Don't Let Go (10 page)

He was Mr. Hyde, and if he stopped being evil for just a moment, if the haze of violence cleared, he would see what he’d done. He’d turn into Dr. Jekyll again and then he’d hate himself. He’d kill himself, and in that twisted logic, he hurt me in order to save himself.

“Please,” I murmured, exhausted and spent.

“Shhh.” He picked me up, and I wavered on my feet.

With his help I stumbled over to a bathroom. He set me down on a toilet and held my face against his leg while I peed. The sound was loud, and I didn’t even care. He’d seen me
bleed
, so what did it matter if he saw me pee? He’d torn into my soul; nothing he could do to my body would hurt anymore. That was probably another lie.

He wiped me himself, and I sat blankly as the water ran and he washed his hands. Then he ran a stinging wipe over my cuts. The chemical smell pierced my sinuses. Antiseptic. He was taking care of me, looking after my health. How ironic. I could have laughed. I didn’t.

After, he laid me back down on the bed. Under the sheets this time. Not tied up this time.

He climbed in behind me, and for a moment, I was surprised. The haze lifted, and I wondered why a warm, hard body had nestled in around me, the fabric of his shirt soothing on my overheated skin. He was
spooning
me, for Christ’s sake. But then I remembered the parody we were making. First came sex and then the cleanup routine. Now would be cuddling.

And pillow talk?

The time when men were vulnerable because they’d just had an orgasm. Except he hadn’t come.

“Why are you cold?” I whispered, cringing because I expected a blow. For talking at all or for asking a personal question.

He answered easily, though, as if we
were
lovers instead of a criminal and his pet FBI agent. “A brain injury when I was a child. I’m fine now, but the part of my brain that figures out if you’re cold, that makes you put on a jacket or go back inside the house, that part’s just broken.”

“So your temperature—”

“Is normal. But my brain doesn’t know that, so I’ll keep wearing layers and turning up the furnace until I overheat myself.”

How was that for lies we told ourselves? He couldn’t trust the messages his own brain was telling him. And he really had told me the truth. He hadn’t even seemed surprised by my question.

It was worth it.
The thought came to me suddenly that if I had to endure an hour of pain for a single confession, it was worth it. Not only for the job, but also for myself. Some personal quest I couldn’t quite admit yet. And maybe it was a fair trade after all. Who knew what the admission had cost him? He’d sounded so at peace with it, as if remarking on the brown of his eyes or the tan of his skin. And yet, he wouldn’t know how to show any weakness. Not this man. He would have been dead by now. By his own hand or someone else’s.

I could understand him. I didn’t have to like him.

He lay holding me as I drifted off, only the mockery seemed less and less fake. And more real than any embrace I had known. Only then did I remember I’d had my blindfold on. The entire time he flogged me, even in the bathroom. But he’d directed me the entire way. And somehow, I’d pictured him. His body. His face. As if I could see it without looking, so I hadn’t even noticed the barrier across my eyes.

Maybe it was his presence—an overriding charisma that would give him the power to speak in a room full of terrifying criminals. The power to rule them. The presence painted a more defined picture than most people’s actual appearance did.

Was I in awe of him? Did I like him?

No. He’d been bullied as a kid. He had a small penis. He was overcompensating for something. But the old explanations felt empty now, more of a mockery than his sex-like beating had been. This wasn’t a man who reacted to things. He molded the world in his image. He
was
god-like after all, whether he saw himself that way or not. So what did it mean that I was no longer afraid when he held me? The pain warmed me across the front of my body, and he from behind.

Was he cold, though? He might feel that way. I snuggled deeper and tucked the blanket over my shoulder, making sure it covered him too. Jesus, I was comforting my captor. Crazy. Insanity. A madman holding me in bed, and I had to appease him or he’d hurt me again. A lie, but then what was wrong with that? Sometimes you could take comfort in a lie. You could nurture it and hold it close to your heart. Right up until it turned on you.

My body draped a bench, hands tied down. Ankles tied down. Cushions supported me. It was almost like a massage chair. Except I wouldn’t be getting anything as nice as that. I was naked, blindfolded, gagged. My uniform for my position as his slave. A prerequisite before he would touch me.

And he
was
touching me. Stroking my hair and running his hands down my back. Lightly, like calming a wild animal. Which was crazy, since
he
was the animal. So why was I panting, nostrils flared? Why did an uncontrollable keening sound escape me, a cross between pleasure and despair? With just a gentle touch he could reduce me to my basest state. He could turn me from Jekyll to Hyde. He was my poison.

I sighed, relaxing against the warm padded bench. Relaxing into him, because he pressed me more firmly now, seeking out the knots in my shoulders and rubbing them away. God, he was good at that. We could have been any ordinary couple, the man giving a back rub to the woman. The gentle clink of metal where the cuffs rubbed against their base reminded me that we were different. The pleasure would soon turn to pain.

“Did you miss me?” he asked, speaking low. His words always hovered just above a breath, sharpened by that faint accent. I couldn’t even imagine how it would feel for him to speak normally, how much it would cut me open.

Anyone could miss company when they were left alone in the dark.

He chuckled softly. “You’re so tense when you’re angry.”

I stiffened further at his words. But he wouldn’t let even that small rebellion go. He pushed the fierceness out of my body with firm strokes. God. All the questions I had bunched up in my hands.
Why are you doing this? Will you ever let me go?
But he’d never tell me the answers to them, and he’d saved us both the trouble by making it so I couldn’t ask. I opened my palm, and the questions drifted away, over the wind and out to sea.

You only have this moment,
the restraint told me.
You only have what you feel.

It changed the synapses of my brain. Instead of escape, I wanted to take whatever comfort I could find. Instead of cold professionalism, I wanted to understand where he was coming from. I already
did
understand, deep inside. We were both trapped here. His handcuffs weren’t visible, but they kept him bound to me as much as I was trapped against this bench. A man this powerful, this wealthy, this
skilled
at bringing pleasure to a woman didn’t need to force one. I was a hassle he didn’t need. However unlikely, I might one day escape. Might one day testify against him. Much easier just to pay a woman, to seduce her. And this wasn’t a man who took unnecessary risks. But here we were.

Reluctance. Coercion. They strummed through my body—and his.

“Don’t worry. I’ll start slow.” He sounded almost concerned. I could have believed he cared, but for the sting that hit my ass. I gasped against the shock and braced myself for another. His palm landed on my other ass cheek, waking every nerve ending in my body. I recognized the sensation from last time, a tingling warmth. I’d thought I was awake, walking around and going through the motions. But then he spanked me, he whipped me, and I realized that had all been a dream. This was real.

He switched to a flogger, covering my ass cheeks and then working his way up my back. This was new territory, a parallel of what he’d done to the front side of my body. I gritted my teeth and tried not to cry out.

A pause.

This new implement whistled in the air before it landed across my shoulders.
Oh God.
The strands were long and thick. They covered me from spine to shoulder before flicking off again. The pain felt almost less than before. Certainly there was less of a sting. But more of an impact. I felt the thud ripple across my skin and reverberate in my bones. My fear faded under his onslaught, turning into something murkier. Something gray and reflective. Something good.

I understood now what his massage had been. To show me what would come. It felt like a hundred hands pressing into my skin, a thousand minute corrections across my back until my muscles melted into puddles. I was hugging the bench, grateful it could hold me up. Even my brain had turned to mush, entering a strange twilight hour when the sky turned hazy and stars glittered.

My spit pooled behind the ball gag. When I didn’t swallow fast enough, a drop leaked from the corner of my mouth. I didn’t care. I couldn’t, not when I’d found some higher plane, a place where I could float. This wasn’t a base place, an animal incarnation. This was strangely spiritual. A perversion, no doubt. Maybe even blasphemy. But so sweet I would want to come here again anyway. I’d sell my soul for this feeling, but then, maybe I already had.

He stopped striking me, but the sensations continued, racing each other over my skin. This felt amazing, and I wanted to ask him why he’d force a woman to take this. He seemed handsome enough, especially if you ignored the crazy dead look in his eyes I’d glimpsed in secret. He had plenty of money. Why not find a woman and make her feel like this? Unless forcing a woman was half the fun.

My job is to put them in handcuffs, not care how they got there.

That was what Hennessey had told me, but he wasn’t here now. Not caring how they get there had been a luxury reserved solely for the free. He could put in his hours, make his arrests, and go home at the end of the day.

Not me.

Soft rustling sounds came from behind me. I felt his soft breath on my lower back, and I knew he was crouching down behind me. Something hard and cool prodded my entrance—and pushed inside. He hadn’t used lube. It was my body’s own preparation, creaming myself in anticipation of him. A defense mechanism, I told myself, but the excuse felt thin. Whatever object he’d put inside me, it stretched me to full capacity.

Cocks would have felt hard in my hands and in my cunt. But they weren’t really, were they? They were flesh and blood and muscle. The thing he’d put inside me—that was hard. Made of something with no give at all. Maybe glass. I felt stretched and daunted.
Take it
. With a single thrust, he shoved the dildo all the way inside, and I gasped, feeling its curved tip bottom out at my cervix. My mouth was open around the ball gag, panting against the intrusion. Too full. Too much.

But this wasn’t about what I wanted, was it? This was punishment. Except when his fingers found my clit from beneath me, when they circled and teased and drew a stuttering orgasm from me, it didn’t feel like a punishment at all. The walls of my cunt clenched around the glass dildo and rained down hot liquid.

The dildo pressed against the forward wall, finding my clit from the other side, making me come even harder. I felt something wet gush out of me, and I worried briefly,
his hand, getting him wet,
before I realized how crazy it was to be worried what he thought. He’d made me do this. It was all for him anyway. So I let myself go, riding the waves of my orgasm, one after the other until I could only rock on the choppy seas, eyes closed against a blinding sunset.

He unlatched the gag and removed it. Gently, he wiped the drool from my face.

“Why are you doing this?” My words came slurred. I sounded drunk, and felt that way too, but this was important. I only had this time, right after he’d hurt me, to ask him questions. It was the eye of the storm.

“Because I can,” he said simply. “I don’t need another reason.”

It wasn’t the answer I was looking for, and he knew that. I didn’t feel he was evading me either. That was the logic he used to justify it, but deeper still, in the places where logic didn’t reign, where instinct did, he
wanted
this. My subjugation. My fear. Elemental, the way another man wanted to kiss or feel a woman up. Just instinct.

“Will you ever let me go?” I asked. He’d already told me. I knew the answer. But I had to find out. Had to hear it again.

“Eventually.” His voice was faintly regretful. “If it makes you feel any better, it was decided before I took you. You never stood a chance.”

“Why would that make me feel better?”

He ran his thumb over my lips. “Because someone finally wanted you. Not just because you were pretty and convenient. Someone was willing to hurt you. To take that risk. My little orphan with no one to abuse her. To understand her. But I do. You’re just as crazy as me, love. And we’re going to be happy together for a long fucking time.”

I shivered. How could he know that about me? Why would he care? I’d kept my horrible desires hidden from everyone. Even myself. Never admitting, even to myself, that I wanted someone to hit me, stalk me, rape me. I’d never secretly wished the sweet guy I was dating would turn into a raving psycho behind closed doors and make me do things I didn’t want. That was crazy.

You’re just as crazy as me, love.
A sob escaped me, just one. Because he was right. Normal people didn’t think like that. Most people avoided becoming a victim. This was why I’d become an agent: to protect them. And to put myself in harm’s way. Firemen weren’t called crazy for running into fires. Maybe they secretly wanted to burn.

* * *

Something was different.

For the past three days he had come at every mealtime. He would help me wobble to the bathroom. He would feed me some time-specific meal, so I could get my bearings. Scrambled eggs and toast for breakfast. A hearty stew for lunch. Gnocchi and marinara sauce for dinner with a warm garlic bread that tasted homemade. There was always music for our meals and our sessions. He varied the selection, but he was a fan of
La
Bohème
, that much was clear. Really, if it weren’t for the chains and the whips, he’d have been a very good host.

But he hadn’t come for a while now. Without the meals to tick away the hours, I couldn’t tell how long it had been. But I was hungry. And I had to pee.

And pain screamed through my arms at being held in one place for so long.

Fear was a constant presence in my mouth, harsh and metallic. I was worried about nerve damage at this point, and that was unlike him. So far he’d been careful with me. Cuts and bruises, but no broken bones. Nothing permanent.

Permanent.
A very scary word to a woman in my position. Permanent damage would mean he never planned to send me back. It was a death sentence.

I squirmed again, wishing I didn’t have to pee so badly at such a dire moment. It was very distracting. They don’t explain that part in all the dramatic climaxes in plays. When the
Phantom of the Opera
kidnaps Christine and ties her up, they don’t show how she used the facilities or when. An oversight, surely, because now that I was here, these struck me as vital plot points.

I must have dozed off, but finally, a sound pierced my hungry, painful fog. A creak. Like the door, but even that sounded different. The steps inside, different.

What if it was someone else?

There was silence, but I felt him watching me. I felt more acute fear in that moment than I had the entire time. Realizing I could get left behind. Having no idea who was looking at me.

Hesitant fingers pulled at the knotting behind my back. My fingers were released, and a thousand needles shot through them. He undid all the rope, at my ankles and beneath my breasts. The numbness turned to a raging fire of pain, and I whimpered. His hands went to my arms, no longer unsure. He massaged my muscles…

And I realized I was free.

No restraints held me down. Even
he
wasn’t holding me down, just touching me. Caressing me. Had I heard the door actually close? I wasn’t sure.

I lay still, but not too still. It was important not to project. Keep breathing. Don’t move.

“Please,” I murmured.

He stopped.

I didn’t have to pretend my throat was dry. My lips were chapped. “Water,” I whispered.

The bed moved as he stood up. It had to be a trap, but I heard his footsteps move away. It had to be a trick, but the faucet squeaked and water rushed. It was too good to be true, but I believed in it anyway. I rushed up, ignoring the fiery pain in my limbs, tilting sideways as the blood rushed to my head. There was no way it should have worked, but it did.

The room came to me in flashes of light. An open-air unfinished space with metal rafters. A raw wooden floor. Neatly organized implements in the corner. A triangle of light spilling out from the bathroom. Only seconds to get there.

Then I was standing in front of the bathroom, yanking the door shut. For a split second, we were face to face. I stared into startled brown eyes. What I saw there was soulless and cruel, like looking in the mirror. I imagined hurting him. Killing him. I imagined he was my father, and I finally paid him back for what he did to me.

But I’d never had a taste for violence, not really.

I slammed the door shut and shoved the bench underneath it. This bench I had been draped over when he spanked me and fucked me with a dildo. That was the lock to bind him.

The door shuddered as he rammed into it from the other side. He didn’t bother yelling for me to undo it. He was smart enough to know better than that.

Something about the situation was off. It was too easy.

Too simple.

Not what I wanted at all.