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?
Before I can start that internal debate again, Peter steps out of the shower, water droplets glistening on his powerful chest. “Come in,” he says, reaching for my arm, and I almost stumble as he pulls me into the stall.
“Careful,” he murmurs, steadying me, and I look up to find him watching me with a mix of hunger and dark amusement. “It’s slippery in here.”
At his innuendo, the flush that hasn’t quite left my face blazes back to life. I hate it that he knows about my body’s reaction to him—that just moments earlier, he caught me eyeing his erection like a teenage girl seeing her first porn. Granted, he could star in porn with a cock like that, but that’s not the point. It shouldn’t matter to me that he’s a gorgeous male animal; his powerful body is something for me to fear, not desire.
He’s a dangerous, possibly mad murderer, and I should regard him as such.
And I do—rationally, at least. However, as he angles the shower toward me, letting the warm water spray hit my back, I realize I’m not nearly as terrified as I was last night—though I should be, after seeing those pictures. If Peter believes what he’s told me, then he has every reason to hate me, and whatever attraction he feels toward me is likely of the toxic variety. I don’t know why he didn’t rape me last night, but I’m
