Chapter 17 Masochist
❦ Rosalind ❦
Thanks to my strong pelvic muscles, toned from yoga, I did not piss myself when the shot rang out.
Walter, one of Viktor’s younger men, had watched us enter the compound with a masked figure sneaking up behind us.
He’d shot the intruder down, and Viktor ordered the body to be taken away amidst my shocked expression.
“What if he had missed and blown my head off?”
“He never misses,” Viktor mumbled, limping into the house in pain.
An older woman dressed in a monochrome outfit, hair in a tight low bun, who I assumed was his maid, approached us. Viktor waved her away with orders to make him dinner.
His room was a spitting image of his dark disposition. Dark drapes, dark furniture, and I thought that even during the day, the space would still hold its dark, moody look.
He swiveled a chair and sat heavily on it, his breathing ragged.
“Come here.”
I turned to him, distracted from studying his room.
“Me?” I squealed, pointing to myself like a clueless rabbit. I almost mentally smacked my forehead. Of course me, we were the only ones in the room.
And just like that, the realization lit a match on my skin. It suddenly felt hot… too hot. The alcohol in my system wasn’t helping matters, random spots of heat flared without warning whenever he addressed me.
“Yes. You,” he growled, his pupils glinting in the dark like some kind of fallen, battle-worn angel.
I walked toward him slowly, my dress frayed at the ends where I’d torn a piece off to tie his wounds. The slit of the dress had crept higher, and I felt his heated gaze lick the exposed skin.
Stopping in front of him, he pushed a metal tray into my arms.
“Take the bullets out.”
“Why not one of your men? Or your maid? They must know more first aid than I do.”
“They’ll be tougher. Less merciful. I’m not in the mood for that. You’re not squeamish. That’s good enough.” He leaned against the back of the chair, his glistening chest rising with labored breaths.
Dark lashes swept over his cheeks, and I swept my gaze over his face, his lips, his scars. He was insanely hot. I was ferried away into a daydream where I didn’t have to hold myself back from acting on this attraction.
“Rosa.”
I jumped, rudely cut out of my daydream.
I set the tray on the floor, starting with his thigh first. With the surgical scissors, I began to cut away his trousers, but he stopped me, stood up, and took them off, revealing black boxer briefs beneath. I choked on my saliva at the unmistakable bulge in front.
After he’d sat back down, he grabbed a bottle on the shelf beside him and gulped half the contents. Then he poured some on the wound, hissing through his teeth. He motioned me to continue.
Taking a deep breath, I tried to distract him with conversation. “From what I gather, one or both of us have quite the bounty on our heads.”
He released a chuckle that ended in a pained hiss. “No shit, Sherlock.”
I squeezed. His leg buckled. I gave him a sheepish smile when he glared.
“You have so much money of your own. Why do you want my hotel so much?”
“If you haven’t figured it out yet, then you really shouldn’t keep it.”
I bit my lip as I mused. It made a lot of money, sure. But that couldn’t be his only motivation.
With stainless steel tweezers, I dug into his thigh for the bullet. Luckily, it wasn’t deep and I could see the faintest glint of metal among flesh.
I pressed his thigh downward as I gripped the bullet, his body vibrating with the effort to hold in the pain. Occasionally, he would grunt, hiss, curse. And it was doing things to me I wouldn’t dare express. I had to physically restrain myself from caressing the length of his muscular, toned thigh.
My head swam with lust, and I chided myself. But if I could react this way to his suffering, then maybe I was still on the right track by finding joy in his pain.
With a tug from me and a grunt from him, the bullet came free. It dropped into the tray with a loud clink. I wiped down the wound and bandaged it, untying the makeshift tourniquet.
I rose, eager to get to the next wound just so I could hear him grunt again. In my excitement, I spread my legs and straddled him for balance as I peered at his arm, fully leaning into the doctor role.
“Mmh… this one looks a little deeper than the first. It’s going to hurt,” I informed him, licking my lips.
“You look like you’re enjoying this.”
“Any activity that causes you pain would gladly make my day,” I murmured.
I dug the tweezer in, and he dug his fingers into my hip, hissing in pain.
“Keep still, so I don’t mistakenly stab you in the heart with these.”
He didn’t respond.
I pressed the wound open with my fingers, and with the other hand, grabbed an edge of the bullet.
Unsatisfied with his quietness, I wriggled the tweezers a bit.
Viktor growled, arching his back as he dug his face into my neck, his fingers kneading my flesh roughly.
Something pressed upwards between my legs, and when I started, raising my hips to get away, he pressed me back down, holding me in place.
My heart racing, core burning, and breaths erratic, I focused on getting the bullet out. After I’d cleaned and covered it, I dropped the tweezers and sat still, while he pressed into my neck, letting the pain settle.
Maybe it was my imagination, but I thought it was getting harder, pressing into my thigh with a size that shocked me.
I moved my hips, needing more friction, and he moaned into my neck. My lips parted, a whimper escaping me. I was nothing but need, flushed and wet.
He pulled back, his eyes narrowed but full of heat as he watched the spot where I grinded on him.
His muscles shook, taut with tension, and I boldly pressed myself harder into him. A moan tore out of my lips, the pressure building as I massaged my clit with his hard-on.
The door creaked open.