Juno whimpers, her hips rocking against my hand involuntarily. I curl my fingers, finding the spot that makes her gasp.
"You like this, don't you?" I growl, leaning over her to speak directly into her ear. "You like being used."
I need to hear it for reasons I refuse to acknowledge.
Her breath comes in short pants as she frantically nods, and I withdraw abruptly, leaving her empty and wanting. "Sir?" She whines in disappointment and I hush her while I strip out of my clothes.
Then, positioning myself behind, I encourage her onto her knees again, keeping Juno's shoulders on the bed. Shards of my dreams flicker through my mind as I wind her hair around my fist and guide my achingly hard cock to her wet cunt. Withoutpreamble, I drive into her, groaning at the tight heat enveloping me.
Juno's pitiful cries are torn from her throat every time I slam into her as I set a punishing pace, my thighs slapping against her welted ass with each thrust. I want to drive out every confusing thought, every unwelcome emotion, replacing them with nothing but raw, animal lust.
But it's not working. Even as I pound into her, my mind refuses to quiet. I can't stop thinking about the way her eyes sparkled earlier. It's infuriating.
I grip Juno's hips harder, trying to focus solely on the physical sensations. The slap of skin on skin, her muffled cries, the way her body clenches around me - it should be enough. It always has been before. But now, unbidden images of her smile, her laughter, keep intruding.
Growling in frustration, I pull out and flip her onto her back, ignoring the grimace that contorts her delicate features. I need to see her face, to remind myself that this is just about sex, about power. Nothing more.
As I plow back into her, our eyes lock. There's pain there, yes, but also something else. Something that makes my chest tighten uncomfortably. I try to look away, but I can't.
"Tell me you want this," I demand, my voice harsh. I know I’m repeating myself, but something is driving me. "Tell me you're mine."
Juno's lip’s part, her breath coming in short gasps. "I... I want this," she whispers. "I'm yours."
The words should satisfy me, should fuel my desire. Instead, they leave me feeling hollow. Because for the first time, I want her to say them because she means it, not because I insist she does.
And I can’t help wondering if I want her to be mine in ways that go beyond our contract.
Chapter
Ten
Linnea
Something’s changed since that first day when Sir was so vicious. And then again, the day he allowed me to leave his apartment. I’m not sure what, exactly, but he’s different.
Oh, he still uses me as and when he pleases, but now, somehow, he’s softer with it.
Or maybe I’m just full of shit and have some kind of Stockholm syndrome going on. I certainly didn't expect to interact with him on a personal level. To chat, to socialize, to enjoy his company.
To get to know him... though not enough for him to give me a name.
Either way, none of it seems so terrible anymore. Whether that’s good or bad, I have no idea.
I find myself counting down the days until the contract ends with a mixture of joy that my mother and I will finally be free of the mob debt hanging over us, and something else I can't quite name, which churns in my gut when I think of walking out of here for the last time.
There’s only a week left and the thought should fill me with relief, but all I feel is... conflicted.
Sir's newfound leniency is throwing me off balance. Just yesterday, he left me alone for hours while he attended some business meeting. No security, no restrictions. I could have done anything I liked; abused his trust. But I didn't. I just... waited for him to return. I missed him.
I don’t want to like him; I know that’s just heartbreak waiting to happen. Men like him, for all his depraved, kinky ways, don’t settle down with girls like me. We’re the ones they use and abuse; the ones they live out their every dirty fantasy with and discard when it’s time to set up home with a lady of the same pedigree. It’s like sowing their wild oats on steroids - practically a law of nature. The rich and powerful don’t end up with wounded girls from the wrong side of the tracks. Not unless it’s to chew them up and spit them out with even sharper edges than before.
That doesn’t stop me from dreaming of something more, which honestly is just humiliating. Even as my rational brain assembles warning signs like barricades, my body pines for his touch. No matter how cruel, my mind obsesses with what he’ll do to me next. Maybe it’s part addiction, part desperation. Maybe I’m just grateful for the distraction, the feeling of being wanted, even if it’s only as an object for his fevered obsessions.
It’s better than paying with my body if the mob decides to pimp me out to work off my father’s debt.
And those quiet times. The other eighty percent of the time when sex isn't involved. When we're talking, playing, sleeping... those are even more special. More dangerous.
I still don’t know his name. That’s something I could have looked for during the times he’s away, like now. But I prefer to cling to the fantasy.
