hours earlier, I would’ve sworn on my mother’s grave it wasn’t possible.
But I knew it was the truth.
As I tilted my glass, watching the translucent liquid pool to one side, I recalled something Diego had told me before we’d slept together.
I’d have to be willing to promise him anything to get him on our side. Even if I don’t mean to keep those promises.
Now, thanks to Cristiano, I was thinking like Diego. If he were here now, he’d spin the tale in his favor. He’d tell me he’d promised Cristiano the world to get him to agree to help us, but that he’d planned all along to free me once the coast was clear.
I righted the wineglass. Two more sips, I decided, but then I’d stop. I doubted I’d get tipsy after the snails, duck, mixed salad, and cheese, but I wasn’t taking any chances. Reading a man like Cristiano required my full, unadulterated attention.
Especially when I had his.
I drizzled honeycomb over blue cheese, impressed by the meal we’d just eaten. Recreating world-class fare my mother had made might’ve been a way for Cristiano to distract me from the truth of my situation—but the walk down memory lane was welcome nonetheless. It was as close to time spent with her as I’d get.
Cristiano made his way back to the table, tucking his phone into his shirt pocket. “I have to leave town for the next couple days, so we’re going to go over some things.”
And of all people, I had brash, taciturn Cristiano to thank for my night with Mamá. Not that I would.
I swiped my index finger through the remnants of honey on my plate. “Rules?”
“If that’s what you want to call them.”
“You already told me the first one—don’t die.”
He slid his chair from the table and sat. “Be kind and courteous to the staff. It’s not their fault you’re here, and they just want to make you comfortable—that includes Jaz.”
“I have no problem with Jaz.” I drew a sad face on my plate, then sucked honey off my finger. “She has a problem with me.”
“She’s, ah . . . protective.”
I didn’t miss the way he stared at my mouth or momentarily lost his words. This was what Diego had meant by redirecting Cristiano’s attention where I wanted it to go. “Protective of . . .?” I asked softly.
He inhaled and looked away—which made it hard to mesmerize him into spilling his secrets. “Of me. And herself. She wants to be here, if that’s what you’re getting at.”
“Why?” I asked.
“Gratitude.” He dipped his head, his eyes darkening. “And, of course, reparations.”
A sense of unease worked its way through me. Was Jaz indebted to him somehow? Or he to her?
“Courteousness should be obvious,” he said, “as should this—you’re to stay on the property.”
“Are these just the rules while you’re gone?” I asked.
“They’re the rules until I say they’re not.”
“So I’m confined to this house for my foreseeable future?”
“Correct. There’s plenty to keep you occupied here.”
“Such as?” I asked.
“There’s a game room, movie theater, indoor pool. Just let one of the staff know what you want to eat. If we don’t have it, they’ll procure it.”
Hanging out with a staff who was paid to be here didn’t appeal to me. I missed my friends. It felt strange to wonder about companionship when the day before, I wasn’t even sure I’d have a proper bed or a warm meal.
He leaned back in his seat, drumming his fingers on the table. “Anything a girl could ask for, and I suspect it’s still not enough. We also grow fruit, vegetables, and flowers out back if that interests you.”
“My mother liked to garden,” I said, but of course, he’d know that. I’d never tended my own, but I’d helped as a kid, and it’d been a long time since I’d sunk my hands in fresh soil. “That’s something, I guess.”
“Landscapers maintain it, but you can help as long as you stay between there and the house.”
“Who will I talk to?”
He winked. “You can always call me.”
“I don’t even want to talk to you when you’re here.”
“No?” He gestured away from the table. “You’re free to go up to our room.”
Our room. He was mocking me. I stood, and he eyed me as if he knew my next move before I did. Perhaps he did. He’d called my bluff. Cristiano’s company wasn’t ideal, but it was preferable to being alone. The more time we spent together, the more likely he was to open up. Learning as much as I could about him and this place could only be valuable. Somewhere, somehow, I was going to figure out how to pull the pin that would implode this cartel like a grenade—or at least its leader.
Cristiano had spent an entire day with me when he surely had better things to do, and I couldn’t fathom that would happen very often, so I had to seize what time I had.
I sat back down. “Arguing with you is more stimulating than staring at a wall,” I reasoned. “Barely.”
“Every day, you’ll continue learning self-defense,” he said, resuming our conversation. “That should keep you busy.” He ran his tongue along his front teeth and added, “But I suppose I could also arrange to have one of your professors brought here if you’d like.”
My jaw dropped. I could never forget for a moment the all-powerful reach of a kingpin in this world. “Oh my God. You can’t just keep . . . taking people,” I said, blinking rapidly. “Especially not an American professor. It’s not right—it’s unfathomable.”
He set his elbow on the table and massaged his jaw. “I—”
“People have lives and families and—and dreams and goals.” A fleeting vision crossed through my mind—palm trees in the wind, coolers of beer on the California beach with my friends, even all-nighters at the library before finals. And that all had amounted to what? The same life I’d had as a child. Occupying myself in a big house while keeping one eye over my shoulder. Losing all that was bad enough. Now, I was putting others at risk? “That professor could be a mother or father. Do you have any idea the uproar—”
“For Christ’s sake, Natalia.” He sighed heavily, dropping his face into his hands. “I didn’t mean I’d kidnap him. I’d make him an offer to come and teach you.” He glanced up. “I’d pay him. A far superior salary to what he currently makes. At least double—whatever it took.”
I scoffed to hide my laugh at how wistful I’d become over his suggestion. “Oh.”
“Oh,” he echoed. “Not everything has to be done with brute force.”
“And I’m sure a professor would feel perfectly comfortable turning away someone like you from his doorstep.”
He rested his hands on the leg crossed in front of him as his mouth turned down. “What does that mean, ‘someone like me’?”
“You’re twice the size of some men. Anyone would be right to feel intimidated by you.”
“You don’t.”
“Of course I do.”
“Not really, though,” he said. “Is it because you grew up around me?”
I gaped at him only a moment, then shut my mouth. I wasn’t going to indulge him in a conversation about how scared or not scared of him I was. That was just another way for him to exert power. Since I didn’t care for the direction of the conversation, I changed it. “How do you know Barto won’t break in again?”
His knuckles whitened around his shin. “Max and I are taking care of it.”
“You know how he got in?”
“We have video.”
“So you know?”
He narrowed his eyes. “We’re still reviewing it.”
That was a no, and I could see it bothered him. I sipped my wine, using the glass to hide my smile. “Are there cameras outside the house?”
“Of course, and after Barto’s little show, we’ll be installing more as soon as possible. Inside and out.”
“So you and your men can watch me at all times of the day. I’ll never have any privacy.” My jaw tingled. “Perverts.”
“We’re not per—it’s for your own safety.” He inhaled through his nose and flexed his hand a couple times. “No man will ever lay eyes on your naked body again.”
“What if I strip down right here in the middle of the patio? You’re telling me there aren’t cameras here?”
“You wouldn’t, but my team knows when to look away anyway. You have my word.”
“Your word doesn’t exactly mean much,” I pointed out.
“Then consider that shielding you from them isn’t for your peace of mind. It’s for mine. If Max ever looked at you, he knows I’d remove his other eye.”
“Why?” Now that my basic needs had been met, I could focus all my attention on the man in front of me. Who he was, what drove him, what held him back. That would only help me navigate whatever was coming my way. “You’ve told me I’m only yours, and you haven’t even touched me. Why do you care what happens to my body?”
“Because I’m selfish and possessive over what’s mine.”
“This home is yours, and you share it with others. You invited half the town here last night.”
“And you think I should invite half the town to your body?”
He’d never. I pushed the unbidden thought away, irritated I’d assume there was any horrific thing Cristiano wasn’t capable of. Maybe he’d been possessive, and even protective, since he’d returned to town—but that didn’t mean I was safe with him. “I thought when I came here, I’d be treated like your other women.”
“What women? I don’t own anyone else,” he said, wetting his lips with a hint of a smile before it vanished. “How are women around here treated?”
“Worked, passed around, sold.”
The flash of irritation over his face told me more than words could—I’d poked at something he didn’t like. His brows lowered. “We don’t treat anyone that way, no matter their age or sex.”
“Just me then. How many women have you sold?” I asked. “Is that why you go to Russia?”
His eyes shuttered. “I’ll answer your questions in time, I promise. But not when you’re on a mission to malign me.”
“I’m not,” I said, relaxing into my chair as I ran a fingertip along the rim of my wineglass. I still had a sip left before I’d cut myself off. “I’m genuinely curious.”
“This isn’t a two-sided conversation.” He tracked my hand with his eyes. “You won’t listen to reason now.”
I sighed and told the truth, hoping sincerity would gain me something. “If you’re hurting women, or anyone, I won’t be a part of it. Not even as a bystander. And children?” I asked. “Do you take them, too?”
He slid his drink away by its stem, wine sloshing against the glass. “I don’t take anyone.”
“You took me,” I challenged.
“That’s not true.”
“I wasn’t willing, and we both know it.” I picked up on the irritation in his voice, but I had a feeling getting to the bottom of it would teach me something important about Cristiano, especially if he didn’t want me to know. “If you’d take one person, you’d take others, and how is that different from smuggling people like weapons or narcotics?”
He inhaled audibly. “Marrying you is not equivalent to human trafficking.”
“Why not?” The cracks in his composure sent a thrill through me, spurring me on. “It’s playing with a human life.”
“That’s enough,” he ground out through clenched teeth. “What right do you have to question me when—”
“True, prisoners don’t generally have many rights.”
He rose to his feet and his palm slapped the table. “You don’t know the first thing about my business, and you haven’t made any honest effort to learn. You see what you want to see and believe rumors without substantiating them. I won’t indulge that behavior.”
Despite the menacing way he towered over me, triumph surged through me. Finally, an honest reaction. One that gave me more insight into this man. The fact that this was a sore spot for him confirmed what Diego had said.
Cristiano was just twisted enough to believe he was different from his father. He considered himself the hero of his story.
“Another rule that may need reiterating,” he started.
“I already know what you’re going to say.” Don’t question me. Don’t snoop. Mind your own business.
I’d heard it in one form or another as long as I could remember, but this situation was different. My life and my future might depend on my ability to learn my surroundings—and the man standing in front of me—inside out.
He arched an eyebrow, regaining his composure. “Please—enlighten me.”
“All the regular cartel stuff. Don’t touch anything of yours, don’t explore the house or eavesdrop or talk to the staff.”
“You can do all of that,” he said.
“Really?” Let’s see if he felt that way when I tried each of them while he was away.
“You’re free to roam and to talk to whomever you want,” he said, “as long as the person is comfortable with it—which Jaz was not the night you got here.”
I continued my list, ticking off items on my fingers. “Don’t challenge you—”
“I invite you to.”
“—or drink your two-thousand-dollar-a-bottle liquor—”
His eyebrow quirked. “Costa’s rule no doubt.”
“—and don’t share sensitive information or repeat anything I hear or see—”
“Well.” The air shifted as something cold passed over his face, and he inclined his head, leaning over me. “Sensitive or otherwise, no information leaves these walls. None. That’s not a rule, it’s a way of life, and I’d assumed it would go without saying. You can eavesdrop all you like because I know you understand—opening your mouth would be a death sentence.”
I hadn’t told Diego anything, but my throat still constricted thinking about the phone upstairs. I laced my fingers in my lap, squeezing them together as I held his gaze. “I wouldn’t.”
“And none of those are what I was going to say anyway,” he said, smoothing his hand down the front of his shirt. “You will be at my dinner table and in my bed every night. Even when I’m not here. If ever the day comes when you’re missing from either, I’ll assume you’re gone.”
I blinked up at him a few times, recalling his same words from the night before. “That’s a rule?”
“It’s the rule, sweet butterfly,” he said. “If you’re not at my table or in my bed, I’ll have no choice but to assume you left.”
“I can’t even step off the property,” I pointed out.
“Can’t and shouldn’t are two different things. I haven’t chained you to a post. If you want to leave, you’ll find a way—as those who are whip smart and resourceful tend to do. You’ve been honing those traits since childhood.”
To my dismay, I blushed. Whip smart? Resourceful? Papá hadn’t thought so. More like disobedient and sneaky. Or stealthy, as Diego had called me.
Cristiano set one hand on the table next to me and the other on the arm of my chair. No, he hadn’t chained me up, but his body trapped me now. A powerful frame that acted as a reminder that my husband could flip at any moment and take what he wanted from his wife.
“I don’t think I need to repeat myself,” he said, “but I will so there’s no confusion. If you fly away, so does my protection. I said I wouldn’t set the Maldonados, or whoever else holds a grudge against your family, on the people you love—but I’ve been known to change my mind.”
I’d grown too comfortable today. My stomach fluttered with fear but also with a sense of satisfaction. This was more like it. Now, he was treating me the way I’d expected, and it made more sense than serving me a four-course dinner garnished with memories of Mamá.
His threats weren’t idle. I’d always known of his ruthlessness. But for some reason, he seemed to be holding back with me, and that only confused my time here. Hoping to provoke him to see if he even knew how far he’d go, I asked, “What does it mean to change your mind?”
By the way his bloodless knuckles curled on the table, my prodding worked. “Let’s work through this, shall we? I could set them loose like a rabid dog in a chicken coop. They’d snap the old rooster’s neck—that’s Papá to you—and tear chicken-shit little Diego limb from limb. They’d definitely knock Barto off his high horse and obliterate all the men who’d ever breathed a word near your father, including townspeople. Maybe even Pilar. Definitely your mother’s family at their farm north of here.”
I stilled. It made perfect sense that Cristiano knew of them—it’d been his job to once—but it disquieted me nonetheless. I’d never met my mother’s parents since she’d chosen cartel life with my father and had severed ties to keep them out of danger. But they’d always been in it, emotional leverage in the shadows, and they likely didn’t even realize it.
“But what about you? How would you fare without my protection?” Cristiano continued. “Such a beautiful girl who can’t fight . . . they would find you. Easily.” He ghosted his knuckle under my chin. “You’ve accused me of many things. What was it? Worked, passed around, sold? You were worried I’d invite half the town to fuck you.” His dark eyes reflected the cool blue of the pool as he passed them over me. “You must understand, Natalia. They would do all of that and worse. And never forget that I could, too, with less than a snap of my fingers.”
I’d hunched back into my seat, cowering from him, but when my attention snagged on one word, I straightened. “Could?” I asked. “Or would?”
His eyes drifted down to the strapless neckline of my dress. Instead of answering, he said, “Don’t give my staff any trouble while I’m away, and we can take out the horses when I return.”
Cristiano would go all the way up to the line, but something kept him from crossing it. He had the power and inclination to treat me however he wanted, or at least scare me so badly that I never stepped out of line. And he had the reputation to back it up. But he wouldn’t. Why not? What was that raw place in him I’d touched when I’d equated my being here with human trafficking?
“You have horses?” I asked.
“You already met mine, remember?”
How could I forget being forced onto a saddle and stolen away from a burning warehouse while the love of my life had been inside. Or that confusing mix of relief and safety as I’d submitted to the things I couldn’t stop—the wind in my hair, Cristiano’s body cocooning mine, the sound of hooves pounding the solid ground as the desert had spread out before us.
My most unbearable memories of my mother were those of laughing and riding free on our horses. Nothing took me back to those days like the smell, sound, and feel of riding a horse. I worried if I ever took the reins again, I’d keel over from a broken heart. I looked away. “I don’t ride. Not anymore.”
“Then you can stay in the house while I go.”
I jerked my head up and met his glittering eyes. “You’re a dick.”
Still bent at the hip, he removed his hand from the table to pinch my chin between his thumb and forefinger. “Not yet, but I can be if you like. Perhaps as payback for slapping me in the church in front of my men, I ought to gather the staff out here and spank you for your attitude. Now, that would make me a dick.”
“You won’t,” I said.
“How do you know?”
Because that would be over the line. “You just gave me your word you’d never let anyone lay their eyes on me,” I challenged, “and I’m pretty sure that includes my bare ass. But maybe I’m wrong. Maybe you’d like to let Alejandro take a swat.”
“Go upstairs,” he bit out before I’d even finished my sentence. “You’ll find a closet full of new things, all in your size. Don’t touch a single garment.” He paused to let me connect the meaning of his words to his fiery gaze. “Take off your clothes and wait for me in bed.”
My heart skipped. He sounded more serious than he had yet—and more menacing, which was welcome. We both knew what he was, but he hadn’t fully stepped into the role yet. A captor, rapist, and monster with heroic restraint had kept me on edge more than anything.
Whatever he was, I was ready to face it. I shoved my seat back from the table, took one last healthy gulp of wine, and marched upstairs.
In the closet, I slammed the door. Each hanger had been filled during our meal—floral summer dresses, beaded ball gowns, silk blouses in every color of the rainbow, wool slacks. T-shirts and jeans piled to the tops of each shelf. The stilettos, pumps, sneakers, and sandals lining one wall were so dazzling that I had to force myself to look away so I wouldn’t lose focus.
I wasn’t here to play dress up. To fall into the role of wife and keep house. I was something much uglier—a captive who’d been bestowed with a closet of beautiful things but had been sent to bed with nothing.
My dresser drawers were filled with satin and silk, lace, rhinestones, and scalloped trim. I stripped down and rifled through his drawers instead for the most unattractive thing I could find.
He wanted me naked in his bed? He’d have to look me in the eye as he stripped me of his clothing and my choice.
I pulled on his sweatpants, knotted the drawstring as tightly as I could, and threw on a matching black sweatshirt.
As I whirled around to march out of the closet, I stopped cold. My wedding dress hung elegantly on the back of the door, clean and pressed on a cream, padded, satin hanger. I approached it slowly, with bated breath, as if it might dissolve beneath a sigh. I ran the ivory lace through my hands and removed the hanger from its hook to turn it, inspecting the back. The lace that had ripped in a clean line along the column of buttons had been repaired, and the damage was barely noticeable. Somebody very talented—and very fast—had fixed this. But why?
Was it possible Cristiano had felt a shred of remorse upon discovering this had been my mother’s dress?
I saved the thought for another time. Right now, I couldn’t think of any decency that might be buried under his cold demeanor.
With a sound in the next room, I replaced the hanger and walked out of the closet.
Cristiano unbuckled his watch by the bed. He glanced briefly at my outfit, then back down. “We’ll have to work on your listening skills,” he said, his watch clattering on the nightstand.
I continued to my side of the bed and slipped between the sheets before turning my back to him.
But within seconds, he was standing over me.
I stared forward, avoiding him as he took his time unbuttoning and removing his shirt. As he discarded it, I caught the shadowed ridges of his abdominal muscles.
“Look at me.”
I was afraid I’d lose my nerve if I did, but when he reached out, I flinched, rolling onto my back as I raised my eyes to him.
“Let me list all the things you think could stop me but wouldn’t,” he said, peeling the top sheet away from my body. “Sweatpants. Your period. Diego. Your father.”
He ghosted the back of his hand down the front of the sweatshirt. I didn’t even have to feel it to sense his hand stop at the tie of my pants.
“I know what will stop you,” I said.
“Tell me.”
Cristiano wanted to test me. I could play that game, too. He wasn’t the only one who could take us to the edge, but would he push me over . . . or pull me back at the last second?
My heart raced as I let one leg fall open. “Yours.”
His gaze darted to my hand as I placed it on the inside of my thigh. “My what?” he asked hoarsely.
Diego had been right about one thing—Cristiano had somehow convinced himself he was different from the other unforgivable people in this world who played with human lives. He’d played with mine, and he didn’t get to ignore that. “Your father.”
He froze as if a chill had fallen over the room—while my body continued to warm. Even though he towered over me, it felt as if I was the one looking down on him. A shadow passed over his face, and his jaw firmed, its angles sharp enough to cut glass. But nothing sliced as deep as words. “What did you tell me once?” I asked. “Nobody thinks they’re a monster?”
He swallowed with a quick nod.
He hadn’t even touched me, but his magnetic hand continued to hover. I resisted the urge to lift my hips to meet it. “You run the same business your father did on a much larger scale. Somehow, you’ve justified that to yourself, but if nobody else will tell you, I will. You are your father.”
He made a fist, veins winding like vines around his dark forearm. I let my eyes travel up to the solid, thick muscles of a powerful bicep. Tense muscles that looked as if they were on the verge of exploding like his temper. “You’re wrong.”
“I don’t think I am.” And as someone from his past, how did I fit in? Cristiano could’ve had anyone in his bed, but he’d chosen me. Maybe it was only that I meant something to Diego. But perhaps it was more. He’d watched me grow up. He’d protected me from people like him.
His long lashes lowered. The promise of his father was enough to scare him off, I was sure. He unfurled his hand, flexing it. I left my leg open, expecting him to withdraw but tempting him to give in to the darkness behind his eyes.
He stretched his long fingers and brushed the stiff fabric. Reflexively, I grabbed his wrist. I’d called his bluff, and he’d called mine right back. Realizing he was going to touch me, a thread of desire yanked inside me. Hands the size of my head that had wrapped around men’s throats, and had both commanded artillery and cradled me as a baby—they wouldn’t relent until they’d made me feel terrifying things, like euphoria. Bliss. Or worse, connection. What if Cristiano made me feel so good that I began to crave—or need—a man I was supposed to fear? Already, I had the unsettling impulse to pull his fingers down so he could soothe this new ache when I should’ve pushed him away.
With lightning speed, he flipped his hand to capture my wrist.
I exhaled a soundless gasp. My helplessness was instant, along with a new, deep-seated yearning to submit. Being in his firm grip turned the gentle pulse between my legs into an angry throb. He could overpower me without much effort. And I wanted it. Every heated look, every restrained touch, and each inciting, sizzling word he’d uttered in my ear since he’d come back into my life suddenly culminated inside me, demanding relief.
I lifted my hips just enough to draw his eyes back to them.
He released my wrist, my skin prickling with the loss of his heat. After rounding the bed and unbuttoning and removing his pants, he climbed under the covers next to me.
Warmth spread through me. My nipples tingled as I waited for him to roll over and be inside me like he’d promised he would.
Promised? He’d meant that as a threat.
But I wasn’t scared. I was turned on, and he wasn’t doing anything about it.
That was it?
After what felt like minutes of nothing, I moved my head over my shoulder. Silence. Then, for the first time in this bed, I turned to him.
On his back, he had his eyes on the ceiling, but they drifted to meet mine.
All pretense evaporated, and I bit my bottom lip.
He licked his.
The small distance between us nearly crackled with heat.
And yet, Cristiano somehow remained cool. Just like our wedding night, he’d made me admit the worst to myself—that I wanted it. All so he could assert his dominance by leaving me on the ledge alone.
“I knew you wouldn’t do it,” I said, acid on my tongue, and turned forward again.
Suddenly, he was at my back, his mouth at my ear. “Tell me something, sweet Natalia.” He reached over me, took my hand, and pushed it past my waistband, down the front of my pants. “What filth runs through your mind when you touch your pretty pussy? What do you fantasize about?”
Unable to hide my sharp pang of desire, I sucked in an audible breath. “Not you.”
Over my underwear, he used my own fingers to apply pressure to my clit. “I already know that,” he said, heat gathering beneath his touch. “Because you need permission to go into the darkest corners of your fantasies. I can give you that.”
He held my hand there but didn’t move. He wanted me to scrape the barrel of my mind, and he knew I wouldn’t do it on my own. Just the thought, just hearing pussy spill from his lips, my stomach filled with butterflies. I chased the feeling, pushing my hips against my palm, and was rewarded with a rippling ribbon of bliss.
“Getting fucked by me doesn’t scare you. You’re only afraid you’ll enjoy it. And that afterward, you might want it. And that you won’t be able to resist asking for it.” He met my next thrust, pressing my hand against the pulsating knot between my legs. With the thrill it inspired, I bit my lip to contain my whimper. “That’s why you won’t call yourself my wife. It’s easier to play my captive. Follow that path, in the privacy of your mind. I will you to. See how long it takes you to come.”
I slipped into that rare and mystifying sense of safety I’d found with him before. I’d been in more precarious situations with him than this one, and he hadn’t hurt me. I’d known he wouldn’t. I trusted that instinct now, closed my eyes, and let myself fall into pleasure’s tightening grip. Nobody would know if I wondered how it would feel for Cristiano to turn me over and press me into the bed. Nobody, not even him, knew that I was grinding against our hands as I fantasized about opening to him. About how completely and brutally he would fill me, even though it was wrong on every level.
“I can sense your disappointment that I haven’t broken you in yet—but I will.” His hips pressed against my backside, and this time, I couldn’t hold in my moan. The size and solidity of his erection was intimidating but not surprising—what caught me off guard was how it answered a primal, unwelcome need inside me to receive him. “You’ll take me in each one of your three holes,” he continued, urging his hips against my ass so I was stuck gyrating between my hand and his cock. “I like that your holes could belong to anyone—but they don’t. They belong to you. My wife. That pleases me to no end.”
I groaned an ugly and guttural sound I’d never heard from myself as my arousal reached new heights. If Cristiano viewed my body as property, that meant no part of me was off limits. In that raw moment, I was more turned on by what I didn’t know than by what I did. I’d only thought of him on top of me, breaking me in—not all the other ways he could ruin me. A blissful feeling spread through me, his seduction as quick and ruthless as it was slow and mounting.
“How does it feel to hear me defile you, Natalia?” he breathed in my ear.
“Call me Natasha,” I said, the name he’d used in the nightclub. Natalia was his past, his bride, his future, but Natasha was just his toy. It would be easier for both of us to think of me that way.
But he said, “No, Natalia.” He gripped my hand more tightly and my fingers stroked my clit as we moved together. “Your pussy and your ass will stretch to fit me, and it will be your sweet, pouty lips that suck me sloppy—until I explode down your throat.”
My body shook with an impending explosion, his hot and profane mouth putting my climax within reach.
He removed the sweet, pulsing pressure against my clit and used his index finger to swipe mine against the crotch of my underwear. Missing the weight between my legs and taken aback by how wet I was, I sucked in a breath.
“I suspect I’m the first man to soak your underwear clean through.” He withdrew both our hands and brought them to his mouth to suck on my dewy finger. “Mmm. My first taste of heaven. I imagine it will inspire a thirst so deep, even drinking from you every day wouldn’t satisfy it.” His chest rumbled against my back. “I wonder if the same will be true when an angel like you drinks from the devil,” he mused, as if perusing a menu and trying to decide on a lunch order. “Will you come to crave it? Or will you do it just to please me?”
Adrenaline pulsed in me with the blood rushing through my veins. “Or will I spit it out?”
He answered with a sinister chuckle. “You think you can only drink from your mouth?” he asked. “I will spill myself into all your holes, and I won’t relent until your body has drunk every last drop I have to give. Until you’re mine through and through.”
I was going to climax just from his words. I needed to. The ache firmly rooted in the depths of my tummy cried for more. I tried to put my hand back down my pants, but he lowered it to the bed, pressing it into the mattress in front of my eyes. “Final rule,” he said in my ear. “Your orgasms are mine. You will not come until you ask for it. Until I stick my cock in you and tell you to.”
He rolled away as shudders of pent-up frustration quaked through me. I opened my mouth to protest, but what could I say? Was I willing to ask for it? That was what he wanted. And I had no doubt—once I asked, he’d make me beg.
His breathing evened out within moments, and he fell asleep as if it were nothing at all, leaving me wide awake and alone with my thoughts.
As need vibrated in me, my longing for release became so agonizing, I almost wished I’d just broken down and asked.
That I’d begged for my own destruction.