Page 55 of Contention

It’s Sunday and Kara’s still working through her self-disgust. It’s like trying to inhale liquid oil, the way she searches for a way to forget what she did -and with whom- the other morning. She had spent Saturday night indoors, angry, horny, replaying in her mind the way he touched her. The things he said to her. The way his body felt against hers. The way Calais set her body on fire, yet filled her veins with fear all at once.

Fear and self-loathing.

Saturday night had not only been spent indoors, but in bed, entertaining herself with sick memories and coiling arousal from the morning. Every gasp, every sound he made, echoing in her head.

His voice is rough, unpleasant on the ears. “I’m not one of your little boyfriends. I’m not interested in playing nice. I’m not interested in chocolate and flowers. I’m not interested in commitment or pretty words. I’m especially not interested in girls who play with my cock and don’t intend to finish what they start. Want to know what I am interested in?”

Ugh. Just the very memory of his lips and teeth on the nape of her neck had been enough give her shivers.

“As fun as it is to watch you writhe on my lap like a bitch in heat, I’d rather fuck you until you cry.”

The more she thought of Nicholas Havenwood-Calais, the more her body ached. His voice did things to her and his casual indifference excited and infuriated her.

His indifference.Ha!There’s a beast under that cold exterior and Kara is almost impressed that he’d held himself back from tearing into her like an animal. He’d held all the power, after all. She’d been like a little pet mouse and he the cat. The cat playing with the mouse’s tail with the laziness of a predator that knows it has its prey in its grasp.

She had tried to recreate what he did, lying on her stomach in her bed, her fingers only a small relief as she let them touch her swollen, heated flesh. Rubbing her fingers against her sensitive bundle of nerves, using her body weight to press downward. A simple press into her channel, imagining being taken from behind with ruthless indecency. The end result was a fleeting enjoyment that left her feeling unfulfilled and empty. It was simple to press her face into the sheets and groan out her climaxes, it was another thing entirely to admit that she’d lost her mind.

How filthy. How shameful. Touching herself to thoughts of that horrid swine of a man. Thinking of his large hands about her hips and how breakable he made her feel. God, what would he think if he could see her now, a wanton slut, cumming on her own fingers repeatedly with him as her object of desire?

The recreation of his actions were moments spent in futility, with Kara gently probing her slit and her tender insides, trying to get the same response from her body, but it simply hadn’t been the same. It frustrated her to no end, that he seemed to know her body more than she did. She hated that he’d left her with this need inside, this empty maw of hunger.

Goddamn bastard. It was like a door of sin and perversion had been opened inside of her, with the touch of his lips to hers. How badly she wished he were with her, his cock inside of her body and his tongue in her ear as he hissed his filth at her.

But, today is a new day and the sins of Saturday night can be forgotten for the time being. Today is Sunday and Kara has work to do. She fights down shameful arousal, because this isn’t the place, hoping her cheeks aren’t heated.

Kara stands on the sidewalk, her foul mood clear on her face. Beside her, Derrick stands, looking like he’s had better nights himself. He looks stressed and Kara imagines his home life is rather lacking at the moment, considering the situation he’s put himself in with his wife.

Broken vows can have that effect.

Derrick senses her miasma of disgruntled-ness and gives her a wide berth as they arrive at their possible witness’s apartment in the shabbier part of town. “Are you ready for this?” He’s skeptical about the results of this endeavor. There is no guarantee that this woman will be of use to the Debra Mills case.

Shrugging, Kara adjusts the collar of her shirt absently. She refrains from running a hand through her hair. “Let’s get what we came for. Hopefully this helps our case so it isn’t a waste of time.” The private investigator bills goofy fees, after all.

He nods dully, a tired smile barely touching his lips, dark circles under his eyes. Up they go, to apartment number twenty-three, knocking loudly. For a moment, there is no sound, then the door handle clicks audibly.

The woman their private investigator introduced them to, only known as ‘X’, answers the door, opening it a small crack. One dark eye peers at them through the thin gap, suspicious. Bloodshot. “Are you the lawyers?”

Derrick nods, smiles calmly, tries to look less world weary. His transformation is seamless as he puts his professional mask on for the woman. “Yes. I’m Derrick Benson and my associate is Kara Hayes. Is now still a good time for you?”

The woman sighs audibly. “It makes no difference when,” she mutters, shutting the door and undoing the chain bolt. The door opens a little wider and reveals a very tall, thin woman.

Too thin. Sallow skin. Dark circles under the empty eyes that gaze at them like a corpse. Kara tries to keep her unease off of her face, her eyes catching on the hand holding the door. Her stomach turns; the fingernails seem deformed and scabs are littering the flesh.

If the woman sees Kara’s revulsion, she makes no indication. X steps backwards and says, “Come. Sit. Don’t mind the mess. I don’t get visitors.”

The mess is an understatement. The place is a complete pigsty. Garbage is on the floor, bugs hovering on the walls, peeling wallpaper. The stench is a stale, rotting thing. Kara feels her eyes water and she swallows thickly, suddenly feeling bad for thinking her life is tough.

This place is the sign of someone who’s already given up. Their soul gone into hibernation and their body waiting to die. It isn’t an apartment; it’s a tomb.

Derrick perches against a table and Kara remains standing. X sits down on her rotting, floral couch that looks like it’s from another decade. The woman’s dark hair hangs in oily strands, thinning in places from stress and malnutrition. She might have been a good-looking woman, once, but it’s impossible to tell now.

“What do you want to hear?” Her voice is slow, like she’s drugged. Too depressed to focus on anything but sleep.

Derrick pulls out a notepad and says, “Let’s start with theDark Mirage. Tell us about it.”

X blinks in a strange manner, slow and delayed. Like a reptile. It gives Kara the creeps. “Not much to tell,” the woman says. She kind of mumbles when she speaks, showing no teeth. “The club is a place for those who are bored and rich. Some are lonely, others have their fetishes, like being watched, like swapping wives, like being slapped, whatever gets the job done. The main floor is pretty standard, but not a good place for those who are shy. The upper floor, which is private, is far more sexualized, has different rooms for play. Fetishes can be met within if desired. Pricey party drugs. Standard fare for a high-class sex club.”

She continues, picking at the disgusting scabs on her hands. “I’m one of those people that enjoys extreme submission. I wanted to be a slave, my own brand of fetishism. My fees were paid by a man that I played slave to, until he got bored of me and passed me off to one of his friends. I found I didn’t quite care, so long as I could feel something. I was never put in true danger in the club, to be honest. I’d had some trouble in my own life. I’d lost my job, my sister had been killed in a car accident, my parents wouldn’t have anything to do with me per my past drug issues. I’m an on and off addict. I was at rock bottom when I heard that there was a place for me to face the extremes of my desire, which couldn’t be met at theDark Mirage. The man I was with didn’t have the taste for what I needed or wanted. I started asking around for something more.”

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