Dance of Ruin: Chapter 11

I wake before the alarm. Again.

Not because I’m well-rested. I’m not. My eyes feel like they’ve been scrubbed with sandpaper, and my body is stiff and heavy. Like I slept underneath a weight.

But my brain is awake. Circling.

Yesterday keeps replaying on a loop in my head. His dark, commanding voice. His scent curling around me—leather and smoke, masculine and clean. The feel of the desk beneath my palms and my cheek.

His thick fingers pushing into my needy pussy.

That moment where I stopped thinking, and just moaned.

Moaned for him, came for him, and shattered all over his hand.

Last night, as steam from the shower filled the bathroom, I stood in front of my bedroom mirror, remembering every single filthy facet of the experience, and rubbed my clit until I came again.

I’d like to say it was about reclaiming control. Or about closure.

But that would be a lie.

The truth is, I am fucking insane.

I was thinking about the way he looked at me. The way he touched me, as if I belonged to him utterly. The way he said “good girl” like it was both a reward and a punishment.

Praise and damnation.

Heaven and hell.

Something’s wrong with me.

Broken. Bent. Corrupt.

I stare at the ceiling for a few minutes longer, willing my racing heart to slow down, asking these thoughts to scatter.

But they don’t. They just burrow deeper.

Eventually, I drag myself out of bed and into the bathroom.

My reflection looks tired in the mirror—lips raw from being bitten in my sleep, dark shadows under my eyes. I step into the shower and rinse off quickly, closing my eyes and letting the water stream over me. When my hands slide between my legs and I feel the bare, shaved skin there, I startle for a second, pausing like a skipped heartbeat. Then it all floods back.

He told me to. So I did.

A huge part of me wants to hate him, and myself, for obeying his command and doing something to my body I don’t normally.

At the same time, there’s a flicker of heat on my skin when my fingers slip over the softness between my thighs.

The bare sensation is…new. But not unpleasant.

Kinda sexy, actually.

I shove the distracting thoughts away and shut off the water, stepping out to apply lotion and light makeup after toweling off. I dig through my drawers until I find the closest thing to “sexy lingerie” that I own—a matching pair of black lace panties and bra, slightly see-through. I bought these months ago, I forget why. I’ve never actually worn them.

It’s not like I’ve ever had anyone to wear them for.

For a minute, I start mentally assembling a more put-together outfit: maybe something more “office appropriate”. A dress? Then I frown, turning to glare at myself in the mirror.

Why the hell am I dressing up for him?

Why did I just put on lingerie? Or shave my pussy last night, for that matter?

Because he told you to.

I swallow as a dark, whispering presence deep inside me smiles villainously.

And you like that he told you to.

I shudder as I pull my gaze away from the mirror, ditching any ideas of dressing up and reaching for a hoodie and leggings.

Lickity Splits: Hottest Girls in the Big Apple!

That sign still makes me cringe.

It’s so absurd it would almost be funny—if I weren’t walking through it a second time to offer myself up to the monster on the other side of the door.

Nico is sitting back in his chair when I enter, feet kicked up nonchalantly on the desk. His sleeves are rolled to the elbow and his collar is open, revealing eyefuls of his swirling tattoos. His dark hair is swept back, his chiseled jaw clenched, and his blue eyes slice across the room, pinning me to the floor like a nailed-down shadow.

His brow arches just enough to send a shiver through me that snaps my spine straight and makes my core clench.

“Close the door.”

His voice is low. Unhurried. Like a man discussing dinner reservations, not issuing orders to a woman he blackmailed into submission less than a day ago.

I ease the door shut behind me with a soft click.

He doesn’t make a move from where he sits sprawled behind his desk like a mad king, eyes locked on me.

“Take off your clothes.”

My mouth dries instantly. It’s not a question.

He regards me like a hunter watching a deer that is deciding whether to run or stay frozen.

My throat bobs and I finally work up the courage to speak.

“Why—”

“Because I fucking said so, Naomi. That’s why. Because I know it humiliates you. Because your fucking father sent a bomb to my fucking front door. And since he’s managed to lock himself behind a wall of secret service agents, and you haven’t…” He lifts a shoulder, gesturing broadly. “Well, here we are.”

Darkness curdles inside me.

I’ve tried to get in touch with my dad seven times since the night Nico slipped out of the shadows of the Mercury Theater while I was alone on stage and told me in no uncertain terms that I was “his” now.

Since he told me why I was his.

And as horrifying as it is, I’m still thinking it’s not impossible beyond a shadow of doubt that he might be connected to what happened to Bianca, no matter how horrible it was.

People say you have to crack a few eggs to make an omelet. My dad is the kind of man who would crack dozens of them if that’s what it took. He’d burn the whole henhouse down. I know this.

It’s not ruthlessness, just driving ambition. The end always justifies the means for him. Getting to the White House with a Cabinet position has always been his goal, with the unspoken follow-up of targeting the presidency one day.

…You don’t have those kinds of lofty goals unless you’re willing to break every egg on the planet.

It’s not like I think my dad personally sent a bomb to the Barone house. That is impossible. Single-minded as he is, his career still comes first, above everything.

But it’s not impossible to think he might be involved with the people who sent it. It’s not like we ever had mobsters coming to the house when I was a kid. But I do remember him having secretive, sometimes shadowy people over, how they’d lock themselves away in his office and talk in hushed tones.

Seven times I’ve called Dad since the other night, and still no answer. Not even a voicemail. Not even a “Can’t talk now” or “I’ll call later” text.

All I got was a boilerplate message from one of his aides: “Congressman Kim is on the Hill today with back-to-back committee meetings and pre-confirmation briefings. He’ll follow up as soon as possible.”

Like I’m a constituent, or a freaking reporter.

Not his daughter who would love to hear him say “No, sweetheart, I had nothing to do with almost blowing up your friend and coworker.”

Even if it’s a lie.

“So, all of this is because you think my father⁠—”

“No.” Nico cuts me off bluntly. “Not because I think. I fucking know.” He nods his chin at me. “Your clothes are still on.”

I swallow.

“To be clear, if your father was here facing my wrath instead of you, he wouldn’t be stripping for me,” Nico says evenly, his eyes never leaving mine. “He’d be going head-first out the fucking window with his severed balls stuffed down his throat. So pretty please, with a cocksucking cherry on top, remove your fucking clothes before I cut them off.”

A shiver tingles down my spine. Without another word, I turn and shyly peel off my hoodie. Fold it over the nearest chair. My shoes come next. Then my t-shirt, then the leggings.

I’m down to the lingerie now, and I pause.

Waiting.

Wanting him to say something.

To comment. To approve. To notice.

The corner of Nico’s mouth lifts just slightly.

“Were you hoping for a review of your bra and panties, ballerina?” he says dryly, harsh sarcasm in his tone. “Take them off.”

Shame floods my face as I reach behind me and unclasp the bra, letting the straps slip down my arms before the whole thing falls to the ground. The panties follow. Cold air kisses my skin as I bare myself to him again.

The room is silent as he looks at me from his chair behind the desk, blue eyes sweeping over me with slow, clinical precision.

My skin is on fire, and he hasn’t even touched me yet.

His gaze pauses between my legs, and he smirks. “Apparently you can remember basic commands. That’s a good sign.”

Dickhead.

Even as I mutter it to myself, there’s an electricity in the air that wraps around me like static.

Nico points a finger to the floor beside his desk.

“Come here.”

I begin to step forward.

“Crawl.”

I freeze.

“What?”

“Crawl. Not walk.”

His lips curl darkly in the corners as heat floods my face.

“Why?”

His voice drops. “Again, because I fucking said so. And because I want to watch you on your hands and knees like my little toy, doing my bidding. Fucking crawl.”

My face ignites. A thousand shards of humiliation prick my skin.

But I drop to the floor.

Each movement forward feels like I’m tearing myself apart, one fragile piece at a time. And yet, there’s a heat between my legs, pulsing with every drag of my knees across the polished wood for every second I’m like this—naked, obedient.

I hate him for this.

I also hate that my body doesn’t.

Nico pushes his chair back a little as I approach, a king waiting for entertainment, then taps the desk in front of him.

“Up.”

I stand, vainly fumbling to cover my nudity this close to him, and turn as if to sit on the edge of the desk.

“No no no.” Nico shakes his head, his eyes darkening as they sweep over my body. “On your knees. Facing away from me.”

Heat rushes to my face so fast I think I might faint. But I do it—I climb onto the cool, wooden desk, get on my hands and knees again, and turn away from him.

“Chest and face on the desk,” he murmurs.

Holy shit.

I can feel his eyes burning into me, barely a foot away from my most private places. But I obey. I lower myself down until my chest presses to the desk, my back arching instinctively, realizing with an electric throb just how exposed I am.

How bare and vulnerable.

I feel his breath on the backs of my thighs, and my teeth clamp down on my lip.

“Spread yourself for me,” he purrs.

I tense.

“Reach back,” Nico continues. “Grab your ass and spread yourself for me.”

I want the floor to open up and swallow me whole.

But I do it.

My fingers curl into the soft flesh of my ass and pull. I’m shaking, humiliated, and yet⁠—

That throb is back.

Stronger than ever.

“What were you thinking about,” Nico murmurs, “when you rubbed that messy little pussy last night?”

My body locks up as my eyes bulge in shock.

I say nothing.

“I asked you a question,” he growls.

I don’t answer. I can’t.

So he answers for me.

“Was it what happened yesterday?” he taunts. “Did you think about my thick fingers in your tight, wet pussy while you came like a good little slut?”

I shut my eyes.

But I don’t let go.

I keep holding myself open for him, breath shallow, legs trembling.

Suddenly, I gasp sharply when I feel something cool and slick drizzle down my ass and drip between my thighs.

My eyes fly open and I start to turn.

“Ah-ah-ah. Stay right where you fucking are,” Nico commands in a brooding, almost sultry tone, his voice low.

I shiver when he dribbles more of whatever-it-is between my cheeks, letting it drip over my asshole and pussy lips.

I suddenly realize that it’s lube.

The soft click of the bottle being set down is deafening.

“I think it’s time we explored some new territory,” Nico murmurs.

My entire body tenses.

“I—” My voice breaks.

“I didn’t tell you to talk,” Nico murmurs. “I told you to hold yourself open.”

I bite down on my lower lip hard enough to sting, fighting my rising panic. Suddenly my eyes bulge as something presses teasingly against my ass. I open my mouth to say something.

Then I shut it again.

He didn’t tell me to talk.

Heat rises to my face, my cheek throbbing against the cool wood of the desk. I can feel Nico twisting whatever it is—smooth, thin, with a rounded tip of some kind. Maybe rubber, or silicone.

Then he starts to push. My breath catches, my body trembling at the unfamiliar sensation of penetration back there. As he slowly twists it into me, I can feel myself tightening around the gradually widening object. Just as I get to the point where I’m about to tell him that I can’t, that it’s too much, the whole thing suddenly thins back down.

I shiver at the slight popping sensation of the object as it slips into my ass, my ring tightening around the base of it, a much wider, flatter part resting against me.

Holy fuck. It’s a butt plug.

My mind and body try to process the invasion as my ears ring with both shame and dark excitement.

It’s not even in that deep, but we are officially miles into uncharted waters. It feels like we’ve crossed a line I didn’t know I had.

And…I don’t hate it.

I hate that I don’t hate it.

“Good girl,” Nico murmurs.

The praise is more electrifying than the plug.

A creak behind me tells me he’s just lounged back in his chair. I tremble, feeling his eyes locked on me—on my bare pussy, and my ass gripping the plug he’s just slipped inside.

I’m completely on display for him, and I’ve never felt sluttier.

…And that’s not necessarily the worst thing.

“Now,” he murmurs thoughtfully behind me. “I could use a drink. Whiskey. On the rocks.” I can hear his fingers tap-tap-tapping on the armrests of his chair.

I exhale shakily, pushing myself up, my face throbbing. The plug is still in there, snug and foreign and horribly erotic.

I slide off the desk onto trembling legs, unable to face him as I turn to start walking toward the cart.

“No, Naomi,” he murmurs darkly. The commanding tone instantly makes me stop.

“Crawl.”

I’m shaking as I get to my knees, my core on fire as the shift in position sends an electrical tremble radiating out from where the plug is stretching me. I crawl to the bar cart. Mercifully, he doesn’t comment when I stand to scoop ice from the silver bucket into a crystal tumbler and then add a few fingers of whiskey.

When I turn, glass in hand, Nico clears his throat.

“Again, crawl.”

I freeze.

How the fuck am I supposed to crawl and carry a full drink?

“Balance it on your back,” he says quietly, like he’s reading my thoughts.

I spin, silently looking at him. He returns my gaze, impassive, a brow lifted, waiting to see if I’ll argue.

I want to.

I really, really want to.

…I don’t.

Instead, I kneel. My hands shake slightly as I reach back awkwardly and set the glass on the small of my back.

It’s freezing, and makes me gasp and flinch. But it stays put.

“Now crawl,” Nico says softly.

It’s slow going. I have to concentrate to keep my hips level, my back steady.

But I do it.

By the time I reach him, my muscles are trembling. But the glass is still in place.

Nico nods. “Good girl.”

Again, my pulse flutters at the words. Again, ridiculous, horrible warmth floods my belly. I hate that I like hearing that. That I crave it.

He reaches down, removes the glass from my back, and sets it on the desk.

Then he reaches into a drawer and pulls out a white silk ribbon.

“Hands behind your back.”

I obey, a stretch tugging across my shoulders as I lace my fingers at the small of my back.

Nico reaches down and loops the ribbon around my wrists, binding them tight together, but not painfully so.

Then he places the whiskey glass back on the small of my back.

“No spilling, or there’ll be punishment.”

Something ragged zaps through my core.

Are you fucking serious?

He straightens, clearing his throat and pulling his chair back to the desk. Then he opens his laptop.

I swallow, my pulse thudding.

“H—how long am I⁠—”

“You’re a side table today,” he says without looking at me. “Tables don’t talk.”

I’m kneeling. Naked. Bound. Plugged. Holding a drink on my back.

And yet somehow, the little voice deep inside me isn’t screaming in rage.

It’s fucking purring.

The position is difficult to hold. My thighs are shaking. My back starts to ache.

Nico makes a call on his cell, immediately switching to Italian which I didn’t realize he spoke. His tone grows more forceful, his eyes locked on his laptop screen. At one point, he reaches down and plucks the glass from my back, taking a slow sip before setting it back down, making my skin turn to gooseflesh.

My legs start to cramp and shake. I’ve been kneeling in one position for almost five minutes. My core ripples.

Then, without warning, a spasm shudders through me.

Oh, shit.

Momentarily, the glass wobbles.

And spills over the lip a little.

Whiskey runs over my skin in a cold trail. I gasp, going rigid.

Nico turns his head, looks at me, then at the whiskey dripping onto the floor, then back to me.

“I’ll call you back.”

He sets the phone down on his desk, taking a slow, deep inhalation as he reaches up and strokes his jawline.

His smile is slow and cold.

“Well then,” he murmurs. “Punishment it is.”