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dragon-of-dreams · 1 year

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I knew he had tricks up his sleeve!!! Brutal but effective!

Double Cross - Chapter Nine

Characters: Tom Hiddleston (Jaguar Villain role) / OFC

Rating: Explicit / NSFW / Over 18's only / Minors DNI

Word Count: 2800

Tags: Dark Thriller / Criminal underworld / Dub-con / Non-con / Violence / Torture / Interrogation / Sex work / Forced oral / No honour amongst thieves / Bad language

Summary: In which Verity's evening deteriorates further

Previous Chapter // Chapter List // Master List of other works

Verity flinched as Cross leaned closer to whisper, “They are asking what purpose you serve. They don’t seem to feel you’re pretty enough to be purely ornamental.”

Clearly her tacit surrender wasn’t enough to satisfy him. He was intent on extracting his pound of flesh. She turned to glare at him but his smirk told her he didn’t care.

With an exaggerated shrug he leaned back in his chair and spread his legs. “Here or there.” He indicated the other end of the table with a jerk of his chin. “Your choice.”

She was almost tempted to pick the far end of the table just to spite him but she didn’t have an active deathwish. Somehow, she would make sure he paid for this, but right now, she just wanted to get out of this evening alive.

Shifting awkwardly out of her chair and onto her knees she reached for his zipper, her eyes locked onto his as she slowly drew the tab down. Trying to ignore the whoops of encouragement coming from the rest of the party, she wiped one sweat-slicked palm on her skirt before reaching into the opening and curling her fingers around his rigid length.

Keeping that hand wrapped around his base, to prevent him from thrusting too deeply she wet her lips and leaned forward, taking just the crown into her mouth. As she swirled her tongue she felt him twitch and jerk against her. She withdrew and rolled her hand up his shaft, then repeated the move, taking him an inch deeper this time. Out of the corner of her eye she could see his hands gripping the arms of the chair, knuckles white as he forced his fingers into the wood.

He was trying at least.

Around her the taunts and jeers had become a howling, feral wail; the ringing in her ear now a sharp, stabbing pain as the volume increased. Anxious to get it over with, she screwed her eyes closed and pushed further. Nerves getting the better of her, she mistimed her stroke and he brushed against the back of her throat causing her system to rebel with a convulsive retch.

With a growl of annoyance Cross grabbed her hair and jerked her off his cock. Unsure what was about to happen next, Verity watched in confusion as he yanked at the tablecloth like some sort of failed magic trick, dragging the china and glass to the floor. Then one long arm tightened around her waist and hauled her to her feet. The next moment she was airborne, somersaulting through the air before her back slammed into the solid surface of the dining table. Breath knocked out of her, she lay motionless, trying to reorientate herself. Around her she could hear the shouts of approval from the mob and the vibrations from glasses hitting polished oak reverberated up her spine.

Winding the long hank of her hair around his fist, Cross dragged her to the edge of the table, until her head was dipped over the edge. Briefly,he crouched down and in a low voice meant only for her ears she heard him growl, “Keep your tongue pressed down, swallow when I reach your throat and breathe when I give you the chance.” Without further warning he straightened and Verity felt the saliva slicked head of his erection push against her lips.

“Open up,” he snapped, using the ponytail, still looped around his wrist to jerk her head further back.

Scared out of her wits, Verity did exactly what she was told.

The next second his wide girth filled her mouth, effectively blocking the scream that was rising in her chest. She gagged as the head of cock nudged towards the plush warmth of her throat, but belatedly remembering the instruction she gave a convulsive swallow. It wasn’t anywhere close to comfortable, but it did marginally reduce the urge to vomit.

Seconds later he withdrew a few inches and murmured, “Breathe.”

Verity sucked in a much needed lungful of air. Then his fingers tensed, holding her head steady as he repeated the manoeuvre, skillfully sliding his length deep into her throat.

Desperately trying to block out the jeers and shouts of encouragement from the entourage, she closed her eyes and focused on the steady, repeating instructions… breathe… swallow… breathe… swallow.

She felt tears spilling from the corners of her eyes, but thankfully either the angle, or the act of swallowing did seem to be suppressing her gag reflex. As she willed herself to relax, she felt his hand move from her hair to the back of neck, supporting her head and gently massaging the tense muscles as he relentlessly ploughed her throat.

After an age while he basically masturbated inside her mouth she felt the fingers beneath her neck begin to tense. Risking a flick of her tongue over the sensitive crown of his cock she felt him shake in response. Encouraged by this reaction, she repeated the caress praying for him to reach his climax and bring this horrific chapter to a close. Half a dozen bruising thrusts later he stiffened, leaning forward over the table as he came.

Lungs burning with the need for oxygen she clung onto his hip until he finally recovered enough to withdraw. She barely had the chance to gasp in relief when he’d swept her back off the table and onto the floor. Bracketed by his legs once again, facing away from the rest of the party, she balled her shaking hands into fists and swallowed in pain.

A brilliant white handkerchief appeared in front of her face like a flag.

She should really be the one waving that, she thought. That was nothing less than full capitulation on her part and she stifled a sob. No use crying now. At least it was over. She scrubbed the square of cotton over her face, trying to remove the thick coating of tears, snot and mascara from her cheeks.

Gradually a numbing blanket of shock settled over her blocking out the noise and dulling her thoughts. She closed her eyes, the repeating mantra of - breathe, swallow - the only words remaining in her head. To her surprise they helped a little.

Fingers brushed the back of her neck and she flinched in fear, her eyes flying wide, searching for the next threat. But it was just a square of beef, speared on a silver fork that hovered in front of her face.

Was he seriously expecting her to eat?

She shook her head, but her traitorous stomach growled at the tempting scent of perfectly seared beef and ignoring her refusal, the sliver of steak pressed firmly to her lips. Not willing to make a scene now that the worst appeared to be over, she accepted the offering, feeling the delicate mouthful melt on her tongue. But the act of swallowing it made her stiffen with pain. Her throat was raw and bruised and as hungry as she was, she declined the second offer more fiercely.

Thankfully Cross didn’t press the issue, returning the small chunk of beef to his plate and carefully wiping his fingers on a napkin before signalling to the wait staff for its removal.

A few minutes later the waitress returned and Cross pressed a small silver bowl into Verity’s numb fingers. Vanilla ice cream she realised and she stirred the spoon through the slightly melted mixture. That little act of random kindness nearly prompted another wave of tears, but she forced them back.

God she was a mess.

And he was a cunt.

But she ate the ice cream.

As the evening wore on Cross seemed intent on ignoring her presence entirely and Verity curled further into the numbing embrace of shock. Cheek resting against the warm length of his thigh she closed her eyes and let the noise around her fade into the far distance.

She couldn’t say how long she sat there, not asleep, not awake but with her thoughts thankfully shielded from the horror of the present but eventually she felt a long arm loop around her waist, lifting her to feet.

“Gentlemen, if you will forgive me, I have matters that demand my attention, so I will leave you to the rest of your evening.”

Aware that his arm was the only thing keeping her on her feet and anxious to get out of the overheated atmosphere and away from the stink of sweat and blood and adrenaline she leaned into him and let him lead her from the room without protest.

Once back in the relative safety of his office, he released her and Verity swayed.

“You’re in no state to get yourself home.” He gestured to the bed, “Sleep it off for a few hours, I have work to do and you’ll feel better when you wake.”

Verity wanted to argue with him. No, more than that, she wanted to scream at him, punch him, scratch his face and tear away that cool mask of faux concern. Most of all she wanted to get the hell out of there and never look back, but her legs were shaking so badly she wasn’t sure she’d make it to the door, let alone back to her flat.

Sinking onto the bed in unwilling surrender it took her trembling fingers three attempts to undo the tiny buckles on her shoes, then with a groan she curled up against pillows, her legs drawn up tight to her chest. Closing her eyes she forced her tense muscles to relax, perhaps if he thought she was sleeping he’d leave her alone for a few minutes. She’d almost managed to convince herself it was working when warm liquid dripped onto her face.

“Shhhh,” he murmured as she struggled upright, flinching away from him. “I just want to minimise the mess you’re making of the sheets.”

She blinked her eyes open and realised that the liquid was water, dripping from a damp towel. Without further explanation he pushed her down onto the pillows once more and gently wiped the remains of her makeup from her face.

The soothing strokes extended down her neck and into the hollow of her throat. She felt him loosen the knot tied in her shirt and something inside her snapped. He couldn’t seriously expect her to spread her legs for him right now… not after the events from early. Almost hysterical, she grabbed his wrist, wrenching her head to the side as she tried to lever him off her.

His voice chillingly calm, he said, “Let go.”

His hands didn’t move and the two words hung between them, a precisely drawn line in the sand. No longer possessing the energy or the will to fight him, Verity felt her hands fall to her sides.

“Good girl.”

She grimaced at the endearment but said nothing. He’d won, they both knew it and if he was now choosing to claim his spoils then she guessed he had every right. She closed her eyes in an attempt to shut out as much as possible of whatever victory celebration he had planned, when a sharp astringent smell reached her nose.

Warily she cracked one eye and watched as he soaked the corner of the towel in antiseptic and carefully flushed the bite mark on her chest. It stung like hell, but the fact she could feel anything at all came as something of a relief. She might be damaged but not completely destroyed.

“Weebles wobble but they don’t fall down,” she muttered to herself.

“What?”

“Sorry. Family motto.”

Confusion creased a line down his brow, then he shook his head, recapped the bottle and placed it on the floor.

“We’ll get someone to check that tomorrow. You’ll probably need a course of antibiotics.”

“And a rabies shot,” she muttered.

Holding out his hand he offered her two white tablets.

She gave him a side-look. “What are they?”

“Just paracetamol.” He gave a light shrug. “You can choose your own, straight out of the pack if you prefer.”

Acknowledging the unspoken truth that they were well past the point of him needing to drug into compliance she accepted the tablets and the glass of water to wash them down.

Temporary role of field medic completed, he returned to his original task. Other than as necessary to strip away the remainder of her clothing, his hands never touched her. Only the warm damp towel, passing over every inch of her that the Bratva had groped; washing away their presence if not their memory.

The long soothing strokes were almost hypnotic and Verity felt herself gradually relax, allowing him to move her onto her stomach without protest so he could wash her back. The last thing she remembered was him lifting her foot and running the cloth gently between her toes.

She woke to feel a warm hand resting lightly on the base of her spine, his thumb brushing against the cleft of her ass. She automatically started to wriggle away, annoyed at herself for falling asleep, but the pressure increased, pinning her in place.

Rather than make a scene or start a fight that she'd undoubtedly lose, she buried her face in the pillow and fell still. A moment or two later, the touch vanished and she felt an inexplicable sense of loss.

Then she heard a page turn, the shuffle of documents and a single leaf was placed between her shoulder blades. Over the next half an hour more pages were carefully added and she felt pinned in place, scared that the slightest move might dislodge the light pile.

Work complete, Cross filed the loose sheaf of notes and returned his hand to the smooth skin of the woman pretending to sleep next to him. As his thumb brushed over the bottom vertebrae he felt her shiver beneath his touch and he raised an eyebrow. That unconscious movement was possibly the first genuine response he'd ever felt from her.

Intrigued and curious to explore further he shifted down the bed, tracing her spine with his lips until he reached the same spot... and felt that same shiver. Tongue circling the final ridge of bone he slid his hand beneath her stomach.

Her sharp intake of breath granted his searching fingers access to first slick evidence of her arousal and he grinned against her skin.

Unhurried, his mouth and fingers moved in harmony, circling her flesh and pulling an unwilling moan from deep inside her.

He could feel the tension gathering in her muscles, and her efforts to fight it back. Shifting his hand lower he slid two long fingers deep inside her as his tongue traced lazy circles over her spine. A few more seconds and the tension fled from her body with a strangled cry as she clenched around his fingers.

Dropping one final kiss to her flank, he enjoyed the ripple of aftershocks flutter against his fingers before withdrawing his hand and getting to his feet.

Disoriented and confused by what had just happened, Verity turned over and pushed herself back against the headboard, a pillow hugged to her chest. Cross seemed to have once again forgotten her presence, his attention shifting back to the pile of documents on his desk.

Feeling increasingly claustrophobic, trapped in his lair, she tightened her grip on the pillow and asked, “Can I go home now?”

He raised his head and gave a shrug. “Of course. I’ll call the car.”

“You don’t need to–” The look on his face silenced her protest and her shoulders heaved as she changed her response and managed to say, “Thank you.”

Struggling back into what was left of her clothing a wave of revulsion swept through her and she sank back on the bed, waiting for her churning stomach to settle. Once able to move she was surprised to see her coat and bag hanging from the back of the door. He’d sent someone to get them from the locker room? When? And more to the point, why? Too tired to question his motivations at this late stage she shrugged into the long coat, relieved to have something to cover the worst of the damage.

As she hitched her bag onto her shoulder Cross unlocked the door and held it open. Ducking under his arm she muttered good night and was about to make her escape when he leaned forward, his lips brushing across her cheekbone almost like a caress.

"Just remember, now I know what that really feels like, I won’t be fooled so easily," he said, the taunting note clear in his tone. "And the next time you fake it you don't get paid."

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