Page 69 of Maksim

But he wants me to be. For the moment, he wants me to pretend.

Where is Maksim?

“So?” Nikita asks, nodding toward the people. “Who would it be, and what would it be with?”

Wheezing in a breath as quietly as I can, I turn my stiffened neck toward the room.

He wouldn’t make me kill someone for real. This is hypothetical. An exercise. A game.

It’s fine.

Just say something.

I scan, searching for someone who looks unkind, deserving of this hypothetical fate, until I find the perfect person.

The demon.

Alik.

He’s slunk back in a chair by himself in a far corner with a drink resting on his knee. Fully clothed. Merely taking things in like a creepy voyeur.

I don’t know him, but I bet he deserves to die.

“Him.” I point at the demon.

Nikita follows my finger and chuckles. “Alik?”

I nod. “With a gun. Quick, efficient, middle of the desert.”

“No.” I flinch at his disapproving tone. “Don’t be a coward. This isn’t a kill for work. It’s for play.”

For play.

This man is as sick as I imagined.

I nod like I now understand the rules, but I’m regretting my choice. I’m still sure this is just an exercise, but on the off chance he chooses to tell Alik about this or push me to act this out, Alik could break my neck as easily as he did the young man’s.

“With a fire poker. First to take out the knees, then the genitals. I would wait for his cries to stop before finishing the job on his face.”

Nikita inhales a deep, intoxicated breath then lets it out on a sigh. “That’s a sight I’d like to see.”

Oh no.

Hypothetical.

Hypothetical. Hypothetical. Hypothetical.

“Take off your clothes,” Nikita commands, his breath hot, his tone fierce. If he’d said this ten minutes ago, I would have struggled not to break into tears, but now I’m relieved. I’d rather do anything except enact this sick fantasy game we’re playing.

I pull my yellow sundress over my head and step out of my white cotton panties, unsure where to put both but dropping them when he slaps my hand.

“Good girl,” he growls, caging me in, his eyes hungrily taking in my breasts. I close my eyes as he squeezes both nipples then lowers one hand to what he’s famously dubbed my cunt.

I turn my head and swallow a whimper when two fingers invade me, pumping into me like I belong to Nikita. My body burns as his rough touch scratches and rubs an area unaccustomed to this sort of intrusion, and I fight the desire to push him away, to move, to scream.

It was better with James/Daniel. He was not perfect. I didn’t orgasm the way I’d read about in books or been told about by friends. But he was slow and fairly kind.

Nikita is not slow nor is he kind.