Salt And Steel

Lucy Roshid.

Wednesday, February 4th. New York. Night.

I draw in a breath. Sharp and painful. It’s like the air wants to tear my lungs in two.

A cough rasps out of me, raw and burning. Most likely from whatever was pressed to my nose before I was brought here. My eyes, my eyes won’t open. They’re bound by something soft. Silk. Like a second skin. And above it something heavier, covering half my face.

Why is half my face covered?

My senses feel disoriented. Foggy. Like I hit my head. I tug at my hands, trying to tear away whatever feels heavy over my face.

They don’t move.

Ropes, strong ropes hold me. Panic spikes violently inside me. My pulse slams hard against my ribs.

The scent in here is heavy with oak, pine and old money. Cold air conditioning wraps round me. A complete atmosphere I’ve never known, back home and at the brothel, where I started working just a week ago.

My heavy panting fills the silence of the room, fast and shallow. I’m breathless. Exhausted by fear and then something else. An odd stimulation. Fear mixed with cold. An unexpected thrill slithers through me as I try to make sense of my surroundings.

I don’t know where I am. I can’t know where I am. But wherever this is, I’m naked. I feel thin strings barely covering most of my private parts. The rest of me is bare. Exposed.

“I’m in lingerie.”

The realization slams into me. That means whoever brought me here did this deliberately. Panic explodes.

“Help! Help!”

Silence.

I keep crying out. But no one comes. Seconds stretch. Maybe minutes, before a door opens.

I freeze.

The air shifts. A presence enters. Then a scent follows immediately.

Strong. Bergamot. Citrus. Male.

Heavy, unhurried footsteps move farther in. The door shuts. Lock clicks in.

I inhale a shaky breath.

“I don’t like the thought of you screaming the roof down, Kitten.”

A man’s voice.

Strong. Calm. Commanding. Velvet and darkness wrapped together.

My breath snags.

Kitten?

The way he says it, authority dripping from every syllable, makes my pussy clench before I can stop it. My body betrays me instantly.

I fight it. “My name isn’t Kitten. It's Salt.” My voice shakes. “Who...are you? Are you the one that brought me here?”

Silence.

Footsteps again. His. Coming closer. I whip my head toward the sound. We’re alone in here. I hear glass rattle. Something like rocks shifting sharply.

Then he moves again.

Closer. My heart pounds harder as his scent envelops me completely.

He circles me. Slowly. Unhurried, like he owns the room and me.

Something cold climbs my bare arm. I hiss.

Ice.

The shock sends a thrilling jolt straight to my core. The cold seeps deeper, until I’m molten inside. He doesn’t stop. Steps closer. His fingers slip beneath the thin fabric holding my breasts in place.

He pinches one bud.

I hiss again. I struggle. I cry out. But it's no use.

Then he pinches the other. Another hiss escapes me as he drags the ice down my arms, over my stomach, tracing my belly button.

A slow, deep moan spills from my mouth. My lips part as I gasp for air.

Then warmth replaces cold. He takes one nipple into his mouth, the same mouth that spoke with such command and sucks hard. My bound legs part on instinct.

The pain is sharp and delicious, sending electric jolts through my body, making me sway helplessly. The ice continues its slow torment.

When it reaches my slick sheath, he stops. Then he pulls away.

I gasp at the sudden loss of his warmth. I’m breathless. I don’t know his face. I don’t know him. I don’t even know how I got here. And I just moaned for him. Shame instantly floods me, even though a part of me grossly enjoyed it. Bile instantly rises in my throat, just as fabric rustles in the air.

“I know your name isn’t Kitten. Or Salt.” he says calmly. I gasp. How did he know? Salt is my name at Davenport. “You’re Lucy Roshid. And tonight, I asked my men to bring you here.”

Memory crashes into me.

Leaving the brothel. The migraine splitting my skull. Going out to buy medication for it. Reaching my car, a cloth over my mouth. Then darkness.

“You won’t get away with this.” I cry, rage breaking through fear. “Davenport will report the authorities. They will find you...”

A low, dangerous chuckle cuts me off.

He’s close again. Right in front of me.

“Davenport would only report me,” he says evenly, “if he could wake from the dead.”

I gasp.

Davenport? Dead.

“How?” My voice trembles. “Who are you?”

If he killed Davenport, he can kill me.

I had only lasted one week at Davenport.

One week of pretending my life hadn't collapsed and now I hear Davenport is dead.

"P... Please... Please don't hurt me... Please." I plead, desperately. "Help!" I scream.

Instead of answering, he slips two fingers inside me.

Slow. Gentle.

Different from anything I’ve felt since I started working at Davenport. Different from the men that have devoured me since I started there. He circles my clit, strokes it, coaxes it until I part for him.

My lips stay parted. My gasps and moans fill the room. All my sharp words dissolve into weakness.

He pushes deeper.

I arch helplessly as he works me with reverent, precise strokes, stretching me until I ache, needy and open. Until my moans are the only sound left.

“Yes, Kitten… Cum for me… Just like that… Look at how wet you are for me.”

He whispers against my ear.

Kisses my neck. Bites.

My body treacherously obeys.

I unravel hard, my thighs slick, my head falling to the side as I pant for air.

“Does Kitten want me inside her?” He asks.

I hesitate. The word 'no' perches on my tongue. But fear at what he's capable of claws inside me.

I nod instead. Already hating myself for my response. For my fear.

That’s all I can manage. That’s all I understand now. I shouldn’t even respond to him after all he said. Why is my body reacting like this? He kidnapped me.

I should hate him.

“Good, Kitten.” He praises. “Now part your legs for me like a good girl and take me all in.”

My legs are already bound.

But his voice lures me completely. I spread them wider anyway.

I hear foil rip.

Then he lifts me and pushes inside, slowly, inch by painful inch. He stretches me wide until he’s buried deep.

Our quiet grunts fill the room.

He moves gently at first, strong arms holding me steady. His thrusts are slow, controlled, unaffected by the danger of this moment.

I moan against his lips as he hovers close. He kisses me deeply, his tongue mimicking the rhythm inside me.

I kiss him back, despite myself.

Then he pulls out and slams back in, faster this time.

We’re both gasping now. I shouldn’t like this. I shouldn’t be this wet. Why is my body doing this? This isn’t me. This is wrong. So why can’t I stop?

My slick warmth soaks us both. And the way he fills me feels devastatingly good.

My body betrays me again.

Another orgasm builds, real, raw, not drug-induced like the ones I’m used to. A man is truly making me orgasm.

He swells inside me.

“Come for me, Kitten,” he murmurs.

I’m about to fall apart when he whispers in my ear,

“Say my name… Say Chase.”

“Chase.” I detonate.

I cum hard as he releases a guttural cry that wrecks me. Fractures me.

Chase.

The thought of his name settles deep inside me, terrifying, undeniable, because this is the first time I'm cummin for a man without the drugs. And I hate that about me. I hate that my body answered him. I hate that part of me wants more.

And then his voice changes. It's cold and certain.

“Get dressed, Lucy.”

His hands release the ropes. He called my name again.

And somewhere nearby, a phone starts ringing. He crosses to the phone and answers it.

"Hello? Have you killed him? The security guard that saw you take the girl?"

I gasp loudly. He turns slowly to face me. A cruel smile on his lips.

"Good. Now there will be no witnesses to Lucy's disappearance from Davenport."

I pale. He's dangerous. He's a killer. I need to get out of here.