We’re under fire. I’m crouched behind a headstone in the church graveyard. We were cutting across the property when we got ambushed. We know every made guy in this town, and these guys aren’t any I’ve seen before. What’s more there’s only one syndicate in town, and we’re in it. Coynston is fifty miles from Boston, and we’ve normally got the place locked down.
I look over at C. He’s our boss’s right hand, and C seems to be the target of this attack since we’re not even on Frank today. Another guy’s body-guarding the boss. C and I were headed to get his daughter when all hell broke loose.
I lean against the headstone in the shadow of the school where C and I met. This neighborhood, one of the toughest around, turned us hard. That’s why Frank Palermo, king of the city and head of a syndicate that rakes in millions a month, took us on. Now no one picks a fight with us. Until today.
These guys came heavy, outnumbered us by three to one. They needed to. I’m six-six, two-seventy. If someone’s coming for me, he better be loaded for bear.
“Hired guns?” C says, spitting in the snow.
“I’d like to take this last guy alive. Find out who paid them,” C says.
I nod, but I doubt it’ll be an option.
Stone chips explode off the edge of the headstone when a bullet meant for me hits it. I don’t return fire. Not yet. I’m down to my last clip, and I plan to make my last shots count.
Steam rises from where my blood drips onto the slushy ground. I’m hit in the side. I thought it was a flesh wound, but there’s a hot steady stream of blood running down my leg that says different. My head swims, and I grip the edge of the headstone.
I can’t afford to pass out. I need to end this or I’ll bleed out, just one more dead body here.
We’ve killed five shooters. I know where the last guy is. He’s within range, but behind a tree.
“Gotta move on him,” I say. “Cover me.”
Saying those words to C are the last thing I remember of the firefight.
When I wake up I’m on my bed with gauze duct-taped over the wounds on the front and back of my right side. I’m dizzy and feel like puking. The pain is bad, like my flesh is burning from the inside out. In the distance, just above the ringing in my ears, I hear voices arguing. A girl says I have to be taken to a hospital. Our boss, Frank, says no.
I turn my head. The little raven, Frank’s teenage daughter, is being held back by C’s grip on her arm. This is off. The girl hates me. She’s put a winter chill on Frank’s place since her mother disappeared and Frank brought her here.
“Let go,” she tells C, trying to pull free.
C releases her, and she stalks over.
“See. He’s conscious. I’m calling an ambulance.”
“No,” I say.
She scowls. “Sasha,” she says. “We have to.”
It surprises me to hear my first name. It’s been a long time since anyone used it. These days, everyone calls me Anvil.
“We have to,” she repeats, her dyed blue-black hair falling over the side of her face. Made up for pictures, she’s a stunner. In the flesh, she’s crazy small, but flawless. Except for the Goth hair, she’s like one of those priceless porcelain dolls with the freakishly perfect features. I guess her extreme look does it for the masses because she definitely rocks the Instagram account the boss started.
“No hospitals,” I say because everyone knows us. The police will be summoned to the hospital immediately for a gunshot wound, especially because I’m the one who’s shot. There are dead bodies in the graveyard. And other places. I can’t go to a hospital. None of Frank’s enforcers ever can. Not even C.
“You’ll die,” she says.
“So I’ll die.”
I know I’m almost dead already. The room tilts around me, like I’m on a rollercoaster or a boat. I turn my head and vomit, and the burning pain in my stomach is so bad I break out into a sweat that drenches me.
Was it a gut shot? Feels like it. That’s as bad as it gets. I’d rather bleed out clean and fast than die from a slow, sickening infection.
Sasha Stroviak is burning with fever. I can’t get over seeing him like this. He’s massive, and normally so intimidating that people take an unconscious step back when he enters a room. As beasts go, he’s good-looking. I don’t like him, but it’s impossible not to notice him when he’s around, acting as my dad’s bodyguard or mine.
I grimace, thinking of my father’s men. There are some who’ve been in his organization for years. And then there’s his trio of street-hardened ‘young-bloods,’ C, Sasha, and Trick.
I look at Sasha’s bulk passed out on the queen-sized bed in a guest room. Right now, he’s as far from physically intimidating as any of these monsters get.
I smash up antibiotic pills I have left over from when I had a bladder infection. He’s more than twice my size, so I’m giving him a double dose of what I was supposed to take. He needs more medical care than this, but it’s the best I can do.
I glare at his friends and my hypocrite of a father whenever they come into the room or appear in the doorway. Sasha is a brute, but I wouldn’t let a wounded animal suffer this way, let alone a human being. Their codes of conduct are so messed up, and I tell them so every chance I get, trying to pressure them into taking him to a hospital. The down-low doctor his friends brought in said Sasha needs surgery. A hospital is his only chance. But they won’t take him and they’ve taken my phone away so I can’t call an ambulance either. We’re all trapped here, watching him die.
His occasional mumblings are incoherent, but on and off I can get him to drink. On and off, his gaze seems to sharpen on me and he relaxes. I don’t know why, but when it’s my face that appears over him, it seems to calm him because he says “all right” and goes limp.
“Drink this,” I keep repeating, putting the straw against his lips.
After ten minutes of coaxing, he finally sucks the medicine in. I watch it rise up and pass his lips. He grimaces. I shove my small hand over his mouth to keep him from spitting it out.
“Swallow! Sasha, swallow it.”
He does and then drifts off again.
The door opens and C, born Connor McCann, comes in. Despite his age, he rose like rocket to become my father’s right hand. He’s good-looking, smart, and ruthless. He was still a teenager when he joined my dad’s operation and he brought his closest friend, the massive, stone-faced Sasha with him. When C and Sasha first started coming to my mother’s house as my dad’s bodyguards, I never heard Sasha say anything. I didn’t think he spoke English. It was only later when I was forced to move into my father’s house that I’d catch bits of conversations and knew he could talk after all.
I learned that my father, Frank Palermo, had ordered his men to keep their distance from me. They were to protect him, and later me, with a minimum of interaction with his bastard daughter. My father is king of our city, and he has plans for me that don’t include flings with his enforcers.
My dad came up through a branch of the New York Mafia before moving to Coynston. We’re about an hour outside Boston, so pretty far from a lot of the main East Coast action I suppose, but my father still does business with the New York mob and others. Some people wonder what he’s doing here. I think I know. In New York, he wasn’t in charge. Here, he’s the big boss.
“Come out, Rachel. Trick and I will do turns sitting with him,” C says.
“Did you get it?” I demand. I sent him to lie to a doctor to get medicine for Sasha. I looked up medicines that can be used for abdominal infections and told C he’d better not come back without them. I don’t have any power in my dad’s house, but because his friend seems to sleep easier when I’m the one taking care of him, C’s indulging me. He holds up a small paper bag.
“Look at him, though, and this room,” C says. “It reeks in here. Smells like he’s already dead.” There’s pain etched on his face. I know it’s hurting them to see Sasha like this. “He’s in a lot of pain. We should do what he asked days ago and shoot him up with H.”
I glare at Connor and grab the bag from his grip. “Get the hell out. No one is coming near him with heroin or morphine. That would kill him and you know it.” I’m ragged from sleeplessness. Sasha’s always seemed invincible, from the first time I met him. I think he was nineteen, but he was already gigantic, especially compared to my schoolgirl self.
His big hand scratches the angry red area that’s developed around his wound. It’s scabbed over, but infected, and I know it hurts him badly.
I push his giant hand away. It’s not easy. Even deathly ill, his arm is strong.
I dump a couple of the pills C brought into the bottom of a cup and crush them against the side with the blade of Sasha’s knife. I pour some water over the broken pills and swish it around, dissolving them as well as I can before I drop in a new straw and put it against his lips.
“After you give him that, come out. You need sleep. Frank’ll be pissed if you faint and fall on your face and bruise it,” C says.
“Screw the goddamned Instagram,” I say, so exhausted I want to cry. I’ve kept an around-the-clock vigil, and I am in danger of falling down. But I can’t leave Sasha because I don’t trust him not to die.
Normally, I wouldn’t fight C. And normally, C wouldn’t let anyone ignore his orders either. But things are not normal. This is hard.
I don’t answer C, but I know he’s right and I do plan to lie down to try to rest for a little bit. I have to pace myself. I don’t know how long this will go on. Weaker guys would already be dead. He’s not weak. Or at least he never has been before.
“Drink this, Sasha,” I say.
He’s unconscious, but I don’t leave him alone. I nudge him and pinch his arm.
Moments pass, and his lids flutter.
“Drink, Sasha. Please.”
Through a heavy-lidded gaze, he seems to recognize me.
He’s called me that once before. I’ve got a Poe obsession, and because I’ve been in a dark place, I’ve started dying my hair black. I didn’t know Sasha read Poe. I didn’t know Sasha read anything.
“Drink this,” I insist, pushing the straw past his lips.
He sucks on it. The bitter solution of watered-down pill fragments rises and enters his mouth. He swallows.
“More,” I say.
It goes on like this. I’m relentless. For close to an hour, I badger him until there is no medicine left. Then I pour Gatorade into the cup and start again.
His body is a furnace. I wipe him down with a damp soapy cloth and speak softly to him. I know he doesn’t comprehend any of what I’m telling him. He’s in a shadowy place, halfway to the grave. He probably deserves to die for all the bad things he’s done.
But I don’t care what he deserves. I whisper the same things into his ear over and over. “Fight. It’s what you do, so fight. And stay here, Sasha. Stay.”
He settles, and I rest my head on the mattress next to his.
I don’t know him well and don’t really like any of them, but he’s acted as my bodyguard a lot recently and I’m not letting him die without a fight. I can’t because I have a secret that I’ll never admit to anyone.
I’m the reason he got shot in the first place.
People call the main house in C’s compound ‘the castle’ because of the turrets. The mansion doesn’t look like it belongs in the neighborhood. Four decaying houses were leveled to put it here.
It belongs here because we do. Ever since we broke from Frank Palermo three years ago and started our own crue, we’ve lived on this patch.
The compound’s surrounded by a cement wall with razor wire at the top. It’s probably overkill, since anyone storming the gate better come with assault rifles and enough rounds to stage a coup in Moscow.
This is the devil’s stronghold, and I’m the devil’s right hand.
My cement-walled apartment’s off the back of the castle. As I walk down the grated metal stairs, my phone buzzes half a dozen times in my pocket. I shake my head. Fucking Trick.
I come around the house and find Trick standing on C’s front step, looking at his phone. He looks up as I head to one of the two C Crue Rovers.
“Your porterhouse is three minutes out. Aberdeen Street and counting,” he says.
Trick doesn’t give a fuck whether I eat the steak I ordered or not. He’s on to something and wants to run it down. The guy couldn’t give fuck all about most things, but he doesn’t like mysteries where our crue is concerned. And I’ve been coming and going without explanation. Usually my only business is crue business, so he and C are wondering what’s up.
“Toss it in the fridge. I’ll eat it later,” I say, my tone casual. I doubt he’s fooled. Trick’s a pretty boy, which makes a lot of thugs underestimate him. Long experience has shown that to be a deadly mistake.
“Who is she?” Trick asks, taking a stab.
I shake my head, not looking to let him go on a fishing expedition into my personal business.
“Has to be. Let me come and meet her. I’ll hang back,” he says.
I roll my eyes. He thinks I’m into some woman and that I’m afraid to bring her around in case she sees him and gets distracted. It’s true that when Trick shows up, most women don’t notice much else for a while, but I don’t need his promise that he’ll watch himself if I’m serious about someone. The person I’ve got serious plans for already knows him. Also, my plans aren’t hearts and flowers. My plan is to satisfy a vendetta, as our old boss would say.
“‘Vil,” Trick says, pulling my attention from my plans. “What’s up?”
I open the Rover’s door and almost smirk. Not knowing what I’m doing is driving him crazy. I guess maybe I should’ve realized it would. Trick’s a guy who likes to know things and his mind never stops. He’s probably playing three games of chess and dissecting the stock market’s moves in his head right now.
“It’s not about that,” I say.
“Are you my fucking wife?” I counter.
He cracks a smile.
I reach under the running board, yank off the GPS tracker, and toss it over the top of the truck. It hits the ground a few feet from him.
“Bad idea. Seriously,” I say with a scowl. None of us can afford to have our movements tracked. We had the GPS disabled in the Rovers. I’m surprised he’d put one on the truck even as a joke.
His smirk drops. “Wait then.” He comes over and takes another tracker from under the front seat.
I roll my eyes again. “Asshole.” He knows better. We keep watch over our vehicles and sweep them all the time to prevent tracking. The feds and Frank would both like to know where we’re at and what we’re doing.
“If you’re in something and need backup, I’ll come. No questions.”
“I know,” I say.
Trick and I are opposites in a lot of things, but we’re the same in a couple of ways that count. We’re at the top of a crue that was built on loyalty. We’ve got each other’s backs, down to the last drop of blood. Always.
“I’ve got things under control,” I say, knowing that might not be the case.
“All right,” Trick says. His phone pings. “Food’s here.”
He walks down to the gate.
I get in the truck and drive away, leaving the compound and the dinner I’ll never eat.
Ten minutes outside town, there’s an unmarked Dodge in a field where there are no closed circuit television cameras. I put the fake license plates on it last night and filled the tank from a gas can. Then I sped down the back roads to be sure it’s ready to make the run I’m planning.
The car’s ready. The restraints in the trunk are ready. And I’m ready.
I drive the Rover to it and make the switch of vehicles.
I’m coming for her.
I’m standing on the Langston Theater stage alone. It’s our community theater, but it’s also a newly restored historic theater that’s gilded to within an inch of its life.
I look down at the anonymous note that was left at the stage door for me on closing night of our limited run, original production. My best friend Zoe and I wrote a dark fairy tale called A Midsummer Night’s Glare, and both performed in it. Her role was as principle dancer. I stayed behind the curtain, playing lead violin in secret. People from up and down the East Coast have come to town to see it. I’m proud of us.
But I didn’t get to perform in the final show because my father has cracked down, and I’m more of a prisoner than ever in his house. He’s suspicious of everyone. This might be the last time I manage to sneak out alone.
I look inside the envelope where there’s a train ticket to take me from Boston to Chicago.
I read the note again.
Leave Coynston before it’s too late. There’s a room for you at the Drake Hotel in Chicago.
I think the note is probably a test. Most likely, it’s one of my father’s tricks to see if I’ll take the bait. He’s paranoid that I’ll take off before my wedding. I narrow my eyes at the heavy bond paper. The note could also be a little trap of Alberto Leone’s. He’s my fiancé, and he also seems concerned I might disappear in the night.
I won’t. I can’t.
I wish I could. But my own Midsummer Nightmare doesn’t get a happy ending.
I slide the note into my violin case and take Lady Indigo out. I turn and face the rows of empty velvet-covered seats. Even in the low light, there’s a golden glow that I love.
I didn’t get to play on the night the show closed and I didn’t get to go to the cast party, so I want to play my own music onstage one last time.
This needs to be my final quiet rebellion because Frank’s angry. I don’t care that he’s mad at me, but the brutal ways he’s cracked down on everyone who might’ve helped me makes me sick. He’s also preventing me from seeing Zoe. The war between C Crue and the Palermo syndicate is raging, fueled recently by Zoe’s defection to the C Crue camp and by our play production, which tells the story of how Frank tried to kill my mother on the day she left him.
I shake my head. My life’s been so messed up from as far back as I can remember.
I try to tell myself that being given to Alberto Leone is my way out. At least I won’t be under my father’s thumb anymore. Berto can be a jerk, but I’ve mostly figured out how to appease him and how to control situations when I can’t.
I close my eyes and play my heart out, until I’m shaking from the thrill of it.
When I finish, I put my violin away. Maybe I can get Alberto to let me join an orchestra in New York. What if Zoe and I got to do off-Broadway together? It could happen. Not right away, but maybe one day.
I pick up my case and walk backstage. I shut off the stage lights and then move down the silent hall, flipping switches to darken the hall as I pass through it.
My stomach hurts. I realize I haven’t eaten since yesterday. Do I dare pick up food and text Zoe to meet me at her old place? She has one more month on her lease and the last I heard she still had furniture in the apartment.
The last I heard. There was a time when we texted all the time and talked at least once a day. Now I haven’t spoken to her in three weeks. Frank confiscated my phone and only allows me to use it to talk with Alberto. I know I could use the burner I secretly bought, but it doesn’t seem worth it. When I’m finally married and in New York, I’ll have my own phone back. I’ll be able to talk and text with her when I feel like it.
I step outside, planning my route to the borrowed car I snuck away in. I’ll be glad to stop sneaking around. I’m sick of all of this.
When I turn I see a black sports car that shouldn’t be parked near the stage door. It has tinted windows. I glance around and a hulking figure emerges from a dark corner of the building.
My head jerks up, and I recognize Sasha Stroviak.
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
His big arm catches me around the waist. My feet leave the ground and I’m tipped sideways. My hands fumble to hold onto my violin case, but I drop it.
“No,” I shout.
He raises the unlatched top of the trunk and drops me into it. A piece of pre-cut duct tape is slapped over my mouth and my wrists are tethered behind me. A blanket billows and falls over me, plunging me into complete blackness. Then the trunk’s lid slams down.
I twist and try to yell from behind the tape, but the world is muffled.
A couple of moments later, the motor drowns out the sound of my feet kicking the sides of the trunk. I’m in a panic over my violin being left outside. I know I should be panicked for myself too, but I haven’t completely processed the danger yet.
Anvil Stroviak is kidnapping me.
When he opens the trunk, he puts a damp rag over my face that knocks me out.
When I wake, I’m fuzzy-headed and confused. My vision clears and I realize I’m on a mattress in a nearly empty room. There’s almost no light, and there’s something around my neck.
“Sasha?” I call, glad that he removed the duct tape. My wrists are free, too, but when I try to sit up, I can’t. I turn my head and find a metal chain attached to hook on the wall. It hangs down and trails over the mattress until it rises up to attach to the collar around my neck.
I reach back, trying to find a way to remove it, but my fingers only find flat metal that’s locked down. I’m wearing a locked leather collar, like an animal. Or a sex slave. My stomach does a little flip at the thought.
I can’t believe C Crue has resorted to kidnapping me and keeping me in this condition. This isn’t some game they’re playing. I’m leverage, I realize.
A door opens, and I get a glimpse of another room that isn’t well lit either. For a split second, I see a charcoal-colored recliner. Then Anvil’s massive bulk fills the doorway and enters the room.
He pulls a metal stool to the foot of the mattress and sits on it. The stool looks too small for him, and I half expect the legs to collapse, but they hold.
“I can’t believe you guys have resorted to this.”
“Resorted?” he says, shaking his head.
“What do you call it?” I demand.
My head jerks, so I can look him in the eye. “For what?” I ask, the desperate feeling bringing me to the brink of being sick.
“For getting us ambushed.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
I smooth down the bottom of my little black dress. My fingers don’t shake, but inside I’m quaking. How does he know? How much does he know?
“C offered you our help. Instead you betrayed us.”
It wasn’t like that. I swallow hard, shaking my head.
My gaze darts around the empty room. I can’t believe this is happening. I know it’s my fault, in more ways than one, but I still can’t believe it.
“Don’t,” he growls. “It’s Sir. Or Master.”
My eyes widen. I’ve heard rumors that the founding members of C Crue dabble in BDSM, but I thought it was their dirty secret, only revealed firsthand to their play partners.
“I’m not calling you either of those things.”
“You won’t call me anything else.”
I shiver, then let my gaze rest on him, fully seeing him for the first time in a long time. He’s six and a half feet tall and solid muscle. He keeps his dark brown hair buzzed and a shadow of a beard covers his jaw. There are a couple of small scars on his face and others that are hidden along with his tattoos. I know his body better than I should from the time when he was injured. When he was unconscious, I studied his tattoos, trying to puzzle out their cryptic messages. The truth is he’s always fascinated me.
“When you were wounded, I took care of you,” I say.
“Yeah. That was your second mistake,” he says.
Anger and lust war inside me, fighting a battle that’s been going on for three years.
Her blue-black hair is stark against her pale skin. The light brown eyes stare up at me, framed by a fringe of wispy lashes. I’ve seen the curious expression on her face in hundreds of pictures from the Instagram account. She’s got delicate features, always painted to perfection to feed the masses. So fucking exquisite. That face haunts my thoughts; it stalks me in my dreams.
I can’t remember much of what happened from when I was wounded, but the things I do remember are all her. And that’s what feeds my resentment. She’s five-foot-three and a hundred pounds. My biceps are bigger than her thighs, but she laid me out. And later, she coaxed me back from the brink of death. She put her cool fingers on my burning skin and stole my fucking soul.
I stand, my muscles tight with tension. “Frank brags that he’s giving Alberto Leone his virgin daughter. Leone brags that he’s getting the virgin Palermo princess that hundreds of thousands of guys worship. He says he can’t wait to pop your little cherry on your wedding night. I hear it over and over. That from the asshole whose hired guns killed friends of mine and delivered the gut shot that me made weak for months.” I haul my shirt off.
Her eyes drop to my chest. Good. I want her looking at my body. I can dead lift five hundred pounds. I want her to know that when she’s under me she’ll be helpless.
“What did I say?” I ask, a sharp edge to my voice that matches the knife I slide from my boot.
She becomes very still, the way prey does when it senses a predator drawing near.
My gaze slides to the edge of her dress and her legs, my thoughts skidding to the place where they join together. Does she shave that little pussy? Or is there a puff of curls? If so, are they brown like cinnamon, her natural hair color? My cock goes hard at these thoughts and because I smell her, a perfume that’s light and sharp and makes me want to lean closer.
I lower myself to kneel on the mattress, leaning over her. I cut the lower edge of her dress. She sucks in a breath and tries to draw back. I grab the fabric and rip it open all the way, exposing her indigo bikini panties and bra.
She raises a hand in protest, her eyes wide.
“Arms down, Raven.”
She crosses her arms over her chest.
I slice the sides of the panties. She shoves her hands down to cover her pussy as I pull the fabric away. I cut the straps of her bra. Her fingers come close to the blade, but I’m fast enough. I toss the knife, and it lands near the wall.
“What are you doing?” she demands, backing up until her back’s against the wall.
I don’t answer. This isn’t a situation that calls for conversation. Instead, I get the pump bottle of lube I brought. She stares at me, unmoving. Does she even understand what it’s for? I unzip my jeans and take out my cock.
“Oh, my God,” she says on an exhale.
My cock matches the rest of me.
“They weren’t lying,” she whispers.
I pause. “Who?”
The bright pink splotches on her cheeks tell me she’s scared and maybe something else.
“The neighborhood girls. They call it the battering ram,” she says, sitting straighter and tucking her legs to the side. Her arms cover her chest as her hands tug at the collar around her neck.
I stroke myself, wetting my dick with lube until it’s slick and shiny.
She looks up at me, her light brown eyes clear and sparkling like damn jewels. I clench my jaw. I’m so hard I do feel like I’ve got a battering ram between my legs.
“Lie back and spread your legs.”
She doesn’t move.
“This is happening. If you’re smart, you won’t fight.”
She doesn’t move at first. We just stare at each other. Then I drop down onto the mattress and move closer, inch by inch. The only sound in the room is my harsh breathing and hers.
When I’m less than a foot from her, I pause. Will she fight? Will I let her?
My heart thuds in my chest, and it’s like she knows shit about me that I don’t even know myself. She leans forward, resting her small hands on my chest.
“You don’t have to do this.”
It’s dangerous to let her talk. I grab her upper arms and shove her back. She falls onto the mattress, and I don’t hesitate because I know any hesitation is going to cost me.
I force her thighs open and put the thick head of my cock at her entrance. My knuckles graze her opening and moisture coats them. I groan, shaking my head. I want this. I’ve waited for this. My balls are fucking aching for this. But I don’t move. Not my fist. Not my hips. Nothing.
She stares up at me, her eyes so round and innocent.
My breathing’s ragged. I want this more than my next breath, but my body’s rigid and still. I should cover her mouth and shut my eyes. My muscles strain, joints popping.
“All right,” she whispers. “Go ahead.”
My breathing’s harsh, and my thoughts are a car crash in my head, all screeching tires and crumpling metal. I shut my eyes and hear her voice. I don’t know if it’s now or three years ago.
Cool fingers grip my arm. My body reacts the way it’s hardwired to. I drive forward. She screams and arches, trying to move away from me. I grab her hips and pin her to the bed.
I pant, the urge to thrust so strong it roars in my head and I have to fight against it.
I open my eyes. There are tears welled up in hers, and she’s digging her fingernails into my forearms as her creamy little tits shake.
I clench my jaw, trying like hell to control myself.
“It hurts,” she rasps.
“You’ll get used to it.” I grab her left thigh, pushing it up, giving myself room. My hips move, burying me even deeper.
She shrieks and rakes her nails down my arms. I don’t care about the scratches. Let her mark me the way I’m marking her. I squirt lube onto my cock where the shaved petals of her sex are hugging me. I draw back and thrust forward.
“God,” she says in a tortured voice. “Please.”
It’s hard to catch my breath, but that word reaches me. I slow my rhythm, sliding my arm around her back, holding her in position, so I can take what I need while cradling her body.
I hit her womb over and over. Her groans shift, and her arms give up trying to push me away. She’s so tight and wet, so innocent and raw. I’ve forced her body to take mine, and she throbs around me.
She moves against me, her skin the softest I’ve ever felt. Her breasts and belly untouched by the sun, or human hands until now. I get closer, pressing us together. Her fingers grip my sides, half pushing me away, half pulling me closer.
I grind against her until her hips start to move and her thighs loosen.
My balls tighten, and I shoot my cum into her. It feels so fucking good.
I open my eyes and look down. Hers are closed in concentration, and she’s biting her lip. My collar’s locked around her neck, staking a claim on her tonight, holding her as my prisoner and slave. My hips jerk until I fill her with every drop.
When I pull out, my cock’s covered in creamy pink. I’ve taken her innocence. I’ve been her first. I’ll always be her first.
One of her hands reaches down to cover her pussy, the other comes to rest on her lower belly. How does it feel to her? Does she ache inside?
I stand and shove my jeans off before lying back down and pulling the blankets over us.
I drag her body against mine, her back to my chest. Now that it’s done I’ll let her soak in the tub or do whatever she wants, but first I want to enclose her body with mine. I want to see if she’ll resist that.
“You’re huge,” she accuses, not sounding broken or upset. She sounds the way she often did at Frank’s, calmly defiant.
I slide my hand between her legs, gripping the back of her hand where it’s cupping her sweet little tortured pussy.
She pulls her hand from between her legs and mine starts to come with it. I burrow my hand back down, curling my fingers over her. The warm fluid coats my palm and I press against her to keep any more of my seed from leaking out.
She hisses in pain and grabs my arm. “Sasha, I’m sore. Let go.”
My grip isn’t hurting her, so I ignore the command. Now that I’ve caged her, I’m not going to make it easy for her to push me away.
She kicks my shin with her heel.
I move and trap her legs between mine.
“Son of a bitch,” she whispers, her voice angry.
Yes, I think. I’m that and other things. I should spank her for using that tone, but I won’t. Having my cock inside her the first time was rough enough. Now’s the time to show her I’m not always rough with girls.