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After four weeks together, there are several things you’ve learned about Sebastian that are difficult o ignore.
He’s never once bought his own groceries, for one. In the beginning, you found it understandable, maybe even endearing, how your boyfriend, who comes from a well-off family, didn’t know his way around a grocery store.
In the beginning.
Now, not so much.
You’re pretty sure he would live off takeout and beer if you weren’t around to stock his fridge at least once a week.
This also stacks up with the fact that he’s never bought you flowers. Not that you feel one way or another about them, but it’s the thought that counts.
His only redeeming qualities are that his apartment has central air and an elevator that actually works, and maybe he still remembers to make you cum, which isn’t saying much for him.
Because otherwise, he’s reckless and likes to stick his nose in places where it doesn’t belong without considering the consequences. You can count on one hand the number of times you’ve gotten him out of trouble in the last three days—except that his elderly neighbor still managed to get to him with a rolled-up piece of newspaper.
You’re not sure why, but you’re still with him. And you can do so much better.
Some wise part of your brain tells you that it will get you killed one of these days.
It’s just a matter of when.
Juggling the bags of groceries in your hands, you announce your arrival as you elbow Sebastian’s door closed behind you. You’re still humming the catchy tune from the elevator, none the wiser about how much quieter his apartment feels than usual.
It’s not until he doesn’t say anything back after several seconds that you notice. You peek into the living room, only for your legs to abruptly cease functioning.
Everything seems to move in slow motion aside from the fast racing of your heart.
Because sitting in the middle of the living room is your boyfriend, a little bruised and bloody, restrained to one of the dining chairs that he never uses.
His eyes go comically wide when he notices you, and you’re sure yours match. Then he starts frantically making muffled sounds behind his gag.
Once your brain catches up, your initial reaction is to scream, but before you can even open your mouth, something cold and hard presses against your temple. You release a surprised yelp. The bags fall from your hands, fresh produce rolling across the floor as you reach up to pull away the fingers grasped around your neck.
It hurts how his grip digs into you, and you want to say as much until he squeezes , stifling the words on the back of your tongue.
“Shut up, or else you’ll end up like him,” a voice rumbles next to your ear, forcing you to look at your boyfriend. The man grunts, approving, when all you let out is a weak whimper. “Good girl.”
You try to tilt your head away from his gun, but it only seems to tighten his hold on your windpipe.
He laughs, making you feel pathetically small.
“Is this your girlfriend?” he asks Sebastian, who makes a strangled noise. Ironically, it’s probably the most attention he’s given you since your first date months ago—no longer focused on his phone or computer screen, but one round and one bloodshot eye entirely on you.
It only took him getting into a crock of shit with the wrong people for it to happen.
If you survive this, you think, you’re breaking up with him.
“Really?" the man hums thoughtfully, his gun tapping against you—each muted thump sending a chill down your spine. "Since you don’t have the money, maybe I can take her instead.”
Sebastian shakes his head, watching as the hand around your throat trails dangerously close to the little buttons holding your dress together.
“Fuck you,” you croak as oxygen slowly trickles into your lungs again.
“Yeah? Is that what you want? For me to fuck you?” he says, the threat so light that it almost seems like a joke. “Right here in front of your boyfriend? You think your sweet little cunt is worth the thousands he owes?”
You muster all your strength and attempt to kick his shins, his knees, anything you can reach, thrashing in his hold without a clear idea of what you will do after you escape. Emphasize the word attempt because the man easily manhandles you to the floor like you weigh nothing.
He holds you in place with his weight, with one hand bruisingly pinning yours above your head, with his legs tangled around yours so you can’t squirm away.
Not that you do.
Because now you’re face to face, and all the fight from a few seconds ago melts at the sight of the black button-down stretching, no , straining across broad shoulders. You feel flushed and overheated, even though you’re in a dress.
It should be embarrassing, that you’ll die like this, pinned like a butterfly and rendered immobile by several shiny buttons threatening to pop open and dark brown eyes looking down at you, expressing a hint of annoyance.
Stupid.
Why exactly did you choose today of all days to stop over? Some small semblance of hope that it might help get your boyfriend on the right foot or perhaps turn a new leaf?
And this is how the universe repays you: with dangerous, cold metal skirting your vulnerable flesh and underwear that are growing uncomfortably damp from the thick knee pressing between your thighs.
It’s almost like he knows, too, the scar marring the corner of his lips curls with the grin splitting across his face.
“I’ve killed for less,” he warns darkly, running the cold barrel of his gun along your neck. “So how about you show me why I shouldn’t put a bullet between your eyes, and I’ll leave here pretending that your boyfriend repaid his debt.”
You glance over at Sebastian, who’s still shaking his head and furiously tugging at his restraints like he’s not the one who got both of you into this mess. Then you look back at the man who holds your life precariously in his hands.
“How?” you hiss, panicked and desperate.
“Let’s start with that mouth.”
You’re not sure what you were expecting. But the press of cool metal against your lips isn’t it, and you break out into shivers.
“ Open. ”
With your lips trembling, you do as he says, and he wastes no time pushing the length of his gun into your mouth.
“That’s it. You want to be good for me, don’t you? A good little slut for me to use.”
You’re afraid to nod, worried that the wrong shake of your head will result in a bullet going down your throat. Dissatisfied with your silence, he pushes the barrel further until you’re forced to choke out a garbled “yes.”
He smiles. “Good girl.”
This little crumb of praise shouldn’t make you feel floaty and hot in your skin, shouldn’t make your thighs clench around his. And you shouldn’t like how it sounds.
Most of all: you shouldn’t want more.
Because this man is dangerous and definitely killed people.
Especially because he’s killed people.
He told you so.
Not to mention, Sebastian is sitting a mere four feet away, watching you become a little bartering token for his misdoings right before his eyes.
But your brain and the faint pulse thrumming in your cunt are on separate wavelengths, and you’re surprised with yourself when your tongue flicks out to chase after him as he pulls the gun from your mouth.
“So fucking dirty,” he murmurs.
You flush at the string of saliva that follows, stretching and snapping between your lips.
He uses it to make a wet path down the deep V of your dress, popping the buttons open with the subtle force he uses, and a few go scattering across the floor. Your breath hitches as he draws lazy circles around your right nipple before switching to the other, and you arch your back from the cold and out of fear of how close he is to your heart.
“These are pretty,” he says, not looking up from your pebbled nipples, now shiny and wet with your spit.
“ Oh ,” you squeak when his warm mouth replaces cool metal.
His lips suck, and teeth nip until he reduces you into a squirming, sensitive puddle spread out beneath him. He sets his gun beside your head to tug at one stiff, little peak, grinning when you squeal and arch against him to relieve the pain.
“Sensitive little thing, aren’t you?”
You try to think of something to say, anything really. But your mind is blissfully blank other than the thoughts revolving around the thick fingers sending you in orbit—already high off fear and adrenaline.
“Look, the sick fuck is enjoying this.”
He grabs your chin, forcefully turning your head towards Sebastian. Your lashes clump together when you blink, trying to focus through the few stray tears that have yet to fall. You notice his heaving chest first, no longer from the exertion of trying to break free, then lower to the noticeable tent straining against the seam of his jeans.
It should make you upset.
It doesn’t.
Instead, every thought draws to the rough hand pushing up your dress and a growled command to keep yours above your head. You hear the clink of a belt hitting the hardwood floor before you feel the heavy weight of his cock resting against your stomach.
And with a reflexive clench of your cunt, it finally registers that you’re actually going to get fucked. Right here, in the living room you’ve spent countless hours in—by someone who isn’t your boyfriend.
You clench again.
“I’m going to fill you up, to the fucking brim, while he watches,” the man murmurs, pulling the crotch of your underwear to the side to press his thumb against your clit.
And you think he curses at the creamy wetness he finds there, smearing it into your skin and down to your dripping hole—
The first press of two thick fingers into your sopping pussy makes your whole body jump.
“Oh, fuck,” you moan, fingers twisting together to keep them where he left them as he fucks them into you, scissoring them apart, stretching your walls open for him.
You whimper the words big and too much once he adds a third.
Because they are; bigger and longer than what you’re used to…Just like that, your eyes squeeze shut, blocking out the sight of Sebastian practically humping the air.
But they instantly snap open at the feel of the fingers pulling from you and coming down, hard , against your clit, forcing a sharp cry from your throat.
“Keep them open,” he says, replacing his fingers with the tip of his leaking cock. “I want him to see as I ruin you for anyone else.”
And you stare at Sebastian, wide-eyed, as the man crowding you against the floor sinks inside you with a muffled growl.
You gasp, nails digging into your palms and limbs locking up. The three fingers he’d stretched you out on nearly seem pointless because they hardly compare to how his cock splits you open—rigid and unforgiving, like a knife through butter.
“Stay still,” he grunts as you shift your hips to soothe the uncomfortable fullness you’re feeling.
He barely makes it halfway at first, your walls threatening to push him out by the lack of room. But then he’s pulling out and pushing back in, easing himself inside deeper and deeper until you take every inch of him.
With your thighs trembling around his hips, he mutters, “look at that. You took the whole thing like a good little slut.”
Your mouth falls open into a silent scream because now he’s fucking you, hips grinding into yours with every thrust. And you watch Sebastian groan around his gag, a bright pink blush building high in his cheeks, almost like he’s the one roughly getting dicked down in the middle of the living room.
“Shit, shit,” you whimper. “Please.”
It’s just on the verge of too much, hips pounding into you relentlessly that has you sliding up the floor. But the hand on your hip keeps you grounded, pulling you onto the thickest cock you’ve ever had at a punishing pace.
The man above you growls, strong fingers digging into your cheeks until you feel the ache in your jaw. You’re pretty sure there’s going to be a bruise after.
That very thought makes your slick heat flutter around him.
“ Fuck. Are you going to cum?” His thumb finds your clit again, rubbing frantic circles as sharp, needy cries begin to fall from your lips.
On his next thrust, his tip hits something soft and devastating, a spot you’ve never been able to reach, that you almost didn’t believe existed, and—
You shatter.
“I’m going to keep you. How does that sound, huh?” he says darkly, thrusts becoming jerky. “I bet your boyfriend would like that.”
Sebastian’s muffled objections do nothing more than make the man laugh, low and deep.
“You know what this means?” he hisses, just loud enough for you to hear.
You’re too spent to do anything other than blink up at him. Not that he waits for an answer because he continues anyway.
"The next time I have you, I'm cumming in this pussy because it's mine now."
Next time.
That should terrify you, but at the moment, you’re too tired to worry about it.
He pulls out and furiously jerks his cock, only stopping once there’s a small viscous puddle of cum pooling on your stomach.
When the weather is a little warmer, you prefer walking over the nuisance of finding a promising Uber.
Although, the only downside is that your feet ache by the time you get home. And the building manager still hasn’t fixed the elevator.
You close your front door, kicking off your shoes, but immediately stop short when you flick on the light.
Sitting atop your counter, is a vase filled with daisies, looking bright and out of place in your dimly lit kitchen. You glance around your house before grabbing the note from the top and reading the tightly-looped handwriting trailing across the paper.
5 P.M. — T is all it says.
Your heartbeat thuds viciously in your throat.
You check the digital clock on your stove and bite your lip. Any second now.
Maybe you should clean your house real quick.
Any second—
At precisely 5 P.M., the knob to your front door that you forgot to lock turns.