He doesn’t let me catch my breath this time. Dipping his head, he claims my lips in another deep, devouring kiss and begins to move, the power of his thrusts pushing me into the mattress. His mouth is hot and rough, flavored with my slickness and a hint of beer, and I find myself kissing him back with the same aggressive hunger as the pain morphs into wild, primal pleasure. I’ve never come more than once during sex, but my body draws taut again, the tension in my core growing and coiling tighter. Feverish heat pulses through my veins, and my heart races as if trying to escape my chest.
The release that hits me feels like a volcano going off inside my body, incinerating everything within. My vision goes white, my panting breaths deafeningly loud to my ears as every nerve ending I possess sparks to life. With a shattered cry, I arch against him, my inner muscles spasming around his invading cock. It’s too much, too overwhelming, yet somehow, I live through it, and as I’m coming down from the high, he groans hoarsely in my ear as his cock throbs deep inside me in his own release.
* * *
I must’ve passed out from sheer exhaustion immediately afterward because all I recall when I wake up is a cool, wet towel between my legs, cleaning and soothing the tender flesh. I don’t remember him withdrawing from me or disposing of the condom, or even letting go of my wrists. I do, however, have a vague recollection of being held against a large, warm male body and feeling oddly peaceful and secure.
Battling residual grogginess, I sit up and look around. Light is seeping through the heavy shades, so it must be morning. Also, I’m alone. However, I can hear the rumble of male voices through the door.
They’re still here, and I’m still their captive.
On the plus side, I’ve obviously made it through the night. Nobody’s offed me in my sleep, which gives me hope that maybe they’ll keep their word and actually let me go.
Quietly, I swing my legs to the floor and stand up, suppressing a wince at the soreness I feel everywhere, but especially between my thighs. I’m also a little weak and dizzy, but that’s nothing new. I feel that way most mornings, though it’s slowly getting better.
Moving as silently as I can, I gather my clothes, minus the torn tank top, and get dressed, then tiptoe to press my ear to the door. The voices outside are getting louder, angrier.
The brothers are arguing about something.
“—not yours,” Ilya growls in Russian. “You can’t just keep her like a stray cat, doing whatever you fucking please—”
“Fuck you.” Yan’s voice is equally hard. “You’re just pissed she chose me last night, and I didn’t share.”
“Don’t fucking delude yourself. You never gave her the option to refuse. She probably figured it’s fuck you or die—”
A loud crash cuts off the rest of the sentence, and I back away from the door, my heart hammering.
This is bad, really bad. If I understood it right, Yan is planning to keep me captive longer, something his brother is objecting to. Not only does that lessen my chances of getting out of this alive—the longer I’m around these killers, the more likely I’m to overhear implicating information—but it also means I won’t be able to do my job.
My real job, not the waitressing that’s my cover.
And if the prospect of pissing off my clients weren’t worrisome enough, Ilya mentioned something about wanting to keep an eye on me until they leave town. Which, considering that the brothers were going to let me go this morning, must be today.
Does this mean Yan wants to take me with him?
To steal me away from here?
More crashing sounds, mixed with Russian curses, reach my ears. The brothers are still fighting, but unless one of them kills the other, they’re likely to stop soon. Which means I have to act now.
My searching gaze lands on the window shades, and I rush over, yanking them apart. Bright sunlight hits my eyes, blinding me for a moment, but then I see we’re on the second floor.
Not an optimal location, but one that I can work with.
Luckily, the window is as old as the rest of this building, consisting of two separate wood-framed panes that open outward, like French doors. The lock in the middle is rusted and painted over, but when I put all my strength into it, the paint seal breaks, and I’m able to twist the lock and push the panes open.
The effort, minor though it was, exhausts me, but there’s no time to rest. The street outside is narrow and deserted. If I were to call for help, nobody would hear me—not that I was counting on some magic rescue.
Hurrying over to the bed, I strip off the top and bottom sheets and tie them together. Then I knot the makeshift rope around the leg of the bed and go back to the window, holding the other end.
It won’t extend more than a meter out the window, but anything that brings me closer to the ground is a good thing.
My hands are shaking and I’m sweating as I climb onto the windowsill, gripping the sheet tightly. A year ago, I could’ve jumped from this height and easily walked away, but now, I’m out of shape, my bones weak and brittle. The ground appears dangerously far, the cracked asphalt looming below me like a death sentence.
For a moment, I entertain the idea of staying, of going with the flow and seeing what happens. After all, would it be so bad to be Yan’s captive? To get those mind-shattering orgasms and sleep in his arms every night? Maybe he’d grow attached to me
