Chapter 7 SEVEN
Shamefully, the wet throbbing heat below my core flared up, almost leaving me panting. I hated the contradiction. Hated the way I was betraying myself.
I straightened my spine, trying to go completely cold, completely poker-faced.
But the heat was winning and the silk of my panties was soaking through.
It made me remember the grainy porno video I’d stumbled onto once of a jacked guy, built exactly like Sergei, pounding a woman ruthlessly in the back of a black SUV.
That was the way I always envisioned the dream sex would be like if I ever found a man stronger and more Alpha-ish than the baby-faced boys I’d always hooked up with at college.
Reoccurrently, the images replayed in my head.
I was suddenly imagining myself in the actress’s place, my boobs bouncing in Sergei’s face while I straddled him and the length of his cock pounded up into me from underneath.
I dragged my eyes to his, trying to look bored.
“And would you care to tell me what I feel right now, since you’re a know-it-all?”
He gave a lopsided smirk, and then leaned forward, just enough that the faint scent of his cologne brushed weakly against my nostrils.
"I know that I know what you’re feeling.”
“That’s a lot of ‘knows’ for a man who hasn’t said anything concrete,” I stammered, immediately hating myself for the childish retort.
He ignored it. “Admit it. You are ashamed that you are attracted to the monster who took you. You’re trying to hate me, but your body isn't cooperating.”
I couldn't hold back. My voice pitched into a thin shriek. “I’m feeling disgust, Sergei. That’s it!”
“Is it?”
“Yes…what else”
“You’re sure it's not because I make you wet?”
“You are so arrogant,” I hissed, leaning away. “Do you think every woman in your radius is panting for you?”
“I don’t think every woman,” he said throatily, holding my gaze from his spot, “I think you, Anya. You.”
He was right.
I knew it, and he knew I wanted him to touch me.
Yet, he wasn't giving in, and that left me exhausted from the pointless back and forth.
“Well, I don’t find you attractive,” I lied smoothly. “You’re my enemy.”
Sergei tilted his head. “Does that change the fact that you think I’m hot?”
“I don’t think you’re hot!” I flared, instantly feeling juvenile.
“A liar and an amateur,” he countered hoarsely. “I’m sure if I looked, your panty line is grinding against your clit because you’re trying not to move.”
I shuddered violently at the thought of him checking. My eyes flicked briefly to the driver in front, who continued to mind his business. “I—I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I stuttered dizzily.
Sergei’s stare intensified. “Do you want me to look?”
“No!”
“To stop the squirming and get you off with my fingers?”
“I’m not horny!” I squealed, the denial ringing false even to my own ears.
He watched me, the eager look in his eyes dying immediately as he deflated back into his seat. The bored drawl in his voice afterwards told me he was serious about getting me off with his fingers.
“Tell me what's on your mind.”
I refused to look at him again.
“It doesn't matter.”
“If it's making you uneasy, it does.”
“Clearly, you do not care about my uneasiness if you're keeping me prisoner.”
There was a pause before, “Don't play the long game. You being my prisoner isn't going to change in a long time….” Then with the returned intensity in his voice, void of playfulness now, he gritted. “Speak.”
That was the trigger, the fucking dam of my tongue control broke.
“I’m not comfortable travelling with you,” I spat out, “If I'm not sure my brother's still breathing or not. Did you kill him? Is he coming with us? What happens when we get to Oklahoma? What the fuck are we going to do there?”
He waited until I was silent, then titled his head. “Is that what the squirming is about?”
“Well…” I spluttered, fighting for control, “yes. What the hell do you think bothers me?”
“Oklahoma is simple,” he dismissed, waving off the mention of Judea. “You will see soon enough. But that doesn’t seem to be the only thing bothering you.”
I held my breath. “What then?”
“I know you, Anya.”
“I’m tired of you repeating that shit.”
He gave me a slow once-over. “I watched you for years.”
“And that too.” I tried to sound casual. “That’s illegal, isn’t it?”
“Illegal?”
“Yes,” I affirmed, trying to shame him. “Obsessively stalking a private citizen?”
In turn, he looked at me like I was the stupid one. “Everything I do is illegal, malyshka. I don't do good things…. Now, back to what I was saying….I watched you. The men you fucked…” he lifted his hand, fingers spread. “Countless, wasn’t it? Your sex addiction? Drug addiction? The messy attempts to feel something?”
He finished the inventory of my life then abruptly let his head fall back against the headrest, eyes hooded.
“But since you’re so interested in what’s happening in Oklahoma, I’ll tell you.” He changed the topic effortlessly. “There’s a priest waiting for us.”
My brows tugged. “A… a priest?”
“Yes, a priest.”
I stammered, my voice barely a whisper. “For what?”
He didn't answer. He simply let a slow, chilling smile touch the corner of his lips.
His eyes pinned me, and the sound of Lewis Capaldi crooning someone you loved in the background did nothing to quell the pound in my chest as Sergei folded his hands beneath his head, and slouched lazily into the seat.
“I'm making you my wife at the altar in Oklahoma, malyshka.”
