Deep Domination (Bought by the Billionaire #2) (9 page)

“Look at me,” he ordered.

She opened her eyes, worry and lust mixing in the blue depths.

“You said you wanted to be so full of me there was no room for anything else,” he said as he brought the head of his cock to her opening and applied the barest teasing pressure. “In this position you will feel every inch. You’re going to feel me in your ribs. You’re going to feel me in your throat, where you’re still sore from taking me there.”

She swallowed, but the worry faded from her expression and her tongue slipped out to dampen her lips.

“Does that excite you?”

Her eyes darkened as she nodded.

“It’s going to hurt at first,” he warned, pushing a little deeper, until the head of his cock eased inside her.

She shook her head slowly side to side.

“It will,” he assured her, as excited by the anticipation of the first deep thrust as by her slick cunt gripping the tip of him. “I don’t plan on going slow. I’m going to take what’s mine.”

Holding his gaze, she silently mouthed, “Then take it, sir,” and he had no choice but to give her what she’d asked for.

He dropped his hips, plunging inside her gripping sheath with a groan. Even when she was this turned on—dripping and slick for him—they were a tight fit. Her body fought him, unable to adjust to his girth so quickly. He knew it hurt her, could see it in the way she grimaced as he kept pushing, forcing her to take every inch, until his balls were snug against her ass and his head rammed into her cervix.

But by the time he thrust deep a third time, she was bucking into him, eager to be fucked harder, deeper, and he was happy to oblige. He rode her like he hated her—pounding her pussy until he knew she would be even more bruised—and relished the way her slick sheath nearly snapped him in two with the force of her release like he loved her. He hated the way she smiled through the pain he inflicted and loved the way she remained utterly silent as she came a second time, milking his cock into the most intense orgasm of his life.

He came so hard the world vanished, and there was nothing but throbbing bliss and pleasure and the harmony of two bodies that fit together so perfectly.

Twisted and misshapen and perverse, but perfect.

She destroyed him and lifted him up to heights no man could reach alone. And he loved it and hated it and loathed himself for his weakness even as he flipped her over and began to take her again, claiming her from behind until his flaccid cock became hard and he’d fucked a third and fourth orgasm from Harley’s dripping cunt and refilled the condom with another gush of pain and pleasure.

Love and hate.

Him and her.

And it was terrible. And wonderful. And by the time he’d worn her out and tucked her limp body beneath the covers he knew it was time to take the next step. He was weakening, but so was she.

Now it was time to push her over the edge, and to show her there would be a price to pay for refusing to fall.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Hannah

Hannah spent the rest of the night in the grips of the worst nightmare she’d had in years. It was one of those un-put-down-able nightmares that sent her surging awake with her heart in her throat only to pick up where it left off as soon as she managed to fall back to sleep.

In the dream, she was one of the Carolina Cult Girls, five young women who had been kidnapped from their homes when they were barely teens and forced to marry into a Doomsday cult deep in the Smoky Mountains. They’d been held captive for years before they were found and were all the news stations could talk about the spring of Hannah’s senior year of college.

As a leader in the fields of both child psychology and PTSD, Dr. Patricia Connolly, Hannah’s mentor at Duke, had worked extensively with two of the young women after their rescue. Hannah had tagged along to the sessions to take notes, honored by the chance to observe her professor in action and to get an insider’s perspective on such a troubling case. She had hoped it would help her in her own practice later in life, but she’d left each session more disturbed than the last.

The first girl, Mary Ellen, was eighteen at the time of her rescue and had two young children by her much older husband. She’d been the youngest of his five wives and according to her account had been treated like a princess during her captivity. Her husband was an elder in their church, well off in the world of the cult, and besotted with the pretty new addition to his family.

But the moment Mary Ellen was set free, she placed her children in the custody of the state, got a makeover, changed her name, and did everything she could to put her six years of captivity behind her. Despite her best efforts, she was plagued by anxiety and so terrified of losing her autonomy a second time that she lashed out at anyone she perceived as an authority figure, including her therapist. Once, Hannah had been forced to help pin the slim woman to the floor to keep her from attacking Dr. Connolly with a letter opener she’d snatched from the desk.

Three months into her therapy, Mary had started drinking to excess to self-medicate her anxiety. Not long after, she disappeared again, leaving her family even more heartbroken than they’d been before.

They had been so overjoyed to have Mary back, but the girl they remembered didn’t exist anymore. She had been broken into a thousand pieces and no one—not even one of the best psychiatrists in the country—was able to put her back together again.

Ella Small, the second young woman, was thirteen when she was taken and sixteen when she was rescued. She’d spent half the time in the cult that Mary had, had no children, and had been married to a younger, less powerful cult member with seven wives and not enough money to feed them all. She’d gone hungry, had a miscarriage brought about by a beating from her sister-wives, and her relationship with her husband had been strained to say the least.

During her sessions she recalled that he would often be kind and understanding about her bigger failings, only to turn around and beat her and lock her in the stocks for public shaming when she forgot to coop the chickens for the night or left the butter out.

But instead of being even more eager than her counterpart to return to a normal life, Ella Small longed for the compound and regretted that she had no children by her cult husband to “remember him by” now that he was going to prison for the rest of his life. She admitted that she didn’t love him, but expressed regret that she hadn’t been able to make the marriage more successful—the marriage she’d been forced into after being kidnapped from a playground during her little brother’s softball game.

Hannah’s professor had found Ella’s case to be a classic example of Stockholm Syndrome, a form of capture-bonding in which the victim empathizes with and becomes emotionally attached to their tormentor. Dr. Connolly said Ella had subconsciously identified with her abusive husband as a way of protecting herself from the harmful psychological effects of prolonged captivity.

Before those eerie sessions, Hannah had understood Stockholm Syndrome, but only in a textbook way. Coming face to face with an innocent young girl who had been stolen from a loving home, raped for the first months of her “marriage,” and forced to live a nightmare for years—but who seemed unable to wake up from the false belief that her cult husband was a decent man who tried his best to provide—was more chilling than she’d expected it to be.

It brought home in a new way the immense power of the human mind.

The mind was innovative, beautiful, and endlessly creative, but it could also be terrifying. Ella’s body had been liberated from her prison, but her mind was still locked away, trapped in a dangerous pattern of thinking that allowed the man who had stolen her youth to continue stealing from her long after he was behind bars.

For months after those sessions, Hannah had suffered from horrible nightmares. In her dreams, she’d been working as a therapist, but was unable to get through to the children who had come to her for help. The children were the saddest of sad cases, innocents who had been violently victimized and bore mental and emotional scars that tore her heart in two. She would wake up covered in a cold sweat, her pulse racing, consumed by the fear that she might not be up to the challenge of freeing her future patients from the unhealthy machinations of their own minds.

But when Jackson left her alone in bed—disappearing as soon as he thought she was asleep—Hannah didn’t have one of her therapist anxiety dreams. She dreamed that she was one of those lost girls.

She was a teenager trapped in the same shack where Ella had shared a single bedroom with six other women, waiting for her husband to come home. She cooked fried chicken in the nude while her sister-wives watched and laughed when the hot oil leapt out of the skillet to scald her skin.

Later, she waited for her husband on her knees by the door and allowed him to take her on the filthy carpet as soon as he stepped inside. His touch made her sick to her stomach, but she parted her legs and endured it because she knew she had no choice but to obey.

And then the dream skipped ahead and she was pregnant with the man’s child and happy, feeding chickens in a threadbare dress not adequate to protect her from the crisp autumn air, daydreaming about how wonderful things were going to be now that the baby was coming. Some part of her mind was horrified by the shift in her thinking, but that part was growing weaker and more distant with every passing day.

Soon, she wouldn’t be able to hear it at all.

One morning, she would wake up and no longer see that she was being tortured, degraded, and abused. And on that day she would be as much a captive of her own mind as of the man who had taken her away from the people who loved her.

Hannah moaned as she sat up in bed, rubbing at the tops of her aching eyes with her fingertips, shivering as she tried to shake off the lingering emotional fog the dream had left behind. She couldn’t remember the last time a nightmare had made her physically ill, but right now it was all she could do not to race to the bathroom and be sick.

It had been so real, so horribly real.

Because it is real. The setting is prettier, but the scenario is the same.

You’ve been taken by a dangerous man, isolated, put under his control, and sooner or later you will bend or you will break.

“No,” Hannah mumbled softly to herself, hugging her knees to her chest. She wouldn’t end up like Mary or Ella. She wasn’t an impressionable, terrified young girl. She was a strong, intelligent woman capable of doing what it took to survive without breaking down or falling under Jackson’s dark spell.

She refused to think about how close she’d felt to him last night or how much it had hurt when he’d lashed out and refused to let her say his name.

Last night was last night. She’d been exhausted, vulnerable, and lonely. This morning she was going to keep her eye on the prize—an entire afternoon outside of this damned room—and get her head back in the right place.

An afternoon in the sun would surely help with that. It seemed like she’d been in this cage forever, with nothing but memories of her intense erotic encounters with Jackson to keep her company. A taste of normalcy was all she needed to remember that this would be over soon and she would be back to being Hannah again, with none of her sister’s demons haunting her days or owning her nights.

And there was a friend out there somewhere. She couldn’t forget that.

Someone on this island was watching out for her and determined to save her before it was too late. Jackson cast a large shadow in her mind, but no man was infallible and there was a chance that her secret friend would escape his notice. She clung to that hope as she made the bed and headed into the bathroom to wash the smell of her tormentor/lover from her skin.

Hannah showered and braided her hair in a loose French braid that trailed half way down her back. She didn’t know what Jackson had planned for them, but it was windy outside and she couldn’t stand the feel of hair flying into her face. Since moving to the island, her hair practically lived in a ponytail.

She’d been tempted once or twice to cut it short and let it whip into a froth of wild curls atop her head like Eloise, who worked at the sandwich shop in town, but she’d never had a haircut different from her sister’s. From the time they were little, Harley had always insisted they cut their hair the same way and Hannah had bowed to her sister’s preference for long hair with several tiered layers.

She had a habit of bowing.

The more she thought about her life and her choices, the more clear it became that she had a strong natural inclination toward the kind of sexual relationship Jackson enjoyed. She had always bowed to the more powerful personalities in her life. It made her happier to be of service than to get her own way. She wasn’t a doormat and stood up for herself when necessary, but submitting to someone she cared about made her feel useful, productive, and content.

Focusing on someone else’s needs aside from her own made her feel safe. To be of service, and to have that service appreciated,
was
her need, and the primary driving force of her personality. But she wanted to serve someone who cared about her and respected her, someone she could trust not to take advantage of her generous spirit.

No matter how much she’d loved Harley, her sister had never been that sort of person. She had abused Hannah’s trust and forgiving heart and, if Harley had lived, Hannah knew that they would have eventually come to a crossroads. Either Harley would have had to change the way she did business, or Hannah would have been forced to withdraw from their relationship, no matter how painful that would have been.