Rosalind
I’ve been crying in my sleep. The truly disturbing dreams weren’t just the nightmares, not the later ones, anyway.
No, the disturbing ones as of late were of Nikolai, touching me, kissing me, telling me he despised me, not loved me. In my dreams, I begged. I begged the man who kidnapped me to love me.
I put my fingers to my burning cheeks as I sit up, wiping away the embarrassing remnants of my tears. I don’t love him, but in my dreams…I did.
I know I want him. It’s a desperation that eats at me. It comes with an eagerness to please, to bring him pleasure, to have him pleasure me. It’s beyond, I suspect, mere want. The want confuses the absolute hell out of me, but so do the ripples of the dreams, not to mention that eagerness in my veins.
Every small noise makes my heart slam, adrenaline spike. I want him to walk through the door and take me. I want… Him. All of him.
The dream’s emotions wash over me again. I need to admit it. I’m developing feelings for him. It’s not love, but it’s beyond just want. It’s like falling, romantic and sexual at the same time and…what in hell made me feel like this? I don’t want it, but it’s not like I can make myself not care.
“Is this what Stockholm Syndrome is like?” I pause. “What it is?”
I shake the cobwebs out of my head and slowly get ready for the day. I wait patiently, flipping through one book and then the rest, but no one comes.
I spend the day in his shirt again-since I don’t have instructions, I feel this is the right balance, some cover, but also how he wants me.
Again, my heart lurches at the thought.
Is this Stockholm Syndrome? If I could get away, I would. No matter what I feel towards him, I would. Isn’t that the exact opposite of someone in love with their captor?
“You’d come looking for him.”
The words pop out of my mouth before I even realize I’d been thinking them. They shock me-I’m not sure where they sprang from, but the horrible thing is, it’s true. I’d seek him out. I’d want to see him, touch him, know he’s alright.
I don’t want to be held against my will. I know these people are bad people. Dangerous. Powerful. Yet… I suck in a breath.
I want Nikolai so much, I’d come looking for him.
Oh. God.
No…
I’m just confused. Slowly, I stop the pacing I’d been doing half the afternoon and approach the door. The handle turns and opens, and I peek out into the hallways, only to see there’s no one here.
I should run.
I make my way down the stairs, trailing a hand on the banister until I reach the bottom and the big, beautiful foyer. The alarm is armed, as expected, so I decide to just walk, poking about. Eventually, my stomach gurgles its annoyance, and I decide on cereal in the kitchen. I pull out all the ingredients-organic milk, some healthy granola in a fancy ass box, probably hand mixed by virgins to keep it as organic and pure as possible. I locate a bowl and spoon, then pour a glass of water, taking my haul into the silent dining room.
Where is Nikolai? He’s gone, and after my meal, I pop my head into his room out of curiosity. I don’t take more than two steps in, but I do glance around. No camera. I guess he has no need to spy on himself, just me. His presence, though it hangs seductive and there in the air, is old, his spark having been gone for hours.
The room’s neat, masculine. The blinds are up and sunlight streams in on the dark floorboards. He has a fireplace that looks real, a sofa and armchair and coffee table. His huge bed, that arresting, comfortable bed with white sheets and a white, plain quilt made by haphazard hands, sits prominently in the center, and I smile at the slight notion of domesticity.
There are bedside tables, a big bathroom and what looks like dressing room.
What would it be like if this was ours? I’d want to add a feminine touch and-
Ours?
No.
I back out and hurry down the hall, coming to a stop in front of my room.
For some reason, I don’t go in. Instead, I decide to investigate, get the lay of the land in case there’s ever a chance to escape.
That’s what I tell myself.
I mean, I’m nosey, and there’s an instinct in me to always know where the exits are, but here, I don’t try anything that looks like a way out. They’d all be locked, wired, alarmed, and maybe boobytrapped anyway.
I just wander, room to room to room. There’s a gym, a glass atrium, guest rooms, and one room that’s locked. I decide it’s for real torture, BDSM, dark secrets, or weapons. The mental image entertains me for a few moments.
Finally, I discover a room tucked in the back. The sofas in there are old, impossibly comfy looking, and the entire room is covered, floor to ceiling, in books, complete with a ladder that travels along a track. Everything is mismatched in its age and looks, but it’s all quality, and I’m utterly in love.
It’s a library. A real one. Not like the study-library. No, this has no desk, just books and seats and lamps. I lose myself in there, only popping out for a snack when I’m hungry. There are gothic horrors, histories, poetry, thick, impenetrable tomes, modern classics. He has pot boilers and biographies, obscure books and mass market.
The other room I thought might be the library had books that were clearly read, but this is his personal space.
I’m not sure how I know, but the mix of books and the spice of Nikolai is there, just slightly. On a side table is a well-read version of Dante’s The Divine Comedy, a page dog eared where he’s left off. I flick through it, reading bits here and there.
One side is in Italian, the other English. I don’t speak Italian, let alone read it, but as I peruse the English side, I like what I read. There’s something familiar about hell and purgatory that conjures thoughts of Nikolai.
Putting it back carefully, I find a heavy book of art based on Dante’s work. I turn the pages and some of the images-okay, a lot of the images, remind me of Nikolai’s tattoos.
Somehow, it feels a little invasive, so I put the book back. I can come back to it, after all. Instead, I pull out a selection of books. The little demon competitor in me deliberately goes for the opposite of what he sent up to me, and I settle on John Rain and some Jack Ryan. Plus, I grab a book called A Prayer for the Dying by Jack Higgins.
I curl on an armchair and start to read.
Later, something jerks me awake and I pant a little, not realizing I’d nodded off. Long shadows fill the room and I listen, but whatever I heard must’ve been the old house.
Mom used to tell me old places had souls, that they lived, breathed, sighed, and remembered what happened in their walls. I think that was after I got scared once at a sound, shaking so hard, I hid with my teddy gripped tight in my hands, like some kind of weapon.
She always knew how to find me. She sat on the floor by the bed, whispering how smart I was, that I should always hide or run if my instincts told me to, that he couldn’t get to us if I hid.
It was only the house this time. With a shaking hand, I reach up and switch on the lamp next to the armchair, the golden light chasing the shadows back.
I didn’t remember that until now. She said he. Not it, not a faceless danger. He.
My father. That’s who she meant.
Mom, when she did speak of him, usually did it in sweeping, generic ways, like he was a deadbeat and she needed to get away. It’s why we ran, so he couldn’t find us. She always made it sound like my father was the kind of deadbeat nuisance who might just take her money, not a real danger.
But in my dreams, there was something, a man.
Her bleeding face, bruised, swollen, twisted in fear.
No dream, I’m thinking, but real.
Real, just like the fragments I slotted as remembered nightmares of horrible noises, of someone hurting me, of Mom screaming. Mom taking a fist to the face instead of letting that fist hit me. The dumpsters. Hiding.
Pounding fear.
It all jumbles together and my mouth is dry and I’m cold and alone.
“Calm down.”
I breathe slow and steady, trying to calm my slamming heart until I can safely stand. I wrap the shirt around me tight and find the closest room with a bar, grabbing the bourbon and a glass and running back to the safety of Nikolai’s library.
Pouring a drink, I take comfort in the slide and burn of the sweet and heady liquor, honey and caramel on my tongue. It hits my belly, spreading warmth through my limbs and I sigh, setting the glass down on the side table.
I’m not sure what time it is, but it’s dark when my skin prickles and my pulse leaps. I didn’t hear the door or footsteps, but Nikolai is there, standing in the doorway.
“Found my library.”
“Clearly-I mean yes.”
He laughs softly, and there’s a needing light in his eyes. He looks tired; no shoes, and his jacket and tie are already gone, his sleeves rolled up. I want to ask where he’s been, but I don’t. That’s overstepping, and now… now the room is alive with him and I’m… happy.
“I think I have Stockholm Syndrome,” I say before I can stop the words.
He makes his way from the door to kneel in front of me, plucking the book from my hand and looking at it. “Oh, you’ve decided that, have you? I don’t mind if it means you’re here, naked and waiting. For me.”
Just like that, I’m horny and wet. It’s like he knows where the switch is. “I’m reading about John Rain.”
“I’m aware.” He pulls my thighs apart and slides between them, kissing my inner thigh, making me quiver and jump and moan. “Were you waiting for me, Rose?” “Yes…”
“Good.” He leans down and kisses my other thigh, then back to the first. Each time, it’s a little higher and my breathing gets a little more labored.
Nikolai pulls me to him, my legs splayed and open as he drags my pussy to his face. He kisses me there, long and slow. Then he looks up from between my thighs and I’m just lost. If I live forever, I’ll remember this moment, the power of it, the sheer lust on his face, the electric charge in the room.
“I love your fucking cunt, little Rose.”
Then he shows me just how much. He takes his time, eating me out. Even if I wanted to, no one could resist the slight roughness of his day-old stubble, the softness of his lips, the nip of his teeth, the talented push and lick of his tongue.
He sucks my flesh just right and the need ricochets to lust and pleasure and back to need. When he moves to my clit and adds his fingers into the mix, I scream and whimper, my body in overdrive, the desire building to an intense, radiating throb.
Without warning, I come hard, clenching around him, holding him to me like my pussy never wants to let go.
As the orgasm passes, leaving me boneless, replete, he stands, undoing his pants and pulling out his hard cock. His fingers twine in my hair as he guides me up and I go willingly.
I take him into my mouth, devouring him, needing it. This is something I need like air.