2. I Belong To Him Now

Emily

I made a deal with the devil himself...

   There was a moment right as I reached the door at the address on Nico's card where I thought about running.

     

Spinning on my heel, sprinting down the stairs and out to the street, melting into the city until the sky fades to black and my legs give out. I pictured myself catching a bus to anywhere, getting off without a plan, changing my name, erasing every trace. Disappearing.

     

But the image that followed—one I couldn’t shake and that made my stomach twist—was Nico chasing me.

     

Not running. Just walking, calm and unhurried, already knowing where I’ll end up.

    

So instead, I opened the door and went up.

     

The ground floor was occupied by a Michelin-starred French restaurant, the kind where you need a connection just to get a reservation. The second floor was a tech startup…something to do with “AI-streamlined efficiency congruence”, whatever that means.

     

But the third floor—the one I'm now on—is something else entirely. And it feels…old, like a time capsule to an earlier New York, especially contrasted against the elegant restaurant and the glass-and-neon tech bro haven below.

    

The door is solid wood, with a framed sign affixed to it that announces in very 80’s font Lickity Splits: Hottest Girls in the Big Apple!

     

I stare at it for a full thirty seconds.

    

A fucking strip club?

     

For a moment, I think this must be a joke.

     

Then I remember the look in Nico’s eyes last night. The quiet commanding tone in his voice.

   

  He wasn’t joking.

   

  I place a trembling palm on the door, my whole body coiled so tight I feel it might snap in half, and push it open.

    

The inside is all dark wood floors, vintage leather furniture, and lots of old bookshelves filled with…well…old books.

     

No neon. No strobes. No poles. No lap dances, thank God.

     

But there is him.

     

Nico.

He’s sitting behind the desk at the far end of the large room, flanked by those high bookshelves on one side and a vintage bar cart on the other. The shades are drawn, giving the space a low, sultry, somewhat smokey-gauzy feel. Just a few dim, golden lights are on.

    

A cigarette dangles from his perfect lips, smoke curling lazily into the air. He doesn’t say anything when I enter. Doesn’t greet me. Just watches me with the same expression he had that night he caught me on the rooftop—cold, indecipherable, something I can’t quite place.

     

Detachment?

   

I step inside, and the door clicks softly shut behind me.

    

The air is warm. I’m already sweating beneath my hoodie.

     

"You’re late," he finally says.

     

I glance at the wall clock. Two minutes past eight.

     

"Sorry," I whisper. “The subway⁠—”

     

“I wasn't asking for an excuse.”

     

Nico leans back in his chair, the leather creaking underneath him. "Take off your sweatshirt.”

    

I hesitate.

    

His brows lift slightly, and something in my stomach plummets. I shrug off the hoodie, turning to drop it onto a chair next to the door. I’m left standing in just my long-sleeve t-shirt and leggings. I’m not cold, but I shiver anyway.

     

"Hmm," he murmurs, his gaze running over me. "Ballet Barbie reporting for duty. Though I did say to look pretty."

     

I flush. My fists clench. I’m not sure if it’s out of anger or shame.

    

"But you didn’t come here to look pretty, Naomi. You came here because you belong to me now. Isn’t that right."

     

I… I don’t know how to answer that.

    

He doesn’t wait for me to try. He stands, slowly walks around the desk, and leans back against it.

     

Silence fills the room, building to an uncomfortable, noiseless crescendo.

     

“So…” I trail off, looking at the floor as my fingers pick at my cuticles. “What did you want me here for?”

I won’t lie. I debated this heavily all night, and all morning before I came here. I wondered if the address was a location where he was going to straight-up torture or murder me. I almost expected to walk in and see chains and hot irons, or a firing squad of mafia hitmen.

     

“I think I was very clear last night when I said you were mine now,” Nico growls.

     

I tremble.

     

That’s another thought I had: wondering if there was something equally dark but in a totally different part of the forest waiting for me here today.

     

“You’re mine now.”

     

The tone of his voice and the dark black hunger in his eyes had made it pretty clear what that might mean, even to someone like me.

     

“But in case I’m mistaken,” he purrs, “and I was not as clear as I could have been, let’s start with something simple." He takes a final drag of his cigarette and turns to stub it out in a crystal ashtray on the desk before turning back to me. His lips don't move, but a hint of amusement sparks in his cold gaze.

     

"Strip."

     

My heart drops to the pit of my stomach.

     

I blink. "W-what?"

    

“I’m quite sure you heard me."

     

He can’t be fucking serious.

     

“Nico—“

     

"You’re wasting my time. And I know you’re not stupid, which means you’re doing so purposefully. It's starting to piss me off.”

     

He rolls his neck, exhaling slowly.

     

“Have you ever seen someone you love almost blown to pieces in front of you?”

     

I flinch, as if struck.

     

“Nico, I’m so sorry⁠—”

     

“You don’t have to be sorry. You didn’t order a car bomb delivered to my front door. Unfortunately, the man who did is untouchable. Equally as unfortunately, you are the opposite. Which is why you’re mine now, to do with as I please. And if that is having you strip in front of me while I watch…” He lifts a shoulder. “I would start making fucking peace with that,” he growls. “Is that clear.”

     

I swallow, nodding.

     

“Then stop wasting my fucking time. Strip.”

Hands trembling, I reach down and grip the hem of my t-shirt. My chest tightens as I pull it over my head and toss it aside. Then I slip my fingers into the waistband of my leggings. I slide them down slowly, stepping out of them hesitantly, until I’m standing in my bra and underwear, breathing shallowly.

     

Cold silence hangs in the room for a moment.

    

"That's not stripping," Nico says calmly.

     

My cheeks flame, but I continue.

    

Every motion feels like a betrayal. Not of myself, but my idea of myself. I’m not shy about being naked. I change in front of other dancers every day, even in front of male dancers backstage during quick costume changes.

    

But this is different.

   

  This is intimate.

     

This is my power being taken.

   

  And the way he watches me makes it worse.

    

He doesn’t leer. Doesn’t ogle. Just…inspects me, like I’m a specimen under glass. Cataloging what belongs to him.

   

  I stand there trying not to shake, my hands making a feeble attempt to cover my breasts and sex.

     

Nico pushes away from the desk and begins to circle me slowly. I flinch a little when he takes my wrist, pulling my hands away from my body.

    

“Hmm,” he murmurs almost to himself, gaze dropping to my pussy. “Next time, I want you shaved.”

    

My cheeks flame with heat. I keep it trimmed down there. I mean, with the light-colored tights, it's just better. But I don’t shave completely either.

     

I swallow hard. "Why?" I mumble.

     

"Because that’s what I prefer," he growls. "More important, because I said so."

     

He walks around behind me. I flinch when I feel his warm breath on my neck.

    

"Desk," he murmurs. "Bend over it."

      My body locks up.

     

"Now."

     

I still don’t move.

    

He sighs, annoyed. "Need I remind you what happens if you say no? What I have?”

     

I die a little inside as the mere mention of that disgusting tape of my assault, which he still thinks is a fucking porno.

I hate that he has something over me.

   

  "I—no," I stammer.

    

“Then go to that fucking desk and bend the fuck over it.”

     

Shame floods my body as I quietly walk over to his desk. I feel like I’m watching from outside my body as I stop in front of the heavy wooden desk.

    

“That’s part one. Now two…”

     

I close my eyes, my heart thudding an irregular staccato against my ribs.

   

  “I—no,” I choke.

Nico sighs darkly right behind me. I can feel his heat against my bare back; smell his heady scent: leather, tobacco, masculine and clean.

    

“Why the fuck not,” he says darkly.

     

“Because it's humiliating,” I blurt.

     

I gasp sharply when I feel his lips brush against my ear.

    

“Good.”

     

I shudder.

    

Finally, I do as he commands and bend over the desk, my bare breasts and my cheek pressing to the polished wood when I turn my head to the side.

    

“Arms up. Grab the far edge of it.”

     

My pulse hammers in my veins. My body trembles and shakes with a swirling mix of shame, fear, excitement, and horror at feeling that excitement.

     

My palms land on the desk, the cool wood biting into my skin. My spine tenses. My legs tremble.

     

I can’t believe I’m doing this.

     

Who the hell am I right now?

     

Behind me, I hear the quiet, unhurried tread of Nico’s shoes against the floor. I can feel his heat at my back again, feel his gaze drifting over my skin like smoke.

    

“Spread your legs,” he murmurs.

     

I don’t move. I can't.

    

His hand comes down lightly on my lower back—not hard, not forceful.

    

But firm.

    

Commanding.

    

So I obey.

     

My whole body hums with shame and something dark I can’t name, and my cheeks burn as I feel exposed in a way that has nothing to do with nudity. It feels deeper, as if someone is peeling me open, layer by layer, displaying all the things I never meant to reveal.

    

Suddenly, his hand slides between my legs and cups my pussy firmly from behind.

     

I gasp, choking as my eyes snap wide, every muscle in my body clenching.

     

My skin is on fire. My heart is jackrabbiting. I brace for panic—expect it to rise up screaming after everything that happened to me not that long ago.

     

Strangely, it doesn’t.

     

His fingers slide over my pussy lips, exploratory and possessive. My knees nearly buckle as I bite down hard on my bottom lip.

    

“We need to be clear about something,” he says, his voice low and dangerous near my ear. “And we might as well get it out of the way now.”

   

  His hand moves slowly and deliberately, fingers stroking up and down. I shiver, shame flooding my face as something else floods elsewhere at the tingling, dangerous, exciting feeling his touch on my most intimate place brings out.

     

“When I say you’re mine, I mean all of you. Every thought you have? Mine. Every inch of this body? Mine. This pussy?”

    

His fingertip parts my lips, sliding down to roll over my mortifyingly swollen clit.

   

  “Mine. Do you understand?”

    

I don’t answer.

    

Because, again, I can’t.

I hate that he has rhis much power over me.

And I'm mad at myself for getting myself involved with someone like him.

Dangerous and also annoyingly good looking.

It's infuriating how attractive he is.

To be continued....