That’s how we are together—depraved and beautiful.
I scramble beneath the covers, hiding my body, the cool sheets a thin barrier.
He studies me, his expression softening a fraction. But if I thought it would make him gentle, I’d be wrong. He grasps the corner of the sheet and pulls. It slinks to the ground, leaving me bare. Cool air washes over me.
One large hand circles my ankle. That’s the only warning I have before he pulls me toward him. Then I’m sprawled on the bed, legs open to his view. “I didn’t prepare you before,” he says, and it’s the closest he will ever come to an apology.
Then he bends his head, and I gasp. “What—”
My voice is choked off when his lips find my clit, a gentle kiss. Pleasure arcs through me, and I twist my body. “No, wait,” I tell him. “Wait.”
He lifts his head only slightly, raising one eyebrow. I can read his expression. He has no intention of stopping because I want him to, but he’s curious about what I’m going to say. I’m curious too, because I don’t even know. I can’t even think. My brain shorted out the second his mouth touched my sex.
“I’m—I’m bleeding,” I tell him. There’s blood on his cock, and it’s mine.
Amusement flits over his face. “You think because there’s blood on your pussy, I can’t lick you?”
“Yes,” I whisper. A flush makes my face hot to hear him say the words, to even think about him tasting me—tasting my arousal, tasting my blood.
His expression hardens. “It’s mine, Candy. Your blood, your body. Your virginity. You belong to me now. You don’t get to tell me no. And if you think I’m not going to fuck you, or lick you, or do anything I damn well please because of a little blood, then you have a lot to learn, little one.”
Then his head dips again, and it’s like electricity zings from the base of my sex up to the top of my clit. He presses his tongue against my hole, soothing the place that he hurt, making it burn even more.
The soft fabric of his suit whispers against the insides of my thighs. Rough fingers play with my folds before they hold me open for his assault. His tongue is wet and hot and knowledgeable as it flicks me, using just the right rhythm. My hips rock up to meet him. Unforgiving hands press my thighs down, forcing me flat on the bed.
He focuses on my clit, merciless as he lashes me again and again.
I clutch the sheets and twist my upper body, my legs held down by him. The orgasm hits me like a tidal wave, pushing me under and stealing my breath. I can’t even cry out, can’t beg or scream. I can only jerk my body against the bonds of his hands as the orgasm drags on and on. My lungs burn from lack of air. Even then he doesn’t let up, his tongue dipping into my hole, drinking the juices I make for him.
Only when he pulls back can I finally suck in air—and let it out on a pitiful wail.
My defenses are broken, battered. He tore them down with single-minded intent, and now what’s left of me? I want him to do it again. More than that, I want him to be naked while he does it. I want him to be as vulnerable as I am, as open to me as I am to him.
Clumsy hands push at his suit jacket. “Take it off,” I say brokenly. “Take it—”
Gray eyes narrow. “Stop, Candace.”
He hitches the head of his cock against my pussy. My whole body goes tense, knowing exactly how much it will hurt. “No. Don’t. Please.”
“Excuse me?”
“Take it off.” I’m begging, pleading. I don’t really want him to stop. Even if he splits me in two pieces, I want him to do it. I just want him to be naked when he does it. Naked with me. Intimate. “At least the suit jacket. Please.”
He tenses up, clearly angry. “Stop asking for that. You won’t like what happens.”
That again. “You don’t know what I like,” I cry. “You don’t.”
I think that’s a lie. We both know it. The way he just played my body, his tongue against my clit, proves he knows exactly what I like. The way I came, so hard my body almost broke under the strain, proves it too.
He laughs, an almost metallic sound. “You want me to take my clothes off.”
My voice is shaky. “Yes.”
“You want me to strip for you?”
“Yes.” Stronger now.
A knowing expression lights his pale eyes as his hands go to his lapels. He looks dangerous like this, almost insane with it. It makes me scared for what I’ll see underneath. I never thought his clothes were anything more than a wall between us. I never even realized they might be armor, the same way ruffles and glitter have been for me.
He takes off the jacket in rough, careless movements. It drops to the floor in a whisper of expensive fabric. The shirt comes next, one button at a time. His eyes never leave mine. There’s challenge in them. He expects me to balk. But why?
When all the buttons are undone, he opens each cuff. Then he shrugs off the shirt.
It joins the jacket on the floor, but I can’t focus on that. Not with his chest bared to me.
Not with the scars.
They steal my breath away. There are too many scars to count, a patchwork quilt of pain. A lifetime of war and abuse. Some of the girls at the Grand came from rough backgrounds. Some of the customers too. So I recognize the small, circular marks as cigarette burns. They are old and faded and poignant. Crisscrossing them are slashes—knife wounds? Not straight enough for that. Maybe the torn edge of a beer can. Or the jagged blade of a broken bottle.
He hasn’t stopped moving under my perusal. He takes off his belt buckle and pushes down his pants, then his boxer briefs, too proud to flinch when I see what’s underneath. I flinch though, and let out a sound of pure, undiluted horror.
The scars don’t stop at his waist. They continue down, over lean hips and muscular thighs. Cuts and burns and dark, disfigured patches where I don’t even know what happened. It’s such a contrast to his smooth, cultured appearance in his bespoke suits that my mind can’t really comprehend what I’m seeing. This is more than fistfights. More even than the gun and knife warfare of criminals. This is torture. Long-term torture from many years ago.
When he could have only been a child.
My eyes fill with tears. “Oh God, Ivan.”
“No,” he says roughly. “You wanted to see this. A monster fucking you.”
“Daddy—”
He covers my mouth with his hand, cutting off my plea.
Then his cock is pushing into me, spearing me slowly but inexorably. My muscles flutter and clench against the invasion. It hurts just as much the second time—more, somehow. I feel my eyes go wide and then fill with tears. My body jerks against his weight, fighting him, completely involuntary as I push him away.
I don’t mean to fight though. As much as it hurts. As much as it burns. I wouldn’t say a single word to stop him from doing this. Not after seeing what pain he’s endured. This can never be worse than that.
His hand remains over my mouth as he presses in to the hilt. The black hair at his base feels foreign against my bare pussy, scratchy against oversensitized skin. I’m dizzy with being this full, almost light-headed. I think his hand is blocking some of my air too, and I have to move. I don’t mean to fight him, but my body does it for me, jerking against him, trying to squirm away and buck him off. I fight his hand too, pulling at it, trying to get more air. No matter how much I struggle, it doesn’t work. He’s too strong like this. Too determined. Too cruel.
A monster fucking you.
That’s what he called himself, a monster. And that’s how he seems. Not because of the scars I can see moving over me in a blur. Because of the light in his eyes, the one that says he’ll make this hurt. It’s a promise he makes, a promise he keeps as he pulls back and then plunges in again. There’s no time to adjust to his size; he just starts fucking me. Pounding me. The pain overwhelms me, and I feel tears stream down the sides of my face, shockingly cool against the heat of my body.