21. Tasha

21

"But first, let's disarm you." He rests the gun on my chest, the cold metal pressing down on my breastbone, and reaches for my makeshift knife where it's tied around my wrist, his other hand still pinning me down.

"What is this thing?" he asks as he works the bra strap loose that holds the contraption in place. I close my eyes, bracing myself for his ridicule. His chest presses against my side, his body warm where I'm a rush of goosebumps at his delicate touch to my wrists. He is so close, his skin smelling shower fresh from that soap of his, mixed with his own scent I find so intoxicating. And there it is, the unmistakable print of a long, hard, and thick cock pressing into the soft curve of my hip. The mere feel of it makes slick arousal seep to my panties.

How can he even concentrate when he's that hard? How did I even think I'd have it in me to kill this man… Never mind his strength and cunning, every cell in my female body is programmed to procreate with him, not kill him.

"Interesting," he says as he plucks my creation free and lifts it up to study it in the dark. "Innovative. Brave." He tosses it to the side, and it drops with a weak clang against the mirror to the floor. "Let me guess your plans for it." He picks up the gun where he left it and I shudder as his fingertips caress me in the process. He presses it to my neck again, gentle, careful. "You were aiming for the jugular or carotid here," he murmurs as he slides the barrel up and down my neck. "Or were you aiming to go lower?"

The metal glides down my chest, between my breasts, and he prods the gun just underneath my sternum, where a sharp knife could kill a man in seconds.

"No," I manage, wishing I had an off switch so I could block out his voice and what he is doing to my body.

"No? So many options here. Subclavian, cephalic, pulmonary… and then lower…" The gun's muzzle leaves a cold trail where he traces it over my skin, his breath following as he murmurs the words, a deadly game of anatomy if ever there was one. By the time he reaches my navel and circles it at leisure, my breathing comes in strained hitches, because he's heading there, to where my body craves his touch.

When he slides the gun over my hip, over the hillock of my pelvis, my hips roll of their own volition.

"Fuck," he smirks as he answers with a grind of his own, his rigid cock riding my silky shorts with just the thin flat sheet separating us. He stills again, dragging the gun down my groin. I whimper, a weak, futile protest.

"Shhh, kitten, we're still busy with this little lesson you signed up for."

He shifts his leg and with the muzzle makes me lift mine.

"The femoral artery, just here." Pressure, right where I know where to cut the upper thigh to hit the artery. "Deadly," he murmurs. "Handy to know when you have a knife. Part of your plans?"

I breathe out a no that's more a moan than anything. The muzzle is mere inches from my pussy. It's the fear, the adrenaline, the intensity of him that has me so aroused, the wave of an orgasm is already building. The metal rides down my inner thigh, and then he pushes it against the fold of my knee. It's a command I don't even register, just comply with. I lift my leg higher, splaying open for him. I'm nothing but a wanting hormonal mess right now and I hate myself for it.

When he runs the muzzle down to my sex, a rush of terror invades me. What if he fucks me with the gun?

"Not my style," he murmurs as if he read my mind, but draws a circle with the muzzle around my pussy, then runs it up and down my slit where I'm wet and so freaking needy I want to push up into the muzzle's touch.

"Matteo," I beg. I need him to stop.

"Like that, don't you?" he murmurs, continuing the slow, delicate strokes, and my pelvis curves and dips into the motion of its own treacherous volition, seeking the release he's promising.

"Answer me, kitten," he says, sterner, but not stopping.

"Yes," I breathe, unable to lie, helpless, with each stroke needing more, despite not wanting to give in to him.

"You're going to come for me like this?"

I don't want this man to have any power over me, least of all over my body and never with such ease. "No."

"No?" His tone says it all as the gun stills, its weight pressing down on my clit with such erotic pause that I need to remind myself to breathe.

"I'm not coming for you at all." I swallow, tense with a building orgasm that's been put on hold.

He laughs, his body shaking where it's still trapping mine. I get the drift. Nobody says no to Matteo Scalera. "Challenge accepted, kitten." He secures the gun and tosses it to the far side of the bed. He lets go of my wrists, but at the same time he lifts up, grabs the hem of my delicate silk cami and rips it with his fist.

"Matteo!" I cry out, so drugged by lust that I'm slow to respond. I struggle, wrestling against his weight. By the time I get a slap in, he is straddling me in a mess of sheets, has my cami torn off my body, and is grabbing my wrists to tie them together with what's left of a thousand-dollar PJ set.

I jerk my wrists down, but I'm trapped, tied to something on the headboard I didn't see. I bite down on my lip as realization sinks in. I've messed up. Where he should have been dead by now, instead he's going to torture me.

Matteo leans to the side and switches on the bedside lamp. "So you can see better, kitten."

"I don't want to see any better, thank you." But I can't help staring at his chest, the dark shadow of the tattoo that graces his pecs, abdomen and arms, the veins that run down his biceps to his forearms, sitting so shallow I could have aimed for one of those.

He could do anything to me now. I'm at his mercy and I'm not sure he has any.

"I should fucking gag you," he says as he runs his knuckles along the edge of my jaw and down my chin, then spreads his fingers and circles them around my neck. There is no pressure, no squeeze, but the option is there. Instead, he caresses the bruise he made on my neck, almost contemplatively, with his thumb. "But you're entertaining. And I want to hear you moan my name, kitten, when you come." He leans closer, shifting and putting divine pressure on my body. He ghosts his lips from my temple down to my mouth, but he only sweeps them over mine as he murmurs, "Because come you will."