by Skye Warren
His cock doesn’t hurt like before. It’s still an invasion, a fullness, a stretch. But without that biting, lingering pain. And I realize now that he’d been holding back, to an extent. I realize it because he doesn’t hold back now. He pounds into me, fucking me with everything he has.
He’s fucking me for his pleasure, not mine. I’m not sure how I know that. Something about the rhythm of it. Or maybe the way his eyes are closed, focused on the sensation in his cock instead of how I’m feeling. It makes me hot to think of the pleasure I’m giving him, makes me hot to be used like an object to get him off. My pussy is pulsing with it, but it’s not enough to come.
Ivan stiffens, and I know he’s coming inside me. His face is beautiful like this, carnal and raw. He looks like an avenging angel, and I push my hips into him, giving him a final squeeze. He gasps and bucks one last time.
Then he pushes off me, rolls over so he’s facing away, and pulls up the sheet. “Good night,” he says, still breathless.
For a minute I can only lie there, legs still spread, pussy still hot with arousal.
Then I sit up. “What?”
He sounds both amused and tired. “Go to sleep, Candy. We’re staying the night.”
“I don’t mind staying the night. I mind…I mind you leaving me like this!”
He looks at me over his shoulder, expression appreciative. “It wouldn’t be a punishment if you liked it.”
I should be pissed, but instead I just feel desperate and horny and deeply regretful. “Please, Ivan. Please…Daddy. I’m sorry I ran away. I won’t do it again.”
His eyebrows lower. “Don’t lie to me, little one.”
I drop my gaze, because we both know I can’t promise that. “Please let me come. I…I need to. It hurts in my private place.”
“Show me,” he says softly.
I put my hand over my pussy and give him my most sorrowful expression. I don’t have to fake it at all, because I feel sorrowful. I can’t believe I hurt him that way. And I can’t believe how turned on it made me to have him use me with no thought to my pleasure.
With a sigh, he sits up and puts a pillow in the middle of the bed. Then he arranges my body, without asking me, so I’m on my hands and knees, the pillow underneath me. For a second I think he’s going to fuck me again, from behind this time, and the pillow is for support.
Then he gives me a cruel smile. “You want to come so bad? This is how bad girls come.”
I blink at my position. “What…?”
He slaps my ass. “Move your hips. You know how.”
The impact of his hand goes straight to my pussy, and I do rock my hips against the pillow. Humiliation burns my cheeks as I realize how I must look, humping a pillow in the bed. The worst part is, I could have just gone to sleep. If I wasn’t so turned on by this, I wouldn’t have to do it. It’s my own desire that has trapped me here, fucking this pillow, struggling to get friction from the soft sheets. I have to press down hard to get enough—hard and fast. My cheeks must be red with how embarrassed I feel, but somehow that only makes me hotter. Ivan watches me struggle with my arousal, with my humiliation, offering nothing more than a small, pleased smile and a stroke of my thigh.
When I come, my pussy feels rubbed raw. It feels less like pleasure and more like an end to the pain.
But something is different, because when I collapse onto the sheets, exhausted and wet, Ivan pulls me against him. He doesn’t turn his back on me this time. His arm is supporting my head, and my hand is stroking his chest.
For a few minutes I let myself drowse like this, content despite the indignity of how I came.
Or because of it.
Then the texture of his scars underneath my fingertips becomes too much to ignore. “Who did this to you?” I whisper.
He tenses, and I know I’ve ruined it. He’ll push me away. Maybe he’ll even leave the riverboat.
Maybe he’ll leave me on it.
Except then he does what I least expect. He answers me. “I lived with my father. My mother was… not in the picture. My father, he wasn’t always around either. He left often, for long periods, drinking binges and gambling, shacking up with someone. It was always a relief when he was gone.”
My hand tightens into a fist, and I have to force myself to relax, to stroke him again. Ivan has always been like a force of nature to me. The thought of him as a young boy—vulnerable, hurt—makes me want to punch something.
“It was my grandmother who raised me. It was her house we lived in. She did her best, but she had a soft spot for her son.” He laughs abruptly. “More like a blind eye.”
I flinch.
“When I was eight, he left for the last time. To this day I don’t know what happened to him. I’m assuming he died soon after that, because there was no trace.”
My heart aches to imagine a young Ivan not knowing where his father was, even after what had been done to him. Love can survive in the darkest, coldest places. I know that as well as anyone.
“I stayed with my grandmother for a while. Her house, the land… it’s a beautiful place. Peaceful. But I was wild. Violent. I fought with everyone I met. She was very old, and my presence only made her life harder. I knew that even then, so I came to the city.”
“On your own?”
“I was fourteen.”
A year younger than I was when I came to Tanglewood. I’d been a child then, and he’d taken me in. He’d taken care of me. “Who took care of you?” I ask softly.
He shakes his head, impatient. “I knew enough about the foster care system to know I didn’t want to be in it. Some people I knew from school were in it, and their stories reminded me of what it had been like before my father left. So I lived on the streets for a while.”
I make a rough sound, and he shushes me. “It wasn’t bad. Really, it wasn’t. During that time is when I learned how to deal with people from all walks of life. It’s when I learned to love this city, for all its darkness.”
I kiss one of his scars, closest to me. A low rumble comes from his chest, and it’s another minute before he continues.
“I tried to stay away from adults as much as possible, unless they also lived on the streets. But one day I was too cold and too hungry. I had heard about a shelter in a church. I went there because I thought…I thought they might not turn me in to the authorities.” Ivan’s voice is completely even, almost mechanical, and that’s how I know how much this costs him. “And I was right. Father Michael didn’t turn me over to the authorities. He kept me there for three years.”
In the absolute flatness of that final sentence, I know exactly what happened in those three years. I know exactly how Ivan became the hard man he is today. His father may have left scars on the outside, but someone else left scars on the inside.
And I know that he understands exactly why I had to leave Harmony Hills, more than anyone else ever could. He understands what came after.
We were both born to a different world, one both simple and cruel.
That world spat us out, leaving us to find out own way among the thorns and brush of the city. Ivan had fought with fists and a cold-hearted determination.
I had fought with my body. With sex.
Where does that leave us? Both of us are broken, in our own ways.
Both of us are longing for home.
Chapter Twenty-One
It’s like being locked in a tower. There are no windows in my room, no mirrors. Only a stack of leftover books that I’ve read a hundred times. Nothing dirty, of course. Ivan would never have allowed that when I was sixteen and living under his roof. He never cleared out this room. I suppose he didn’t need the space. Or maybe he always knew I’d end up back here.
At least I have my clothes and things from my apartment. I pick up a lacy thong and eye it critically. So much ribbons and wrappings. I love them. I can’t deny that. I love being a present; I loved being unwrapped. By my own hands, though. The men at the club were not allowed to touch. And Ivan… I never co
nvinced him to unwrap me. Not really.
He didn’t want to.
It settles over me, half decision, half trance. I take off my tank top and jeans and put on the thong.
Immediately I start to feel like myself again—like Candy.
I add layer after layer, swirling myself in silks. A pink bustier striped with black. A frill of short lace instead of a skirt. I put on makeup next, thick strokes of glitter and gloss. I brush my hair until it shines, pinning it away from my face. Long pink gloves that cover my arms, leaving my pale chest and shoulders bare. Thigh-high stockings that flash a bit of skin.
The final step is a pair of black stilettos.
The tiny mirror in my makeup bag barely lets me see my face, much less my body. I make my way downstairs to the main floor, and then to the basement. The gym is down here—weights and treadmills. There’s also a wide-open space with mats for Ivan to practice grappling and fighting with Luca.
And a wall of mirrors on one side. The first glimpse of myself in those mirrors makes my heart skip a beat. I look like a stranger, like someone pretty and confident and sharp. I want to be this woman. Dressing like her doesn’t make it true, but it’s the closest I can come.
And dressing like her does something. Even walking in these shoes changes my gait, my height, the sway of my hips. I feel sexy and powerful, the way I sometimes do onstage. In this basement there is no one to see me, but I still feel sexy and powerful.
Walking is like dancing, when I move slow and sensual. When I cross the floor in long strides, made longer by the four-inch heels. And then I am dancing, swaying my body to music that I can only hear in my head.
I swing myself down low and rise back up, letting my chest lead and my ass flex. I sway and kick and rock my body, with no one to impress. It’s about being sexy, but not about a man. It’s about feeling sexy, alone in the room.
Minutes pass. Hours. I’m covered in a sheen of sweat, breathless, exhilarated.
Dancing like this is almost like being free. Almost like being able to leave this house. Almost.
A throat clears, and I wobble on my shoes, barely catching myself from falling. I whirl, half expecting to see Luca. He’d make fun of me or pull my hair, but it’s not Luca standing behind me. Ivan leans against the brick interior wall.
My mouth goes dry. He isn’t wearing a shirt. The way his arms cross over his chest makes his muscles bulge. And God, those forearms. Blunt strength combined with precision. My gaze takes in the line of pale hair down his taut stomach. Black sweatpants hang low on his hips.
Jesus.
“Were you watching me?” I ask, even though he was. He’s not turning away or looking abashed like another man might. He’s just looking right at me, a bemused expression on his face.
“What was that?” He doesn’t sound accusatory. Just curious.
It takes me a second to realize what he means. “The dancing?”
“It’s different.”
Different than stripping. Different even than Honor’s ballet. A bastardization of both of them—both sexy and elegant, flashy and demure. “It’s burlesque. I’ve been practicing. Do you like it?”
I’ve been thinking we could start doing it at the Grand. It’s more suited to the space anyway. Still sexy. Just a little more…fun.
He is silent a moment. “I need this room.”
He doesn’t like it. My heart drops, but I try not to let it show. Blowing out a breath, I walk over to him, putting every ounce of sexy into my step. It’s strange being with him like this, sweaty and sultry while he is half-naked. Usually he is the one covered up by a suit.
“Maybe I’ll watch you,” I tell him.
He shakes his head. “Get some rest.”
My gaze drops to his chest. It’s magnificent…and heartbreaking. Up close I can see the scars again. Old cuts of unknown origin. The burns hurt me the worst. There’s a kind of careless malevolence in them, someone who wanted to make him hurt, who knew no one would ever see or ever care.
My finger touches a scar on his abs, and he tenses. My father left often, for long periods, drinking binges and gambling, shacking up with someone. It was always a relief when he was gone.
“Do they hurt?” I ask softly.
His voice is cold. “Does it matter?”
More than anything. “If you’re hurting, it matters to me.”
His eyes lock straight ahead of him. He’s looking at someplace above my head. No, he’s really looking into the past. So long ago. The scars are faded, but they’ll never go away.
“Did you ever see her again?” I ask softly. “Your grandmother?”
“She passed away while I was… A year after I left.”
The grief in his voice cuts like raw glass, that while he was enduring unspeakable things, his grandmother died. The jagged edges are sharp with resentment—that she had turned a blind eye to his father’s abuse, even that she had been unable to care for the wild boy he became. Resentment and love. Only love can hurt that deeply.
“Did you ever go back to her house?”
His eyes darken. “There’s nothing for me there.”
Her house, the land… it’s a beautiful place. Peaceful.
There’s no beauty for him? No peace?
“But—”
“Don’t ask me again.”
And the way he says it, it feels like a lash. As if there’s nothing for him there—or here, standing in front of him. As if my very presence here is an affront to him. No, less than that. An inconvenience. He’s punishing me for pushing him too hard, for making him feel too much.
The silence spins out, making the hair on the back of my neck rise. He doesn’t want me here. He doesn’t trust me. He won’t ever love me. My chest squeezes tight.
I step around him.
He grabs my arm. His eyes are still facing straight ahead. “Don’t mistake me for one of the girls at the club. I’m not going to tell you how I’m feeling or open my heart. There’s nothing left to open.”
My breath catches. “Then why don’t you let me go?”
His gaze flicks to me, as cold and cutting as a blade. His hand falls, and I immediately miss his bruising grip on my arm. Without another word, I walk up the stairs to the main floor, feeling his gaze on me the whole way.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Ivan spends most of the next day at the Grand. Luca guards me at the house, under strict instructions not to let me out of his sight. I might fuck with him just for fun, but I’m too distracted. Too nervous about what is happening tomorrow. Ivan is getting an update from Blue and the police department on the investigation, but no matter what, Ivan is going to Harmony Hills tomorrow morning. He’s still not letting me go with him.
It’s the place where I was born. Where I spent the first sixteen years of my life. I’d once been content with never going back, but now that feels impossible. Something is calling me there. And I feel like I could watch over Ivan, protect him—as crazy as that sounds.
He has dealt with a lot of violent assholes over his lifetime, but there’s still something different about the self-righteous, religious, violent assholes like Leader Allen.
And most of all, I’d be able to see my mother again.
Would she even want to see me? I already know she wouldn’t be proud of me. Maybe she’d feel like her sacrifice was a waste, when she sees what I’ve become. Maybe it’s best that I’m not going back, so she doesn’t have to find out.
“Moved,” Luca says.
I scrunch my nose at him. “Did not.”
“The pink one,” he says, sounding smug. “It moved when you touched it with the green one.”
I study the colorful pile of sticks, trying to see where I could have messed up. I’d been so careful. Damn his sharp eyes. “You’re lying,” I say, pointing the thin pink stick at him. “This was nowhere near the green one.”
He rolls his eyes. “You always say that.”
“Because you’re always lying.” And because that’s kind of the po
int of the game. If we wanted a game with actual rules, we’d play Scrabble. Bickering is what makes Pick-Up Sticks fun.
“Fine,” he says. “Do it over again.”
“Fine.” I slide the pink one back where I got it from. Of course this moves the sticks around it, but that’s okay since I’m putting it back.
Luca studies the position. Then nudges the green stick so it’s on top of the pink one. “There.”
Oh no no no. “Excuse me? No. The green one was not like that when I started.”
“Yes, it was.” He pauses. “And that’s why you moved it.”
I open my mouth to object but a knock at the door startles us both. Luca has his gun out of its holster in two seconds flat. He shoves me behind the couch with a rough, “Stay here.”
My heart pounds as I stare at the carpet, imagining Luca silently stalking closer to the door and looking out the peephole. Whatever he sees must not have freaked him out too much, because the lock turns. Then the second lock. And then the third lock, because Ivan is a paranoid motherfucker.
Then the door opens. “What?” Luca asks, harsh enough that whoever it is stammers.
“Uh…there’s a package for a Ms…Candace Rosalie Toussaint. She has to sign for it.”
A shiver runs through me. It’s been years since I heard that name spoken aloud. And I know neither Luca nor Ivan have ever heard it, because I never told them. I peek around the edge of the sofa to see Luca’s body blocking the doorway. I can only see a little of the terrified-looking post-office deliveryman outside.
“I’m Candace,” Luca says coldly.
“Uh…” The delivery man fidgets. Facing off with an ex-mob enforcer really isn’t part of his job description, but he doesn’t look ready to hand over whatever it is.
With a sigh, I stand up. “I’m Candace.”
Luca gives me a scathing look but doesn’t stop me from meeting them at the door. A quivering deliveryman hands me a black plastic box with a tiny screen. I sign and hand it back. Luca glowers like he might rip the guy’s head off for doing his job.