I liked the way she looked in that window. She was a mystery.
I liked the way her face was lit up with the late-day sunshine.
I liked her pouty lips and I picture what it would feel like to have them wrapped around my shaft.
I breathe a little harder as the fantasy takes hold. My cock grows stiffer as the dream takes shape.
I liked her silence, too. I could hear it immediately. It’s just like mine.
She is just like me. Damaged and broken. Hurt and sore. Used and discarded.
But that laugh—that was truly unexpected. I liked the way she laughed. I liked the small hint of joy in that outburst and I wonder how attached she is to Pavo.
I wonder if she will watch the fight tonight.
I wonder if she will still be laughing when it’s over.
I wake up to the sound of Maart’s voice.
“Hey, fuckface. It’s time, OK? Interviewers have actually been waiting an hour already. But you looked so goddamned peaceful, I didn’t want to wake you up.”
My hand is still clutched around my cock and I realize I drifted off without finishing. My eyes wander over to Maart. He’s naked with his back to me, all his scars on full display. I catch a glimpse of his cock dangling between his legs when he reaches to hang a newly pressed button-down shirt on a hook.
I swing my legs out of bed, stand up, cross the distance between us, then slip my hand between his legs to grab his balls as I bite his shoulder.
Maart hisses in pain because when I bite, I bite hard. “Jesus fucking Christ, Cort.” I back off, allowing him room to turn. He looks down at my hand on my cock. His eyes lift back up to meet mine. I take his hand and place it around my shaft and he immediately begins to tug on it.
Then he reaches for my hand and places it around his cock. My hand covers his and his hand covers mine. And we jerk each other off like that.
I press my body in to him and he backs up until he’s against the door. I bury my head into his neck and he does the same.
We don’t kiss and we don’t talk.
We don’t need to explain ourselves.
We don’t need to feel anything about what we’re doing.
We just do it.
That’s all there is to it.
CHAPTER THREE - ANYA
The muscles.
The tattoos.
The pure, raw power of him.
But most of all, those silver-gray eyes.
There is no way to get Cort van Breda out of my mind after that encounter in the reception hall. The way he looked at me. Like he was drawn to me.
But then… that sneer. If he had been closer, and Pavo hadn’t been talking, I think I might’ve heard a growl.
Sick. Heart. That’s what they called him in the Ring of Fire article. Two words with two periods. Like you have to pause between each one to get the full effect of how disturbing he is.
I was raised a certain way. I have been around certain people who had expectations of me. And if I didn’t meet those expectations, there were consequences. I became intuitive. Instinctual. It was a survival mechanism.
And eventually, these instincts became habit. And those habits turned into something natural and innate. Something I did without thinking.
I read people.
I put very little weight on words, even though I have more words inside me than maybe anyone else on this godforsaken planet. Words don’t mean much. I’ve lived with more than my fair share of empty promises, so I know this first-hand.
No. I look for something other than words.
I look at the eyes first.
The lips.
The eyebrows.
Are the shoulders tight and tense? Or open and relaxed?
Words never tell you as much about a person as body language. You don’t need words when you can look a person in the eye.
But even this is not enough.
Not in the world I live in.
You need to see into their hearts. That’s where the truth lives and this is how I process my world. This is how I get through it.
Pavo is still raging about Cort, even though he disappeared nearly half an hour ago now. “The fucking nerve,” Pavo is saying over and over again. “The fucking nerve.”
Pavo has described how he will win this fight tonight about seventy-five different ways. He wants to break Cort’s bones. He wants a head injury. He wants to snap Cort’s back and force him to watch, powerless, as he chops his throat and crushes his windpipe.
And as brutal as it sounds, it’s a lot tamer than the plans he was making last night.
Pavo has just been sipping the Lectra today, but last night he was raging drunk on it and today he has to pay the price for that. Lectra is a weird drink. It turns you inside out for a while, and then, when it’s gone, you flip back—but if you get in the habit of this, eventually you’re never the same on the trip back.
When you’re an addict, you’re never yourself again. Ever.
You’re always a little bit meaner.
A little bit darker.
A little bit closer to hopeless.
I’ve only sipped the blue liquid about half a dozen times. I was not high last night. As long as it is my choice, I will never drink Lectra with Pavo. It sexualizes you. Makes you crave things you never normally would. Erases inhibitions. Degrades common sense. Reduces what’s left of your moral code.
And let’s face it, no one on this ship can afford any more erosion of their moral codes.
Last night Pavo couldn’t stop talking about cutting off Cort’s dick. In fact, all he did was talk about what he wanted to do to Cort’s dick.
I was forced to listen to him last night. It could’ve been worse. I could’ve been forced to do more than just listen to him, so whatever.
He spent most of the
