Total pages in book: 113
Estimated words: 106541 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 533(@200wpm)___ 426(@250wpm)___ 355(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 106541 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 533(@200wpm)___ 426(@250wpm)___ 355(@300wpm)
Santa was doing far more than kissing Mommy.
But this is full-frontal nudity where no amount of eye-locking will stop me from viewing a part of the stranger’s body I’m striving to act unaffected by. It’s too large to keep hidden and growing thicker and longer the more he stares.
I snap my eyes to his face when he growls out in a thick, gravelly tone, “Knees. Now.”
“Ex-excuse me?”
I learned the hard way that manners aren’t taught.
They’re beaten into you.
“Knees,” he repeats as he walks around his desk, exposing more of himself. “Now.”
When he reaches me, the scent of his sweat-dotted skin smacks into me. It is mannish and pulse-quickening and has my stomach unsure of which way to churn. It should be revolting, but my senses are confused because I’m certain, for the first time in years, the quickening of my pulse isn’t in fear.
With the light directly above us, he angles his head to shadow the scarred side of his face before raising his hand to my fiery red locks. “I’ve waited years for this. Don’t make me wait a second longer.”
Not speaking another word, he weaves his fingers through my hair, then uses the long, tangled knots as an anchor to tether me to my knees in front of him. He doesn’t yank me down with the brutal violence I’m accustomed to, but it is very much a demanding do-as-I-ask hold.
His long, fleshy rod bobs when I’m positioned a mere inch in front of it. The glistening tip at the end could be blamed on the slurping noises I heard coming from under his desk only minutes ago, but it only formed once my mouth was lined up with the head of his cock.
A tremor I’ve never experienced before erupts down my spine when his thumb gathers up the bead and transfers it onto my top lip. His skin is calloused and sprinkled with the same white powder on his desk, but the smoothness of the droplet spreads across my lip with ease.
“That’ll lessen the burn.” His accent is one I’ve heard many times over the past four-plus years—thick, brutish, and Russian. “Now open your mouth like a good girl.”
I’m scared as hell on the inside, but the fast opening of my mouth doesn’t expose that.
I’ve been taught to obey, and obey I will.
“Push your tongue down. Give me more room. My cock is big, but I still want as much of it in your mouth as I can fit.” Two of the bumps in his midsection twitch when I flatten my tongue. “Now breathe through your nose.”
His head snaps to the side when a cell phone rings. He tries to ignore it by stepping closer, bringing his cock to within an inch of my mouth, but it immediately begins ringing again, this time with a different ringtone.
“Fuck.” He drops his glassy and still-dilated eyes to me. “Don’t move.” He appears as if he wants to say more but doesn’t.
Usually, orders like that are followed with a threat, and although I appreciate not having my life endangered again today, his expression when he snatches up his cell and squashes it against his ear feels super threatening.
“No…” He speaks in Russian, but I’ve learned a handful of small phrases the past four years. “What special package?” When he locks eyes with me, I careen mine to the floor. “She is here… what?” Anger radiates from him, forcing every muscle in his body to pull taut. “That was not the agreement.” His anger has him switching between Russian and English. “Этот гребаный ублюдок!”
As he continues his conversation, his anger grows—as does his dressed state. In three heart-stuttering seconds, he yanks on a pair of trousers and buttons up his business shirt to the top button. Then, after telling his caller in no uncertain terms that they’re a Russian bastard, he yanks me to my feet and shoves me down the hall with the brutality I was anticipating only seconds ago.
6
KATIE
The stranger’s grip on my arm turns deadly when he stops us in front of a door one deck down from his. It is as shiny as the captain’s door but has no name plaque.
The fight not to step back when the door is swung open is overwhelming. A man with a seedy gleam and even more sullied shirt drags in a long draw of his cigarette before his eyes shift from me to the man who is suddenly acting like I have cooties. “Ghost, to what do I owe the pleasure?”
His welcoming words don’t reflect his depraved gawk. He looks greasy and perverted, and the instruments inside his room have me conjuring up murder scenes in the movies Blaire and I regularly watched over Halloween.
“He wants authentication,” replies the man now known as Ghost, his voice low but still very much demanding.