When I return to the brownstone that night, I’ve managed to get this wild, terrified feeling under control. At least sort of. It’s not like I can ever feel relaxed around these three. On the contrary, I’m determined to keep my defenses up at all times. Something tells me that’s exactly what they want. Killian in particular seems to enjoy terrorizing me. I still feel a twinge of soreness from his earlier ‘inspection’, not strong enough to be called pain, but just present enough that it can’t be ignored.
This time, the door is locked. With a deep breath, I bang the brass skull knocker. It swings open a moment later, revealing the guy from the other day.
“Good evening,” he says, gesturing for me to enter the front room. “We met before, but I didn’t introduce myself. My name is Martin. I’m the Lords’ assistant.”
“I’m Story. Story Austin,” I reply, giving him my real name as I peer around the foyer once again. When I turn to the man—Martin—I give him a onceover. I wonder if I’ll be under his thumb, too. I wonder if he’ll want to do things to me. He doesn’t look like a ruthless sadist, but neither does Tristian. It’s a dumb notion, anyway. The Lords don’t share with anyone but each other. “You’re their assistant? You don’t look any older than me.”
“I’m twenty-five actually,” he says, shutting the door. I take note of him turning the lock, the click sounding final and grim. “The Lords have always had an assistant assigned to them by the firm. It’s an honor to serve them, as I’m sure you’re aware.”
I only barely manage to hide the face I want to pull. Sadist or not, if this guy thinks being their ‘Lady’ is an honor, then he’s a creep. Unfortunately, I’m not in the position to make my feelings on the matter known. “I see.”
“I mostly manage things for the frat and house; maintenance, repairs, and legal advice.”
I wonder if he signed a contract that gave over the rights to almost every freedom in his life like I did.
Doubtful.
Speaking of the contract, my eyes are drawn to the thick envelope waiting in Martin’s hand. I nod toward it, asking, “Is that it?”
Martin’s gaze follows mine. “Yes. Why don’t you follow me?” He leads me to the same parlor I’d waited in the other day, still immaculate, and places the envelope on the table in front of the sofa. “I’ll give you a few minutes to look it over. Let me know if you have any questions.” Despite this, he doesn’t leave, instead opting to fold himself down into a wing-backed chair near the fireplace.
Reluctantly, I take a seat on the sofa, gently sliding the papers from the envelope. The beginning is practically in Latin, but I get the gist. This contract seals my fate, yadda yadda, I’m agreeing to it of my own free will, blah blah. Going over the stipulations of being Lady is an exercise in humiliation, my face blooming hotter and hotter with each line, realizing that this Martin guy knows every single one.
Many of them are boring, such as always dressing presentably, always being available to the Lords, never speaking to males other than the Lords or their staff without permission, keeping up my figure, a promise that every encounter and exchange between me and the Lords will be strictly confidential.
Then there are other ones. Mostly sexual, completely vile. I’m giving my consent to a whole plethora of things, and they aren’t even worded to sound nice. It’s all blunt and completely unavoidable.
I must pleasure them each on their command.
I must submit myself to punishment when I don’t.
I must never wear a bra while under their roof.
I must always remain waxed or shaved.
I must never masturbate unless I’m given permission to.
I must remain on birth control.
The list goes on and on, more and more vulgar with each line item. At one point, I glance up at Martin, half expecting him to look as uncomfortable as I feel.
He just smiles placidly back at me. “I’ll give you a copy so you can remember it all.”
Right.
Even worse than that is the non-disclosure agreement. According to the contract, I need to give collateral—something damaging they can hold over my head. I take it as the joke it was obviously meant to be. They already hold quite enough over my head.
Because of this, I don’t think twice about pulling the two photos from my bag—the ones Ted had sent me, from the sugar baby site. In both of them, I’m in compromising positions. But Killian has no doubt already seen them. He probably already has them saved somewhere. This is just some macho bullshit to ensure that I know he has them.
“Before signing this,” I say, tapping the paper. “Am I allowed to add my own stipulations?”
His eyebrows climb his forehead, but his responding grin is full of humor. “The Lords aren’t exactly open to negotiations. But I suppose you’re allowed to try.”
I nod, already knowing this. I won’t get much. I should choose one thing, big enough to put some power back into my hands, challenging enough that they might be put off, possibly enough leverage to negotiate some of their stipulations down.
After a few moments, I decide, jotting the words at the bottom of the list.
Martin takes the contract from my hand with another one of those sedate smiles, eyes flicking down to catch my amendment. He pauses for a moment, seeming to re-read, before meeting my gaze again. “I’ll just need to check this with the others first.”
“Of course,” I answer, waiting as he pulls out his phone.
I watch as his thumbs fly over the screen, sending the message, and I almost regret them not being here—not being able to see the looks on their faces at my condition.
His phone pings with a response after only five minutes. “Well then,” he says, staring down at the screen. “It seems the Lords are amenable to your condition.”
I freeze. “What?”
“They agree to the change of terms,” he says, passing the contract back. “All it needs is your signature.”
No way.
No fucking way should they have agreed to that. They should have said no, and then had Martin agree to take something off their requests in concession.
I remain frozen for a long moment, wishing I had time to properly strategize here. Does this mean I can make more requests? Did I choose wrong? Should I have negotiated something else?
It doesn’t matter.
Whether they agree or not, none of them will be capable of following through. When they fail, the contract will be null and void. Forcing myself not to think too hard on what I’m doing, I sign the bottom line.
Martin nods, stuffing everything back into the envelope. “If you’re ready, I can show you to your room.” After a beat, he adds, “Lady.”
The title makes a frisson of disgust roll up my spine.
He leads me up the narrow staircase to the first floor, where two doors lead off the hallway. He eyes my suitcase. “I’m not sure how much you’ll need from your own belongings. Clothing and toiletries are provided. Each item has been cultivated to the Lords’ particular tastes.” He stops at a door and gestures to the handle. “This will be your room.”
I turn the doorknob and step inside, taking in the space. It’s not quite what I expected. The room is spacious and warm, with windows that overlook the front of the house. There’s a double bed made of iron, with rose-colored bedding. A pale green couch sits against one wall. Another holds a fireplace. The décor is not modern, but comfortable. Feminine. I notice perfume bottles on the dressing table, one I notice as my preferred fragrance, and a scarf hanging on the back of the chair. Momentarily, I wonder what other women agreed to stay in this room before me? How were they treated? Did they get nice bedding, scarves, perfumes?
I’d half-expected to just be tossed in a squat cell with nothing but a bucket.
“Do you live here, too?” I ask Martin.
“No,” he answers, lifting a hand to pick lint from his shoulder. “Although I am available to the Lords on a twenty-four-hour basis, seven days a week. I’m only here to make sure you settle in since the Lords couldn’t be present to welcome you.”
I frown. “Where are they?”
“They have business,” he says vaguely, his tone making it clear that he won’t elaborate.
“Oh.” It seems odd that they wouldn’t take the opportunity to make me feel even more uncomfortable. I’ve been on edge all day, anxious about what would await me. The reality is both a relief and a disappointment. I’ve put off their torment for just a little while longer. A part of me just wants to get it over with, though. “Well, thank you for showing me my room.”
“You’re welcome, Story. I left you some dinner in the kitchen, if you’re hungry.” A weirdly thoughtful gesture from the man who’s helping to legally bind me into sexual serfdom.
I touch my stomach and realize I haven’t eaten all day. I’ve been on edge since I got back in town, but now that I’m finally in this house, I feel some of that tension unwind. Ted isn’t going to come after me here—not if he knows what’s good for him. And if he does, then…
Well, then he’ll be their problem.
Plus, it seems like I don’t even have to worry about the guys tonight.
“Thank you,” I answer, trying for a smile that probably escapes as a grimace. “I’ll get something after I unpack.”
Martin leaves the room, and a few minutes later, I hear him go out the front door, the latch snapping into place behind him. The first thing I do is check the locks on my bedroom’s door.
“Thank God,” I mutter, testing the knob. The lock works well.
I explore the rest of the room, looking into the large, nicely-sized bathroom. This door has a lock, too. There’s a shower, a massive bathtub, and a large vanity. The cabinets and drawers are filled with toiletries and cosmetics—expensive, high-end brands. There’s a box of tampons and three months of birth control pills—prescribed by the campus doctor. Soft towels are stacked on a shelf by the tub. I go back into the bedroom and place my suitcase on the bed, unzipping it to reveal my things. I left my old apartment in a hurry, leaving behind most of my belongings. I never made a lot of money or had much in the way of possessions, so my clothing options were already slim. I walk to the dresser with a handful of old cotton panties and open the top drawer. Inside, I discover that there are already clothes inside, just like Martin implied. I pick up one of the lacy scraps of fabric and see that the tags are still attached. Bras and panties, sheer tanks, and boy shorts. All in my size.
Did they buy all of this today?
I finger a black, strappy, lacy bralette. This isn’t something I’d wear. Too revealing, not enough function. It’s clear from the selection what the guys are expecting from me. Frilly underthings and very little else.
I finish unpacking, adding my own pathetic clothing to the drawers. My worn jeans are tucked in next to the crisp, designer denims folded in neat stacks. I hang a few things in the closet. There are outfits in there too, including stylish shirts and a few dresses. Some casual. A few for dressier occasions. Also brand new. In stark contrast to the lacy bras and panties, the clothes I must be intended to wear outside of the house are strangely modest instyle, if not in function. It takes me a while to understand, but eventually, I do.
I’m meant to look like every inch the sweet little virgin I’ve branded myself as. The clothes are cute, but revealing enough to be considered a tease. Skirts that are a little too short, pants and tops that are a little too tight. I suppose I should be thankful that I won’t be forced into wearing stilettos and tube tops.
Instead, it just makes my stomach churn.
By the time I’m finished, I don’t just need dinner, I need a drink as well.
In the kitchen, I find the plate of food in the refrigerator, and I familiarize myself with the room while it heats it up in the microwave. In the back of the pantry, I find a bottle of vodka. I’m not a big drinker, but I need something to calm my nerves. I pour a shot in a glass and knock it back. The burn down my throat licks like fire, but it eases the hard knot in my stomach.
I sit at the table, blessedly alone, and eat the meal that was left for me. It’s a plate of roasted chicken and green vegetables. I’m hungry, but it’s hard to force down, so I end up dryly swallowing half of it and picking at the rest. Unable to remember if a lack of cleanliness would result in ‘correction’, I clean everything diligently when I’m finished, making sure it’s spotless.
Afterward, I refill my glass with another shot and take a self-guided tour of the first floor.
The house is undeniably historic, with period pieces scattered throughout. Stained glass windows, carved woodwork, antiquated built-in cabinets. The fixtures are a combination of old and new. A heavy glass chandelier hangs over the massive dining room table. An oil portrait of a man is mounted over the stone fireplace in the living room. Everything reeks of expensive old world taste. It’s all frankly way too elegant for Killian, Tristian, and Rath. Where are the pizza boxes? The industrial-sized boxes of condoms? The video games and bongs?
I figure that stuff has to be somewhere, so I head up to the second floor, stopping at the door across from my bedroom, curious about what’s inside.
I’m shocked to find the door unlocked, and I take a paranoid glance behind me before stepping inside. A familiar scent assaults my senses before I even turn on the light. It’s a mixture of soap and masculinity, sweat, and spicy cologne. My fingers flip the switch, and I instantly know that I’m in Killian’s room. Our rooms were adjacent when I lived at Daniel’s house, too.
I shouldn’t be surprised he placed my room so close to his.
His bed is a huge, king-sized monstrosity with a headboard of solid black wood. His bedding is a cool slate gray, the walls a lighter shade. The room is unsurprisingly tidy. Pizza boxes aside, Killian had always been a neat-freak. He hated things being haphazard, too much of a control freak to tolerate the smallest glimpse of chaos.
Every piece of clothing is put in its place, shirts lined up neatly in his closet, pants below. Every item on his dresser is neatly arranged, from his keys to his day planner. I walk by the dark piece of furniture and see a photo in a frame; him as a little boy with a woman I recognize as his mother.
It’s not the first time I’ve seen this picture. Once, after we first moved in, the housekeeper mixed up our PE T-shirts. I carried it into his room and saw the picture sitting on his dresser. I was staring at her beautiful face when I heard, “What the hell are you doing in here?”
I jumped. “B-bringing your shirt.” I held it out like a shield. “It got mixed in with my laundry.”
“Stupid maid,” he muttered, striding into the room. He was seventeen and already pushing the agro-jock persona. He grabbed the shirt and scowled. “Why are you still here?”
I glanced at the photo and his eyes followed. “Is that your—”
“Don’t you fucking dare say her name. If you do, I’ll…”
I didn’t give him time to finish. I tried to find out more about Darla, Killian’s mother, but she was never mentioned, at least never around me. Aside from the photo—clean, angled just-so, clearly treated with care—it was as if she didn’t exist. I never knew what happened to her, just that any mention of her made Killian even chillier than usual—and that was saying a lot.
Much like back then, the frame is one of few personal items in the room. Everything else serves a purpose. Being here, smelling the scent of him, is making me remember being alone with him earlier in the day. The way he’d advanced on me, caged me in, the sight of his shoulder, muscles shifting beneath the fabric as his finger invaded me. The way his eyes looked, hooded and dark.
I’m not deluded enough to think he truly wants me.
No.
He’s a cold-hearted sociopath. He wants to hurt me, humiliate me, control me. Whatever he feels, it’s more about him feeling powerful than it is about me.
The urge to go through his drawers or the sleek laptop on his desk is overwhelming. He looks so different from back then. Harder. Rougher. I wonder how else he’s changed. But even though some part of me is dying to figure him out before I’m completely at his mercy, I hold back. Killian is too smart to leave something out where I can easily find it, and he’s paranoid enough to not only make it hard to find something incriminating, but to also set a trap that could get me in more trouble.
The room, his personality, everything about him makes me bristle. I leave quickly, eager to escape the specter of him that lingers there.
Turning away from my room, I head back to the staircase and climb to the next floor. There are two more rooms. I choose the one over mine. It doesn’t take me very long to realize whose room this is.
Tristian’s.
The massive black and white canvas print of himself over his bed is the only clue I need.
It’s the most absurd thing I’ve ever seen. I stand at the end of the bed and gawk at the enlarged photograph. In it, he’s shirtless, showing off his defined physique. He’s leaner than Killian, not needing the bulk for the field, but still perfectly toned. The lighting expertly emphasizes the ladder of muscle on his abdomen and the cut V under his hips. He’s strikingly attractive, always has been. The smile toying at his lips is that of a trickster. Kind, yet cruel. Sexy, but dark.
Against my will, my eyes drop the skin right above the waist of his pants. I think about that defined muscle, the texture of skin, and am struck by the startling, unwelcome awareness that I’ve been right there. I’ve had that bulge beneath his pants in my mouth. I’ve felt that skin below his belly against my forehead.
I turn away to avoid thinking about it.
The décor of the room is modern, sleek, and sterile. Despite this, it’s not coldly impersonal like Killian’s room. No, Tristian Mercer admires himself far too much for that. It’s obvious that everything in the room has been carefully curated; books arranged by spine color, a gigantic, top-of-the-line flatscreen perched on the wall, and a closet full of expensive designer clothes. There are a few personal things, though. A framed photo of a little girl bearing a familial resemblance. Knick knacks, a mug that was handmade by a child—perhaps the one in the photo. They don’t match anything else in the room. They’re not put on display for the sake of appearances. This is something he cares about more than all that.
Could Tristian actually love something?
Does he have the capacity?
It’s a curious thing, but it’s also not long before that sharp face smirking down at me begins to make my skin itch. I put a mental pin in it and quickly exit the room, closing the door behind me.
I turn to the opposite door and open it, jaw going slack at what awaits me.
This is a surprise.
Dimitri Rathbone is the quietest of the three. Back in high school, he was also an athlete—goalie on the soccer team. He was known for his ruthless aggression on the field, but otherwise was a mystery. He was always so intense and broody, even when we partnered together that year in English. He barely spoke to me at all, instead opting to send me the occasional—and very effective—withering stare. That was alright. Withering stares, I could handle.
And then, during that same class, I found out his secret.
Once I knew, the intensity of his cold looks and hard glares ratcheted up to eleven. I can still hear him whispering in my ear that night at our house, his fingers discovering my own most humiliating secrets.
His size and demeanor have always been terrifying—the kind of guy a girl would rather not have look their way at all. Not like Killian, who, if a girl could catch his attention, she’d instantly become popular. Or Tristian, who could, if he wanted, bestow her with a sexy, secretive smile and have her eating out the palm of his hand. The Rath I’d known was an observer, watching quietly, and waiting for his moment to strike.
This room? It must belong to someone else.
I step into the cluttered mess, eyes drawn to the central focus of the room. Not his bed. That’s pushed against the wall, bed sheets twisted and unkempt. No, the object dominating the room is a beautiful grand piano. Sheet music rests on the stand and I spot the leather journal he’d been writing in the day of my interview. I step forward, curious. Has he improved? What might I find inside; tales of his exploits, or just music notes, scribbles and diagrams?
I run my fingers down the soft front cover of the journal, but paranoia makes me stop short of opening it. What if the room is bugged? Maybe there are cameras. I’d put nothing past them.
I graze my fingertips over the uncovered keys instead. It’s not the only instrument visible in the room; several guitars are propped against surfaces or hanging on the wall. I recognize the cases for a violin and a trumpet sitting on a far shelf. There’s other stuff, strange equipment with dials and buttons, all hooked up to a huge, three-screen computer station. Perhaps this is for recording.
But that’s not all I discover while walking across the room. There’s a wall of shelves, cubes filled with old-school record albums. Hundreds of them. I look over and see the antique record player, an empty cover sitting on top. Ella Fitzgerald. I flip the switch and the black disk starts to spin. Carefully, I rest the needle in the groove.
The strains of music fill the room, and all of a sudden, the weight of the day—the last few months—just crashes right down on my shoulders. It could be the food in my belly, or maybe the vodka, maybe just the fact that Rath’s room is warm and cozy, far more comfortable than it has any right to be.
Whatever it is, I’m exhausted, and I sink into the leather couch next to the record player, kicking off my sandals. It’s early and I have no doubt the guys are at a party or something, likely to be gone all night. Picking up the sleeve of the album, I study the back and let myself relax.
I’m not sure how much time passes. There are the lilting, sweet yet powerful tones of Ella Fitzgerald, and then a slow, eventual change in the music.
That’s what ultimately rouses me.
The room is dark, save for a lamp sitting atop the huge piano, and I can’t help but sink into the sound washing over me. The record music was good, but this? The chords reverberate through the room, something slow and haunting, dark and yet alive. A little too alive.
It’s live.
I bolt upright. The musician is only a few feet away, back straight, hands roaming over the keys, inky black hair falling into his eyes.
My heart hammers wildly at the realization Rath is right there. He doesn’t look my way, seemingly enraptured in the music he’s playing. Maybe I can get out of here and get back to my room without him noticing?
I stand, the album cover sliding to the ground. I wince, but the noise is quiet, soft. I carefully bend, picking it up quickly, then placing it on the couch. Rath doesn’t turn my way, so I continue with my escape, grabbing my shoes and starting toward the door in a tip-toe.
“I feel like one of the three bears,” he says suddenly, voice carrying over the music, “coming in here and finding a girl sleeping in my room.”
Frozen, it takes me a moment to squeak out a weak, “I’m sorry.” I keep my eye on the door, inwardly calculating how long it’ll take me to reach it. “I turned on some music and must’ve fallen asleep. I won’t bother you again.”
The music stops, a tense silence falling over the room.
He turns, the soft light of the lamp casting his profile into sharp relief. “You know, in some versions of that story, the bears eat Goldilocks for invading their personal space.” There isn’t a hint of amusement on his face. “I wonder what kind of punishment is appropriate for this situation?”
The way he looks at me makes my throat twist itself into a tight knot. Rath is dangerous, but it’s maybe the worst kind of danger—the kind that isn’t obvious, isn’t known yet. I’ve never been alone with him before, and I don’t want to be right now.
Stupid.
It’s the whole reason I moved in here. I couldn’t think of three scarier people to live with. But now that I’m here, pinned under the weight of his gaze like an insect, I’m beginning to regret it.
“I didn’t know you were a musician,” I say, hoping to divert his attention. “Or that you were into music at all. You’re very good.”
He doesn’t look appeased. If anything, it just makes his expression colder. “I’m a private person, which is why it was a bit disturbing to find you in here without permission.”
“That was rude. I know.” I look around at the mess, hands wringing. “It’s just…comfortable. In here.”
He tilts his head, the light from the lamp catching on the metal piercings on either side of his lip. Snake bites. He pats the top of the piano. “Sit.”
I blink. “What?”
He sweeps a hand over the ebony top. “Come sit and listen as I play. I think that’ll be your punishment.”
My eyebrows furrow, some of my discomfort beginning to unwind. “I’m not sure that’s the negative consequence you think it is.”
He doesn’t respond, but his expression tells me not to try his patience. I leave my sandals by the door and shuffle over to the piano. I’m trying to figure out how to get up on the top when his hands clamp around my waist and he lifts me up, placing me on the smooth surface.
His scent wafts over me, like the memory of that night. He’d grabbed my waist then as well, right before he pushed his fingers between my legs. I press my thighs together and smooth out my skirt, willing my knees not to tremble. His eyes dart from my face to my hands, then he sits on the bench and begins to play.
In high school, Rath was well known for his ability to catch anything on the soccer field. Jokes about his fast fingers echoed down the hallway. As I watch him now, I think I understand. They’re long and slender, quick, and definitely skilled.
While playing, his gaze vacillates between the sheet music and my face, down to my knees, back to the music. The melody is angry, violent, but that’s not what entrances me.
It’s the way he’s looking at me while he’s playing it.
It’s impossible to read, whatever’s in his eyes. Anger, yes. Intensity, sure. Beneath it all lurks a promise, as if he’s trying to tell me something without using the words. Whatever the message is, it’s not good.
When the music slows, his fingers pause on the keys, his chest heaving.
I swallow loudly in the silence, heart banging wildly in my chest. “That—that was amazing, Rath. I didn’t know you could read music.” I watch the storm of fury build in his eyes, realizing my error a beat too late. I try futilely to scramble back. “No, I didn’t mean—!”
But he’s already bolting forward, boxing me in, two palms slamming down on the top of the piano. “You don’t know anything about me,” he hisses, nostrils flaring.
Nodding frantically, I agree, “I know, you’re right, I don’t know.”
But the thing is, I do.
That semester we spent in English together made it very clear. Rath never read aloud like the rest of us. He made me do all the worksheets. When we had to journal, he’d copy mine without even asking. When we had to read separate short stories, he’d sit there and do absolutely nothing until I read it aloud. To him. I eventually worked it out for myself.
Dimitri Rathbone, although smart and talented, wasn’t fully literate.
Scrambling for some morsel of saving grace, I blurt out, “I could help you, you know. I’m the only one who knows about it, right? I could…I’m under a non-disclosure. I can’t tell anyone. So I could teach you how to read.”
If anything, this just makes his flash hotter. “You think I can’t read? You’re wrong.” Despite the feral look in his eyes, he backs off a bit and I exhale shakily. “I can read you just fucking fine. Look at your knees.”
Without really meaning to, I do it, following his gaze down. My knees are pressed together so tightly that they’re aching.
“You’re afraid, Sweet Cherry.” The feel of his hands clamping around my knees makes me flinch. “You think you can get through this without giving up a part of yourself. Right now, you’re thinking that you’d like to pry my hands off your knees and slap me in the face.” Closer, eyes cast in shadow, he whispers, “You’re also not letting yourself think about how much you’d like it if you didn’t.”
“You’re wrong,” I answer, my voice quiet.
He chuckles, low and dark. “You should’ve run like Goldilocks.” His thumbs press twin divots into the flesh above my knees. “Because this is one of those stories where the girl is punished for breaking into the bear’s room. You know what I’m going to do, right? I’m gonna eat you up.”
That fear, that feeling of being off balance, comes rushing back in a wave of paralyzing panic. “Wait, I thought…”
“I know what you thought. You thought you’d snoop around in here and see a different side of me. The artistic, creative, perhaps gentle side? Maybe then, you’d realize that I’m really just misunderstood. That I’d feel bad for what we did to you. Isn’t that right?” His mouth curls into a slow, mean smile. “How’s my reading so far?”
I suck in an alarmed breath. “Rath…”
“That person doesn’t exist, Story. I’m still the guy from that night. The same one who felt you up and watched as you sucked Tristian off. The one who would have fucked you if your brother hadn’t stopped it.” He leans toward me, hands creeping up my thighs, and whispers in my ear. “I’m also the one who knows your secret. How hot you were for it all. How fucking wet. I think it’s my turn to learn a little about you tonight. I’m going to find out if it still does it for you.”
Instinct kicks in and I thrash against him, trying to leap off the piano. It’s no use. Those quick hands secure me before I can even slide off the top. His fingers press painfully into my flesh as he forces my thighs apart. I struggle back, but I’m not strong enough.
His voice is harsh and ragged when he says, “This is what you agreed to, remember? Or do you not want to be our Lady? If you do, you’re going to let me eat your pussy.”
I still, chest heaving with the fight. “Can’t I just…do it to you?” He’s right. I agreed to this. But I’d been preparing to pleasure them, not the other way around. I won’t know what to expect, how to react. “Like with Tristian?”
He shakes his head. “I can get any girl on this campus to suck me off. That’s not what I want. I want to taste you. I want to feel you come apart on my tongue, and then I want you to go to bed thinking of how much you loved it.”
Blood, even though I don’t want it to, rushes down my body and pools into a warm heat between my legs.
“Now,” he runs his hands more gently down my outer thighs, coaxing, “you can fight me, or you can sit back and enjoy it. Either way, I’m going to get what I want.”
It’s not a threat. It’s a promise. I’ve been on the other side of it once before. I’ve seen that look in his eye and I know there’s no choice here. Numbly, I relent, unclenching my legs, giving him the barest access.
His voice emerges smooth like velvet, “Good girl.” His hands inch up my skirt until they vanish completely. He bends, breath hot on my knees. With Rath, I have no idea what to expect, but it’s certainly not the soft, warm kiss on my inner knee, or the slick feel of his tongue as it inches higher, exploring the stretch of flesh up my leg. It’s not the deep inhalation as he breathes me in, mouth parted, eyes closed. His hands run up my hips, fingers hooking over my panties. “Let’s see how well you follow instruction. Lift up,” he demands, eyebrow arched. I fight the tremor of nerves as I obey.
His impatience returns when he yanks off the panties, pulling them down my legs and over my knees. He holds them up and says, “These aren’t the ones we bought you.”
Now, I know my knees are trembling. “I-I didn’t have time to change.”
“Don’t make that mistake again.” I look down as he drops them on the piano bench, and I see the hard tenting in his pants. This isn’t how I wanted it to go—losing my virginity on a piano just because I pissed someone off.
“Open up,” he says, pushing my knees apart. “Show me your pussy.”
It seems like it takes forever to will my body to give in to his command. I force my legs open in small, nervous jerks, trying to quell the fear in my stomach, the tremor in my muscles. When he flattens his palms to my thighs, pushing them open wider, I slam my eyes closed, shoulders seizing up.
There’s a moment of silence, and then, “Good.” He’s staring hotly between my legs, tongue peeking out to wet his lips. “You shaved like a good girl.” He touches my clit with his thumb and a current shoots through my body, hips bucking forward of their own accord. Rath’s back straightens and he grins, licking his thumb. “Just as sweet as I remembered.”
“And you’re still a pig, like I remember.” There’s one thing that’s different about me this time. I refuse to cry. I won’t. I got myself into this, I asked for it. I have to accept it, but I don’t have to like it.
He laughs, chest bouncing. “Still a mouthy little shit, too. That’s okay. We like it.”
My fingers are wrapped around the edge of the piano, clenched tight. Rath pries them off, rests them on his shoulders and dives back in. This time it’s his tongue flicking across the bundle of nerves. My belly seizes and my hands, desperate for something to hold onto, thrust into his long, shaggy hair. He groans against me, mouth humming against my sensitive flesh. I fight against the overwhelming sensation, reminding myself that I don’t want this. I don’t like it. I don’t like him.
I hate him.
But what he’s doing, god.
I will my body not to react, not to succumb to his skilled tongue and warm breath. I bite my bottom lip, I stare at the ceiling, I recite the words to my favorite song. Anything to ward off the sweet sensations building at my core.
His tongue seems just as skilled as his fingers, though, rubbing and licking in ways that I wouldn’t have even thought to conjure. I draw on the fear that I’ve carried for all these years, the nightmares that kept me up at night. Rath whispering in my ear. The feel of his hard cock against my back. The sound of him coming. The fact he knew my secret.
Because he was right.
I did get wet while Tristian forced his cock down my throat. My body wanted something my mind couldn’t comprehend. I’d told myself over and over it wasn’t true. That I hadn’t really felt like that. That my mind was playing tricks on me.
That it was a lie, how some part of me, no matter how small, wanted more.
Yet here I am again; being forced against my will and liking it.
“Stop fighting it,” he says, easing back to meet my wide gaze as his thumb makes circuits around my clit. His eyes are heavy-lidded and glazed, mouth shiny with my slickness. “I don’t get you. You agreed to this. You like it. Why fight it? I’m going to make you come for me, Story.”
Still, I try to remain like stone. Even as he dips down to lathe my clit with his tongue, one deft finger slipping into my entrance, I tell myself that it’s not all that great—that I can beat this.
And then he uses his thumbs to spread my pussy apart and flattens his tongue against my clit. The ball of tension building in my center abruptly explodes, whether I want it to or not. Suddenly, I’m fisting two handfuls of his hair and grinding myself against his mouth, jaw agape as I gasp with the clench of orgasm.
I tell myself that it’s not me. Not really. This is just my body, desperate for a release after a long, difficult week. I can’t help it.
Rath kisses my clit and sits up, lips shiny and wet between the piercings. “Pretty good as far as first lessons go, don’t you think?” he says, ignoring the fact that I’m staring sightlessly past his shoulder.
My eyes drop down to his pants where his erection bulges against the fabric. Now that he’s done, I know he’ll want more. He’ll want to take the one thing that’s still mine. The one thing I had to barter with in this sick, cruel world.
His eyes search mine for a moment, like he’s wondering what I think. I scowl back, hoping to hide my shame behind disgust.
“Go,” he says, surprisingly. “Get out of here.” I gape for a minute, brain lost in the fog of my orgasm, trying to understand what’s happening. He adjusts himself and grimaces. “Go!” he roars and I scramble off the piano. I don’t stop for my panties or my shoes. I just bolt for the door.
I race down the stairs, almost tripping and catching myself on the banister, not stopping until I’m in my room. Shut tight inside, all alone.
Then I exhale, and allow myself the space to acknowledge the truth.
That was the best orgasm I’ve ever had. His mouth, his hands, this tongue. They might be attached to a monster, but they were just…
So goddamn good.
I slide down the door and sink to the floor. Jesus. My pussy is still warm, still wet, practically vibrating from the remnants of the orgasm.
I can’t let him know.
I won’t.
I can barely accept it myself.
