One Week Later
I stretch out on the bed as Tigran slowly takes off his shirt. “You’ve been gone a while,” I say lazily, trying not to let him know how excited I am right now.
“Have you been lonely?” He tosses his clothes aside. I’m in a bralette and boy shorts, and I love the way he keeps glancing at my ass. I feel the same way about him: his cut chest, the long glorious lines of his muscular torso, the brutal and sometimes scary tattoos on his skin. Pestilence inked along his flank. Virtue over his heart. Family across his guts.
“Very lonely.” I roll onto my belly and prop my chin on my hands. “Why have you been so busy lately?”
“Those Irish cunts are driving me crazy.”
I raise my eyebrows. “Cunts? Do you have to be so crude?”
“Sorry, baby.” He reaches down and spanks my ass. “I meant what I said.” He kneels down beside my bed and kisses down my spine. I let out a satisfied sigh as he reaches my butt. Then he bites my cheek.
“Tigran!” I try to jerk away, but he pins me down.
“You’ve been getting mouthy lately,” he says with that vicious smirk of his. Somehow I’ve grown to understand what his little smiles mean. He hides so much of himself from me, but there are moments when it breaks through his armor.
This one means he’s going to brutalize me in all the best ways.
“And you’ve been a controlling bastard,” I say, pretending to pout.
“Only to protect you.” He yanks my underwear down, exposing my bare skin.
“And is this protecting me?” I wriggle my hips as he yanks my wrists up and pins them above my head. I’m face down on the bed and at his mercy.
Which is my favorite position in the world.
“I’d say this is for your own good.” He spanks my ass hard once. It makes a loud whacking sound and stings. I whimper at the pain.
“You like this too much,” I whine, weakly struggling. If I wanted this to stop, all I’d have to do is say royal and he’d immediately stop. But the safe word is so far from my mind it’s not even funny.
I used it once, not long after we started, and he stopped on a dime. Even though he clearly didn’t want to.
I don’t need to test him again.
And I sure as hell don’t want to.
“It pains me to spank you like this, Dasha,” he says, whacking me again. Considering how hard his dick is right now, I think he’s just making things up. I suspect he really does love it. “You think I like making you moan? You think I like turning you into such a filthy little slut for me? But you’ve been so bad, baby, and there’s only one way to make you a good girl again.”
“How?” I moan, core aching. I know the answer already, though. It’s get fucked into oblivion. That’s quickly becoming my favorite pastime.
“You need me to turn your ass pink, and when you’re begging and moaning, I’ll finally give you as much dick as you can handle. Otherwise, you’ll never be a good girl again.”
He spanks me twice in a row, nice and firm, and I’m aware that his cure for my badness is very self-serving, but I’m not about to complain.
Because I fucking love it.
That day in the shower unlocked something between us. Ever since then, we’ve been sleeping together like crazy.
Whenever he’s home, it’s almost constant. When I wake up, before we go to bed, afternoons and evenings, whenever he’s not working, he’s filling my pussy and teaching me all about my body.
And I’m a very eager student.
Turns out, sex is pretty awesome.
I’m gaining confidence. Taking a stupid risk on that video call taught me the best lesson of all: Tigran wants me unconditionally, and I don’t have to be afraid of trying something new.
There’s something freeing about stepping out of my constrained comfort zone, at least with the sex stuff to start.
“It’s so convenient that you can make me good,” I whine as he spanks me before plunging his fingers down between my legs. He’s so good at that—they slide right inside and go deep, making my back arch as the pleasure of his touch collides with the stinging pain of his spanks.
“Darling, there’s nothing convenient about it,” he whispers in my ear, fucking me before spanking me again. Back and forth like that, fingers inside, palm on my bare skin. “You think I like this? You think I want you to be such a messy slut? I want to worship you, pisik, not fuck your pussy, fill your mouth, and spank your slutty ass until you’re moaning.”
“Tigran, please,” I gasp as he delivers a particularly hard spank. My brain’s a mess of bliss, and I can barely think straight at the moment. He could basically do anything with me, and I’d happily suck and fuck and moan away. “You’re so generous, making me good again.”
“I know, baby, I know. I’m a bad man, but I’m good at one thing.” He grips my hips suddenly and yanks me until I’m draped over the edge of the bed and he’s right behind me. He shoves my legs wide until my pussy is exposed for him.
“What are you good at?” I whisper, shoulders and lips trembling as he looks at me with pure admiration. It’s not just lust anymore; it’s more like he’s seeing a work of art he just has to own.
“I’m good at making you fucking come,” he says and buries his cock deep inside my pussy.
Oh, fuck. Holy shit. I grip the sheets as he drives himself deep. His big dick spreads me wide, and my brain short-circuits. His skilled hands spank my ass as he fucks me from behind, driving himself into me again and again, our bodies making slick and sordid sounds as my pussy grips onto him like a desperate lover.
“You feel like fucking heaven,” he whispers in my ear. “And you taste like fucking sin. You’re not leaving here until I’m finished with you, sweetheart.”
“You’re going to keep me?” I whimper, bucking back into him, wanting more, more, more. He’s right when he calls me a greedy slut.
I’m so fucking greedy for him; it’s insane.
“I’m going to own you, baby,” he growls, gripping my hair. He shoves a finger in my mouth and makes me suck it. I can taste myself on his skin, and I’m moaning, muffled and sloppy, as he fucks me rougher again and again, making the bed bang against the wall with each stroke.
I never knew this could be me. Sucking a finger, taking a dick in my pussy, loving every single filthy second. I always thought I needed to be proper, clean, and perfect, otherwise I’d be worthless.
I thought I had to be a princess, or else nobody would ever want to protect me.
Except now I understand that was never true.
That’s what Tigran gives me. That, and incredibly good dick.
He drags me up onto the bed with him. I’m impatient and straddle him, moaning as I arch my back and slip him back inside. I grind down hard, sweat dripping on my skin as he teases my breasts. He licks my nipples, sucking hard, and I push back down his thick, hard cock, my eyes rolling with brainless pleasure.
“That’s right, baby, ride my dick like the greedy, messy slut you are,” he says, slapping my ass before dragging me down to kiss him. As his tongue invades my mouth, his cock thrusts hard into my pussy.
I push him down, both hands on his chest, and grind. I’m so close I’m whimpering and shaking. I dig down into him, pussy dripping along his shaft, getting him soaked, and not caring one bit. His spit is drying on my nipples, and his blood-red palm prints are marked on my ass. I’m his, entirely his, owned, dominated, and filled to the brim.
“I want to feel it,” he whispers, one hand moving up my body, over my breast, thumb into my mouth. “Bite down. Then fucking come.”
I moan, and that’s it for me. All my triggers finally explode. I break like porcelain, shattering all over his thick cock, filthy and wild, as I bite his finger hard enough to taste blood.
He moans in response and thrusts up inside of me, and I feel his hot cum as he finishes in massive twitching thrusts.
“Fuck,” he says when I release my jaw. “Good fucking girl.” He pops his thumb from my mouth, and I collapse back onto the bed, licking blood from my lips.
He laughs crazily and drags me up against him.
“Too hard?” I ask, grinning like a lazy cat napping in a beam of sunlight.
“Try to bite it fucking off next time,” he snarls, nuzzling into my hair and kissing me.
I smile like an idiot, half from the incredible sex, and half just from the way he always holds me tight when we’re finished.
“Can I ask you something?” I turn to push my face against his chest and breathe his salty, musky smell. Like copper and rose petals.
“Anything. You know that.”
“I want to see your rooms. Will you show them to me?”
He seems surprised and brushes my hair back. I look up at him, nervous excitement tickling my stomach. I like that he’s smiling.
“What made you think of that?”
“I guess I’ve been feeling bolder lately, and I just want to know you better. I figured this is a good way to start.”
“Baby, you are welcome in my suite whenever you damn well please. You never have to knock.”
That surprises me. He seems like a private man. There are guards and staff that work in the house, but none of them have a personal relationship with him. Tigran keeps a tight separation between work and his normal life.
“Are you sure?” I ask, kissing his chest. “I don’t want you to just say that.”
“I’m very sure. I know your boundaries, and I’ll always respect them, but mine are different. My rooms aren’t off-limits to you.”
I shuffle away from him and sit up on an elbow. My butt hurts from the spanking, and I rub it gently as I climb out of bed. “You really went for it tonight,” I mutter, yanking on my underwear.
“If you’re looking for an apology, it’s not going to happen,” he says, stretching with a sigh. “And if you keep digging for one, I’ll show you what a needy girl gets instead.”
“Don’t distract me.” Once I’m dressed, I march over to his door, feeling a strange sense of purpose.
Back home, I stuck to my little nook in the house. I ventured out sometimes, but mostly I stuck to what was comfortable, and never in a million years did I go into anyone else’s space.
Turning the doorknob and stepping across the threshold is a huge deal for me.
This is a strange man’s area. He’s my husband, and we’re sleeping together, but still. This is dangerous. Everything I’ve done in my life has been about avoiding this exact scenario.
In here, I don’t have any power.
I can wrap myself in the illusion of safety when I stick to my own rooms. I can tell myself that I’m in control.
But in Tigran’s suite, he’s the one in charge.
“You’re okay,” he says from behind me. He’s dressed again in loose black joggers and a white t-shirt. “Take your time.”
I force myself deeper down the hall. He stays with me, but at a little distance, like he’s trying to be respectful. I wiggle a hand behind me, reaching for him, and he closes the gap between us.
Our fingers intertwine. My smooth, sheltered skin meets his scars and calluses.
“It looks so… normal,” I say with genuine surprise as we look around his living area.
“What did you expect?”
“I’m not sure,” I admit, frowning a little. “More… opulence? Maybe some dead bodies hanging from the ceiling?”
“I keep the corpses in the basement, love,” he says, offhand and smiling.
I laugh even though it’s not funny. Confidence bubbles up through me as I stare at his place.
It’s a mirror image of my own, only decorated in his style. The walls are dark, the bookshelves are packed with leather-bound tomes, and the overall theme is nautical. Old brass railings, ship wheels, paddles and oars, even some antique lanterns and buoys. His couch is black leather, and there’s no TV in sight, only a fireplace that looks like it gets some decent use.
“I know this is only right next door to my space, but I haven’t been inside someone else’s room like this in a really long time.”
He stands close and bends down to kiss my neck. “Are you okay?”
“I’m okay,” I say, and I like that he’s asking. It gives me even more confidence, enough that I slip my hand from his and start to explore.
He watches as I brush my fingers over the spines of his books and count the number of whiskey bottles on his overfull bar cart. I frown at the state of his throw pillows—they’re honestly pretty ugly and pathetic—and nudge some fireplace ash that needs sweeping. There are pictures on the mantle, all of his family. Arsen features prominently in many of them, though there’s one that looks recent, of Tigran with a little boy on his shoulders.
“My nephew,” he comments when I linger on that one. “His name is Roman.”
“I want to meet him,” I say, which surprises me. I’ve never really cared about kids before. But now we’re actively trying to get pregnant, and I figure it’s a good idea to spend some time around them.
“Whenever you want. I’m sure they’d love that.” He absently names more of the people in the photos: cousins, aunts and uncles, all important pieces of the Brotherhood. All people he seems to care about.
We end in his bedroom. I’m scared until I look inside.
“It’s so… empty.” I walk to the end of his bed, stomach twisting. There are four big posts holding up nothing. “Where are the handcuffs I was promised?”
He grins and walks to his bedside table. Inside the top drawer are big silver cuffs sitting on a satin cloth. “I put them away when they’re not in use. I’m not a maniac.”
“Right, that’s much more normal,” I murmur, staring with my mouth open, licking my lips and picturing myself prostrate on that bed, on a man’s bed, my wrists immobilized, trapped, and at his mercy.
I’m gaining more confidence, but I don’t think I’m that confident yet.
There’s a closet, a chest of drawers, a surprisingly clean bathroom, and that’s the end of the tour.
“How does it feel?” he asks, draping an arm over my shoulder as we stand together in the living room again.
I look around, dizzy all of a sudden. I frown to myself, hand on my stomach. A strange, queasy nausea rolls down my spine.
“It feels…” I trail off. This was a good visit. A really good visit, actually. I didn’t panic, didn’t freak out, didn’t run away. But this sudden bout of sickness is confusing.
Because I’m not scared. I’m not even uncomfortable.
I like it in here.
“Dasha? Are you okay?” He peers at me, frowning, hands on my arms. “You look kind of pale.”
“I’m sorry,” I squeak and push him back. He grunts in surprise as I run down the hall, past his room, into my suite, and throw myself into my bathroom.
I barely reach the toilet before I spew my guts up.
