Juggernaut Read online

  He had to keep Littlewood distracted while the oil and recording did their work. If McClosky wanted Littlewood smiling and content when he went to their meeting in the morning, Nico was in for a long night.

  Coughing against the slime of cum that still coated his throat, Nico rolled to his knees and pushed to his feet.

  “What the hell?” he protested. “You didn’t need to do that. I would have gone down on you. You didn’t need to—”

  Another careless backhand sent Nico sprawling back on the bed. Littlewood straddled him, pinning him down before Nico had a chance to do anything more than roll onto his back.

  “How many times do I have to tell you to shut up?” the secretary snarled, his hand clamping around the front of Nico’s throat, cutting off his air. Terror screeched through Nico, and he began to thrash desperately. “You say another word, you even think of screaming, and I’ll wring your neck, got it?”

  Frantically, Nico nodded, and Littlewood released the grip on his throat just as black spots began to speckle his vision. He snuck in a breath before Littlewood stuffed his discarded tie in Nico’s mouth. The secretary seized Nico’s wrists in one large hand, stretching them out above his head, then grabbed the belt and wrapped it around his wrists, cinching it until his fingers went numb.

  “Don’t fucking move,” Littlewood growled, and set his teeth in Nico’s shoulder.

  With the end of the belt pulled taut and the secretary’s weight pinning him down, Nico was helpless to fight as those gripping teeth sought a handle on his flesh over and over. He didn’t break the skin, thank God, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t agony. Nico screamed around the wad of silk in his mouth, thrashing to the full extent of his limited mobility as more and more hot, throbbing rings of pain ignited on his neck, shoulders, arms, and chest. Even now, Littlewood hadn’t done anything that Nico wouldn’t have allowed for fun in other circumstances, or under negotiated terms with another client, but knowing what Littlewood was, what his intentions were, made it something else, something entirely horrific.

  He found himself trying to mentally escape it by focusing on other matters. Shit. He was going to have to cancel his clients for at least a full week with as bruised as he was going to be. How long could he hide out of his mother’s sight so she wouldn’t know the extent of the situation he’d deliberately placed himself in?

  Damn you, McClosky. This had better fucking be worth it.

  It would help if he could dissociate totally. Detach his mind from the ordeal, let his body’s own pain-dampening responses kick in, and let go, but he didn’t dare. Littlewood was too dangerous to relinquish control to him like that. When there wasn’t a single inch of flesh showing above Nico’s waist that didn’t burn and ache from the biting, Littlewood flipped Nico onto his stomach and began work on his back.

  Nico didn’t have to feign the tears. They dripped into his nasal passages, clogging his already compromised breathing. He choked on them each time Littlewood seized him by the back of the head and ground his face into the pillows, muttering all the painful things he’d do to Nico if he so much as hinted at fighting or crying for help. Nico fought against the surges of panic that kept trying to rise, telling him—not inaccurately—that he was in danger. He tried to convince himself that he was in control of this, that he had chosen it of his own free will for a reason. He would be fine when it was over, but the animal drive for survival and safety was having none of it.

  The drug-laced oil was affecting him as well, heightening his own suggestibility. He hadn’t considered that before, hadn’t realized just how merciless and violent Littlewood would turn out to be and what the ramifications of that combo were. No doubt that was why he was having a hard time remembering that Littlewood wouldn’t actually kill him. All the secretary’s threats and insults were going to take root and fuck over Nico’s psyche for ages if he didn’t do something to overwrite them. The last thing he needed was to go all post-traumatic every time he entertained a client. He tried to block out the secretary’s vicious words and shouted a mantra in his own mind.

  I’m safe. I’m in control. I’m no one’s victim. Nothing happens to me that I don’t choose. I’m safe. I’m in control . . .

  The mantra screeched to a halt when Littlewood jabbed two thick fingers inside his dry ass, a jagged edge on one of the nails scratching his sensitive tissue.

  Fuck!

  Nico’s panicked thrashing resumed, more violent than ever, as Littlewood sawed those fingers in and out. He wasn’t trying to prepare Nico. No. This was just to add another layer of pain. No matter how knowingly he’d gone into the situation, he was not going to be able to endure it if Littlewood fucked him without lube, especially if he was already abraded from the rough fingering. He kept struggling until the secretary ground his face into the pillow again and he nearly lost consciousness. He was still clearing the oxygen-deprived fog from his brain when Littlewood dragged him up to his knees and attempted to drive his dick into Nico’s dry, aching hole.

  I’m no one’s victim. Nothing happens to me that I don’t choose. I’m safe . . .

  Eventually, Littlewood grunted with discomfort and gave up the agonizing struggle to force his oversized cock into Nico. He spat into his palm, rubbing it along his length before trying to shove it inside Nico again.

  Nico wasn’t sure if he was tearing or if it just felt that way, but whatever it was, his awareness was limited to white-hot sheets of pain washing over his body, radiating from his ass outward. The brush of Littlewood’s dick across his prostate did nothing to make it better; Nico was flaccid and had been since before they started, not even the smallest bit of arousal present to ameliorate the pain. All he could do was weep and scream into the pillows, trying to drag his mind back to his mantra and program the affirmations into his subconscious.

  Thankfully, it wasn’t long before Littlewood went still and groaned, pulsing hot semen into Nico’s guts. Good thing he was up-to-date on all his immunizations, as all licensed and registered sex workers had to be. There was nothing Littlewood could give him that couldn’t be cured with antibiotics or postexposure prophylaxis.

  Perhaps the worst part of it was the way Littlewood changed once it was over. Suddenly he was jolly and indulgent, as if he and Nico had just had a mutually delightful roll in the hay. He flopped over onto his side, released the belt that still bound Nico’s bruised wrists, and patted Nico’s ass.

  “That was great, baby. Thanks.”

  Nico wriggled his hands free of the now-loose belt around his wrists and pulled the spit-soaked tie from his mouth as Littlewood rolled off the bed and strutted to the control panel on the wall, his clothes still open and in disarray. He called down to room service and ordered a bottle of whiskey, apparently unconcerned that it would be charged to Nico’s room.

  Nico moved carefully, every muscle in his body aching as he sat up and pulled his knees to his chest. It took all his self-restraint not to lash out now that he was free. Even hurting as he was, he knew at least a dozen ways he could have Littlewood on the floor in seconds, writhing, bleeding, nursing broken bones and dislocated joints. Fury at the sick fuck was clawing inside Nico’s chest, screaming to pay back the man who had hurt him, but he had to quash the instinctive reaction and consider his options. While Littlewood undressed, humming contentedly, Nico rested his forehead on his knees and centered himself so he could think rationally.

  He still had a job to do, and if he didn’t do it, everything he’d just gone through would be for nothing. The longer Littlewood lingered in the presence of the additive-enhanced THC oil and the subliminal recording, the more effective the tactics would be. The ideal situation would be for Littlewood to fall asleep here.

  Fuck. That meant Nico had to keep him happy and complacent.

  Nothing happens to me that I don’t choose. I’m safe. I’m no one’s victim . . .

  But that was what Littlewood wanted—a victim. A hapless innocent to abuse and defile and degrade. The more vulnerable Nico made hi
mself seem, the more satisfied Littlewood would be.

  Nico’s injured sniffle was affected, but the tear he wiped away was genuine as he braced himself for more. “Why did you do that?” he whispered plaintively, his voice raspy with the abuse his throat had received. He gave Littlewood a saddened, bewildered mien, trying to appear every inch the sacrificial lamb. “Did I do something wrong?”

  Jesus. Littlewood looked amused by the question. Even fond. He finished stripping off his clothes, and he was already half-erect again. “That’s just the way I like it, sugar. You wanted to make me happy, didn’t you?”

  Nico widened his eyes, trying to appear sweet and desperate to please even as loathing twisted his stomach and threatened to make him spew up the load Littlewood had shot down his throat. “Yes, but—” He shook his head as though confused. “You won’t do it again, right? You’ll be nice, now?”

  The secretary looked away, his smile barely disguising a sneer. “Only thing you need to do is what I tell you. You just stay right there while I shower, baby. I’ll be out in a minute. I’m not done with you yet.”

  Nico nodded and lay down on the bed, curled into a fetal ball, and watched Littlewood with wary, wounded eyes. Littlewood practically lapped it up. Nude, he strode to the bed, grabbed Nico by the throat and hair again, and seized his bottom lip between his teeth, biting until Nico tasted blood.

  “You behave yourself when they bring my whiskey, or I’ll make you very sorry, little boy. This is Washington, and I’m an important man. I even have the president’s ear. If you’re not here when I get back, or if you do anything to upset me, that company you interviewed with today will find out you’re a hustler picking up tricks at the Watergate Bar.”

  “But that’s not true!” Nico suppressed the urge to laugh at the irony and aimed for hurt and confused outrage. Even if it were true, he would have broken no laws here in DC and being a sex worker should have no more impact on his employability than having spent his college years manning a fast-food counter, but he pretended not to know that. Littlewood smirked, clearly thinking he’d found a way to ensure Nico’s compliance.

  “Think that will matter?” He licked Nico’s bleeding lip and sauntered away, closing the bathroom door behind him in a gesture so idiotically arrogant and self-assured that Nico wanted to pummel the guy’s face in.

  The whiskey arrived while the shower ran. Nico wrapped himself in a hotel robe and answered the door, keeping his face turned away to avoid drawing attention to his split lip or what he suspected was the beginning of a swollen bruise on his cheekbone from that first backhand slap.

  It alleviated some of his despair to know that underneath it all, Littlewood was dancing to Nico’s tune. Honestly, his manipulations couldn’t have gone more perfectly. Littlewood was so egotistical, so secure in his power over others, it never occurred to him that he was being corralled into the position Nico wanted him in. That would help offset some of the trauma and feeling of helplessness, and keep him on an even psychological keel, Nico thought, checking his bruises in the mirror. Of course, it would be even better if he didn’t need to dance to McClosky’s tune in this, but at least he’d chosen that dance willingly.

  He could have dug in his bag for a drug to knock Littlewood out, which was a common self-defense measure Silvia Fernández made sure her employees had access to if they needed to get out of a dangerous situation. But if Littlewood awoke in the morning suspecting he’d been drugged, it would unravel all that Nico was attempting to do here. His only choice, other than to declare the job a failure and let his favorite client down, was to endure the rest of the night as best he could.

  I can do this. Just because I’ve chosen not to fight back doesn’t mean I’m helpless. I’m no one’s victim.

  He repeated the mantra as he poured Littlewood a drink and folded back the covers on the bed, grimacing at the pink-tinged smear of semen on the bedspread. Damn it.

  He was still staring at the stain, wondering if he could actually go through with the evening, when Littlewood emerged from the bathroom, already stroking himself erect.

  Nico didn’t have to fake the fear in his eyes when the secretary ordered him to get on his knees on the bed and not to even think about taking his face out of the pillow.

  Littlewood must have been on some performance-enhancing drug—probably Khumitrol or Climaxxis, depending on if it was legal or if he’d gotten it off the street—because he managed to fuck Nico’s ass and mouth seven more times before he collapsed into a short, exhausted slumber. Now welted from the belt, and bruised from bites and slaps, Nico passed out as well, and awoke with a scream when the secretary drove three fingers into his wet, torn ass, then rolled him onto his stomach again for one more go.

  Littlewood departed before dawn, his mood jovial, even gregarious. As he dressed, he seemed doting and half-smitten.

  “You were amazing, baby,” he hummed, kissing the top of Nico’s head as Nico continued to play his half-fearful, half-eager-to-please role of the injured innocent. “I don’t remember the last time I had someone as good as you.”

  If he asks, Was it good for you? I’m going to puke.

  Nico smiled wanly and tried to look bashfully pleased by the praise. “Thank you.”

  “I sent my code to your tablet. Call me when you move here for that job. I want to see you again. You won’t disappoint me, little boy, will you?”

  His gorge rising, Nico shook his head emphatically. He’d inadvertently put himself in an even more perilous position. Littlewood now saw Nico as the ideal victim for an ongoing association. He’d pleased the secretary too well.

  “I know your parents live out of state. You have any other family anywhere nearby?”

  Nico’s gut clenched at the question. Was Littlewood asking if he had anyone who would miss him, or was the man merely making conversation?

  It didn’t matter. Nico had absolutely no intention of ever being alone and within arm’s reach of Littlewood again. He tried to brighten his responses a little, matching the secretary’s ebullient mood and maintaining the fiction that he wasn’t going to protest what Littlewood had done.

  Besides, Littlewood didn’t realize it, but he’d just given Nico an opening.

  “Just a brother. He’s on deployment, fighting over in Russia. I worry about him.”

  “Where does he live when he’s not on deployment? Is he involved in your life? Protective big brother?”

  Translation: would the fictional brother prove an impediment to Littlewood’s desire to establish a brutally abusive, long-term relationship with Nico?

  Nico shook his head. “No, we’ve never been close, really. We just kind of live our own lives. Still, I wouldn’t want anything to happen to him.”

  “Well.” Littlewood ran a tender finger over the bruise on Nico’s cheek, his smile almost doting. “I’ll see what I can do about keeping him safe. But you’ll owe me a lot of favors for it. Don’t forget to call, or I’ll come looking for you. You don’t want me to have to do that.”

  “I understand,” Nico whispered with a shudder, cold, animal terror swelling in his chest despite knowing he would never again put himself at this man’s mercy. “I’ll call.”

  Littlewood seemed thrilled by Nico’s fear, his face alight. “Good.” He kissed Nico on the forehead and left.

  Nico sat there on the bed in a defensive ball for what seemed to be hours, his knees drawn to his bare chest like a shield. Shivers racked his aching body. He could feel the wetness of the sheets beneath him, soaked with more than cum. A slight tang of iron underpinned the musk of semen and sweat. When he moistened his upper lip, he dislodged a flake of blood from beneath his nose.

  Finally certain Littlewood was long gone, he rose from the bed and crossed to the control console on the wall, calling down to the front desk.

  “Concierge. How may I help you, Mr. Fernández?”

  “Do you have a medic on call?”

  “Of course.” Most high-end hotels kept a nurse practitioner or
physician’s assistant on staff should important guests suffer a mishap and their families get litigious.

  “Please send them to my room in, say, a half hour. And have housekeeping come freshen the room and change the linens while I’m in the shower.”

  “Yes, Mr. Fernández.” Not so much as a lilt of surprise in the concierge’s voice, no indication this was anything other than a routine request. Nico had been in the business long enough to know it actually was routine.

  After he ended the call, Nico took a long moment to inventory his injuries, shaking his head ruefully at what his impulsive decision to take McClosky’s job had gotten him. Some escorts demanded top dollar to endure what he had spent the night suffering, and worse. A few years ago, the FBI had broken up an international snuff ring, where a service arranged contracts with desperately impoverished people who agreed to being sexually murdered by wealthy perverts in exchange for a generous payment to their families.

  Of course, Littlewood wouldn’t have wanted anyone who was willingly in the rough trade like that.

  Nico’s gut clenched again, and he dragged his aching body to the bathroom. After he was done shoving his finger down his throat to get rid of as much of Littlewood’s spunk as he could, he douched to get rid of the rest, which felt like passing shards of ground glass. He dug in his toiletry kit for the empty hypodermic syringe he used when clients got a little too enthusiastic. Sticking it into the worst of his bruises, he aspirated some of the blood beneath the skin to help them fade faster. Then he climbed into the shower to wash away the last traces, and let the hot water sooth some of his soreness.

  The bed was freshly made, the soiled linens gone, when he emerged from the shower. A soft rap came at his door, and Nico crossed the room to let in the medic. She lifted an eyebrow at the bruises peeking out from under Nico’s robe and asked dutifully if she should call the police.

  “There’s no crime to report here,” Nico said with a brusque shake of his head. He sat still, letting her apply first aid to the places where Littlewood had drawn blood. She left him with a full course of broad-spectrum antibiotics and antivirals, as well as a medicated ointment for his anal tears.