31. Charlotte

31

CHARLOTTE

I do as he says.

I run.

I'm not sure where I'm running to, exactly. I take off across the fairgrounds, my boots slapping against the dirt, but Ivan is keeping pace with me. I quickly realize that he's not just keeping pace—he's purposefully staying just behind me. Angling himself to send me in a particular direction, and I realize a moment later that it's toward the connected houses at the back of the carnival. The haunted house. The maze. The house of mirrors.

Fear beats in my veins out of sheer instinct, but underneath it, there's something else. Something darker. Ivan won't hurt me. I know that, deep down—that he never would. Not physically, even if the emotional wounds that he left are still raw. And if he wouldn't actually hurt me, then this is about something else.

Something we've both wanted for a long time.

I remember Venom, telling me he wanted to chase me through an apple orchard. This is a far cry from that, but it's somehow better, the close, shadowy darkness of the now- abandoned carnival, on the eve of Halloween, adding a layer of fear and ambiance to it that makes my pulse race faster, the heat in my blood singing through me until it's spread all throughout my body, a different kind of heat that has me panting by the time I duck into the first of the houses.

Ivan's footsteps are heavy behind me. "Run, little dove," he growls, his voice bouncing around the space until I swear I hear it from every direction, unsure of where he's going to come at me from.

I want to run. And I want to be caught.

The house is empty now, none of the killers or ghosts or skeletons left in the rooms, only the decorations. I almost trip over a fake gravestone as I run through one of the rooms, and I hear Ivan close, so close that as I dart around a medical table soaked in fake blood, I think he's going to grab me.

I think the only reason that he doesn't is because he's not ready for the chase to be over yet, either.

I bolt through the haunted house, down the hall that connects it to the next one, into the maze. My heart is beating so hard that it almost hurts, and the confinement of the maze, the twists and turns, only adds to the adrenaline. But this is a different kind of adrenaline than what I've been feeling for the last several days. This is an adrenaline that leads to something I want. An anticipation of something that I need—and I think Ivan needs it, too.

I hear his footsteps and swing left, darting down the next hall—and come out into a room of mirrors, my panting, breathless, figure visible from every angle.

Ivan appears in the mirror, a dark shadow behind me, that mask still firmly on his face. I hear a door slam behind me, hear the click of something, and he moves closer, that skeleton mask smiling at me in a tight grimace.

"Little dove," he murmurs, and when his hands touch my waist, I yelp. "Looks like I caught you."

I can't breathe. His hands slide up my waist, up to my breasts through my thin t-shirt, molding them in his hands as he pulls me back against him. My back is flush to his chest, my ass pressed to his groin, and I can feel how hard he is.

"I've been hard since the moment I started chasing you, dove," Ivan growls in my ear, his hands dropping to them hem of my shirt. "I'm fucking throbbing , thinking about what I'm going to do now that I've caught you. My little bird, out of her cage."

He yanks my shirt up, over my head, leaving me in my bra and jeans. I hadn't even realized there was a chair in the room, but he reaches over and grabs one that I didn't see in the darkness, yanking it between us and shoving me down into it. I gasp, letting out a terrified squeak as I feel the sudden rough rasp of rope around my wrists, and Ivan grabs them, pulling my arms behind me and tying my hands together behind the chair.

"My pretty little captive. You want to be so angry at me for ‘kidnapping' you, right? For chasing you down and trying to make you mine. I've tried to be patient, dove. I've tried to show you that I know I went about it all wrong. But you're angry at me anyway. I'm damned if I do, damned if I don't. So—" Ivan chuckles behind the mask, and I see the glint of a knife, reflected in what seems like a hundred mirrors. "I've decided to do ."

He won't hurt me. This is a game. He won't hurt me. I know it, logically. But my instincts tell me that there's a man with a knife, a muscled, dangerous man who could absolutely hurt me if he wanted to. That I'm tied, and helpless, and that I'm in danger.

I kick out at him, twisting and opening my mouth to scream, and Ivan lunges forward, bending over me as he claps one gloved hand to my mouth.

The feeling of the leather against my lips brings back a flood of memories, and I gasp, arousal soaking between my thighs as I let out an involuntary, helpless moan.

"That's my good girl," Ivan murmurs. "I paid the carnies to ignore any sounds they heard. Paid them well, too. So I don't think we'll need to worry about that." I feel the cold slide of the blade against my back, and then the sudden looseness of my bra as he cuts through it, slicing away the straps until the garment falls to the floor.

My nipples instantly harden in the cold air, and Ivan sinks down, kneeling between my legs. He reaches up with the hand not holding the knife, cupping the curve of my breast, his gloved thumb rolling over my nipple.

The second he touches me, I let out a whimper, my hips arching up. Ivan chuckles darkly, tilting his head, that white mask staring up at me. My cheeks flush hot at my reaction to him, but it's been too long. The tension has been simmering for days, building since the last time he bent me over that sink, refusing to fuck me. We've come so close, teased right up to the edge of it, and now I'm desperate for him. Desperate for more, desperate for him to make me come.

"Little dove." Ivan reaches up, pressing the point of the knife tip into my breast as he circles it around my nipple. Not hard enough to draw blood, or even really enough to hurt, but enough for me to feel the sting. He traces the tip around, between my breasts to the other one, pricking my nipple with the knife as he leans in and captures the other hard, stinging point between his gloved fingers.

The sharp point of the knife and the pressure of his fingers against my nipples is almost too much to bear. My hips arch up again, and I moan, my head tipping back as my legs splay open. The knife presses deeper, and I feel Ivan pinch my nipple hard between his fingertips, hard enough to make me yelp.

"Keep your eyes open, Charlotte," he commands. "I want you to watch all of this. I want you to watch what I do to you. Watch how badly you need it. Watch yourself squirm and beg while I strip you down. And every time you close your eyes—" He twists the knife around my nipple again, rolling the opposite one, sending a shudder down my spine. "I'll make it hurt. But you like that too, don't you, filthy girl?"

I glare down at him, refusing stubbornly to answer. But Ivan just chuckles, tweaking my nipple as he digs the knife tip directly into the center of the other one, pushing me further.

The sensation jolts straight down to my clit, a flood of mingled pain and pleasure making me cry out. "Please," I gasp, and Ivan pulls back, looking at his handiwork. I don't have to look down to know my nipples are red and swollen, hard as diamonds from his attention.

"Please, what, little dove?"

I don't even know what to beg for. I want to come, but I'm not far gone enough to beg for that yet. Ivan laughs darkly, dropping the knife onto his lap as he leans in to reach for the button of my jeans.

"That's what I thought. But we'll get there. Now tell me, dove, if you don't want to be punished again. How wet are you for me? Have you soaked through those panties yet?"

I press my lips tightly together, still glaring at him. Some small part of my mind, in the back of my head, knows that I'm doing this on purpose. That I want the pain. That this is the filthy, perverse thing I was chasing when I logged onto that site in the first place, when I talked to Venom, when all of this began.

I wanted this. I wanted all of it. And Ivan is going to make me face it. I've been punishing him for it, so he's going to punish me in return.

He reaches up with both hands, twisting my nipples hard. I cry out, the sound ending in a moan as I feel myself clench, my hips arching up as if I can get any friction that way. My hands twist uselessly in the ropes behind me, and I want desperately to get them free, to get the pleasure that I so desperately need. But Ivan is the only one who can give it to me.

"You'll answer before I'm done with you." He reaches down, yanking my zipper and curling his fingers into the waist of my jeans, dragging them down my hips all the way to my boots. He pushes my legs open, leaning in as he tugs off one glove, his bare fingers dragging up my center between my legs, pressed against the wet cotton of my panties.

"So fucking wet," he groans. "My good little dove. All nice and wet for my cock. But you won't get that yet. Not until you tell me what I need to hear."

He reaches for the knife again, and I shudder as I feel the cold metal slide under the edge of my panties, tracing the taut flesh of my abdomen as he cuts the fabric away. I let out a small, helpless moan as he tosses it aside, pushing my thighs wider as he traces the knife tip over the swollen folds of my pussy.

"You need to come so badly, don't you, dove?" Ivan murmurs, his voice thick with lust. I shudder as I look down at him, kneeling between my legs, the mask still on as he tugs his glove back on and switches the knife to his left hand. Those gloved fingers stroke over my folds, a soft touch following the stinging caress of the knife, and I let out another whimper, my legs opening of their own accord now.

I can feel how wet I am. I'm drenched, throbbing, aching for him. I need to come desperately, and I can tell that he's going to draw it out. That he's going to make me beg.

His gloved fingertips brush over my clit, and I gasp, a sobbing sound tearing from my throat.

"You'd come right now for me if I let you. But I want to hear it, Charlotte." Ivan's voice is sharp, rough beneath the mask. "I want to hear you beg. I want to hear everything I've been asking for, and then I'll let you come. Then I'll give you what you need."

Somehow, I find my voice. "What do I need ?" I snap sarcastically, trying to find my anger, my hurt. I try to drag it up through the desire, but I want him too badly, and it's hard to find. "If you knew what I needed , you would never have chased me down. Not then, and not tonight?—"

I gasp as two of Ivan's gloved fingers push inside of me, spearing me firmly as he curls them, hooking me on his hand as his thumb starts to rub over my clit. "I knew what you needed that first night," he growls, rocking his hand against me so that I feel the thickness of his fingers inside of me, the leather adding to the sensation. "I knew what no one else had given you. I made you come all over my face, harder than any other man ever made you come. And I gave you other things you needed, too. I've done a lot that was wrong, Charlotte—" He thrusts his fingers, hard, and I cry out. "But I've always known what you needed. And tonight, you're going to give me what I need. And then I'll make you come on my cock, just like you've been begging. I'll make you come until you can't walk, and then I'll take you home."

Home. "That filthy motel isn't home," I spit, the words coming out weaker than I'd like as Ivan keeps fingering me, rolling his thumb over my clit. "You can't take me home."

"Fine." His voice is laced with anger now, too. "I'll take you back with me. But first, Charlotte—" His gloved thumb presses against my clit, and then slides away. I feel the sharp prick of the knife against it, and I cry out, fear and arousal mingling in the echoing sound of pleasure as Ivan holds the knife to my clit with one hand, his fingers thrusting hard with the other. "Beg me to make you come."

"I'm—I can't—I'm going to—" Every muscle is wound tight, and I'm on the verge of tipping over, the pleasure rushing through me to its apex. I open my mouth, crying out as I feel the tide swell up—and then Ivan suddenly jerks his fingers out of me, leaving me empty and hollow, only the knifepoint still pressed to me.

"No! Please, please—" I feel actual tears welling in my eyes, my body writhing at the loss of the orgasm. "Ivan!"

"That's how I feel," he growls. "Every time you refuse to tell me that you believe me. Every time you rip my fucking heart out, Charlotte, again and again. You're the only woman I've ever really given a shit about. The only woman I've ever opened up to. I fucked up getting you, and I fucking know it, but I can't be sorry. I can't fucking be sorry, because if I hadn't done it, I wouldn't have ever gotten to know the only woman I've ever loved."

His fingers thrust into me again, hard and relentless. "Fucking beg for it, dove."

My mind is a fog, the need shoving out everything else, even the fact that I could swear I just heard him say he loved me. I want to ask—but all that comes out is a sobbing moan as I give in, and I beg.

"Just make me come. Please, Ivan. Please make me come. I need it, please?—"

He leans in, the slick, cold mask brushing against my face as he rotates the knife point delicately against my clit, his fingers curling in a rough counterpoint inside of me. "Then come for me, dove."

The orgasm explodes through me. Somehow, I manage to keep my eyes open, the visual of Ivan leaning over me, pinning me to the chair as he makes me come between the knife and his fingers only intensifying the sensation. My legs splay open, my hips bucking upwards, pain and pleasure jolting through me together as I scream his name, crying out with the force of it.

I've never come like that in my life. I'm still gasping, my pussy clenching as he yanks his fingers out of me and jerks me up off of the chair, my hands still tied behind my back as Ivan shoves me forward towards the mirrors. His hand on my shoulder, he pushes me up against one, the glass cold against my cheek as I hear the sound of his zipper coming down.

His thick, swollen cockhead presses between my slick folds, and he groans. He leans in, his tip pressed to my entrance, and I see the hovering shape of the mask over his face reflected in all the mirrors as he looks at me.

"You want this, too, little dove," he murmurs. "You want me to fuck you like this. You want me filling you up. You want to watch me fuck you, reflected like this, so you can see yourself come all over my cock."

"Yes," I whimper, too far gone to deny it any longer. "Yes, please?—"

"Then tell me." He rocks against me, his cock so close to slipping inside. Only his other hand on my hip, holding me firmly in place, keeps me from rocking back and taking him inside of me. "Tell me you believe it's real. Tell me that you know I didn't mean to hurt you. Tell me you know that I've tried—" His voice cracks, and I don't think it's with anger this time. "I fucking love you, Charlotte," he whispers. "Tell me you know."

I close my eyes for one brief second, and then I open them again. And I finally, finally tell him the truth, too.

"I know."

Ivan's hips snap forward, his cock sinking into me to the hilt in one hard thrust. I cry out from the stretch of it, thick and long and rock-hard, and Ivan moans, shuddering as he sinks in as far as he can go and holds himself there for a moment. "Hang on, little dove," he whispers, and he yanks at the rope, untying my hands. "Brace yourself. Because I'm going to fuck you hard."

I only have a second to brace my hands against the mirror in front of me before Ivan makes good on his promise. He yanks me back with one hand on my hip, bending me over further as he starts to thrust, slamming into me. I cry out as he picks up his pace, fucking me harder than he ever has before, one hand on my shoulder and the other on my hip as he slams into me again and again. A stream of moans spills from my lips, the feeling of his thick cock pummeling me pushing me close to another orgasm, and the fact that I can see it all, reflected all around me, only adds to the pleasure.

Ivan slides his hand down, his fingers stroking over my clit. "I'm not going to last long," he growls. "Come all over my fucking cock, dove. Let me feel you fucking squeeze it before I fill you up."

That's all it takes. My back bows as I scream his name, the sound echoing for a second time as I clench around him, rippling along the straining length as Ivan's groan fills the air, his hips snapping hard against my ass. "Fuck, fuck—" he moans, and then he thrusts forward hard, his hands squeezing me almost painfully as he shudders, and I feel a hot, spurting warmth filling me. "Fuck, I have to come in you, I have to?—"

I'm not even thinking about what a terrible fucking idea that is. I'm not thinking about anything other than how it feels, how the throbbing of his orgasm tips me over into a third, smaller climax, how I can feel him spurting as I clench around him, how he's filling me so full that I can already feel his cum dripping down my legs. I feel his fingers roll over my clit again, sliding down as if to catch the cum dripping out of me, and then as his cock slides free I feel his two gloved fingers push inside, holding his cum there as he reaches down to tug my panties up.

He pulls them up around my hips, only sliding his fingers free when they're fully on. And then his other hand reaches up, wrapping around my throat as he pulls me up and back against him, so I can see myself reflected in the mirror.

I look fucking wrecked. Ivan is fully clothed, except for his softening cock pressed against my spine. His face is still covered by the mask, but I'm flushed and reddened, naked except for my panties, my jeans tangled around my ankles. My breasts are swollen and pink, my mouth parted, my hair a mess.

"My pretty little slut," Ivan murmurs, and a jolt of pleasure ripples through me. "Be a good slut, and clean this up."

He presses his two gloved fingers, covered in his cum and mine, against my lips, pushing them into my mouth. And without a second thought, drugged with lust and multiple climaxes, I suck them between my lips, licking our mingled flavor off of them.

"Oh, fuck ," Ivan moans, and I instantly feel him start to harden against my bare back. "Oh god, Charlotte— fuck ?—"

He thrusts his fingers into my mouth again, and before I can do more than let out a helpless moan around them, he spins me around to face him, shoving me down to my knees in front of him.

His cock is rock-hard again, the tip brushing against my lips, and Ivan fists my hair in one gloved hand.

"Suck it, dove," he orders, staring down at me, and the sight of him ordering me from behind the mask makes my swollen clit throb. "I want to watch you suck me with all of these mirrors around us. Make me come in your pretty mouth."

This time, I obey without question. I don't want to disobey. I want him, and I've given up pretending otherwise. I want all of this, and I open my mouth, leaning forward and wrapping one hand around the base of his cock as I suck the head between my lips, bracing my other hand on his hip.

"Oh, fucking hell —" Ivan moans as I start to suck, and I feel a flush of pleasure at the sound.

I don't tease him. I go all in, sliding my lips down his thick shaft, taking as much of him as I can. I let my saliva coat his shaft, making it fast and messy, licking and sucking ravenously as I push his cock into the back of his throat, moaning around it as I feel my own arousal rising to meet his. Ivan's hand tightens in my hair, and even with the mask on, I can see him watching us in the mirrors.

It just turns me on even more.

"Reach down and rub your clit," he rasps. "Use my cum to get it wet. I want to hear how sloppy it is. Fuck yourself with my cum."

I don't need to be told twice. I slip my hand into my soaked panties, my pussy already wet with his cum that's dripped out of me. I rub it over my clit, slick and hot, and the wet, mingled sounds of me sucking his cock and fingering myself fill the air as Ivan groans.

"I'm going to come in your mouth, dove. Come with me. Fucking come?—"

His cock stiffens between my lips, and I feel my clit throb under my fingertips, my whole body tightening as another orgasm hits. I moan around him, his sounds of pleasure mingling with mine, and Ivan gasps, his hand closing around his cock as the first hot spurts of his cum coat my tongue, and he pulls back.

"Open up," he commands. "Open your—fucking—mouth?—"

I part my lips, opening my mouth, and out of the corner of my eye, in the mirror, I can see him shooting onto my tongue. The sight is so filthy, so erotic, that I feel another jolt of pleasure rock me, my fingers still frantically stroking my clit as Ivan spurts onto my tongue again and again.

"Keep it there—" He moans, stroking himself hard, the last drops spilling out before he twists me around with his hand in my hair, so that I'm facing the mirror. " Fuck , look at you, dove. Such a good fucking slut, with your hand in your panties and your mouth full of my cum."

I look filthy. My hand is between my legs, my mouth full of his sticky white cum. It's coating my tongue and my lips, to the point that it's beginning to drip from the corner of my mouth. "Swallow," Ivan orders, and I obey, licking my lips clean as I swallow every last drop.

And then, as he reaches with his other hand to tuck himself away, it's as if his entire demeanor shifts in a second.

He rips the mask off, tossing it to the chair as he reaches down to get my shirt. Carefully, he helps me to my feet, tugging my jeans up and slipping my shirt over my head as I stare at him, feeling a bit in shock. "Are you okay?" he asks, the expression on his now-visible face one of concern. He yanks off his gloves, too, wiping at the corner of my mouth tenderly as he pushes my hair back. "You're alright?"

I nod, feeling confused. "You—love me?" It's the only thing I can think of, the thing that stuck in my mind, caught in the web of lust Ivan wrapped me in. "You?—"

"You said you believed me." His tone is guarded, his face briefly shuttering, as if he thinks I might have lied.

"I do. I—" I really do. In that moment, what I said was the unfettered truth. But it's harder to face it now, in the aftermath.

Ivan looks uncertain, but he slides his arm around my waist. "Come on," he says quietly. "Let's go back to the motel."

I feel almost shaky, as we start to walk back. I do believe him. What he said—the way he said it—was too sincere not to. But I don't know what to do with it.

No matter how he feels, he lied to me, and he kidnapped me.

But he also risked his life for me, over and over. He's tried to prove to me that he wants things to be different. That he wants it to change.

And the truth is—I think that I might want that, too.