“Look at me.”
I do. I stare right into him, taking in the heated look I see in his pale blues. How his arms flex with his sure movements as he continues to stroke himself. I can’t fight the need any longer. “Fuck me.”
A smile notches the corner of his mouth up. The way his features shift, so subtle, so knowing, I shiver. He leans in, pushing his body fully against mine. “Say it again,” he whispers in my ear.
I swallow my erratic heartbeat. “Fuck me.”
He bites down on my shoulder, eliciting a cry from me, as he slips his cock between my slick lips—teasing, but not entering. He pulls back just as quickly and jerks his cock with fast and hard strokes. His movements painful to my neediest part. His groan travels the length of my body, then I feel warmth coating my stomach.
He releases me then. My arms fall to my sides, my muscles weak, my body yearning for fulfillment from denied gratification. My belly is cold from his semen, and I pant at the sight of his cock pulsing after release.
Grayson says nothing as he bends and picks up the towel. He tosses it at me.
I barely catch it and fumble to cover myself. Reality sinks in. “You used me.”
He pulls his jeans up and zips them before he steps close. “Now we’re even.”
I push him away from me, my body a fit of pent-up frustration. “If we’re keeping score, then you have another one coming. Six feet under.”
His lips graze my jaw, and I’m too depleted to push him away again. “I really do love you dirty mouth. But you should work a little harder on mastering your passions.”
I watch him leave the room with a scowl. I clean myself off and blow one of the candles out, my shame too noticeable even in the dim light. I want to snuff out the world so I can hide in the shadows.
I’m only given a moment before I hear a rattling. My senses go on alert, and I scramble toward the door, but Grayson steps into my path. He grabs me around the waist and fastens the handcuffs to my bandaged wrists.
r /> “No—”
The darkness is everywhere. Grayson’s house devoid of light. It follows me as he drags me to a black room.
24
Cell
Grayson
To break a person of their will, you have to break their hold on life itself. London knows this all too well. She employs this very tactic with her patients. Gradually stripping them of all hope.
Hope.
It’s hope that gives a person the strength to fight, to persevere, to overcome. To live. Take their hope away, and you’re left with a perfectly pliable, shell of a person to mold and shape. I don’t have to agree with the psychology of it to appreciate the process, the structure. It’s brilliant.
You could say it appeals to the welder in me, and the puzzler. I enjoy the building part more than the tearing down, and that’s why London and I are a perfect match.
Together, we’re complete. We’re whole.
All these years, I’ve been missing an important aspect of the process. Torture isn’t enough. Physical pain isn’t enough. It’s the psychological element—the total mental destruction—that breaks a person. Like a twig, when the mind is bent to the snapping point, the slightest outside pressure will break it clean through.
I admit this is a recent revelation. I’m prone to stick with what I know, the tried and true methods of my craft. In her presence, I’m lacking. But I hope she’ll come to appreciate my methods just as I admire hers.
I turn the key, locking the cell door, then pocket my key ring. London is curled into a ball in the middle of the room, looking beaten, defeated. But I know better. She’s dressed in one of my T-shirts and a pair of my sweats. She’s disheveled and beautiful.
I didn’t build this dungeon for her—I built it with the idea that one day it would serve a purpose. Which proves how fortuitous we are. A twisted design by fate itself.
It’s perfect.
“Did your father have a light?” I ask her. I relight the candle that went out during our struggle to put her in the cage.
“Did you make this cell for me?” she counters. “How long have you been planning to take me?”