Chapter One Hundred and Nineteen

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My mother used to tell me about hell from time to time. Mostly when I was little and clueless about life. Explained that all the bad people who did bad things and made bad choices, who hurt others and didn't repent for all the above would end up there. In a lake of fire. And brimstone. With the devil.

As a child I never once doubted her, never once believed she wasn't telling me the truth. I just never thought I'd actually meet the bastard.

And I never once considered that, instead of standing against a backdrop of fire like I'd always pictured, the devil would actually be full of ice; cold and soulless like his magnificent eyes. That he'd be towering over me with the most subtle grin toying with his sinful lips as his merciless gaze devours my body.

The only thing here that's burning in a lake of fire is my pussy, and while the treacherous thing deserves every bit of the agony it's being put through, I'm still attached to it so it's no less torturous for its innocent owner.

I feel his hand on my hip, his fingers grazing my skin ever so slightly, the very tips touching the curve of my naked skin like a whisper, a complete contrast to the hunger and lust in his eyes.

He brings his nose to my temple, inhaling deeply, still pressing the flat head of the crop against my other thigh. His hand moves up to my stomach, trailing over the side of my belly and traveling up my torso slowly, deliberately.

I quake as I stand on my tip-toes, failing to suppress the shiver that rocks my impossibly rigid body, another swarm of goosebumps scattering all over my back and it has nothing to do with the ever decreasing temperature of a typical winter night.

An army of tingles attack my lower belly, sensations I try to ignore swimming and spinning in my groin. I have to turn my head away, as much as I can in my position, anyway.

I gulp audibly when I feel his hand move up the curve of my breast, my chest heaving particularly hard as his fingers trail past the curve of the side of my boob, coming to settle on my collar. His thumb brushes against the ridge of bone, rubbing back and forth in a slow, almost hypnotic motion.

The action is strange, derailing, and it throws me off completely. It actually boggles my mind how he can do it; touch me so tenderly, almost reverently while holding the sinister crop in his hand, knowing that he'll wield it and use it on me again. Soon.

As if he just read my mind, I feel the crop part from my skin...only to meet it again, the swish of the object and the crack of its impact coming almost simultaneously.

"Owww!"

The sting is palpable, and I lose my balance, one foot unable to take the hit. Like a horrible reminder, more firm taps to my foot follow suit, not stopping until it's back where it's supposed to be. I don't have to be reminded to count this time.

"Thirty-two!" I scream weakly, my voice cracking in the darkness, mirroring my anguish. But my pain means nothing to him. Frost doesn't so much as bat an eye at seeing me like this, cool and collected as ever, as if he's reading the morning paper.

But his eyes...

His eyes give him away, like they've been doing more and more lately. And that's the scariest part. There's no empathy to be found in them. No compassion. No remorse.

The exact opposite, in fact.

Lust.

Excitement.

Desire.

Gratification.

They are the eyes of someone enjoying himself.

Thoroughly.

"Come on, Ramona," he nudges, his tone teasing. "We're not even half-way there and you're already done? I thought you had more spunk than that."

He's getting off on this.

The thought infuriates me to no end, and his blatant mockery isn't helping. I glare at him in spite of the tears in my own eyes, hating every fiber of his being.

I can't let him win.

I won't let him win.

"Just trying to make sure you can keep up, old man," I spit through gritted teeth, the words leaving me in a voice that sounds too strange and foreign to be my own.

He chuckles at that, a low, sinister laugh emerging from deep inside his chest, the powerful sound seeming to reverberate into my own body and making a bee-line straight for my pussy. My eyes flutter closed against the sound of it, against the vigorous pulsing of my core, and I'm not sure if it's because he finds my discomfort amusing or because of the newest wave of shame that's currently eating me up.

My head dips and my upper body hunches involuntarily as a long, desperate exhale leaves me. I seriously can't believe that, even now, in the most scandalous, debasing, shameful position I've ever been in, I'm turned on. Even a little bit. In spite of the very palpable pain and almost tangible anxiety. It has to be some sort of coping mechanism; my body's biological—albeit grossly inappropriate—way of helping me get through this...this horrid experience.

Yes, that has to be it. Either that or I'm just plain insane. There's no other explanation. I don't understand how I can be afraid and quite literally hurting yet, somehow, feel anything other than absolute revulsion toward the man responsible for every last bit of it.

I hate that I feel like this. I hate myself for feeling like this. But, as much as I hate it, as much as I try to ignore it, I can't deny it. Not when I'm like this. Not when I'm bound and exposed and vulnerable. Not when I'm stuck here with no way to avoid every single thing I feel. Every single thing he's making me feel.

"What's the code I gave you to the entrance?" he asks suddenly.

After a moment, I remember and stutter, "S-six".

He nods. "Why do you think that is?"

"Because it's the devil's num-number and you're obviously the anti-Christ," I blurt between shaky breaths. I can't stop myself before the words come flying out of my mouth. And I regret it instantly. I wish I hadn't said them. Not because I feel bad for potentially hurting his feelings—not that the bastard has any—but because of potentially hurting something else. Namely, my ass. My already bruised, throbbing ass. Admitting I don't know the answer to his question instead of trying to be a smart-ass when I know for a fact that nothing good will come from it is stupid, I know. But, once again, this blue-eyed demon has found a way to piss me off enough and get so far under my skin that biting my tongue is the last thing I'll do, even though my teeth are chattering so badly that I can barely get anything out.

He actually laughs at that, his amusement manifesting itself in a low, menacing chuckle that seemingly emerges from every inch of his big, muscled body and reverberates through the dark room. It's...like nothing I've ever heard before. His voice possesses such a remarkable quality, such unparalleled depth that it would be so uniquely artistic if it weren't so sinister.

He moves closer, dangerously close, his fingers grazing my hip in an almost idle, innocent way, but I know the action is anything but. His eyes bore into mine, his nose a finger's width away from my own flaring nostrils as I struggle to breathe normally. Not that I can even remember what that's like anymore.

"Try again," he says, his words a concealed threat, telling me that it's not a request. Not by a long shot.

Ugh, how the fuck am I supposed to know?

The tension in my jaw skyrockets, a manifestation of how much I despise the fact that he feels like he can make whatever demands of me he wants at any given time. But that's exactly what I'd agreed to the second I penned my name on that shitty contract. And, as much as I'm hating myself for that decision now, I can't go back.

"I don't know," I finally relent, my breath catching in my throat as his fingers trail over the curve of my hip, running lazily down my thigh and lingering there. I can't even breathe, the anticipation for where they'll go next hanging thickly in the atmosphere.

The tension in the air is overwhelming, unbearable, and the tension in my quivering body even more so. The worst part is knowing he's getting a major kick out of this.

Bastard.

He nods, as if in understanding but there's something off about the gesture.

"I'll tell you," he says, the statement more of a sinister remark than a response made for my benefit. "It's the main number of ways all humans lose water." He pauses for a bit, his eyes lingering on my chest. He's cool and collected as ever, but a slight huskiness laces his resonant voice when he speaks again. "Of course, there are discrepancies with age and gender that come into play, so that number changes over time. But six will always be the standard. Universal. Indiscriminate. Applicable to every single person in spite of those discrepancies."

The edge of the crop head trails down my inner thigh at a slow, torturous pace, as if for emphasis, making me far too aware of the "discrepancies" between us.

Man. Woman.

Calm. Crazed.

Completely clothed. Literally butt naked.

Free. Bound.

Dominant...

Oh. Hell. No.

I refuse to so much as acknowledge the preposterous, demeaning word, even though the memory of the sign on the dining table is still fresh in my mind.

No, I'm not...that. Absolutely not that. Even if he thinks I am. Even if that's the role I'm supposed to play in this sick, twisted mind-fuck of an agreement.

I feel the hard leather firm against my skin, cold and severe and intentional, descending over my naked body until its wielder decides to bring it around me. My leg damn near buckles when he touches the crop to the back of my knee, and I feel an army of invisible ants racing up my back. I'm shivering so much it's starting to sound like I'm hyperventilating.

"So," he cocks his head to the side slightly, his voice dipping even more, "now that I've told you the answer, it's your turn to tell me something."

He slides the crop away, the foreign object parting from the back of my wobbly knee, and a cluster of angry tingles instantly takes its place. He takes a step back, and I release a breath I had no idea I was holding at the small but significant added distance. However, that relief is short-lived.

"I want you to tell me, more specifically, all the ways in which men and women lose water. Separately." He looks at me squarely, his eyes almost ethereal in the sparse moonlight. And his chilling gaze matches his voice perfectly when he adds, "Ladies first."

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