Desolation Road (Torpedo Ink 4)

She purred and rubbed her cheek on the inside of Absinthe’s thighs as she deftly opened the drawstring of his pants. She nudged his hand with the top of her hair, still acting the part of the kitten. He had told her she could come to him for reassurance if she needed it. A part of her wondered how he would choose a woman like her—one who didn’t need his protection the way someone much more fragile might.

She concentrated on making the opening in the drawstring trousers as wide as possible in order to get full access to Absinthe’s cock and balls. Even soft, his cock was long and thick, the promise of it making her mouth water. She licked his balls and then up his shaft. There was no response.

“You get five minutes, you fucking little pussycat, and then I’m going to think you aren’t putting any effort into saving my brother,” Savage snarled, leaning over her shoulder so fast her heart jerked hard and then began to pound in growing fear.

Behind her, he began to pace again up and down the length of the room. She tried to concentrate on Absinthe’s cock, but she couldn’t keep Savage in sight other than for a brief glimpse every few moments when he moved into her peripheral vision. Scarlet tried to ignore him, to feel the weight and texture of Absinthe’s cock on her tongue, to stroke it lovingly, but Savage was so silent and so menacing that it felt as if she was in the room with a caged tiger, ready to leap on her any moment and rip her to shreds.

She found herself actually pulling Absinthe’s cock deep and sucking a little desperately, almost for comfort, her heart pounding so frantically she feared that pounding beat could be heard throughout the room. Certainly, it thundered in her ears. She found the energy in the room was dark and menacing, a strange combination when she’d been feeling Savage’s deep concern for Absinthe. Now there was none of that, only this terrible need to strike at her.

She used everything she’d learned that Absinthe loved, pouring attention and care on him, trying not to let the pacing that was coming closer and closer behind her get to her. Savage was like an animal. A terrible predator waiting for her to screw up.

“Fuckin’ get to work. Don’t you know the first thing about suckin’ cock? I can text one of the little club girls, get them to go down on him and do a better job than you’re doin’,” he hissed, contempt in his voice.

Fear beat at her, but anger mixed with that fear. As long as she felt anger toward Savage, as long as she thought about coming to her feet and driving her fist into his mouth to smash his ugly words right back down his throat, she was never going to convince Absinthe she was that frightened little kitten who desperately needed him to come save her. She was too busy formulating plans to save herself.

She understood flashbacks. She did. She’d had a few of her own. What was wrong with her that she was never enough for anyone to stick around? All while a part of her tried not to think of herself or why she couldn’t reach Absinthe, she worked her skills on him, doing her best to ignore the growing threat of the predator prowling behind her. She kept trying to find Absinthe, to connect with him. To reach him. Even with their pathway forged so solidly between them, nothing got through to him. Nothing at all.

Savage crowded behind her aggressively, his fist once more in her hair. “You don’t seem to believe I’m serious, little pet. I think you need a little persuasion.”

Her eyes met his, those cold, dead blue ones, and at once her vision changed and she was in the past again. There were girls, not women, but girls. She couldn’t begin to guess their age, late teens maybe. Several were tied in twisted torture positions to various racks or benches, much like she imagined a modern-day bondage room might have, only this looked as if it might be the real thing. No velvet whips. No soft floggers. A loud whistle cut through the air and a stripe of red lit up one of the girls. She screamed. Immediately, the crack of other whips followed as a dozen men followed suit, whipping other girls.

One man stepped forward and a hush fell over the room. Even the girls went quiet. He was completely naked, his body all raw muscle, scarred, burned, with the words Whip Master branded into his chest. His hair was a mass of blond curls. He walked up to a girl crying and squirming on the rack in the center of the room. On his back, he had the words Master of Pain branded into his skin. He had scars all over him, both front and back, chest, buttocks, thighs. He was covered in scars and burn marks.