Page 3 of Owning Nicci

“Don’t get up on my account,” he says, a hint of an Italian accent coloring his words. “By all means, stay down there on your knees. It’s a pretty picture,principessa.”

The sarcasm in his voice makes me wonder what he knows about me.Is he a friend or associate of my father’s?He could be. It would explain why a man like him is in a place like this—he might be here to torment me, to use me, to report back to my father if I behaved like I’m supposed to.

If I took my punishment like the good girl that I’m meant to relearn how to be.

And yet, for the first time in months, bitter words spring to the tip of my tongue and I can’t bite them back in time.

“Sorry,” I spit out, looking up at him from where I’m still crumpled against the couch. “Five guys just came in here and fucked me in every hole I have before leaving me high and dry, so it’s going to be a second before I pull myself together.”

With that one sentence, I’ve committed two cardinal sins. One: talking back to a customer, and two: letting him know that someone else has had what he wants. No customer in the club is stupid enough toreallybelieve that he’s getting exclusive access to any of the girls, but that’s the facade we’re meant to keep up. Every man who walks through those doors should believe he’s the one and only we’ve ever had or want to have, unlesshechooses to share with others. It’s ridiculous, considering that this club isn’t exclusive in any possible sense of the word, but it’s part of the rules.

His mouth twitches with amusement again, as if my debasement is somehow funny to him. His gaze flicks from me to the wastebasket in the corner, filled with used condoms from everyone who’s been in here tonight, and helaughs—a deep,rough chuckle that comes from his chest as those green eyes sweep over me again.

I swallow hard, too tired to play this game. If I piss him off, I’ll be punished, but I’ve been brought too low tonight to care as much as I usually do.What could be worse than this?I think—and even though Iknowthere’s worse, I’m having a hard time remembering it just now.

“What do you want?” I ask tiredly, thinking of Bryce and how, when this man is done with me, I’m just going to have to go to him. The thought of having another man in me tonight makes my body tighten with pain, and I hope I can mollify him with a blowjob. I’m good at those, so he might be happy with that.

The man’s green gaze darkens, resting on my face as he stands there. He hasn’t moved an inch further into the room. “You,” he says simply. “I want you.”

I stare at him for a long moment, the words hanging in the air between us. “That’s what everyone who comes back here wants,” I say finally, the words thick with loathing. “You’re going to have to be more specific than that.”

“No.” He tilts his head slightly, taking me in once more, as if he’s been waiting for this moment—though I can’t imagine why. “I don’t think I do.”

And then, without another word, he turns and leaves the room.

2

SAVIO

Being back in New York feels strange, like shrugging on an old, familiar piece of clothing that’s grown a bit small. It’s been years since I’ve been back, and despite the fact that I’ve spent those years in other big cities, there’s something particular about New York that feels different from any other place.

It certainly doesn’t feel like home any longer. Even my sprawling penthouse feels foreign. It’s pristinely clean, kept that way by the staff that I’ve paid all these years to come monthly and keep it free of dust and cobwebs, but that cleanliness only adds to the feeling that I’ve stepped back into a liminal space, instead of my home.

The floor gleams—the housekeeper must have waxed it recently—and every countertop and surface is shiny. The furniture is covered with dust cloths. I toss my keys into the porcelain bowl on the entry table, moving through the living room as I pull the cloths off and fold them neatly, setting them in a pile to be tucked away.

Neat. Precise. Orderly. My entire life runs like a well-oiled machine, without a single thing out of place. There is no roomfor passion, spontaneity, or clutter. That’s how I’ve lived all these years, and it’s how I’ve survived.

How I’ve become wealthy in my own right, powerful enough to come back and finish what my father started all those years ago.

I walk through the rest of the penthouse, uncovering the rest of the furniture, reacquainting myself with a space that once felt so familiar. My bedroom, my office, the guest room, the sprawling loft-like space upstairs that serves as a library. And, once I’m in my bedroom, I press my hand to the panel in the wood-grain back wall that opens into another, secret room.

Walking into it feels like an exhale. I smell leather and wood, and my palms itch to feel the creaking handle of a riding crop, the silken trail of ropes over my fingers as I bind someone to one of the many apparatuses around the room. There’s a bed, of course, but also a well-cared-for padded leather bench, a St. Andrew’s cross, a grid of movable bars across the ceiling. As the door closes behind me and I stand at the entrance to the playroom, I feel a surge of adrenaline, my cock twitching with anticipation.

This,thisis the only place where I can let myself go, just a little. All of my darker urges are still carefully honed, cautiously restrained…but here, I canfeel. And soon I’ll have her here.

The woman that I plan to make mine.

Fuck. My jaw tightens, and I reach down to adjust myself as I walk through the room, checking to make sure everything is clean and in its proper place. The bed is freshly made, the leather surfaces are soft and supple, and in every cupboard on the wall, everything is just as I left it, cleaned and organized. In one, crops and floggers and canes and paddles are neatly lined up. In another, drawers lined in velvet hold an array of toys. With every single thing I touch, my cock stiffens, swelling to a near-painful hardness as I imagine what I’ll do to her very soon.

There’s an endless depth of pleasure to be had here—for me, and also for her, if she obeys. And shewillobey…or I’ll break her until she does.

I’d almost prefer the latter option. Desire unfurls through me at the thought of breaking her to my will, of training her to servemypleasure. For years, I’ve waited for the right moment to come back and make all of it mine. I didn’t expect a woman to be a part of that. But now, I can’t help the anticipation that blooms through me every time I think of her.

She’s been difficult to follow, to track. By now, I’d usually know all of her routines, all of her likes and dislikes. But outside of her work, she’s a ghost. She comes and goes from her father’s mansion outside of the city to the club, where she’s little better than chattel for the men who visit, and nothing more. She doesn’t leave. She doesn’t have friends. She has no social life to speak of, no errands that she runs, no appointments to keep.

It’s as if she lives in a cage. But that’s fine with me. If she’s already used to having her wings clipped, there will be no need for me to do it. She’ll already be used to living behind lock and key when she’s mine.

I rub my hand over the thick ridge of my cock again, and the urge to take it out and give myself the release I now desperately need throbs through me. But I resist. I’m saving all of that need, all of that hunger, for the first night that I have her here. I’ve leashed it, as I’ve learned to do with all of my desires over the years, and that first release with her will be exquisite.

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