Blood Money by Lana Sky
Chapter Fifteen
He’s here.I swear, it’s like I close my eyes for one second, and open them to Domino Valenciaga bathed in the pinkish glow of dawn, his back to me, his chest bare. A part of me stirs, curious despite myself.
I’ve seen his cock, but little else of his body overall. And there is so much more to see. His back is ripped, straining with solid muscle that flexes in the faint sunlight streaming in through the windows. He has on a pair of jeans that look covered in dirt. Groaning, he reaches for the waistband and then kicks them down. Plain white briefs are the only thing shielding the full brunt of his ass from view.
I hate that he can still seem so damn beautiful after everything he’s done. But I should know better than anyone that beauty is only skin deep.
Seemingly oblivious to the fact I’m awake, he enters the closet and snatches a white tee shirt from a hanger, wrenching it on over his head, along with a clean pair of black slacks. He must prefer this looser-fitting, less casual clothing to the uniform he wore while working for my father.
I watch him, content to believe that he hasn’t realized I’m awake.
Until his voice rings out, rough with exhaustion. “This is the part where you get the fuck out.” He turns to face me, hands at his sides, eyes narrowed over the sight of me, slumped on my side, hair shielding most of my face.
As I slept, I managed to scatter the photos all over the floor. One, however, seems stuck to my cheek as if I fell asleep eyeing it. I have to peel it off, ashamed as I realize which one I’m holding.
A shot depicting his hand, squeezing Alexi’s breast as she arches into him, her eyes partially rolled into her head, her tongue between her teeth.
Disgust makes me angry. Bitter. Hateful.
But I have enough sense not to give in to it now. I already made it this far.
“This is the part where you reward me for being good,” I say, not bothering to hide the pain and tiredness in my voice. Judging from the daylight, I probably slept hours, but it might as well have been seconds for the amount of good it did my body. “And you give me something. Anything.”
He frowns, his gaze skeptical. He leaves the closet and stoops to snatch one of the pictures from the floor.
“You enjoy looking at these?” he asks, brandishing the photo in question—Alexi’s legs spread wide, his hand on her inner thigh. He must have held the camera, straining to get just the right angle.
I want to hiss and make a crude, nasty remark about the rumors involving Alexi and herpes. Rumors I just made up.
Instead, I say, “Didn’t you want me to? You left them for me for a reason.”
I’m not sure until I see one of his eyebrows shoot up in amusement. Or perhaps it’s admiration.
“You aren’t as stupid as you pretend to be,” he says, tossing the picture aside. “Ask your question.”
He keeps coming toward the bed, and I lose track of what I should be focused on. Getting beneath his skin, trying to discover what he knows. Instead, I just gape at his body through my lashes and let the petty, jealous thoughts run wild.
Alexi had him first, and I have to wonder if he was any different with her than he was with me. Though, of course, he was—he wanted her, he merely humored me, knowing all along that I was plotting behind his back.
When it came to Alexi, he acted on his lust.
“How long have you been fucking her?” I ask, my throat still excruciatingly tender.
He frowns, running his hand along the dark stubble speckling his jaw. I doubt he’s slept since he left. His yawn isn’t for show, and I notice that his eyes are bloodshot as he continues to advance.
He snatches the picture I’m holding, eyeing it once before tossing it aside.
“Does it matter?” he demands.
It doesn’t. Still, I can’t resist prying. “She was fucking my boyfriend—all of them, actually. I’m not surprised she tried to climb you next. I’m more shocked that you let her.”
He scoffs. “The high and mighty Ada-Maria Pavalos is sneering down her nose at me. How will I ever sleep?” He moves to the head of the bed and flicks the sheets back. “I thought I told you to get the fuck out—”
“We were friends once,” I blurt, my gaze still glued to the image he threw. It landed upright within my reach, mocking me with its carefree, explicit depiction of raw lust and fun. Alexi’s smiling in this one. The sex must have been good. I bet he teased her playfully and took her cowgirl style to watch her tits bounce.
He didn’t pin her down like a conquest and grip the collar he had placed around her throat for leverage.
“I know,” he says, surprising me. I look over to find him still standing, his gaze shrouded by a wayward lock of dark hair. “She told me all about you.”
I stiffen, hating the implications of that. I may not have spoken to Alexi more than a fake greeting every now and again at some random social event throughout the past five years—but I know she hates me.
“All lies, I’m sure.”
“Not lies,” he counters, sounding surer of that than I like. “She told me all the things I could figure out for myself.”
I look back at the floor as he moves. A heartbeat later, the mattress dips, presumably beneath his body weight.
“She told me that I didn’t have a shot in hell with someone like you. That you would never know I existed if I didn’t have a dollar sign beside my name.”
That sounds like Alexi, the bitch.
“I’m surprised she wanted you, then,” I snipe. “Especially if she thought I didn’t.”
The mattress moves again and his heat kissing my skin is the only warning I receive before my hair is drawn back from my face, gathered loosely in a fist.
“You want to know what I want?” He tugs, wrenching my head back until I’m forced to face him staring down from above. “I want you to get out of my bed.”
A second ticks by, but he doesn’t let go. Gradually, his gaze finds my mouth, narrowing further.
“You want to stay?” he asks. “Then prove it. Give me a reason to keep you.”
His voice lowers in a way that makes me suspect exactly what he means, even before he snatches my wrist, dragging my hand toward him.
He doesn’t stop until my fingers brush something warm, rigid, and firm bulging beneath the fabric of his slacks.
The right thing to do would be to run. Utter some coy quip about what else he can use to get himself off and save what little shreds of dignity I have left. I might do just that—if I had any pride at all. I’m too desperate for answers. Too desperate to feel like I’m doing something, even if it’s playing a sick mind game at my own expense. I’ll do whatever it takes to never feel as worthless as I did out in the desert.
“If I do it, what will you give me?” I ask him.
A new furrow appears in his brow—confusion. He didn’t really believe I’d take him up on this offer. I can see him weighing the benefits of toying with me or maintaining the boundary between us. I can almost hear the question he must be proposing himself—Can I really have my cake and eat it too?
Or, in this case, abuse the mouth he loves to taunt. Before I know it, he has his thumb against the seam between my lips. He presses, ignoring how I wince as he aggravates the healing scrapes and marks left by his slap.
“If you do it… I’ll give you exactly what you’d deserve,” he says.
I shiver at the double entendre. Or maybe, in this case, there are a million different meanings, each one more biting than the last. I deserve only his cum in my mouth. I deserve to suffer. I deserve to be sold. I deserve, I deserve…
He pulls back as if expecting me to recoil now and do what he really wants—leave. He can’t truly take the risk of letting me claw away another concession, another piece of him, no matter how small.
Alexi should have told him how selfish I am. How greedy, how stubborn. I’m the sort that even if I get hurt in the end, I’ll still take the last cookie from the jar. No matter the overall cost, I’ll still savor that brief taste of sugar. Or at least I would back when I still craved food at all. Hunger has been my constant companion long after my real friends vanished. It’s the only thing I could trust, more satisfying than any cookie or piece of candy.
In this case, my “cookie” is more figurative. After years of craving him, a part of me can’t resist experiencing what little I can, any way I can get it. At least then, I can square each session with that tiny bit of myself whispering that nothing is ever worth the effort. There’s nothing worth fighting for. The world is shit; why not just starve until I fade away altogether.
That voice gets softer when I roll onto my aching side and press my cheek against his knee. One of his legs is outstretched, running parallel to me. The other he has braced against the floor.
Gradually, his expression shifts from wariness to a steely look I recognize. A dare. A demand.
My hands shake as I fumble with the latch of his slacks, folding down the fabric once I get it loose. That’s about as much as I can do alone, I realize. He’s too big to counter, and I don’t have the strength to tug down his pants enough to have access to him.
Jaw clenched, he does it himself, working his cock free of his boxers. The state of him confirms my grim suspicion as to what aroused him to that extent before. It had to be my back. My blood.
This time, he only has my face to go off on, and he’s barely firm, though still intimidating enough. It hurts to open my mouth wide enough to even consider taking him in. Then another consideration takes precedence—my throat is on fire, making the prospect of utilizing much beyond my tongue doubtful.
Not that he’ll care. Still, I can’t resist a desire to see his reaction if I dared to state as much out loud.
“My throat hurts,” I rasp. “I don’t think I can take you after all.”
His eyes narrow, a smirk flitting across his mouth with breathtaking speed. One of his hands latches onto my skull, and there isn’t even time to brace before he’s guiding me lower.
The pain is worse than I could imagine. Burning and sharp as I stretch my jaw to accommodate him. I imagine healing bits of flesh being ripped open merely to satisfy his need for depth.
He groans the second he’s enveloped in the heat of my mouth, my tongue cradling the underside. If I dull my senses and ignore the pain—and focus on the sheer act of taking him—there is a sick sense of pleasure a part of me gets out of feeling him stiffen. Harden. Swell.
He hates me, but he can’t deny the simple pleasure even my battered mouth can provide. Soon, I feel his fingers flex, sinking into my hair, guiding my movements into a rhythm he likes. Slow. Steady. I can’t tell if this is truly his preference, or if he’s settling out of concern for me.
Then his nails scrape my skull as if to counter any chance of that second option. This is only about his pleasure, nothing more.
To prove it, he groans again, throatier than before, and I ignore the shame just to dissect the sounds he makes. Grunting boar is how I would describe most men—not him. He’s nuanced, each groan or gasp conveying a different meaning.
Sharp and grated if I don’t meet his expectations. Deep and rasping if I do. He praises me grudgingly with ragged, panting breaths that quicken as his grip on my head gets tighter and tighter.
I can almost track the ascent of his release through his shaft, but he surprises me by letting me go just as he nears that peak, allowing me to pull away if I wanted. And I should.
The first spurt catches me off guard, hot and molten. It feels like my throat is being boiled as I try to swallow. I can’t. Coughing, I pull back, and his hand seizes another fistful of my hair to make me face him.
He continues to erupt, splattering the sheets and my chest. Satisfied, he shoves me away and turns to sit on the edge of the bed with his back to me.
“Alexi got one thing wrong,” he admits gruffly. “She said you were shit in the sack. A doormat that lies there while it’s being fucked.” He parrots her voice, but he doesn’t have to for me to know every word came from her.
I’m still swallowing him down, swiping my hand across my mouth. I’m shaking. Speaking is a daunting task, but it seems like he’s waiting for me.
“Is…that…a compliment?”
He laughs. “No. It’s an acknowledgment of your skill,” he says, switching back to the mocking growl. “After all, you’re the same girl who blew a banker to convince him to fund your father’s fledgling campaign.”
Ice. My entire body goes cold, and pain is an afterthought as I lurch upright.
“Where… Where did you hear that? Who told you that?”
He inclines his head, his eyes unfathomable again. “Who do you think?”
“Alexi couldn’t,” I rasp. She didn’t know. No one did. No one but…
Domino levels me with a piercing glance. “Who do you think?”
“P-Pia?”
He doesn’t answer. Standing, he adjusts his slacks and then nods to the doorway. “Get out.”
I don’t argue this time. I lurch to my feet and run—or, in this case, hobble. I don’t stop until I’m back within that white room, crawling beneath the blankets.
Pia told him, he implied.
But how? Especially considering the fact that he seems convinced that she’s dead.
Because he probably tracked her down, years later, and he killed her himself, at my father’s behest.
