Deep (Chicago Underground #8)(53)

There would never be room in his life for love, for kindness. Those things were only weaknesses. They would only ruin him, the same way money and violence had ruined me. Steel bars, he had said. That was all he was made of. It was a cold embrace but a strong one. And he would never let me leave.





Chapter Thirty-One

THE RIDE HOME was silent. Philip didn’t seem inclined to speak, and I wasn’t sure what I could even say. My mind was held captive by images of the judge on the ground, looking pathetic and weak—and of the flash of malevolence in his eyes.

It was just like that moment in the penthouse years ago, the dark realization that wolves wore sheep clothing. It had shocked me then. I’d spent years after that trying to understand it, to accept it—studying sociology as if it could explain it. As if I could somehow find the difference between good and evil. And what I’d seen earlier tonight was the same thing, the same gory underside—flipping a rock over and exposing the worms holding it up.

There was no difference between good and evil.

There were two sides to every person: the one we showed the world and the one we hid.

Philip pulled the car into the garage and stilled the engine. I sat there staring at the blank wall in front of me—closed in bulletproof glass, in sheetrock, in brick. Protected on all sides by sturdy materials, but I couldn’t feel safe. I never felt safe.

“Kitten?”

Distantly I heard the car door opposite me. Time seemed to swim around me, and then Philip was at my door, opening it, gently leading me out. He took me by the hand, and I came willingly—I had nowhere else to go. That was the story of my life. No one else to trust.

And so I trusted him, this man who showed the world his darkest side.

“I know,” he said softly, holding me in his arms. And it seemed for a second as if he did know, as if he was as horrified by the corruption and cruelty around him as I was.

He led me up the stairs and into his bathroom. He undressed me slowly, almost tenderly, moving my limbs and adjusting me until I stood naked, toes buried in the plush bath rug.

The shower felt shockingly hot against my skin, needles burning into me—and then Philip was there, blocking the spray with his large body. His hands were covered in soap, and he ran them over my cold skin, washing me. Cleaning me. Leaving no part of me untouched.

Blunt fingers slid through the slick folds of my sex, fondling my clit until it throbbed. Black fog kept me from thinking too much, but in a detached way I could feel my body responding, readying itself.

The invasion was wide and fast, my thighs spread by his palms, my back against tile, my sex pulsing around his thick erection. I cried out in shock and denial and relief.

He pressed damp kisses to my neck, my shoulder, the tops of my breasts. “I know,” he murmured again. “It’s hard at first. You’ll get used to it. It won’t hurt so much.”

Except I wasn’t sure that was what I wanted. It should hurt to see someone being hurt—whether that person was a nameless girl in blackmail photos or the innocent sister of a man caught up with the mafia. It wasn’t better to be numb, but somehow I already was.

He pulled back and thrust in, deeper this time—and I cried out again in pain at the invasion, the sharp stretch of him, the control. My feet weren’t even on the ceramic anymore. He held them up and lifted my entire body for every thrust, levering me to bring the most pleasure for his cock.

My eyes met his—and I don’t know what he saw in me. The fear? The desperation?

Whatever it was, something snapped inside him. He f*cked me with renewed intensity, his cock slamming into me, his body slapping against mine, the water easing his way deep inside me while I fought to survive the storm.

He came with a shudder and a groan that echoed around me.

Large hands gripped my flesh, leaving bruises on the insides of my legs. When his body jerked and grew still, he remained like that, heaving his breaths, holding me open.

“Philip?” I whispered.

“No,” he said, his voice unsteady.

He unclenched his hand from one thigh, and I winced as my leg fell to the tiled floor. Then his free hand was on my clit, rubbing me—he wasn’t tender anymore. He was hard on me, almost furious with me. He drew tight circles around my clit until I clenched his softening cock.

“That’s right,” he muttered. “You pull my seed up inside you. Don’t let a drop out, kitten.”

“Why?” I said, breathless, but I already knew. I wanted him to tell me the dark, forbidden words.

His hand moved up to my stomach—still flat. “I’m going to make this round with my seed. You’ll be tied to me body and soul. I’ll give you everything you want, but I’ll never let you leave.”

My body strung up tight at the words—somehow sweet when they filtered through my mind. Was that broken of me? Had the events years ago damaged me beyond repair, that I wanted a man like him? Or was I born this way, desperate for someone to capture me and not let go? That was a question for the textbooks—right here and right now, all I felt was a soul-deep satisfaction.

His fingers moved back to my clit, circling and rubbing until I came—a tight climax this time, a tensing of my entire body, muscles sore and aching when it passed.

I shifted, trying to disentangle myself, but he stopped me. “Again,” he said.

“I can’t. I’ve already come twice.”