Torrid (Sordid 2)

My hands ached from where I’d balled my fists in his unmade bed, thrashing against the burning heat and bliss pooling low in my center. His mouth was on me, and I watched his glistening tongue lick through my slit. Just the image was too much to bear, but then he opened his eyes and looked up at me. They were full of sin and darkness, and I was sucked into them.

Doomed.

Shudders moved in waves along my skin as I came. The detonation inside was catastrophic, and I went boneless, giving in to the orgasm. It felt like power flowed out of me and right into him. I swallowed an enormous, thick gulp, and gasped loudly as air poured back into my throat. It was followed by whimpers, because the sensations were still going. Heat blasted up my back and down my legs.

Vasilije didn’t stop. His mouth continued to tease, and I was so overly sensitive, I reached down and shoved his head away. “Oh, God, stop.”

His chuckle was pure evil.

As the orgasm faded, he stood, towering over me as he wiped his lips, and revealed the devious smile beneath. His hands rested on his belt, showing off his sinewy frame, and he stared at me, watching as I struggled to recover. His evaluating gaze was unnerving, and yet I wondered how I’d done.

Had I pleased him? Everything depended on it. Not just my goal, but my life.

I waited dutifully for him to give me my next instruction, but he viewed me like a man trying to figure out how he felt about an abstract painting. The room had been on fire a minute ago, but now it was freezing, and I shivered. I wrapped my arms around myself and tried to hold the heat in.

“Get under the covers,” he said, sounding bored.

My head was a mess. The release he’d given me had a calming effect, and I worried he’d catch me off guard. The last thing I needed to be with him was relaxed. I moved up on the bed, yanking the fluffy comforter up around me, and sighed with relief on the inside. He’d seen every inch of me, but having coverage gave me a tiny kernel of strength back.

Trepidation crept in as Vasilije moved his hands to his pants and undid them. His jeans dropped to the floor and he stepped out of them, so he was only clad in a dark gray pair of boxer briefs with a white waistband. I didn’t recognize the name brand printed across it, but chances were his underwear was expensive. My father was incredibly wealthy, and the Markovics surpassed him.

Vasilije never knew hunger or struggle. I was sure he’d lived a life where he got everything he wanted, and that included designer clothes.

My guarded gaze tracked him as he flipped on a bedside lamp, walked to the door, and shut off the overhead bedroom light. His back was broad and contoured with muscle. His ass was firm and tight, filling out his underwear, and I felt dizzy assessing him like this. I shouldn’t appreciate how he looked, but he was the devil and, therefore, undeniably attractive.

Perhaps not mentally, or personality-wise, but physically? Oh, yes. There were absolutely worse men I could fuck than Vasilije Markovic. My mouth miraculously went dry as he turned and headed toward the bed, the very one I was sitting on.

His lips turned up in a cruel smile. “We need to get something straight. In the morning, you can leave if you want to.”

Ice chiseled away at my spine. He was throwing me out? I’d come way too far to not—

“You won’t, though,” he added, climbing into the bed beside me.

I steeled my voice. “Why not?”

“Your people won’t help you. You were the only girl we took, and there’s no way they’re going to believe I let you go. They’ll think you’re spying for me and probably kill you. If not, they’ll pump you full of drugs and put you to work with the other girls.” He pulled the covers up to his waist, like he was discussing something trivial. “At least you know how to suck cock now.”

He said that kind of shit to get a rise out of me, but I refused to play into his hands. “I don’t have to go to them.”

“Oh, you got better options?” He looked impossibly arrogant. “The fuck you do. I looked through your shit. There’s no phone numbers, names, or addresses. The group that picked you up outside the international terminal was your only contact.”

“Maybe I have it memorized,” I said, which was true. Of course I knew my own address.

“Yeah? What is it, then?” He smirked as he dished out the challenge. I wasn’t about to tell him, and he took my silence as a victory. He thought he’d called my bluff.