5. Ivan

5

IVAN

B ecca didn’t tell me anything. The sight of her tight-lipped, stubborn, and angry with her sizzling green gaze on me like that…

I paced in the hallway outside the room I’d locked her in. Back and forth, I walked out this instant lust that she’d lit within me.

My dick ached, straining under my pants. I breathed fast, riled up with desire and a potent hit of needing to fuck that defiant woman hard and fast.

To make her bend.

To make her talk.

I wasn’t bluffing. I would get my answers out of her. I wouldn’t fail. But I had to step back, away where I could inhale and not notice her fresh, innocent scent. Apart from her so I wouldn’t be drawn further under the spell to want her so badly.

Her pushing back was my kryptonite. Her tough exterior and pretending to be ballsy with a silent treatment and cold shoulder made me want her more.

I would get my answers.

She was a hostage, and she had a purpose here.

That purpose wasn’t for my pleasure. She wasn’t a subbie looking for a firm lover. She wasn’t a guest at any of the clubs, seeking a good time.

She was a hostage, to be kept as a bait that should make Murphy reveal himself. And then I could take him down.

Heaving out a final deep breath, I glowered at the closed door. Behind that wooden panel was my enemy’s daughter, an innocent woman who wouldn’t ever understand the depth of my desire, the darkness of my kinks. Becca was bound in there not for a good fuck, but to serve as a way of pulling her father out of hiding.

Or will she?

I compared the little that she did share. At first, she was too sassy for her own good, responding to my questions about Murphy. She didn’t fill me with hope, though. By her account, Steven Murphy was not close with his daughter, perhaps so distant and aloof that the man might not care about her being held here.

Fuck. I rubbed my hand over the back of my neck, worrying that Becca might not deliver a purpose at all.

When I asked about the Rossinis, though, she’d barely had the time to hide her reaction. She knew them, or something about them. She had to if the mere mention of the Rossinis got her flinching, her eyes widening more with fear.

If Murphy was working with the Rossinis, she had to know something about either party, and whatever nugget of information she could expose, I’d take it. I had to find that fucker one way or another.

Adjusting the bulge of my erection, I smoothed down my shirt and tamped back this instant flare of lust.

This wasn’t the time for that.

No kinks. No fantasies. She was a hostage and not for me to enjoy.

I reentered the room, pleased to see that she hadn’t moved in the few minutes I’d stepped into the hallway for a breather.

She put up a good fight, reacting to the fight-or-flight instinct when I removed her from the club. I dismissed all her attempts to squeeze her hands out. She wasn’t slipping out of that rope. This was far from my first rodeo of tying someone up.

Becca hadn’t taken this experience easily, restraining and wrestling to get free.

Yet she wasn’t so stupid to assume she could launch at me or attack in here to get her way.

Sitting on the bed, staring at me mulishly like that, she appeared to be a recalcitrant woman who needed a good spanking. An attitude adjustment. Someone to steer her into more obedience.

Dammit. My dick stirred again, hardening as I matched her stern gaze.

She wasn’t backing down. I bet she intended to sit there silently and try to wait me out.

But why? Why fight me so hard? Besides the obvious consequences of being taken hostage, why be this stubborn to fight me with answers?

More questions filled my mind as I struggled to resist the allure of her.

Is she a spy?

She admitted that Murphy previously asked her to do a “favor” for him at a sex club. That told me she was familiar with his proclivity to do shady shit. How much more was she aware of?

Is she working with him and acting like Murphy is no friend or ally of hers?

I wanted to believe her when she insisted that she wasn’t close with Murphy. Failing to miss her immediate reaction to my mention of the Rossini name had to mean something more.

Are they all working together? If I knew what Murphy planned with the Rossinis, I could use that scheme against them and bring them all down.

What the fuck are you up to? I narrowed my eyes at her, desperate to root out something useful from behind her closed lips. It felt like I was reaching at any doubt and guess as an excuse to resist her. No matter how long I appreciated her bold stare, I realized I wasn’t infallible.

Becca called to me on a cellular level, and I decided to ride with it.

“Anything else you’d like to say?” I asked, stepping closer as I pulled a long length of a silky sash from my pocket.

She swallowed as she watched what I showed her in my hands as I stalked forward.

No? She remained quiet.

“Still gonna play this game and act like you can’t speak up?”

I set my knee on the edge of the bed, right between her legs. Coming this close, I forced her to lean back as I reached for the headboard. One slip of the sash around the metal bars was enough, because I was sure she’d be fighting to get closer to me, not away, once I amped up my efforts here.

“Silent treatment?” I goaded as I gripped her collar and yanked down. Buttons flew off, and she gasped at the destruction of her uniform shirt. Beneath the pale lavender fabric, a black lacy camisole stretched over her chest, her breasts testing the endurance of the material as she breathed hard and fast.

“That’s all you got for me?” I reached behind her, rubbing my side against her tits as I sliced through the ropes at her wrist to retie her hands over her head. The silky bindings looked fucking perfect on her. The contrast of the dark red satin against her pale skin…

Gorgeous. As was the panic in her eyes as I shoved her backward until the binding on the headboard tugged her to lie back.

“Silence?” I raised my brows as she shivered, staring at me with fear in her blue eyes wide with alarm.

Still, she kept her mouth shut.

I flipped my knife around and traced the butt of the handle along her lips. Rubbing back and forth again, I taunted her to part those lips and answer me.

“We’ll see about that.”

After pushing her legs down, I curled my fingers around the hem of her shorts and pulled. Once, twice. I forced the garment down, along with her panties.

“Nothing to say yet?” I watched her, reinvigorated and so fucking revved up with lust coursing through my veins.

Stubborn as fuck. Strong to a fault. As I dragged her clothes off her, leaving her shorts and panties at one ankle before I tied them to other posts at the foot of the bed, I waited for her to break.

To speak up. To tell me to wait. To stop what I was doing.

It was a game, a battle of wills, and as I checked that all four limbs were secure, I wondered if she was silent because she had nothing to say or if she was insistent on keeping her information from me.

“Not gonna tell me to stop?” I teased.

I knelt on the bed, feasting my eyes on her creamy skin. So smooth, so soft. All for my pleasure if I so wanted.

Keeping my eyes on hers, steadying my breath as my cock strained beneath my zipper, I slid the handle of my knife up along the inside of her thigh. She trembled and shook, so overwhelmed that she closed her eyes tight.

Back and forth. Up and down. I traced the blade of my knife over her flesh without marring her once. Then I repeated it with the thick cylinder of the handle.

At her pussy, I pushed and rubbed her, grinding the rounded head of the handle at her entrance.

Glistening and plump, pink and succulent, her cunt captured my attention. She was wet. Aroused. And I grinned as I watched her squeeze her eyes shut tighter.

A sweet whimper left her lips, but she clamped them into a thin line once more.

“What do you have to tell me, Becca?” I crooned as I wedged the tip of my knife handle into her pussy.

She panted, breathing faster as I penetrated her. With my hand wrapped in the last of the silky binding I hadn’t needed to use on her, I gripped the blade and worked the handle in deeper.

Fuck. Yes.

She was so tight. Dripping wet. Her tits rose and fell faster with shallow inhales, and I fought the urge to rip her shirt down so I could see the nipples that beaded beneath the thin, stretchy fabric.

“Want to come clean and tell me what you’re up to with your dad?” I pushed the handle in deeper, gritting my teeth at how she bucked her hips up, sucking it in.

“You like that, huh?”

She shook her head, lying as she arched into my touch.

“If you tell me…” I pulled the knife out, and back. Again and again, I fucked her little pussy with my weapon. “Then I’ll keep going.”

“I—” She cinched her eyes shut tighter yet, straining with a grimace of need and frustration.

“You what, Becca?” I pushed faster, deeper, rubbing and dragging the ribbed hilt over the tender, tight walls of her cunt.

Frantic, she shook her head. She didn’t stop lifting up to meet me. Her heels pushed into the mattress for better purchase. The muscles in her arms flexed and tensed as she tried to hold on to the bindings at her wrists. With her whole body, she lied, rushing closer to get off on my knife handle sliding in and out of her cunt.

“What is it? What do you really want to tell me?”

An incoherent reply was all she uttered. Maybe it was a grunt. Recognizing the signs of her being so close to coming, feeling her pussy starting to near an orgasm, I stopped.

Abruptly. I withdrew the knife and retreated to stand on the bed.

A keening cry slipped from her. She bucked, her stomach tensing as she thrust into the air as though she followed my shadow.

“No.”

I watched her protest, eyes cloudy with desire and impatience. Frustration too. She stared up at me, her breaths labored. Scowling, she kept a close watch as I lifted my knife and licked the hilt, tasting her tangy cream.

“You fucking asshole.”

“Gonna talk now?”

She growled, flailing at her bindings. When she stuck with growls and grunts, clenched teeth and sneers, I shrugged.

“I refuse to play games with you!”

I ignored her wrath, walking around the bed and willing my erection to give up on her. This was a game. And I would be the winner.

A swift slice through the ties at her ankles had her halfway freed.

Then another cut through the tie to the headboard lowered her trembling arms. Whether she shook from fear, anger, or disappointment at having her orgasm withheld, I didn’t know.

But I’d let her stew on it.

Leaving her again, I ignored the sounds of her protests and fury.

I slammed the door, locking it as I dropped my brow to the wood.

Breathing hard, I struggled to regain my composure.

She was too sexy. Too inviting, a challenge I didn’t want to quit on.

Fuck, does she get to me.

But this was a game. A ploy. I had to remember that.

Becca was a hostage. A means to an end. And I hated that she got under my skin so much, turned me on so quickly that I was starting to lose sight of that.

As I calmed down, waiting to erase the image of her spread out on that bed, sucking my knife into her cunt and making me wish it were my dick, I lost sight of that.

I couldn’t afford to go weak around her.

Walking away, I vowed not to.

I’d be damned if a sweet innocent like her—a hostage and pawn in this feud—could threaten my determination to find and kill her father.