Behemoth Pt. 01

He may as well have brushed my sensitive, swollen flesh with a live wire, for all the good his gentleness does. It's undeniably the most invasive and most responsive place on my entire body.

And he knows it. I feel him growl as I buck back, losing my self-control for a second time. His arm tightens around my torso, fingers digging into my collarbone. At least they're not on your breasts, my stupid inner optimist argues.

That's true, but it's his other hand that is steadily driving me mad. With each stroke he obliviates a little bit more of my consciousness.

I am singularly focused on getting him to stop. To stop touching me against my will. To stop humiliating me with his power. And--if I'm being honest--to stop me from coating his finger in the unsanctioned slickness that is slowly working its way out of my core.

No amount of wild swinging or lashing out slows down the gentle strokes he forces upon that seemingly insignificant nub of insanity hidden neatly between my thighs.

Incensed by my inability to remove his hand, I fall limp and allow him to continue his maddening assault against the most secret part of me. I know his finger is wet now by the way it glides effortlessly back and forth, up and down, over the most sensitive piece of human anatomy in existence. I can't see his face, but I can feel it in the way he touches me: he is gloating.

The worst part is that I've started to enjoy it.

I've truly lost control of myself. In defeat, I howl out my fear and mortification and anger to the walls that surround us.

And then I regret it.

Up until this moment, he seemed willing to wait for me to become tired or accepting or, preferably--for me, I mean--dead of a heart attack. Screaming and crying, though, are like the on-switch for his violence. Without warning, his right hand jerks free from between the tenuous grasp of my thighs, and covers the bottom half of my face, stifling my ability to scream and--infinitely more important--my ability to breath.

No, no, no, no, no. Being crushed against his chest earlier was the most terrifying experience of my life. And it's happening again. I lash out with every ounce of strength that I have left. I don't want to suffocate.

It's futile. His calloused hand stays clasped over my mouth and nose, and his other remains unmoving across my chest. I stifle a sob, overcome by helplessness. He remains a marble statue, impervious to my distress.

I hated having his hand invade my private areas, but I hate having it hinder my ability to breath even more. And this exact position makes mockery of our single consensual encounter at the club. Only then I was clothed, and he was my dark, mysterious stranger, and there was safety in numbers.

Here, I am nude, confined, and alone.

Here, I am at his mercy.

I bow my head in defeat. Please let it be quick, is my final, silent wish.

Instead, he relaxes his hand. As close as I am to his chest, I feel his diaphragm contract in preparation for speech.

In this moment, I idiotically comprehend for the first time that my tormentor isn't just a faceless bogeyman in the dark, come to serve me carnal punishment for sins I'm unaware of having committed--he's a living, breathing human being, capable of speech and thought.

What could he possibly have to say to me?

His words--gravelly and resolute--emerge from his warm, powerful chest like strife and turmoil escaping from Pandora's gilded box. "I am going to remove my hand. You are going to keep your fucking mouth shut. Understood?"

I nod like my life depends on it.

It does depend on it, but I don't want to think about that right now. His promise of unrestricted breathing is the most beautiful thing I've ever heard.

He removes his hand, and I'm so excited by my ability to breath that I forget to stop nodding. I realize my mistake and stop abruptly, incredulous at my own behavior. This man kidnaps and assaults me in my own apartment, and here I am bobbling my head like a doggy on the dashboard trying to please him.

It's worth it. His arm falls slack against his side. Our only skin-to-skin contact now is from his other arm wrapping me against his chest.

He inhales deeply against my hair. "You smell like my home."

I smell like his home? What the hell does that mean?

I mentally catalog my beauty products, trying to think of their ingredients. My memory isn't really in peak condition right now--I'm sort of hoping for this entire night to become repressed--but I try to play his game on the off chance that it will save me.

"Um...rosemary?"

He doesn't answer. I huff at my wasted effort. Immediately, his hand is at my throat.

I stiffen. Panic returns in full force.

He squeezes gently, and growls into my ear. "Behave."

His temper is a force to be reckoned with. I'm lucky that this time it only resulted in a case of goosebumps. I make a mental note that huffing is frowned up. That's the understatement of the year. I'm careful not to huff, though.

Satisfied with my response, he removes his hand. "There are two ways that this can end for you."

I hang onto his words like they're a life raft in a turbulent sea. His speech is slow, and the finality with which he clips his hard consonants makes it clear that he's not messing around. Like you didn't already know that, Lu.

I can't decide whether or not I'm supposed to respond. He makes the decision for me.

"The best way this can end for you is that we come to an agreement and you walk out of here tonight." I try to focus, but the way he speaks--slow, measured syllables--is wreaking havoc in my lower belly. His voice resonates deep in his chest every time a long vowel drips off his tongue, and without meaning to I lean into him. An agreement doesn't sound so bad.

He continues. "The worst way it can end is that you don't."

I don't what? It takes me a moment to compute. I don't walk out of here tonight.

Oh. Oh.

My leaning morphs into shivering. He doesn't mince words. The finality of his pronouncement leaves me lightheaded.

Agreement. He said something about an agreement.

"Can you...tell me more about the agreement?" I try my best to sound amiable. It's difficult to hold a conversation when I see my life flashing before my eyes.

"You are mine. In entirety. And in exchange, I allow you to keep your life."

His measured words lends a false credibility to the madness of his suggestion. There's an undertone of cruelty, but his self-control is so masterly that if I didn't already know his brutal nature, I would have missed it. For a moment, I think I must have heard him wrong. What must have happened to this man, to give him such an astounding disregard for free will? I can't wrap my head around the idea that he actually expects me to agree to that.

But I don't have to wrap my head around it. Before I can contemplate an appropriate response, a meek "Yes," slips out from between my lips, a product of animal instinct. Because I know, without a doubt, that his query is serious. I agree to his terms, or I don't walk out of here tonight. And as much as I value my freedom, I value my life more.

I wait for his response. But there isn't one.

Instead, he lazily untangles his arm from my torso, and I hear him step back. There's a rustle of fabric behind me and a hollow thud as he knocks into my desk chair.

Still traumatized from the last time I angered him, I remain quiet. So far, there is no cause for alarm. No new cause, I mean--my deal with the devil notwithstanding.

There's a soft pop of buttons. He's getting dressed. I wait with bated breath, wondering if he's going to uphold his promise. My arms are insensible with numbness, and I imagine they're going to hurt when he lets me down.

If he lets me down.

I don't wait long. He returns to his position behind me, and I hold my breath in anticipation. A thick forearm wraps itself across my chest, but this time it is clothed. He really is going to let me down.

But not yet. The arm around my chest pulls me against him, and I'm again reminded of our first meeting. My face burns in shame; what if I'm responsible for what happened here tonight? I think that's the worst part of my feelings right now--this suspicion that somehow my actions led both of us to this.

Without warning, I feel insistent lips and sharp teeth dig into the tender flesh where my neck meets my shoulder. I'm taken off guard by the ferocity of his assault, and I arch my back in an attempt to dislodge him. It's futile. Like an offering of contrition for my pain, he sucks and tends the bruised skin with his lips before widening his jaw and digging in again with his teeth.

I whimper in dissent, and this time he doesn't try to stop me. His erection digs into my arched back and he shoves it into me, pushing me forward against the bonds that he still hasn't removed. If I wasn't certain before of the terms of our "agreement," I am completely aware now. This is his way of explaining.

Somewhere along the line, my whimpers become moans. I bite my tongue, furious with my reaction, but it doesn't change anything.

He continues his assault, and I continue to pretend that the deluge of sticky wetness between my thighs isn't the product of his mouth on my neck.

Pretending is about the only thing I've got left.

With reluctance, he pulls himself off of me, and I hear a jingle of metal as he reaches into the pocket of his pants. In horror, I realize my wetness is probably all over them. My eyes prickle in humiliation, and for the first time tonight I am crying. I pray he doesn't notice. Please, just let it be over already.

My wish is granted. With surprising agility, he lifts me against him and my arms fall down, unhooked from whatever held them to the ceiling. They're still connected to each other, and after a moment of jingling noises, one is freed, then the other. I'm overwhelmed by the pain that comes with their freedom. I can't even contemplate using my fists against him; he's made his dominance abundantly clear, and I am no match for the strength he so bluntly wields.

So I remain listless, and he carries me to the bed. With surprising gentleness, he sets me down on it.

For a moment, the stream of moonlight that sneaks in from the edge of the shade arcs across his face. It illuminates the most dramatic blue eyes I have ever seen. They're like the cobalt-blue of the Georgia ridges under hazy clouds at dawn.

I draw a sharp breath. Eyes like that have no place on a monster like him. He meets my gaze and holds it.

Wordlessly, he backs away from my bed, and the darkness consumes him once again.

"Again?" My inner voice breaks my trance, hysterical and incredulous. Don't you ever think he left it, Tallulah Jane. Not for a moment. Those eyes that steal your breath and your hatred belong to a man whose hands will remorselessly steal your life.

This unwelcome truth--that beauty, his beauty, will be the harbinger of my doom--tears a rift in my innocence that is more desolating than the entirety of this ordeal.

He leaves the room with the same careful, measured footsteps that woke me from unconsciousness. They fade away down the hall.

Exhaustion overtakes me, swift and intense. Without further thought, I curl tightly into myself and fall into sleep beneath a comforter that smells strongly of oranges and the sea.