Page 36 of Ruinous Need
“God, Viktor,” she moans breathlessly.
I barely need to fist myself, my arousal complete when she came undone and cried my name. Her eyes are squeezed shut, her chest rising and falling with rapid breaths. She looks overwhelmed.
I let myself place a soft kiss on her damp forehead, convinced that she won’t notice.
I run a hot bath and help her in, then clean her all over with a washcloth. I pay particular attention to her messy cunt. She whimpers when I move the wash cloth down to her ass, where my hands have marked her pain into her flesh.
It shouldn’t be an erotic noise, but that whimper sends heat flaming through my body.
I don’t regret it. No, as I help Lisette out of the bath, I want her to be reminded of me whenever she moves.
CHAPTER 13
LISETTE
I STUMBLE INTO a wall of fabric outside my bedroom door, confused at what I’m seeing. Has Viktor barricaded me in my bedroom?
Then I take in the brand names.
This isn’t a barricade.
He’s gone shopping.
I guess this is some kind of apology for the stinging pain that’s still making it hard for me to sit down, two days after his punishment. Two days after my twisted orgasm under the admittedly skilled and surprisingly tender hands of my captor.
Couldn’t he just apologize to my face like a normal person? I guess he’s not a normal person, though.
IfI were talking to him — and I’m still not, orgasms notwithstanding — I would text him that this is overkill. My ass is sore, but it’s not sore to the tune of what must be thousands in designer clothes.
The tower of duffel bags is piled almost as high as the door frame, looking like they’re about to burst their seams.
I drag one down from the top. It’s full of lacy lingerie. The elaborate type of underwear I never waste money on. Outside ofmy boyfriend in the first year of college and a brief fling with the lead dancer at the ballet, both long gone, no one’s going to see it. The fabrics are soft and strong against my hands, despite the gauzy appearance. Every piece screams decadence. They’re even scented with exotic, rich perfume that must have been thick in the store they came from. The tags on these pieces of lingerie don’t even have prices, which makes me shudder to think how much Viktor has spent.
My favorite is a set in peacock blue with tiny opalescent beads embedded in the fabric. When I try it on, it’s surprisingly comfortable and cool. The bra sweeps low in a demi cup, making it look like I actually have breasts for the first time in my life. The panties are high-cut, emphasizing the gentle flare of my hips and the nipped-in section of my waist. I guess this is what it’s like when underwear costs more than $20 from the sales rack.
In the mirror, I don’t look boyish and flat. I look like a woman with curves. Subtle ones, admittedly, but they exist.
Maybe I even look good. I bite my lip when I find myself staring at my reflection for too long. Contemplating what Viktor would think if he could see me now. My eyes keep returning to the pink skin contrasting against the blue of the silk panties, still raw from his hand. I trace my hand over the mark. Still tender to touch. Still aching with the imprint of him.
I try to dissolve that thought. He’s not here. And I don’t want him to touch me again, anyway. Not with those big, firm hands. Not with that cruel touch that doesn’t stop even when I’ve found my pleasure.
All attempts to stop my brain from running wild are futile. I’ve barely been able to get what happened two nights ago out of my head.
My desire for him is like an open wire of electricity. At the slightest touch it sparks, sending pain and passion in a confusing mix through my body.
Stop. Thinking. About. Viktor.
I turn my focus back to the pile of clothing.
The other bags are overflowing too. Lounge-wear, soft cotton bathrobes, and floaty dresses that make me long for a summer holiday somewhere far from the New York winter.
Somehow it’s in my favorite colors and precisely my right size, too. Bright and cheerful. The opposite of his black sweatpants. Even if they did smell addictively good…
I push that thought away.
I’m replaying the events of two nights ago on a loop in an incessant fantasy that makes my core tingle, and now I’m craving the smell of him too?
Insanity.
