DELIVER(4)

She tried to draw air, an empty effort against the vise of his fingers on her windpipe. His I-control-your-thoughts conditioning was a technique that once worked on her, and experience taught her the best reaction was no reaction.

Lips pinned in silence, she sought out her defense, a song, any song, and grabbed hold of “Gods and Monsters” by Lana Del Rey. Saturating her thoughts with the lamenting chorus, she sang in her head. The rippling effects numbed her heart—and her throat beneath his fingers. Singing was her tonic, the only trace of self she had left.

“Is your head on straight?” He tightened his grip, gave it a shake. “Feels like it is.”

Lungs burning, fingers digging into her thighs, she steadied her pulse to the slow beat of lyrics spilling through her mind.

The clamp vanished and his hand returned to the wheel. She let her lungs fill with quiet stoicism and loosened her muscles limb by limb.

“Your mind is wandering.” His impatience pulsated between them. “Pull your balls out of your cunt.”

She wanted to hate him, but he was all she had. She wanted to love him, but memories tore deep and scarred. “My head is straight. Balls are out. What other body parts are you concerned about?”

Passing headlights illuminated the stone set of his jaw, his eyes piercing the road. “Tell me what you were thinking about.”

That command had more power than it should. She summoned a reply with control in her voice. “Your first capture.”

“My first…” His hands tightened on the wheel, slackened, and a sick kind of attachment slithered into his tone. “My favorite capture.” He squeezed her knee.

Mom used to say no one had truly evaluated their life until they looked at it from 10,000 feet. Liv’s arrangement allowed her a certain amount of freedom, so she still skydived between jobs. When she did, her falls always retraced the same path of should-haves.

Should have jumped with Mom that day instead of staying behind to roller-blade. Should have skated away from his car when he stopped to ask directions. Should have screamed instead of getting in when he aimed the gun. A wave of revulsion surged through her. “Your first capture was just a stupid girl.”

“A stupid girl who incorporated the client’s requirements. Tight seventeen-year-old ass, perky tits, all that innocence bouncing up and down on skates.” He hummed. “I have no regrets.”

Regret would have gone a long way in their relationship.

He shifted closer and reached for her thigh. She jerked out of the path of his hand and pressed against the door.

Black fields smeared by. If the cold glass against her cheek was the only barrier between her and those fields, she would be sprinting through them as fast as possible away from this car.

He reached again, a full-body lean, veering the car onto the edge of the shoulder. The car righted as his hand made contact, shoved between her legs, and cupped her.

That hand had been her undoing so many times. She was stolen innocence, following the rules of monsters. Somewhere along the way, she’d become one.

The faster he rubbed, the harder he pressed against the denim seam protecting her bundle of nerves, the looser her hips became. It was his words, however, that had the power to own her and destroy her, from the inside out.

“I want to spend the rest of my life looking at you, touching you. Christ, I have to touch you to make sure I’m not imagining you.”

She ground against his fingers, hating herself. Her hips shifted up and down, pelvis rolling out, thighs opening, responding in defiance of her own volition.

His voice lowered to a murmur. “Why is f*cking you the only way I can reach you, Liv? I want more. More than this.”

She released a moan, a sound practiced to seduce. But she couldn’t stop her heartfelt yearning from bleeding into the edges of her voice. She covered it by dragging it out into a longer, more robotic groan.

He yanked his hand away. “Save your f*cking fakeasms for the new bitch boy.”

A shaky breath tingled past her lips. She hadn’t been faking, not completely, and that was more revolting than the act itself. “Maybe I won’t fake with this boy.”

The sudden stiffness of his posture betrayed the calmness in his tone. “The client was very specific about who will be f*cking his property.”

Of the twelve requirements in the contract, the buyer’s first demand took an audacious detour around the usual kinkativity.

Requirement One. Slave has never experienced sexual intimacy with a woman. Slave is heterosexual but hates women. He desires only his Master.

There wasn’t a buyer who didn’t make her shudder, but this one was so openly sexist, he notched a new level of loathing, and she hadn’t even met him yet. “His first requirement is so f*cked up. I don’t like it.”

“He’s probably some scorned man and wants a slave to sympathize with his misery. He’s not any different than the other kinky, fat-wallet pig f*ckers you’ve contracted for.”

“Maybe. But this one’s a whole new breed of creepiness.”

Their previous contracts were straightforward, listing desired physical attributes and demanding the usual kneel-grovel-suck-my-cock training. The cost for that training was ludicrous, and she never saw a penny of it. But everyone had a price. Hers was more valuable than money.

“The job’s the same.” His voice snapped through the car. “The slave you deliver will be exactly as he ordered.”