She’s only about average height, but her legs are long, with the lean, shapely muscles of a dancer. Her belly is flat and toned, her slim waist flares into gently feminine hips, and her skin is smooth and pale all over, with not a tan mark in sight.
She’s beautiful, this new obsession of mine. Beautiful and scared.
“Now the rest,” I say roughly when she kicks off the jeans and stands there trembling, clad in only her bra and panties. I know I’m being cruel, but the raw, aching wound she exposed sucks out whatever little decency and compassion I possess, leaving only lust edged with the irrational need to punish.
I may not want to hurt her, but at this moment, I need to see her suffer.
She reaches for her bra hook in the back, unsnapping it with jerky motions, and I suck in a sharp breath, the pain in my chest drowned by a wave of even more intense desire. I saw her breasts last night, so I know they’re gorgeous, but the sight of her taut pink nipples and soft white flesh still punches me like a fist. My heart pounds in a fast, rough rhythm, and it’s all I can do to stay in place and not reach for her as she takes off her panties. Her pussy is smooth and hairless—she either waxes regularly or had her pubic hair lasered at some point—and my mouth waters as I imagine dragging my tongue through those delicate folds.
I can’t wait to taste her and make her come.
As I’m picturing that, Sara straightens and defiantly raises her chin. “Happy now?” Though her cheeks are bright red, she’s making no attempt to cover her body, her hands clenched into small fists at her sides.
Perversely, her little show of bravery softens the dark lust beating at me, and my mouth curves in amusement.
“Not yet, but I will be soon,” I say, taking off my own clothes. My movements are swift and economical, designed to accomplish the task as quickly as possible, but her face still flames brighter, her chest rising and falling as she stares at me.
“Come,” I say, walking over to her when I’m fully naked. “I know you like to shower before bed.”
She blinks, her eyes flying up to my face, and I realize she was staring at my cock—which is so hard it’s curving up to my navel.
“You can touch it in the shower if you’d like,” I say, my smile widening at her obvious embarrassment. “Come, ptichka. You’ll enjoy this.”
Clasping her wrist, I lead her to the bathroom.
22
Sara
* * *
I try to maintain my composure—or at least the appearance of it—as Peter drags me to the bathroom, his long fingers wrapped firmly around my wrist. This is definitely not how I imagined this night going when I was walking up the stairs. Despite the lingering darkness in his eyes, my tormentor now seems to be in a light, almost playful mood—a stark contrast to the terrifying rage I glimpsed on his face earlier.
It’s as if my forced little striptease calmed whatever demons those horrifying pictures had unleashed.
Nausea crawls through me again as I recall the images, the death and devastation depicted in such gruesome detail. I only looked at them for a few seconds, but I know I’ll never be able to forget them. I can’t imagine being there in person to take those pictures, much less knowing that it’s my family lying there—that the decomposing corpses used to be people I love. The mere thought fills me with such agony that for one heartbreaking moment, I understand what drives my attacker.
I don’t excuse it, but I understand it, and pity battles with terror in my chest.
If Peter believes my husband was responsible for those deaths, he had no choice but to come after him. That much is obvious to me. Even before he went rogue, the Russian’s profession would’ve exposed him to the darkest parts of humanity, taught him to embrace violence as a solution—and that’s not even taking into account whatever it was that turned him into a killer before age twelve. A man like that wouldn’t turn the other cheek; an eye for an eye would be more his speed. He wouldn’t care how many innocents he hurt in his quest for vengeance, and he certainly wouldn’t blink at torturing an enemy’s wife to get to him.
If George had any involvement in what happened, I’m lucky to be alive.
Stopping in front of the glass shower stall, my captor releases my wrist, steps inside, and turns on the water. As he plays with the faucet, trying to find the right temperature setting, I glance at the bathroom door. He’s wet and distracted, so I’m almost certain I can make it down the stairs and to my car before he catches me. But then what? Do I drive naked to a random hotel and hope he doesn’t find me tonight? Run straight to the FBI and beg them to hide me?