Keep Me (3 page)

I stand up, still holding her in my arms, and place her on the bed. She winces, and I realize the sheets are rubbing against her welts, hurting her. “Turn over, baby,” I whisper, wanting only her pleasure now. She obediently rolls over onto her stomach, in the same position as before, and I position her so that she’s on her hands and knees, her elbows bent.

On all fours, with her ass tilted up and her back slightly arched, she’s the hottest thing I’ve ever seen. I can see everything—the folds of her delicate pussy, the tiny hole of her anus, the delicious curves of her cheeks, pink with marks from the belt. My heart is pounding heavily in my chest, and my cock is throbbing painfully as I grasp her hips, line the head of my dick up against her opening, and push inside.

Hot, wet flesh envelops me, sheathing me in tight, slick perfection. She moans, arching toward me, trying to take me deeper, and I oblige, withdrawing partially and then slamming back in. A cry escapes her throat, and I repeat the move, my spine prickling with pleasure at the clinging grip of her tight channel. Waves of heat roll through me, and I begin to thrust with abandon, barely cognizant of my fingers digging into the soft skin of her hips. Her moans and cries increase in volume, and then I feel her peaking, her inner muscles contracting around my cock, milking it. Unable to hold on any longer, I explode, my vision blurring from the force of my release as my seed erupts into her warm depths.

Panting, I collapse onto my side, pulling her with me. Our skin is damp with sweat, gluing us together, and my heart is racing. She’s breathing heavily too, and I can feel her pussy clenching around my softening cock as one last orgasmic shudder ripples through her.

We lie joined together as our breathing begins to ease. I’m holding her spooned against me, the soft curve of her ass pressing into my groin, and a sense of peace, of contentment, slowly steals over me. It’s always like that with her. Something about her calms my demons, makes me feel almost normal. Almost . . . happy. It’s not something I can explain or rationalize; it’s just there. It’s what makes my need for her so acute, so desperate.

So dangerously fucked up.

“Tell me you love me,” I murmur, stroking her outer thigh. “Tell me you missed me, baby.”

She shifts in my arms, turning over to face me. Her dark eyes are solemn as she meets my gaze. “I love you, Julian,” she says softly, her delicate palm curving around my jaw. “I missed you more than life itself. You know that.”

I do—but I still need this from her. In recent months, the emotional aspect has become as necessary to me as the physical. It amuses me, this strange quirk of mine. I want my little captive to love me, to care about me. I want to be more than just the monster of her nightmares.

Closing my eyes, I draw her deeper into my embrace and let myself relax.

In a few hours, she’s going to be mine in every sense of the word.

I must’ve fallen asleep in Julian’s arms because I wake up when the plane begins to descend. Opening my eyes, I stare at the unfamiliar surroundings, my body sore and aching from the sex we just had.

I had forgotten what it was like with Julian, how devastating and cathartic the roller coaster ride of pain and ecstasy could be. I feel both empty and exhilarated at the same time, wrung out, yet invigorated by the maelstrom of emotions.

Sitting up gingerly, I wince as my bruised bottom touches the sheets. That had been one of the more intense belting sessions; I won’t be surprised if these bruises last a while. Casting a glance around the room, I spot a door that I assume leads to the bathroom. Julian is not in the room, so I get up and go over there, feeling the need to wash up.

To my surprise, the bathroom contains a small shower, as well as a real sink and toilet. With all these amenities, Julian’s jet seems more like a flying hotel than any commercial plane I’ve been on. There is even a plastic-wrapped toothbrush, toothpaste, and mouthwash tucked inside a little shelf on the wall. I use all three and follow up with a quick shower. Then, feeling infinitely more refreshed, I go back into the bedroom to get dressed.

When I enter the main cabin, I see Julian sitting on the couch, an open laptop on the table in front of him. The sleeves of his shirt are pushed up, exposing tan, muscular forearms, and there is a frown of concentration on his face. He looks serious—and so devastatingly beautiful that my breath catches for a moment.

As though sensing my presence, he looks up, his blue eyes gleaming. “How are you, my pet?” he asks, his voice low and intimate, and I feel a hot flush moving over my entire body in response.

“I’m fine.” I don’t know what else to say.
My butt hurts because you whipped me, but that’s okay because you trained me to enjoy it?
Yeah, sure.

His lips curl in a slow smile. “Good. I’m glad to hear it. I was just about to come get you. You should get into your seat—we’ll be landing soon.”

“Okay.” I follow his suggestion, trying not to flinch at the pain caused by the simple act of sitting down. I will definitely have bruises for the next few days.

Strapping myself in, I look out the window, curious about our destination. As the plane breaks through the cloud cover, I see a large city spread out below, with mountains looming on the edge of it. “What city is that?” I ask, turning towards Julian.

“Bogotá,” he replies, closing his laptop. Picking it up, he walks over to sit down next to me. “We’ll only be there for a few hours.”

“You have business there?”

“You could say that.” He looks vaguely amused. “There is something I’d like to get done before we fly to the estate.”

“What?” I inquire warily. An amused Julian is rarely a good sign.

“You’ll see.” And opening the laptop again, he focuses on whatever he was doing before.

* * *

A black car similar to the one that dropped us off at the airport waits for us when we get off the plane. Lucas assumes the role of our driver again, while Julian continues working on his laptop, seemingly absorbed in his task.

I don’t mind. I’m too busy staring at everything as we drive through the crowded streets. Bogotá has a certain ‘Old World’ vibe that I find fascinating. I can see traces of its Spanish heritage everywhere, mixed with a uniquely Latino flavor. It makes me crave arepas—corn cakes that I used to get from a Colombian food truck in downtown Chicago.

“Where are we going?” I ask Julian when the car pulls up in front of a stately old church in a wealthy-looking neighborhood. Somehow I hadn’t pictured my captor as the church-going type.

Instead of answering, he climbs out of the car and extends his hand to me. “Come, Nora,” he says. “We don’t have a lot of time.”

Time for what? I want to question him further, but I know it’s futile. He’s not going to answer me unless he feels like it. Placing my hand in Julian’s large palm, I climb out of the car and let him lead me toward the church building. For all I know, we’re meeting some of his associates here—though why he wants me with him for that is anyone’s guess.

We enter through a little side door and find ourselves in a small, but beautifully decorated room. Old-fashioned wooden benches line the sides of it, and there is a pulpit with an intricate cross toward the front.

For some reason, the sight of it makes me nervous. An insane, improbable thought occurs to me, and my palms begin to sweat. “Um, Julian . . .” I look up to find him gazing at me with a strange smile. “Why are we here?”

“Can’t you guess, my pet?” he says softly, turning to face me. “We’re here to get married.”

For a moment, all I can do is stare at him in mute shock. Then a nervous laugh escapes my throat. “You’re joking, right?”

He lifts his eyebrows. “Joking? No, not at all.” He reaches for my hand again, and I feel him sliding something onto my left ring finger.

My heart racing, I look down at my left hand in numb disbelief. The ring looks like something a Hollywood star might wear—a thin, diamond-encrusted band with a large, round stone sparkling in the center. It’s both delicate and ostentatious, and the fit is utterly perfect, as though it had been made just for me.

The room fades in front of my eyes, spots of light dancing in the corners of my vision, and I realize that I literally stopped breathing for a few seconds. Desperately sucking in air, I look up at Julian, my entire body beginning to shake. “You . . . you want to marry me?” My voice comes out in a kind of horrified whisper.

“Of course I do.” His eyes narrow slightly. “Why else would I bring you here?”

I have no response to that; all I can do is stand there and stare at him, feeling like I’m hyperventilating.

Marriage. Marriage to Julian
.

It simply doesn’t compute. Marriage and Julian are so far apart in my mind, they might as well be on opposite poles of the planet. When I think of marriage, it’s in the context of a pleasant, yet distant future—a future that involves a doting husband and two noisy children. In that picture, there is a dog and a house in the suburbs, soccer games and school picnics. There is no killer with the face of a fallen angel, no beautiful monster to make me scream in his arms.

“I can’t marry you.” The words tumble out before I can think better of it. “I’m sorry, Julian, but I can’t.”

His face turns black. In a flash, he’s on me, one arm wrapped around my waist, pressing me against him, and the other hand gripping my jaw. “You said you loved me.” His voice is soft and even, but I can feel the dark rage underneath. “Was that a lie?”

“No!” Shaking, I hold Julian’s furious gaze, my hands pushing helplessly against his powerful chest. I can feel the weight of the ring on my finger, and it adds to my panic. I don’t know how to explain, how to make him understand something that I can barely comprehend myself. I want to be with Julian. I can’t live without him, but marriage is something else entirely, something that doesn’t belong in our twisted relationship. “I do love you! You know that—”

“So why would you refuse?” he demands, his eyes dark with fury. His grip on my jaw tightens, his fingers biting into my skin.

My eyes begin to burn. How can I explain my reluctance? How can I say that he’s not someone I can picture as my husband? That he’s part of a life I never imagined, never wanted, and that marrying him would mean giving up that vague, far-off dream of a normal future? “Why do you want to marry me?” I ask desperately. “Why do you want something so traditional? I’m already yours—”

“Yes, you are.” He leans down until his face is mere inches from mine. “And I want a legal document to that effect. You will be my wife, and no one will be able to take you from me.”

I stare at Julian, my chest tightening as I begin to understand. This is not a sweet, romantic gesture on his part. He’s not doing this because he loves me and wants to start a family. That’s not the way Julian operates. Marriage would legitimize his possession of me—it’s as simple as that. It would be a different form of ownership, a more permanent one . . . and something within me shudders at the very idea.

“I’m sorry,” I say evenly, gathering my courage. “I’m not ready for this. Can we discuss it again at some point later?”

His expression hardens, his eyes turning into chips of blue ice. Abruptly releasing me, he takes a step back. “All right.” His voice is as cold as his gaze. “If that’s how you want to play it, my pet, we’ll do it your way.”

Reaching into his pocket, he pulls out a smartphone and begins typing on it.

A sick sensation curls low in my stomach. “What are you doing?” When he doesn’t answer, I repeat my question, trying not to sound as panicked as I feel. “Julian, what are you doing?”

“Something I should’ve done a long time ago,” he finally replies, looking up at me as he pockets his phone. “You still dream of him, don’t you? Of that boy you once wanted?”

My heart stops beating for a second. “What? No, I don’t! Julian, I promise you, Jake has nothing to do with this—”

He interrupts with a curt, dismissive gesture. “I should’ve removed him from your life a long time ago. Now I will remedy that oversight. Maybe then you will accept that you are with me now, not him.”

“I
am
with you!” I don’t know what to say, how to convince Julian not to do it. Stepping toward him, I grip his hands, the heat of his skin burning my frozen fingers. “Listen to me, I love
you
, only you . . . He doesn’t mean anything to me—he hasn’t for a long time!”

“Good.” His expression doesn’t soften, though his fingers fold around mine, imprisoning them in his grasp. “Then you shouldn’t care what happens to him.”

“No, that’s not how it works! I care because he’s a human being, an innocent bystander in all of this, and for no other reason!” I’m shaking so hard now, my teeth are chattering. “He doesn’t deserve to be punished for my sins—”

“It doesn’t matter to me what he deserves.” Julian’s voice lashes at me like a whip as he uses his grip on my hands to pull me closer. Leaning down, he grits out, “I want him out of your mind and out of your life, do you understand me?”

The burning in my eyes intensifies, my vision blurring from unspilled tears. Through the haze of panic clouding my mind, I realize there’s only one thing I can do to stop this—only one way I can prevent Jake’s death.

“All right,” I whisper in defeat, staring at the monster I’d fallen in love with. “I will do it. I will marry you.”

* * *

The next hour feels surreal.

After calling off his henchmen, Julian introduces me to a wizened old man wearing a Catholic priest’s robes. The man doesn’t speak English, so I nod and pretend to follow along as he chatters at me in rapid-fire Spanish. It’s embarrassing to admit, but the only Spanish I know is from my classes in high school. When I was growing up, my parents spoke English in the house, and I didn’t spend enough time with my abuela to pick up anything more than a few basic phrases.

When my introduction to the priest is over, Julian leads me to another room—a small office that has a desk and two chairs. As soon as we get there, two young women enter the room. One of them brings in a long white dress, while the other one carries shoes and accessories. They’re friendly and excited, chatting with me in a mix of Spanish and English as they start doing my hair, and I try to respond in kind. However, my answers come out awkward and wooden, the growing knot of dread in my chest preventing me from acting like the eager young bride they expect to see. Noticing my lack of enthusiasm, Julian shoots me a dark glare, then disappears, leaving the women to fuss over me.

By the time they’re done prettifying me, I’m both mentally and physically exhausted. Even though Chicago and Bogotá are in the same time zone, I feel jet-lagged and utterly drained. A strange numbness steals over me, easing the churning tension in my stomach.

It’s happening. It’s really happening. Julian and I are getting married.

The panic that gripped me earlier is gone, having mellowed into a type of weary resignation. I don’t know what I expected from a man who held me captive for fifteen months. A reasonable discussion on the pros and cons of getting married at this point in our relationship? I mentally snort.
Yeah, sure
. In hindsight, it’s clear that our four-month separation had dulled my memories of those initial terrifying weeks on the island—that I had somehow managed to romanticize my abductor in my mind. I had foolishly begun to think that things could be different between us, to believe I had some say in my life.

“All done.” The woman who was working on my hair gives me a beaming smile, interrupting my thoughts. “Beautiful, señorita, very beautiful. Now, please, the dress, and then we make your face nice.”

They give me silk undergarments to go with the dress, and then tactfully turn away, giving me some privacy. Not wanting to drag it out, I swiftly change and pull on the dress—which, like the ring, fits me perfectly.

Now all that remains is makeup and accessories, and the two women make short work of that. Ten minutes later, I’m ready for my wedding.

“Come look,” one of them says, leading me toward the corner of the room. There is a full-length mirror there that I hadn’t noticed before, and I stare in stunned silence at my reflection, hardly recognizing the image I see.

The girl in the mirror is beautiful and sophisticated, with her hair styled in an artful updo and her makeup tastefully done. The mermaid-style dress is just right for her slim frame, with a sweetheart bodice exposing the graceful slope of her neck and shoulders. Teardrop-shaped diamond earrings decorate her small earlobes, and a matching necklace sparkles around her neck. She’s everything a bride should be . . . especially if one ignores the shadows in her eyes.

My parents would’ve been so proud.

The thought pops out of nowhere, and I realize for the first time that I’m getting married without my family there, that my parents won’t get to see their only child on that special day. A dull ache spreads through my chest at the thought. There will be no wedding-dress shopping with my mom, no cake-tasting with my dad.