Page 53 of Faithless
He’s enslaved. He can’t set boundaries or say no to anything.
That was Torr’s voice in my head, and it was as sobering as a bucket of ice water to the face. My eyes snapped open, and I pulled my hand away from between my legs, panting hard. A flash of anger hit me, and I reached for the whiskey bottle on the nightstand, pulling another long, burning swig.
Chances were high that I wouldn’t actually fuck the Butcher, despite Torr’s utter lack of faith in me. But he sure as hell was not going to come barging into my brain and ruining a harmless fantasy, especially after being such an ass tonight.
Determined, I brought my legs together and slid my panties off, then slingshotted them to a dark corner of the room. After settling back and spreading my legs again, I closed my eyes and allowed the Butcher to explore me bare this time.
I was wet, my flesh swollen and sensitive. The Butcher traced my lips with his fingers before pushing them inside my mouth. I sucked and licked at the digits, imagining his groan as he thought of me sucking him in other places. Those wet fingers skimmed down my body, leaving trails of heat before they teasingly circled my clit hood.
A whimper escaped my mouth as I arched higher for more, then those fingers trailed down and stroked inside me. My teeth sank into my lower lip, hips lifting off the bed to match the thrust of the Butcher’s hand. I imagined his breath ghosting over my skin, maybe even kissing my hip and lower belly as that mouth moved closer to where his fingers played.
It wasn’t the same as a tongue but flattening my palm over my clit was close enough to let my imagination take over. The Butcher licked over the sensitive nub while his fingers curled and spread inside me, demanding a response from my nerve endings with every stroke.
I had no restraint, no self-control, and no desire to draw this out with teasing. Once the orgasm started building, I headed straight there, accelerating like I just hit the gas on a straight stretch of road.
The release locked up my muscles, sent my hips spiking up to grind against the Butcher’s face. I could feel him riding out my pleasure, keeping steady on all the right spots to carry me through the peak and descent.
When I finally fell back to the mattress, limp, panting, and sweating, I didn’t dare open my eyes. Reality could wait because I wasn’t ready to face it yet.
I’d much rather stay in the fantasy of someone, the Butcher, crawling up the bed to lie next to me and hold me in my sleep.
20
SANTOS
My appointments with guests were the only times I was allowed a long shower, complete with hot, running water. So I made it count.
I shaved my face and manscaped, lathering myself up everywhere. Then, when I dried off, I made sure I kept smelling decent with a few spritzes of cologne. Less was more, as I’d learned from experience.
I dressed in loose, linen pants and a matching shirt. My feet were bare, and my trusted machetes were back in my room in the bowels of the colosseum. I always felt the most naked without my weapons, but they wouldn’t serve me here. No matter how much I occasionally wanted to murder the guests.
I gave myself a final once-over in the bathroom mirror, then nodded at the pitmaster to let him know I was ready. It was always the male staff keeping watch over those of us who met privately with guests, just as a precaution.
My guard’s face was blank as he patted me down for hidden weapons, his expression never changing as he unlocked the door and held it open for me. I went through the short corridor and stopped before the door at the other end. He unlocked that one for me while I waited, then held it open as I crossed the threshold.
The guard didn’t enter the lavish room with me. He would stay on the other side to give us privacy, keeping the door unlocked just in case I, or the guest, hit a panic button during our time together. Then he’d be able to rush in at a moment’s notice.
In my four years of being at Mystic Canyon, I’d only heard of a panic button being used once. A gladiator had taken a guest hostage in hopes of negotiating for his freedom. The staff had been able to diffuse the situation and the guest was unharmed, but that guy was immediately thrown into the next fight—a brutal five-on-one. Devin was the one who put him out of his misery with a knife thrown to his frontal lobe.
After that, they almost stopped whoring us out, but Nella wouldn’t have it. She claimed the demand for fucking gladiators was still high among the guests, despite the risks. So the service remained, just with extra security measures. Apparently, the guests also had to sign a liability waiver too, saying they knew and assumed the risks for spending time alone with dangerous criminals.
As I’d come to find out, it was because of those risks that we were in such high demand, not in spite of them. Some people rode motorcycles, lit things on fire, or took drugs for a thrill. And some liked to fuck unhinged killers.
My current guest, who had been sitting on a loveseat, stood abruptly as I walked in. My heart did a little extra kicking motion in my chest. I’d been antsy for days about this session, the pretty blonde who’d requested me personally and watched my last fight from her VIP box. There was no tangible reason for this private spark of excitement behind my sternum rather than the resigned dread I usually felt. And yet it was there all the same.
With a few exceptions, I was not attracted to most of the guests and loathed the type of the sex the majority of them wanted from me. It was usually a grin-and-bear-it type of thing, but maybe this time, I could actually enjoy it a little.
“Good afternoon,” I said with my politest tone and smile. “No need to stand for me. Make yourself comfortable.”
“Hello,” she returned in a soft, husky voice. “Thank you for, um, seeing me.”
Her smile was nervous, and she clasped her hands in front of her like she didn’t know what to do with them. Ah, a newcomer then. Every once in a while I got one of those. The first order of business was making her comfortable.
“It’s my pleasure. Would you like something to drink?” I made my way to the minibar while she settled back on the loveseat and smoothed out invisible wrinkles in her dress.
She seemed to perk up at the prospect of a drink. “Do you have whiskey?”
I paused, hands frozen in midair for a second. We had every spirit and fermented alcohol the guests could desire, but whiskey was an unusual choice for a woman. It threw me a little, but I recovered quickly and grabbed two short tumblers.
