Heavy eyes closed on their own accord as Q hooked his finger, stimulating my g-spot. I jumped as pressure inside built to a crescendo. Oh, God. I couldn’t come. Not like this. Not with men watching, hearing, wanting.
As my inner muscles clenched greedily around his finger, Q pulled away, leaving me panting and red cheeked. I swayed in the restraints, scrambling on tiptoe not to spin.
Q backed away, facing me. As he walked, he brought his finger to his mouth and sucked. Sucked the glistening wetness lingering there, sucked my taste, my very essence.
I wanted to weep.
My body pulsed, throbbed, and I resisted the urge to scissor my thighs, to try and find relief. I wouldn’t add to the smug look in his eyes. He knew I hurt, and he’d leave me that way. Fucking French bastard.
Reaching the four men, he shook their hands. They exchanged pleasantries in English, never taking eyes off me. I became the centrepiece. The object to gawk over, but not acknowledge.
“I didn’t know you’d taken up the family business, Q,” one man said, rubbing his greying moustache while eye-fucking me.
I expected Q to laugh, to mingle with the men I thought were his mercurial friends, but I jumped when he stabbed a finger in the man’s chest. “Don’t you fucking say that. It’s completely different.”
The man froze; a battle of testosterone took place between them, before he averted his gaze, shrugging. “Whatever you say.”
Another man, this one in expensive jeans and black shirt, looked about Q’s age. His face reminded me of a 1920’s movie star. Hair swept back and oiled, skin so smooth it looked like porcelain. “Q… ” he started, gawking at me with fear in his eyes.
Fear? My terror ratcheted up a notch. Why did he fear me? My mind ran wild with nightmares of what Q would do—hurt me, make me wish I were dead.
Q rolled his neck, slinging an arm over the man’s shoulders. They walked away from the other men, Q talking urgently in his ear. I couldn’t hear a word, but Q kept flicking hard-edged glances at me, while 1920’s man nodded as if Q had a valid argument. Finally, fear disappeared from his eyes, regarding me with keen interest.
Q jerked his head once in acknowledgement as the man patted him on the back; he returned to deal with the other guests.
1920’s Guy watched Q go, before stepping closer.
My breaths came faster as he stopped below, looking up with sapphire eyes. With a steady hand, he touched my thigh, adding pressure so I wobbled in the cuffs. “So, you’re the one to finally break him.”
He walked around, running fingers along my ass and other thigh as he did a full circle. When he stood in front again, he reached for a nipple and tugged.
I twitched, lashing out with a foot. I swung precariously as the man laughed. He grabbed my waist, helping me balance on my toes again. I frowned. What the hell was going on?
1920’s Man cocked his head, nodding. “I can see why.” With the cryptic comment, he strode back to the group.
Ten minutes passed as egotistical words filled the tomb. Every syllable shimmered over my flesh, especially Q’s deep tone. I dreaded the future.
How could I stop my body reacting to his voice and smell? Two senses he owned… leaving me with four: sight, touch, taste, instinct. One thing I swore, he’d never own my instincts—never own something so powerful.
Suzette, along with two other maids in frilly black and white uniforms, entered the room and placed platters of scrumptious looking food on the side board. Most of it was finger food—crackers with salmon and crème fraîche, stuffed olives, prawns wrapped in prosciutto, and a fondant fountain with a waterfall of silky chocolate.
My stomach panged, looking at the sweet delicacies to dip in the chocolate: pineapple, strawberries, marshmallows, the list went on. I hadn’t had anything sugary since I arrived at Q’s tortuous mansion. Suzette wouldn’t let me.
The staff ate bland, and frankly, rather depressing food, considering we were in the heart of a country that prided itself on cheeses, breads, and wine.
The men stopped talking and helped themselves to the buffet. Once they’d filled plates, they sat in one of the crimson booths by my feet.
Q eased into the booth, unbuttoning his silver blazer to sit comfortably. Full lips opened to plop a stuffed olive into his mouth. He chewed—the motion of his jaw and the muscles in his neck caused my stomach to clench.
I looked away, inspecting the men. One had a big nose and shaggy black hair. His suit didn’t fit well and a dark stain marked a lapel. Compared to Q, he looked as if he came from the streets for a free dinner and a show. How did Q know him? Even with his dark erotic desires, he was leagues above these men.
The other man never took his eyes off me. His gaze was a dagger, puncturing, making me ooze with fear. He was big. A foot taller than Q—about the size of a professional basketball player and just as wide. His buzzed cut blondish hair, showed pink scalp, and a nasty scar behind his right ear.
He didn’t wear a suit. Instead, he favoured a white tacky jumpsuit, with the number nineteen on the shoulders and back. Everything about him didn’t make sense. He didn’t fit in Q’s world. In fact, the only one who did was 1920’s Man. Something linked him and Q: friendship.
While the men ate, my hands turned icy cold as blood stopped pumping so high up my arms. Wrists chaffed in the leather, and my barcode tattoo itched like crazy. I tried to tilt my head, to stand on the very tips of my toes to give my shoulders a break, but I couldn’t get purchase. I moaned with overwhelming discomfort.
Q didn’t look at me once. He kept his attention on Mr. Big Nose and munched his way through the small plate of food.
That left me strangely alone with the man in the white jumpsuit. He devoured the plate of hor d’oeuvres and asked Q in English, “You like our gift. Yes?” He cocked his head, dragging horrible eyeballs up and down my golden wrapped body.
My ears pricked. His accent was Russian, not French. My mind kicked into gear trying to work it all out.
Q stopped eating, and dabbed his mouth with a napkin. His motions so smooth and controlled compared to Russian Lumberjack. Q’s eyes smouldered with barely restrained tolerance. “Oui. Very satisfactory.” He threw a fleeting glance at me, before adding, “Where did you buy her from?”
The Russian puffed his chest, glowing with pride. Why did he care if Q found me satisfactory? He bought me as a bribe to make Q do something. But what?
“I won’t share my contact’s name. But I requested a white girl. I know you have preferences.”
My eyes shot to Q, but his posture hadn’t changed. He took a sip from a chilled glass of wine. “Fine. Consider our dealing complete.”
The Russian scowled. “How will I know you’ll keep your promise?”
Q shifted ever so slightly; my skin prickled with the change of hospitality. Q seemed to suck shadows from the room, cloaking himself in authority. “You doubt my work ethic?”
The Russian clenched his jaw, looking from Q to me. “When will we see contracts?”
Q played with a cufflink, taking his time. “Three months. That’s how long these things take. But you have my word. And that is law.”
Russian Lumberjack snorted, rolling his shoulders. He didn’t look happy with the arrangement, but I doubted there was anything he could do. Q was clearly the one in control. Just like my situation—the whole sex slavery thing.
I wanted to roll my eyes. I didn’t want to go crazy, and that’s how I felt dangling there.
After a pause, the Russian stood, making his way to the chocolate fondant. Q watched with narrowed eyes, before turning to speak with Big Nose and Grey Moustache. 1920’s Man’s inquisitive sapphire eye’s bounced between Q and me. Thoughts raced in his gaze, but his face remained blank.
Heart galloped as I looked at Russian Lumberjack. His posture scared me. He flashed a look at Q while he waited for chocolate to spill into a jug. Eyes shadowed with jealousy and a greedy hunger for power.
I turned to Q. Should I warn him the
Russian wasn’t his friend, but his enemy? What are you thinking, Tess? It isn’t your business. Who cares?
As much as I didn’t want to admit it—I did care. Not for Q’s safety, but for my own. If Q submitted to men like the Russian, my gilded cage would fast become a dank dungeon.
My body swung in the bindings, and I clenched my abs to stay facing Russian Lumberjack. He moved too slowly, as if thinking about something other than getting food.
My skin erupted into goosebumps as instincts kicked in. The same instincts that screamed not to go in the café in Mexico. I didn’t like this. What’s not to like? You’re mostly naked, hanging from a ceiling for five men to perv at while they eat.
I hated the whole scenario, but something about the man in the white jumpsuit did not sit well in my gut.
The Russian moved suddenly, carting a plate full of marshmallows and a little pouring jug overflowing with melted chocolate. He made to go back to the table, but at the last second changed his mind, bee-lining for me.
I twisted in the cuffs, trying to back away, but it was no use. My eyes shot to Q, imploring him to pay attention and stop this, but his head was bowed deep in conversation with Grey Moustache.
The Russian stopped at the bottom of the pedestal, gawking at me. Up close, his skin was pockmarked from acne and shone with grease. His buzzed hair looked coarse, and smelled of too much hair product. He shifted, smiling with a few gold capped teeth. “Privet, krasivaya devushka.” He caressed my knee through the filigree material. “It means, hello, pretty girl.” His voice rumbled, sending fear into overdrive. Where he touched, my skin crawled, and if skin could throw up, it would.
Again I looked at Q, disbelieving he’d let the man touch me. He didn’t seem to notice or care. His body twisted away, hands clasped tightly on the table as he nodded at something Big Nose said.
He shut me out with a bear of a man who gazed with unbridled horniness. It wasn’t a sensual kind of lust like Q; it was a savage need to rut. To cause pain. I had no doubt he’d enjoy my screams.
With a sadistic smile, the Russian reached for the jug of melted chocolate, and with a calculated gleam, dribbled some on my thigh. The chocolate teetered on the edge of too hot; I hissed between my teeth.
Q shifted, but didn’t turn to look. I wanted to scream, but I didn’t know if I’d be in deeper trouble. Maybe by not looking, Q gave the Russian permission to do what he wanted.
Russian Lumberjack grinned and placed the plate of marshmallows on the floor, but kept the small jug of chocolate.
Oh, fuck.
“Don’t. Leave me the hell alone,” I demanded, voice shaky.
Q’s pale green eyes landed on me and skin prickled with relief. He wouldn’t let this man taunt me.
My mouth parted as something white-hot passed between Q and I, then he turned away.
My heart stopped, betrayal coated my tongue. He cut me out with one twist of his powerful body.
Tears rushed as the Russian chuckled, reaching with fat fingers to grasp my thigh. Holding me in place, his big wet tongue licked chocolate off my skin, dragging saliva over flesh and dress.
I shuddered in repulsion, trying to wriggle from his grip, but he pinched harder. “No struggling, pretty girl.” With the jug high, he poured another dollop, on my foot. With a gross grin, he dropped and sucked it off. I tried to kick, but I needed toes on the ground to stay stable. I didn’t want to spin out of control like I did with 1920’s Man. At least he’d been kind and secured me. This man would probably make me spin, disorientating, making me sick.
The Russian stood, drizzling chocolate on my stomach. It trickled down my front, hardening quickly, but not fast enough. It oozed onto my lower belly, dangerously low, way too close to my core.
“Not low enough, huh, pet.” He grunted, capturing me in meaty arms, pulling me to his mouth. I squirmed as he licked the chocolate, leaving a cold, slimy trail from his tongue. He shifted, ducking his head; one lash of his tongue caught my clit. My entire body wanted to disintegrate from shame and the grossness of being tongued by a gargoyle.
“You’re a fucking bastard. You won’t get away with this.” Images of slicing his neck and throwing him into a roaring crematorium helped endure his touch. All the wetness Q conjured disappeared, leaving me dry, unwilling, completely sick to my stomach.
My eyes widened in realization. My body reacted to Q despite what he did—because of what he did. But I shut down when another touched me. If Q had been the one to lick, I would’ve shuddered in erotic torture, hating it, but secretly loving it. But the Russian behemoth repulsed me. The very thought of him anywhere near my body brought me out in dry heaves.
The revelation my body reacted for Q, despite everything, brought equal measures of torment and peace. My body wanted Q’s, but at the same time it wanted nobody else. Had he trained me so well, without my knowledge? Or had I given him my sense of touch so willingly? Please don’t let him own that, too.
I hated the Russian with a fire that would never burn out, whereas my hatred for Q seethed and simmered, hot enough to melt my body. I may want to kill Q for ruining my life, but I didn’t hate him enough to kill myself so he would never have me.
The Russian’s fat fingers pried my thighs apart and his heavy breath wafted me in garlic. He pushed, and I lost my footing, swinging wide. He stepped onto the podium, catching my swinging body when I slammed against him. He deliberately faced me away from Q, putting himself between us.
Facing the other wall, my eyes widened at the most fantastical mural painted in browns, blacks, and shadow. A cloud of sparrows decorated the wall. I could almost feel wind from fluttering wings as they flew from the grips of a black storm cloud. Freedom beckoned in the patch of blue sky by the ceiling. The painting made my heart weep, needing the same freedom. I couldn’t count how many little birds, but each one was unique, coming to life with perfection.
Russian’s hand grabbed my breast, twisting painfully. His mouth clamped down on my ear.
I opened my mouth to scream, to demand Q to claim me, but an obscenely large hand clamped over my mouth. Blocking nose and mouth, just like Leather Jacket had done.
My lungs seized, and I fought. He chuckled as my feeble attempts made a repulsive hard cock wedge between my ass cheeks. My eyes flew to the sparrows. I wished I could sprout wings and fly. I tried to lose myself in the painting, willing my mind to leave.
Fumbling between us, he withdrew something, bringing it to my stomach. Something icy cold bit flesh. I gasped, heart bucking.
“Hush, little whore. This is between us. You cost me a lot of money, you know. I think it’s only fair I sample you.” A fat hand fumbled on my lower belly, and the loathsome sound of dress ripping filled me with black dread. My eyes rolled, trying to see below. What was the icy thing slicing through the material?
With another sharp tug, the dress hung ruined and the tightness around my ass softened as filigree strands went from tight to gaping.
He licked my ear, flashing a hunting knife. I groaned and thrashed. The blade was rust spotted and tarnished, but glinted wicked sharp. “Stop wriggling, little fish. I’m not going to cut you.” He flipped the blade so sharp metal rested in a calloused palm and a sweat stained, wooden handle faced upward.
Oh, shit.
Instincts screamed. He’s going to rape you with the handle of a knife!
I moaned as loud as I could, using all valuable oxygen to call for help. Faintness tinged when Q ordered in a controlled and angry voice, “Victor, let go of my gift.”
The words rang with power; I melted with relief. Q wouldn’t let anything bad happen. I knew it. I trusted him to keep me for his own twisted pleasures.
“Just having a hug, Mr. M. I’ll let her go in a moment.” He looked over a shoulder, no doubt smiling at Q. I thrust hips backward, trying to kick him off balance, but he remained unmovable.
Tension knotted, waiting for Q to demand he unhand me, that he’d touched long enough, but nothing came.
; Silence reigned; my heart died as the Russian chuckled soundlessly in my ear. “I reckon I have about thirty seconds before I’m made to stop….”
I didn’t have time to breathe. He pushed a large boot against the GPS tracker on my ankle, forcing legs to splay. Capturing my weight completely, he positioned the butt of the knife handle against my entrance.
I struggled, I fought, but I was a fly in sticky flypaper… inconsequential.
“I wish this was my cock, but I can make do,” he muttered. He bit my throat, slamming the handle inside. I opened my mouth behind fleshy palm and screamed. My lungs cried but no sound came out. He tore into me, blazing with splinters and violation. My dryness condemned me to feel every ridge of wood, every scrape of awful hardness.
Eyes glazed with grey, trying to pass out, but anger cannonballed into my blood. Fight and wrath heated and I fought with all my might.
The Russian grunted as I went wild. I twisted and twined. I kicked and thrashed.
I didn’t care if I killed myself getting free, I couldn’t let him do this. It hurt. It hurt! Q didn’t save me. He let the bastard thrust a knife deep inside.
A shot rang out, then I was falling, falling, coming to a horrible stop with arms wrenched from sockets by the cuffs. I dangled with head lolling on my shoulders, sucking in gluttonous breaths of oxygen.
The Russian bellowed, falling off the pedestal, taking the rapist knife with him. He clutched a thigh where a river of red bloomed against the whiteness of his jumpsuit.
“Fuck!” he shouted.
Q raged, face etched with livid anger. “Get the fuck out of my house.” His arm outstretched, holding a small silver gun.
My head swam. Q had a gun. He shot him.
The rest of the guests jumped from their seats, rushing to the exit. Everyone apart from 1920’s Man; he stayed behind Q, body tense, hands curled.
Q yelled, “Franco! Escort our guests. They’re leaving.”
The green-eyed guard magically appeared and hustled everyone out, before coming back and hoisting the cursing Russian to his feet. Once they’d left, 1920’s Man laid a hand on Q’s shoulder.