Page 22 of Biker's Conquest: Property of Rage

"Stand," he says. "I won't treat you like a captive upstairs unless you force me to. I can run faster than you and have absolutely no hesitation about the potential of harming you if you disobey me."

I shudder. He definitely means that coldly delivered warning. I want more than this cell and I'm desperate. Plus, I know what happens after his rage-filled beatings. I remember the first night together. This is the part that makes it worth it. The part where the adrenaline explodes with some other hormonal burst.

He becomes softer once he lets the monster out and I don't mind the softer side of Rage. My ass burns from the cuts as I stand up and I try to imagine that the wetness I feel against my ass cheeks is sweat and not blood. Rage stands, towering over me and nearly hitting his head on the relatively low basement ceiling. He runs his tongue over his lips.

He doesn't look at me for too long, but the brief moment of eye contact gives me some insight into his emotional state. He clearly enjoys these beatings. Leaving marks on me. I don't know what the fuck makes a man act like that, but it has to be something dark and demented.

Rage holds the jail cell door open and gives me the space and the trust to walk through it without any restraints.

"My real name is Deacon," he says. "Deacon Hollingsworth. Once everything settles between us, I want you to stay with me. Please."

He gets soft like this after hitting me as a matter of assuaging his guilt or just releasing whatever twisted uppressure valve he has inside his fucked up head. I can't let these words, spoken when he's basically high as a kite off his violence, truly get into my head.

"Hello, Deacon."

I pull my underwear and pants up. He looks at me again with fire in his eyes. I walk past him. I don't know where to turn, but he guides me with his arm just brushing past me, careful not to touch me.

"I won't get to do that for a long time now," he says. "It's more of a punishment for me than for you, really."

My ass stings far too much for me to react with anything other than a sharp pang of rage. An emotion that I don't dare to express in front of this red-haired demon. I follow his guidance and walk upstairs.

When he opens the door to the main part of his house, I feel like I can breathe for the first time since he brought me here. It helps that it smells a lot less musty up here. Deacon keeps his body close to mine as he leads me through the open concept down a short hallway to what can only be his bedroom.

All I know is this place is very different from the first place where I met him. My stomach sinks. I don't know why I assumed I actually knew where he was keeping me. It's just more proof of how deeply this man has me under his control. His bedroom smells absolutely sterile and I can tell that he's at the bare minimum a neat freak.

A control freak too. Hm. Maybe even a freak all the way around. When he pushes open his bathroom door, I almost gasp. The bathroom here has as much attention to detail as his initial playroom. It has as much square footage as his bedroom, with every luxury you can imagine. Two tubs. With jets.

Judging by the flower petals, the soft orangecandles and the foam bubble bath in one of the tubs... he prepared for this. The romantic scene collides fiercely with my experience of Rage as a monster. I mean... Deacon. I have to get used to calling him Deacon in my head. His real government name, which makes him sound like an angel rather than some sexy ginger Luciferian creature.

"The soap will sting," he says. "I'll help you in, but you can't fight it. I cut you pretty deep."

His voice doesn't flinch with guilt or emotion but when he takes my hand, I can't help but feel the full blown ferocity of his protectiveness through his grasp. He leads me up the stairs to the area of the bathroom with his deep tub.

The bubble bath smells like peaches and vanilla cream. I know the soak will sting, but I am so eager to sink beneath some warm water and feel something other than a disgusting foam prison bed beneath me. I put one foot into the water. Tingling spreads all the way up my legs, nearly freezing me in place. Deacon grasps me tightly, allowing me to support my weight on his as I set the pace for sliding beneath the soapy water.

I can feel his steely grey eyes fixated on my body and then on my face, like he can't choose where to look.

I get all the way to the tops of my thighs before I slow down. I'm not ready for the sharp stinging. Deacon grips my hand protectively.

"I didn't want to go this hard on you," he says. Again, blaming me. I don't glare at him. I can't take my mind off of survival here. The only thing I can do is focus on not screaming when my ass touches that warm soapy water.

My body shakes as I fight my urges to run and push myself to endure the pain. The bliss spreading through me as I fight the urge to respond to the sting exposes some deeply masochistic side I didn't know I had. Tears pierce the cornersof my eyes, but I give no other outward reaction that my ass burns like hell.

Nausea burns its way through me and I feel saliva pooling in my mouth as my body fights through the pain. But I suppress it. I loosen my grip on Deacon's hand as the painful bursts turn into more tolerable stings beneath the soapy water.

He cut me deeper than I thought. I'm painfully aware of exactly how badly he hurt me now that I'm beneath the soapy water. There must have been a lot of blood based on the light pink tinge the bath water now has. I want to immerse my head beneath the foam and disappear into a world without Deacon's sick desires, but he holds onto my hand so tightly until…

"I'll join you," he says, bringing my hand to his lips. I don't want a hand kiss to be the thing that undoes my aversion to him. It's the smallest token of softness after unleashing unbridled brutality on my ass cheeks. But I can't resist it after the physical torture he put me through and the strangely masochistic coaster of emotional responses that accompanies his spankings.

When he lets go of my hand to strip his clothes off, I feel more pained by his absence than relieved. Whatever he does to me during those spankings messes with my head. The desire to bond with him after those beatings activates some primal attachment to Deacon that I resent and he welcomes. I focus on him stripping down in front of me while I lean my back against the ceramic sides of the bathtub, breathing through any pain I feel.

I don't know why I'm bothering to allow myself this indulgence. I shouldn't enjoy anything about this man or his body. I need to love myself instead, if that's how far I've fallen.

But Deacon looks... fucking hot. I hate to admit it, butthat's just the truth. He has long, muscular and thick legs built from years of athleticism. He drops his pants first, exposing those tree trunk legs and his large dick wrapped away in black cotton boxer briefs. While looking at me, he unbuttons his shirt, revealing more than just an undershirt.

I’m surprised he has this many tattoos. I didn’t get a good look at him the first time or I forgot how absolutely covered in tattoos he is. Deacon looks more like a gangster when I see all the hidden, inked up portions of his body. His arms look even thicker when he has his shirt off, with bulging muscles around his shoulders and biceps.

My throat catches. No wonder his beatings hurt like hell. He could strangle the life out of me with just one of those hands – not like I want him to keep those thoughts in mind. I stare at him more desperately now, waiting for those big hands to remove the undershirt. He does, slowly, and I am totally distracted from my stinging ass cheeks by Rage exposing his perfect chest. He has too many tattoos for me to identify all of them individually now, but his chest is basically covered. He drops his shirt to the ground and steps closer to the edge of the tub.

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