New Title 7 (4 page)

"Alright," I said weakly and headed for him. I'd never given head before, not to mention these were less than ideal circumstances to perform such an act.

Pulse thrummed. Stomach churned. I paused within inches of him and didn't meet his burning gaze. His air of authority intimidated me and I couldn't stand being so close. I felt as insignificant as an ant.

And quite mortified.

"Get on your knees, Mia."

I pretended not to hear him. I stared at his broad chest, my eyes level with his collarbone. His silver necklace gleamed in the light from the illuminated doorway.

"Mia, I said get on your knees. Now."

Light blond hair trailed from his navel to his enormous penis, aimed straight at me as it waited impatiently for my mouth.

"Miaaaa," he groaned. "What are you waiting for?"

"I'm not doing it."

"What?"

"I'm not doing it."

"Oh really? You're not going to give me head?"

"No. I can't."

"Why not?"

"I don't want to. I'm not going to. Sorry."

"What about your shower, Mia?"

"I'd rather stay dirty." Silence. Heart hammered.

"What if I leave you alone the rest of this month? No blow jobs, no sex, nothing. Would you give me head this one time?"

I stared up at him. "Really? You swear you're not lying to me?"

Like the Cheshire cat, a white smile spread on his face. "Yes. I promise I'll be good."

I still didn't trust him. How could I?

"Mia, I promised. Everything will be great. Now will you please drop to your knees and suck my dick?"

I was taken aback since he said
please
.

"I'm only being nice because of what happened last night. I hate feeling guilty. Guilt is for pussies."

Guilty? He had some sort of
conscience
? Had I found or unlocked a piece of Brandon's good side? If there
were
such thing as his good side. I decided to take advantage of this discovery.

"I'll do it if you promise to keep my wrists untied all month. They're pretty sore."

His jaw clenched and relaxed. "Okay."

"Promise me."

"Yes Mia. I promise."

It's now or never
. I crouched in front of his erection, exhaled and leaned in.

Oh god...

He drew in a deep breath and released it. He inched his hard-on closer and the head brushed my lips. It smelled good—how would it taste?

"Mia, do it."

"How?"

"
How
? You open your mouth, slide it in and suck on it. Like sucking on a lollipop. You've done that before, haven't you?"

"I'm nervous. I've never done it before."

"You've never sucked a lollipop?"

"No. I mean I've never given head."

"It's easy. You suck on it. You suck till I blow. Hence the name." His voice rose in frustration. Yet I hesitated, still unsure.

"Mia! You're driving me fucking crazy. Suck my fucking dick."

I nearly jumped out of my skin.

He shoved his cock to my lips. "Open your goddamn mouth."

I parted my lips. It shocked me when the head of his dick grazed my tongue.

"Open wider, Mia."

I opened as wide as I could, tasted his hot cock as it slipped far inside my mouth. The head hit my throat and I resisted the urge to gag.

He gasped and his breathing quickened instantly. "God. Yes." He cupped my head, coaxed me forward and back in a rocking motion while his hips pushed in and out.

"Yeah that's it. Keep your mouth wide open. I don't need your teeth to scrape me," he said. "You can suck at any time."

I forced myself to suck. My jaw grew tired, sore.

Eager to finish, I took him into my mouth and greedily sucked the head whenever he stroked out. He palmed my face, guiding me faster. Pulses in his cock tapped my tongue.

"
Ah ah
." Brandon pulled my hair as he went frantic. I closed my throat so he couldn't choke me, but his cock broke past the fragile barrier.

My eyes watered, throat tickled while I stifled a cough.

"
Ah yes, Mia. Keep going, baby. You're almost there
."

I eased my tongue up the shaft, tasted and sucked harder. He cried out as his cock continually rammed.

"
Oh Mia! Yeah. Suck it.
"

Another contraction and another, coming in waves. These waves steadied as the shaft enlarged, hardened. 

"Here it comes. Get ready to swallow." He pushed farther in and halted. I braced myself. His cock flexed and cum flooded my mouth. I gulped each warm, rapid squirt as he writhed, whimpered like he was in pain.

"Oh sweet Jesus. Christ! Oh, oh, oh, oh, Mia. Fuck yeah, Mia."

He backed up. Though I was glad he'd finished, my jaw was stiff as hell. Even my neck ached from all that jostling.

Brandon panted, doubled over and clutched his chest. Why should I care whether he was okay?

I lurched to my feet and sat on the bed, watching his struggle with shortness of breath. Also my stomach demanded for something to fill it aside from cum.

His breathing slowed. He eyed me while slipping into his pajamas.

Did I detect a hint of guilt?

"You need something to eat?" He gave a sideways glance, hooked a thumb under the waistband beneath his navel. His pajamas settled dangerously low on his hips and his crotch remained thick.

"Yes, please." Refusing to see his guilt, I glanced away. Guilt equated to caring and if he cared for someone other than himself, I might start liking him as a person.

I'd rather hold on to hatred and keep thinking of him as a monster.

On the flip side—getting along with him would make this ordeal a little easier.

Maybe.

D
ays passed and he hadn't killed me—yet.

Brandon had peeled the duct tape from my wrists and inspected the wound on my genitals to make sure it wasn't infected.

To my amazement, he honored his promise to leave me be. He only came to deliver some food or drinks. He brought me one of his shirts to wear, which was better than wandering around stark naked. His T-shirt was large enough to reach my knees and doubled as a night gown.

I took showers when I wanted and every two days he gave me a clean shirt.

He left me to freely roam the basement and I watched television to help pass time. The upstairs door stayed locked whenever he slept or left.

In the meantime my hatred for this place dwindled.

And my hatred for him dwindled. I'd lived as his prisoner nearly one full week. He kept me fed, clean, healthy.

I learned his father was Dr. Robert Levine, a plastic surgeon who owned a practice in Houston. Robert was controlling and tough. He expected Brandon to become a physician as well. Robert also refused to let anyone express pity over his son's heart condition. He wouldn't let Brandon feel sorry for himself. No special considerations despite Brandon's possible death sentence and endless surgeries.

As long as he complied with his father's demands, Robert paid his son's way through college, paid Brandon's expenses and even bought his house.

When Brandon found he needed a heart transplant and quit medical school, Robert stopped paying the bills. Brandon's mother helped him by sending a fat check every so often.

Brandon's heart condition—hypoplastic left heart syndrome—developed when he was inside the womb. His left ventricle didn't form properly, among other heart problems.

His cardiologist told him that he could die anytime from heart failure, stroke or other complications.

These personal confessions stirred my emotions in a way I'd never experienced. Changed me within my own healthy beating heart.

This confused me.

How could I feel this way for my captor? Yet I did. I didn't
want
to feel sympathy for Brandon—I simply couldn't stop it from happening.

I'd glimpsed the human behind the monster. Now I couldn't go back.

* * *

E
vening.

I was perched on the bed when he swaggered in carrying a bottled water. I took it, downed a few mouthfuls and set the bottle by my feet. 

Brandon looked especially good today. He'd styled his hair in a slight pompadour. Blond highlights streaked darker tones. He wore a long-sleeved burgundy V-neck and faded jeans. His clothes appeared brand new and he exuded zesty, enticing cologne.

He reminded me of those preppy rich boys I used to go to school with. I hated them.

He plopped down next to me, watching and making me uncomfortable. He was so close his arm lightly brushed mine.

Slowly my gaze drifted to his.

Whenever I was nervous I talked too much. I blurted out my weird dream where I explored a huge mansion and heard piano music.

"What was the song?" he asked. I couldn't believe he cared.

"Nocturne by Chopin."

"Which Nocturne?" His lips spread to a sexy grin, his eyes softening. "Was it number one, two, three..."

"Number two."

"My mother listens to Mozart. But her favorite song is by Tchaikovsky." His eyes glazed as if recalling a sweet childhood memory.

"Tchaikovsky? Which song?"

"Piano Concerto One."

I nodded. Uncomfortable silence trailed his words.

"Do you miss your family?" he quietly asked.

I shrugged. "I guess. Me and my dad don't get along too well. He always told me I was gifted with intelligence but lacking common sense. In a way he's like your father. He was disappointed when I didn't go to college. He said I was wasting my
intellectual talents
."

"What about your mother?"

"She died when I was fifteen."

"Oh. I'm sorry, Mia."

"Yeah. Thanks." I hesitated. "Dad left us for his girlfriend. Not long after that, Mom started her car in the garage and didn't bother to actually
leave
the garage." 

"Oh god. Carbon monoxide?" he asked.

"Yes. She killed herself."

"Christ, Mia."

"Yeah." I shoved those memories aside.

"Sounds like you've had a shitty life."

"Maybe, but after that I told myself I'd never let a guy drive me to suicide. I learned from her mistake." I avoided his gaze—because if I met his eyes, I'd feel like I was talking to him as his girlfriend and not as a captive. Brandon was getting too familiar.

The last thing I needed was to develop a love for this man.

Too damn easy to bond with his good side as if he had two personalities. I discovered his second personality was surprisingly likable. Even wonderful.

"What doesn't kill us makes us stronger," he muttered.

"Right. It's so true."

"What happened? Did you go live with your father?"

"Yes." I shifted, tucked my leg beneath the other. "I don't want to talk about it anymore."

"That's alright." The mattress squeaked as he scooted back.

"Thanks for the water, Brandon."

"No problem. Are you hungry yet?"

"No."

"It's crazy," he said. "I'm getting to know you so well. You're like a girlfriend to me."

My eyes widened. "Uh yeah. I know."

"You know?" He shifted again, sliding closer. I sensed his body heat. "Do you want me to be your lover? I definitely wouldn't say no."

"Can we talk about something else?"

"Sure." His palm rubbed the small of my back. Immediately my spine and shoulders tensed and my lungs burned as I forgot how to breathe.

All because of his touch.

My fear of him waltzed with tentative love for him.
Brandon, you're the only one who can make or break me. I don't know whether to be afraid of you, or just love you and let you love me. But I know I need to obey you. My survival depends on it.

A piece of humanity lies somewhere inside your heart. I know this and it brings me comfort. 

Shakily I sighed. He touched my cheek, gently turned my face so there was no other choice but to peer into his eyes.

Those jade eyes entranced me immediately.

His lips found mine in a soft kiss.

Under ordinary circumstances I would've melted from his tender kiss. It did speed up my heart beat. His tongue traced his upper lip and then he kissed me harder, demanding as his tongue coaxed my lips apart.

Brandon's tongue teased the tip of mine. He leaned on me and I fell flush with the comforter, his waist nestled amid my thighs. I squeezed, clawed his shoulders and stroked the ridges of his bare stomach between his shirt and waistband. Before long his erection probed.

Deathly silent except for our heavy breathing, smacking lips and straining bed frame.

Excitement fired through me with each leisurely intimate caress. Chopin's Nocturne #2 played in my head and its haunting melody drowned my paranoia.

His hand traveled along my outer thigh and nudged my shirt higher, higher.

He paused—our gazes locked.

"I love you, Mia." His lips crushed mine. "I love you. I love you," he groaned amidst searing kisses. "Oh, I love you so much."

I love you. I love you.

??? Huh?

Visions of his earlier brutality flashed like snapshots. Memories of his threats mingled paradoxically with loving kisses.

I broke free of his spell and shoved him off. I dashed to the corner where I hugged myself, legs quaking.

He straightened. "Look at you. I've made you afraid of me."

I vigorously shook my head.

"Yes I have. You're scared shitless, cowering like an abused animal. I guess it serves me right."

I waited for my heart rate to slow but it didn't. It wouldn't—until
he
left.

"I'm sorry." Making no effort to hide his disappointment, he frowned as he started out.

But overwhelmed by relief, I dropped to the mattress.

A sudden thought shattered this stint of well-being:
When will Dr. Jekyll turn into Mr. Hyde?

W
e pretended that particular evening never happened. Brandon pretended he didn't say he loved me. He seemed embarrassed, not that I cared either way. I just wanted him to treat me as a human, not a slave.

I pretended he never raped me, but those vivid assaults had a way of seeping into my memory when I least expected.