Page 9 of Filthy Little Fix

"Understatement of the fucking year," Grigory mutters, taking a long drag from his cigarette.

I slam my hand on the table, the sound echoing in the sudden quiet. "He's not the problem right now! The problem is he says he's not working for the Malakovs. Which means someoneelseis pulling the strings. Someone who knows how to use a ghost."

"Still," Marco says, ignoring my outburst, "the way he took that... you know." He gestures vaguely with his chin towards the direction of the room where we left Nyx. "Most people, they scream. They beg. He was… happy?"

"Happy andhard," Luca adds, flat. He doesn't look at me. He doesn't have to.

A low chuckle comes from the corner where Ruslan is cleaning his fingernails with a knife. "Man, I hear that's a special kind of crazy. You just left him, boss? Probably got the worst blue balls of his life right now."

"That shit hurts, boss," one of the younger guys, Vinny, pipes up from near the door, nodding in agreement with Ruslan. "Like a toothache in your dick. Used to get 'em bad back in the day, if a girl played too much."

Ruslan adds, "Worse than a punch to the gut, sometimes. You can't think about anything else. Maybethat'show you break him, huh? Leave him to stew in that pain."

My blood runs cold.Blue balls. The thought had completely escaped me in my frustration. And the casual way they talk about it, like it's just another Tuesday.

"That's a form of torture, indeed… boss, leaving him was a good call?—"

"Enough!" I roar, cutting him off. My fist hits the table again, harder this time, rattling the cheap plastic cups. "What thefuckdid you want me to do, Ruslan?Suck him offto make him feel better?"

The room goes silent. Ruslan freezes, his knife halfway to his face. Marco's eyes widen, and even Luca subtly flinches. They look terrified. The disgust in my voice, the raw edge of my anger, it's awarning. They should watch their fucking tone around me.

I pace, running a hand through my hair. "I'm not giving him what he wants. Notever."

The shame of having that thought, even for a split second, burns.

FIVE

LEO

It was glorious.

The pain—the sharp, relentless kind—I accept it as part of this ordeal. It's not what I fantasized at first; in fact, gettingthis hardwith just my wrists bound wasn't the plan. I thought I'd have a little more self-control. But the adrenaline… fuck, it reminds me that real blood runs in my veins. A heart still pumps blood through my body. After everything.

And that man…

Big. Strong, angry hands. A face that looked like he would break my neck for sport. Having him bury his fist in my skin, gripping my cheeks tightly, was an experience so far removed from my mundane daily cubicle.

The disgust he looked at me with shouldn't turn me on like this.

And then that wet, breaking sound, the sole of his shoe between my legs… Pressing. Twisting.

Pain never bothered me. Not like with most people. My tolerance has always been high, and that helps and hinders me in equal measure. Things that should scare most don't faze me.Daily, idiotic things. Getting beaten. Falling from high places. Being run over.

I don't look both ways before crossing the street. I don't wear a seatbelt. I flirt with the edge of the balcony. Everything seems like an old, desaturated, colorless movie. The most that will happen is the nothingness of nonexistence. Fear disappeared long ago—dulled by years of bRuslandiazepine use, blanking out the need to feel anything at all.

Then, suddenly, dopamine. My veins are liquid endorphin the moment that man steps between my legs.

First, the crushing pain. He really wanted to hurt me. Then, the notion that he was compressing me. Pressing. Touching.

My pants are damp. I can see a dark stain forming, and the torture of not being able to touch myself makes me even harder.

It's vibrating. My groin is too hot. It still hurts. The unalleviated vasocongestion doesn't help.

I try to slump forward and thrust my hips. Humiliating, like a bitch in heat. I almost wish the big man with the strong hands would come back here and see me like this. That he'd spit on me, kick me while telling me how ridiculously pathetic I am. Call me a freak again.

I grunt. The thought makes me hotter.

I try to rub against the floor. I shiver at the contact. But I need more friction. I try again, and the chilly sensation of the floor against my pants makes me groan. It's good at first—I imagine him. I recreate the scenario in my head. His shoe pressing my cock, stimulating it like a humiliation. Asking me if I get off on this. And yes, fuck. I do.