“I’m going to stretch you until you can’t remember your own name,” he rasps. When his cock drags over that spot again, my knees go weak.
“Oh, fuck.” I bite the blanket as the next thrust lands.
“Let go.” His hand slides between my shoulder blades, pressing me down. “I want to hear you.”
He changes the angle, hitting that same place again and again until my thoughts scatter. My body arches into him.
“That’s right,” he growls. “Push back. Show me how much you need this.”
Pressure builds fast, coiling sharp until I can’t hold anything in.
“Come for me.” His hand clamps on my hip. “Do it.”
The release hits me like a physical blow, violent and unprompted. I’m not even touching myself, but my body is reacting to the friction. My vision whites out. I can’t breathe. It’s a surrender I didn't give permission for.
Hot cum spills across my stomach. Pleasure rips through me so hard I almost collapse. He keeps fucking me. His rhythm breaks. He groans, raw, then slams forward. His cock jerks inside me. I thrash as another shock hits. I feel the pulse of him deep inside me. I feel his heat.
“Good boy. You took every inch of me. You’re perfect, Jonah. Exactly where I want you.”
My legs shake. My arms give out. I fall into the mattress and he comes down over me. He’s anchored me to the bed with more than just his weight. I’m a prisoner of my own hunger, and I don't want to be set free. He is breathing hard. He pulls out and the emptiness hits ugly. I whine before I can swallow it. I look at the mess on the sheets. I didn’t just let him do it. I begged for it.
He knows. He turns me onto my side and pulls me close. He parts my ass cheeks and slides his semi-hard cock back inside me. Lube and his cum make it easy. My body is still open for him. Relief knocks a sound out of my chest. The empty feeling vanishes. I feel centered. I feel grounded.
“Sleep like this,” he murmurs, mouth brushing my neck. “On me. Around me. Let anyone watching think twice.”
My body settles. I’m held, filled, and pinned in place. I shouldn’t crave the weight of him inside me, keeping me exactly where he wants me. But I do.
The lock on the door doesn't matter anymore. He’s the only thing in this house that isn't trying to kill me, and I’m choosing to hide in the very fire that’s burning me.
I should be planning an escape. But as I lie there, held in place by him, the only thing I feel is the silence. My old life is gone. There is only the heat of him, and the terrifying reality that I’m not trying to pull away.
CHAPTER
EIGHT
JONAH
I didn't sleepmuch after last night.
My body feels raw. Every shift is a reminder of what we did. Every breath pulls at places I didn't know could ache. Viktor fell asleep before I did, or maybe he only stilled. It's hard to tell with him. When I asked if he was hurting, he said no, but the strain in his voice made me doubt it. His bed is warm in a way I'm not used to. It makes it easy to stay beside him even after my heartbeat slows.
I shouldn't get used to it. He's dangerous, and I'm just me. Someone who traded his freedom for a debt he didn't owe. My chest tightens when I think about the hospital. Would anyone even worry when I didn't show up?
I get out of bed because thoughts of doubt and self-loathing are driving me crazy. The floor is warm underfoot, grounding in a way the mattress wasn't. Rawness stings the throat from sounds I didn't know I could make. One shoulder carries the imprint of where he held me, and a throb pulses through the lower back with every shift. Between the cheeks, there is a soreness I've never felt before. Every part of it happened because he wanted it. Skin can't forget a second of it.
I stop at the piano by the window, press a key and listen to the note fade, then lift my head and take in Viktor’s room. Most of his furniture is arranged with care. A chair sits angled toward the window. A low table holds a glass, a book, and a folded jacket. I usually read a person by the state of their bedroom, but this one gives me nothing back. I suppose the same could be said of mine. My trailer stays neat, but only because I don't own enough to leave anything out of place.
The gaze drops. The scrub top is gone, leaving ribs bare to show faint marks from his grip. One shoulder carries a thin line from his teeth. Nipples feel responsive when the air moves over them. It is hard to tell if the feeling in the stomach is fear or something else. His voice comes back, the way he said the name like he already knew what it would do. It is hateful to remember the sound of it. It is worse that the chest tightens when I do.
I didn't mean to sound like that. I didn't mean to want it again.
The thought lands heavy. I turn my head toward the bathroom. The shower's still running. Viktor hasn't called for help. I don't know if that means he's fine or just minding his own business. Now I'm panicking. He really shouldn't be moving alone. Not with fresh stitches and not after losing that much blood. The nurse in me snaps awake. He could tear the wound. He could be bracing himself against the sink right now, pretending the world isn't tilting.
Suddenly, the lock turns. The door opens without warning. Sokolov steps in first, scanning the room before his gaze lands on me. Dr. Petrov follows. His attention moves over everything from the blanket to the marks on my ribs and the way I'm half-dressed and trying to stand straight.
“Look at that. Our prince bounced back. Very nicely, in fact.” He comes closer. His eyes cut briefly toward the bathroom, thenback to me. “You shouldn't even be upright,” he murmurs. “Not after whatever Viktor put you through.”
My fingers tighten on the piano’s edge.
