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Chapter 10: Never Surrender

The first time Eugene awoke, he had been turned on his side. Someone had placed the tapered part of a large syringe in his mouth. He gagged on the warm stream of saltwater being actively injected and immediately began vomiting, which in turn yanked and pulled and twisted up all of the severed and injured muscles and tissues just below and to the right of his stomach. It felt as if his guts were on fire and actively trying to push themselves out of the wounds that cursed sword had given him. He tried to bring his arms down to fold them around his wound in front but he’d found his wrists were tightly bound with ropes instead.

“It huuuuuuuuuuuuuurrrrts,” he howled mournfully, in earshot of whomever was near. Or at least he would’ve howled, had his cry not cut out halfway through. Only then did he realize how stupid he was to have used his voice. Instantly, he became so drained he started shaking. For he not only unwittingly revealed this weakness to his enemy, the action induced Eugene to use the most injured, raw parts of himself. His reaction, however, had at least been visceral, instinctive, and utterly involuntary; he had no control over it. However, if Eugene thought he’d felt nausea and pain before, that was almost nothing compared to how he’d felt in the here and now.

After Eugene had fallen unconscious, he’d clearly and repeatedly aspirated what little stomach contents he possessed into his lungs and sinuses. A pained groan escaped him regardless; His raw throat and sinuses pulsed with a dull throb in the back of his head every time he tried drawing a breath.

“Believe it or not, I am trying to help,” said a tiny voice beside him. “Sometimes, though, it’s gotta get worse before it can feel better,” continued the voice. Gradually, Eugene’s top half was raised at an angle. The old cloth beneath him soaked with blood and vomit was removed and replaced; the fresh one was folded over several times and placed underneath his nose, mouth, chin, and neck. He was still on his side but was given a bolster to put under his ear and top half of his head as further support at this new elevated angle. His shaking slowed slightly. However, in the back of his mind, Eugene still recalled how precarious was his position. Therefore he could not bring himself to trust this mystery medical person. The captain was still bound at the wrists and ankles, after all. He assumed his boots were long gone. There was no way they’d leave footwear accessible for a prisoner -- especially not one they’d have no intention of ever releasing.

Rather than finding any comfort in what had just been said or done by this funny-voiced person, Eugene stiffened as the syringe wielder injected even more saltwater into each nostril. Though Eugene still choked, coughed, and gagged very violently, the entry-and-exit wounds through his midsection were simultaneously given moderate compression from either side until he’d cleared out the last of the salt water. The compression action alone had diminished his pain, nausea, and the nasty sensation that his guts were spilling out by about 30%. And he didn’t throw up again either. For the time being.

“I would cut your bindings, as they’re so useless and even cumbersome,” mumbled the voice, “but Regis would have us both hanged immediately….” Though Eugene struggled valiantly and tried to become an active information-gatherer like his training demanded, nothing proved to him that he was too far out of his element more than the traumas of this particular interaction. Even his own weakness shocked him. Though the name “Regis” had instantaneously provoked distinct emotions from within.

The mystery person again mopped up Eugene’s face from the deluge of saltwater. “I know that was awful,” commiserated the individual, “but I’m betting your throat and sinuses are no longer killing you. That it’s much less painful to breathe, at least from your neck up?”

Eugene said nothing….and only scowled until he did gingerly test breathing…. and it was indeed far easier and less painful now that the aspirated stomach acid had been cleared away. Buuuuuut he had this permanent stitch now, this ache below his right lung….Eugene seriously wondered whether he would ever breathe deeply again.

“Well, that’s all right, playin’ possum,” said the voice. Can’t say as I blame you, nosiree, captain in the enemy camp and all….” and the person bustled about, chattering aloud to Eugene but mostly to himself. “Oh, and my name is Clarence, my designation here is ‘apothecary’, although my duties compass a great deal more.” Was it just Eugene, or did ‘Clarence’ sound a little bitter? Could this be a rift Eugene could press to his advantage? “This possum skill is good,” the Clarence person rejoined, “because the more ill and unconscious you are, the more put-off Regis will be…..I know since he already walked away once due to being so disgusted by the state of you. You were supposed to have been brought whole and unharmed….and Javeen, Regis’s 2nd, truly learned to regret his actions.”

Eugene’s shivering persisted and worsened although it was clearly a warm day outside. He had no earthly idea how much time had passed since he was first abducted nor how long it had been that he’d worn anything from the waist up due to being stripped down by...Javeen, was it? He guesstimated it had been at least two days since he’d eaten or drank anything...but it felt more like 6 or 7 days because of his injuries. As an orphan, Eugene knew well the ravages of starvation. He’d faced it many times as a child and youth and young adult. And this was….not like that. At all. It was infinitely worse.

Though this small apothecary minding Eugene clearly couldn’t match him in size, he removed and shared his tunic nonetheless. Or at least he attempted to share. “I’ve got on several layers,” mumbled the little man….

“Curse it,” the apothecary finished, as he realized Eugene couldn’t possibly be dressed in normal clothing while still bound at the wrists. And a few seconds later, very abruptly, Eugene’s wrists were blissfully cut free of the ropes that had bound him.

In another wholly involuntary action, Eugene automatically turned from his side to his back, his arms fully separating so his chest could expand and he could breathe in the air his oxygen-deprived body so desperately needed.

The apothecary seemed to have anticipated his needs and again gave Eugene compression so as to minimize the sensation his guts were falling out as he greedily sucked in more and more shuddering lungfuls of air. “Oh deary dear, no wonder that was so difficult for you,” the little apothecary fretted. “Broad chests and large arms do not do well for one’s lung capacity when they’re all mashed together. I can’t imagine Adonais himself could handle his wrists being bound in such a way….”

Breathing in as if it were going out of style was exquisitely painful but this pain was also infinitely worth it. Then Eugene coughed and….it was chunky style, i.e. some of the leftover goodies the syringe hadn’t been able to remove earlier. He turned his head to the side and spat it out. “Good!” said the apothecary. “That’s even better than you getting more air. We need you to cough up all of that junk. And breathe as deep as you can, at all times, even when it hurts.”

Unexpectedly Clarence seized Eugene’s hand and placed it around the cushion he’d been using. “Anytime you need to sneeze, cough, or what-have-you, press the cushion against your midsection. It will help a little. Regis’ll just have to hang me then, he can’t very well have me heal you if you’re gonna go off and die of aspiration pneumonia, nosiree…..”

Heal me in order to hurt me, ugh, thought Eugene. Talk about mixed signals. Now that he was laying on his back, Eugene’s head near the base of his skull started throbbing with the renewed pressure. In spite of himself, Eugene reached up with his left hand and felt the back of his scalp.

Clarence continued bustling about. It was registering through Eugene’s pain-haze that this is the same apothecary that had just given him full use of his hands. Even handed him a projectile. Maybe this guy isn’t what he seems? Eugene considered. Nope. NO. Don’t get lulled by a false sense of security. Considering his wounds and the fact his ankles were still bound, Eugene was basically still immobile anyway, even with full use of his hands and arms. Well, almost full use. If he moved his right arm in a certain way, it tugged all the way down to his worst wound and made him see twinkly pain stars in front of his vision. He determined to keep that arm closer toward him at all times to avoid triggering that horrible lightning twinge. And this meant he couldn’t reach down far enough to slip the ropes off his ankles even if he’d tried. Eugene realized the physician knew exactly what he was talking about by deeming the binds “useless”. His prisoner was going nowhere and this little man knew it.

The physician (Eugene had already substituted ‘apothecary’ in his mind) took note of Eugene’s movements. “Ah yes, I see you’ve discovered the other little 'present' Javeen and his men left for you: that nasty goose egg on the back of your head. I advise against making any more sudden movements? I’d hate to see you vomit again.” Fanfriggentastic. Here was yet another thing that explained to Eugene why he was in such rough shape….Javeen’s men had brained him earlier. Although he couldn’t recall when it happened along with why he’d felt so beat-up and bruised all over, everywhere….those things were still a mystery to him.

The physician did his best to dress Eugene in the too-small tunic of his. Again, he apologized -- APOLOGIZED!! -- for it having been all he’d had on-hand. Ill-fitting though it was, Eugene had finally stopped shivering. Once again, Eugene found second thoughts about this strange little man creeping into his consciousness. Next, the physician had grabbed what looked like a Coronian saddle blanket and draped it around Eugene’s shoulders, offering another layer of warmth. It finally caught up to him regarding what that meant; the physician had handily kept him from slipping fully into shock.

He’d also made dang sure that Eugene could breathe as well as could be expected…..by cutting his binds….and whatever that syringe debacle was…..although the process itself was nightmare-ish, it couldn't be denied that everything had worked as intended. Sometimes things have to get worse before they can feel better. Not to mention the man had gone out of his way to ease Eugene’s pain with that cushion compression trick. Already Clarence had engaged in at least two things that were probably directly against protocol by doing just a tiny bit more than the bare minimum.

Clarence steepled his hands and considered Eugene’s positioning. “I’m gonna need better access to that wound on your back,” he said. “Don’t use any of your own power to help me turn you; I’ll do all of the work. Is that clear?”

Eugene shrank a little at such intense scrutiny paired with the direct order….yet said nothing. It was the most demanding Clarence had been thus far. The apothecary sighed shortly, clearly not taking silence for an answer this time.

“I mean it, Mr. Tough Guy. This is one instance where you must be like a living ragdoll and let me do all the rest. Do you think you can handle that?” Clarence paused briefly, appearing to consider something. Eugene simply stared at him. “You can communicate by whispering. Actual whispering, not sotto voce style. It requires far less lung capacity and is unlikely to cause much pain. I say again, do you think you can trust me? Because if you try to ‘help’ even a little, you could cause those wounds to push outside what’s meant to remain inside.”

“Yes,” Eugene whispered without hesitation. He didn’t know exactly what it was about this interesting apothecary that elicited his trust. And then it occurred to him as Clarence very slowly turned his patient's legs to his left side, encouraging Eugene to breathe through the pain: Clarence cares.

Not to mention….Clarence was right; whispering barely hurt Eugene at all….in complete opposition to when he’d shouted earlier upon first waking.

When Clarence went to turn Eugene from right to left by grabbing his right arm, however, they ran into a semi-unexpected snag. This arm, it appeared, could not be pulled...lest it trigger that nasty stitch Eugene had experienced earlier. So the apothecary took the saddle blanket and refashioned it into a type of jacket-sling so Eugene’s right arm was held secure against his chest; now his patient didn’t have to worry about his right arm being at the mercy of whatever gravity felt like doing with it.

With his free arm, Eugene lightly held the cushion against his gut. Then Clarence managed to carefully and successfully roll Eugene’s upper half onto his left side without any additional complications. Eugene was allowed to rest after all the additional activity. His side without the wounds was naturally far more stable and for the first time since awakening, the mere act of breathing didn’t make him wanna pass out from too much pain. Although it was still comparably arduous and taxing by trying to breathe deeply as instructed. The last time Eugene could recall feeling this helpless was when he had a nasty case of typhus around age 5 or 6 that had nearly killed him.

“Right now, I’m preparing an anesthetic for that wound in your back,” murmured Clarence. The apothecary was using medical terms that until that point in time for which Eugene had had very little use. It made Eugene wish he’d read and paid more attention like Rapunzel.

And mentally conjuring his beloved sweetheart so easily within such a natural context suddenly sent unbidden shockwaves of loneliness, hopelessness, and despair crashing through him. Regis would never release him and Eugene knew it. He’d gone to far too much trouble convincing others that Eugene no longer existed amongst the living. Past the end of his needfulness for this prisoner, the mad king might eventually attempt to use Eugene as bait at a later date. But until then, Eugene was still being secretly held here, wherever ‘here’ was...which had to mean that it was becoming more likely with each passing hour that Javeen’s decoy ruse had worked. That whatever was left after the fire the enemy troops had started, and after Corona’s soldiers watched their own captain get struck down, it was practically a given that nobody from his kingdom was out searching for Eugene right now.

In spite of himself, the back of his still-raw sinuses welled up and started dripping with these instant pent up emotions. He sniffled softly at first but when Eugene pictured himself back in the nursery, rocking Kleisonne and singing their special song….considering that Rapunzel has to sing it now….it was more than he could take. It had already been over two months since the last time he had left them to take up arms at New Old Corona and even though he could see Corona Island from the top of the mountain pass, as captain, Eugene felt as if he might as well have been a million miles away. With so few fighting men, with so few soldiers who’d actually experienced prior sustained combat much less led through it, such inexperienced leadership, and only a rather ancient stockpile of weaponry….(Corona had been at peace for hundreds of years, after all...) Eugene simply could not leave his station under any circumstances….not even to see his family. The kingdom’s needs had been too great….still are too great. Had his father’s battalions arrived yet from the Dark Kingdom? Probably not. Eugene had a feeling he’d be hearing all about it from the apothecary, chatty as he was. But then….but then -- one shining light of realization cut through the pain haze and fear fog….piercing its way through his overwrought mind and body. Rapunzel was actually queen now and thus not at the mercy and whims of what others thought or felt anymore. Not really. And Eugene could sense with absolute certainty that Rapunzel would not rest until she had found identifiable remains by means of incontrovertible proof. And once they found the only clue Eugene had managed to leave behind, Rapunzel’s resolve in finding him would become dang near indestructible. He’d just have to try and find a way to escape -- or more practically, considering his woeful state of being, somehow get word out ASAP so that Corona would still be performing a rescue, not a recovery.

Eugene hissed rather loudly at the sudden harsh stinging sensation emanating from around the wound in his back. The sharp intake of breath had in turn disturbed everything else within Eugene’s predicament. “My apologies,” Clarence spoke out, “I’m usually accustomed to patients who are already unconscious by the time I get to them,” he explained with a hint of nervousness.

Aaaand he’s apologizing again. For unintentionally hurting me. Truly this guy was proving over and over he really wasn’t Regis’s mad scientist henchman. After Clarence was finished with the stinging stuff, he grabbed some type of salve that Eugene was sure he already knew pretty well. Tallow, the same stuff used as a base for candles, also made a great healing and moisturization agent. It sealed the wound away from everything else including dirt and further abrasions.

It was basically how Eugene had avoided having too many scars for so many years, and the one main reason why he appeared completely unscathed, despite all of the bar fights he had been swept up in, and the smaller now invisible wounds he’s had. Although he currently rolled his eyes at his own past vanity by trying to achieve physical perfection with flawless skin. Eugene was certainly gonna have some gnarly scars after this….provided he lived long enough to actually heal from his open wounds and captivity….Eugene inwardly admonished himself to stop thinking morbidly. And to instead be grateful for Clarence and his incomprehensible kindness in such a morbid setting. And if Eugene weren’t already laying down, he would’ve been bowled over by what the apothecary did next. Clarence not only carefully cleaned and applied tallow to every inch of the abrasions those ropes had caused, he covered the red welts on Eugene’s wrists with long knotted-off strips of floursack cloth. It was such an unexpectedly….kind thing to do, to tend to wounds caused by a prisoner’s restraints…..Eugene was momentarily taken aback….and currently lost in thought. And this is when Clarence figured he’d had as good a time as any to crank up the hallucination juice.

Somewhere behind Eugene, something that smelled vaguely of incense and oil started burning nearby and he started coughing. Clarence reminded him about the cushion trick and the coughing sensation eased off and Eugene began to feel oddly and unexpectedly relaxed. His cognitive body functions had largely gone dormant and he was floating in a soft white haze. He felt….groovy. Every once in awhile, lightning streaks of pain might interrupt his dreaming as Clarence, who was not only a good apothecary but a well trained surgeon, worked on sewing up Eugene’s wounds.

Clarence couldn’t have Eugene eat or drink anything prior to surgery so that effectively eliminated anything taken by mouth when it came to easing his patient’s pain at this time. So the apothecary took the one safest route left to him; the psychoactive one. The main problem was that psychoactives didn’t technically knock you out….at least not the ones of which he was in possession.

The surgeon was distinctly worried that even if Eugene had tried to ingest any medicine or even water, it very well would have triggered pain so agonizingly distressful that he wouldn’t be able to stop screaming once it got started. Based on the prior blood and reflux content he’d seen so far, (as well as how his patient had reacted during his first few seconds upon waking) Clarence strongly suspected part of Eugene’s problem was a nasty duodenal tear and that meant high-intensity stomach acid was busy slowly seeping itself out everywhere it wasn’t intended to be, both inside and outside of his patient. Unneutralized stomach acid pouring itself into one’s abdominal cavity was indeed Not Good at All, especially since that includes everything else that regularly accompanies stomach acid. Clarence's plan was to be as hands-off as possible. He'd witnessed far too many patients die of resulting infection directly caused by a surgeon's brash (and yes, stupid) tendency to just dig around in open wounds. Clarence still didn't know if his patient needed to be sewn up all the way or if drainage sites needed to be packed as he healed.

All things considered, this “enemy” captain shouldn’t even be conscious. Eugene had to be practically dying of thirst and yet he wasn’t complaining. Here he was, on this makeshift exam/surgery platform, high as a kite, tripping aloud about fluffy purple bunnies wearing watermelon hats. Or was it purple watermelons wearing pink bunny hats? Whatever that meant, thought Clarence, with some amusement.

Clarence seemed to have an internal immunity against the “incense oil” he was burning for his patient’s sake. He was both annoyed and grateful for said immunity. He also fervently hoped this patient would stay distracted long enough with pleasant hallucinations in order for Clarence to do what he needed. It wasn’t like him to operate on a patient without explaining everything thoroughly, but he was hoping against hope that by subtracting another layer of self-awareness, it might somehow help Eugene stay distracted even longer. Besides, you can’t rightly swallow much of anything when it’s just going to…..leak back out such a nasty hole in your vital organs. Above all else, the young captain needed that tear repaired as quickly as possible.

Real things about world history discovers/innovations: When 'syringe' is mentioned here, it's not like a hypodermic needle or even an oral medication syringe. The size of syringes in the 18th century were more the size range of a can of spray deodorant on up to a large can of hair spray.

“Okay, Captain Fitz-Humpty-Dumpty, let’s try and put you back together again, shall we?” murmured the surgeon to himself, as he took one last glance at his overstocked supply of incense oil.

@gleamful-lanterns @kingreywrites @autumn-ravenclaw

“Sorry,” he said with a little laugh, as if you hadn’t done the most embarrassing thing in the world. “Forgot to warn you this might hurt a little. If it gets to be too much, please tell me.”

Oh. He thought you’d moaned in pain.

You lowered your hand from your mouth, nodded and gave a strangled, “Okay.”

Connor placed his hand on your other shoulder, effectively doubling your heart rate as you pressed your thighs together. You felt like you were going to explode or catch fire on the spot.

He began to rub both of your shoulders, long and deft fingers working through your muscles. Goosebumps erupted over your skin, your nipples were painfully hard, and you ached between your legs.

All from a simple massage that probably meant nothing to him. It wasn’t fair.

“Is this all right?” His voice had dropped to a low murmur that was sinful enough to short-circuit your brain. “If you’re uncomfortable, just tell me to stop.”

“No,” you rushed out, immediately flushing. “It’s-it’s fine. Great, really. I… think I needed this.”

He gave a low chuckle. You were pretty sure you could come from his voice alone.

“Really? I couldn’t tell at all,” he teased, fingers pressing into an especially stubborn muscle. “But honestly, someone as young as you shouldn’t be so tense. It’s unhealthy. Are you practicing any muscle-relaxing techniques at home?”

“I don’t think so. Unless drinking counts,” you sheepishly added.

“No, drinking does not count,” he reprimanded you, even as you could hear the smile in his voice. “I have a few suggestions, if that’s all right?”

“Sure,” you said, head hanging forward as you continued to relax. He could do anything to you right now and you wouldn’t care. It felt so insanely good, better than any massage you’d ever had, and those fingers and his voice were better than any porn.

You really needed to stop lusting over your therapist. It was wrong, pathetic, and clearly pointless. This wasn’t going anywhere except to give you another broken heart.

“Well…” He moved his hands back up to your neck, the tips of his fingers gently cradling the columns of your throat as his thumb worked against your spine. You thought you had died and gone to heaven. “Lying down and reading is a good one. Stretching your muscles everyday also helps. Relaxing in a hot bath.

“And, of course, there’s masturbation.”

You stopped breathing. Went stock-still like a frightened rabbit before a hunter.

“Really?” you asked faintly, on autopilot as your brain tried to catch up. Did he know what you had done just before your session? Was he just teasing you some more?

“Yes, absolutely,” he said, still massaging your muscles as he had a whole bunch of tensed up ones to work through. “It even helps bolster the immune system. I recommend it to all my patients.”

“Oh.”

All his patients. It didn’t mean anything. He was just being a good therapist. Of course he was. He was a professional and you were a pathetic lowlife who let your innocent crush run wild until it had become totally perverted and—

Connor’s hands went still as he leaned down, put his mouth close to your ear and murmured, “I can show you the best technique, if you like.”

This couldn’t be happening. Surely, you were still dreaming. There was no way—

“Okay.”

He seemed surprised, going by the short breath he sucked it, but it was nothing compared to your own shock. Had you just really agreed to let Connor show you how to masturbate “properly”?

He removed his hands from your shoulders, and for a moment you thought he was going to laugh at you, tell you it was a joke and you really were pathetic to fall for it.

Instead, he stood before you, peering down so intently that you felt he could see right through you. Hear each beat of your heart and listen to each shallow, pulled breath.

Normally, the glasses perched on his nose gave Connor a soft, endearing look. Now he looked almost predatory as his analytical gaze roved over every inch of you. And then he reached up, pulled at the knot of his tie, and tugged it off in one swift motion.

You gripped the edge of the couch. Holy shit.

Connor sat down next to you on the couch, and the parts of you that felt they were on fire burned even brighter.

“Are you sure?” he asked, voice raspy and low as he looked you in the eye. “If we have to stop later, you’ll be even tenser than before, which will make this entire exercise ineffective. So once I start… I plan to not stop until it’s finished.”

This was really happening. You nodded, licking your dry lips and swallowing the lump in your throat, voice shaky but the words clear.

“Yes. I’m sure.”

He gave a little smile, so faint you almost didn’t catch it, and then he took your hand, holding the back of it against his palm.

“Good. Then let us begin.”

Connor sounded so formal it was almost funny, as if this really was some kind of legitimate therapist practice, but there was nothing professional about the way he gripped your hand, placed it on your thigh, and pushed it up your skirt.

“I’m glad you wore this today,” he said, almost conversational except for the hoarse quality of his voice. “Makes it easier for the both of us.”

A small whimper escaped before you could tamp it down, the tips of your fingers against your inner thigh combined with Connor’s low praise already too much. How were you going to do this and survive with your mind intact?

“It’s all right,” he breathed against your cheek. “Don’t hold anything back. This is all about making you feel good.”

You couldn’t hold back, even if you’d wanted to. Connor pressing your own fingers against your clothed sex was enough to pull another noise from you, a stifled, strained whine.

“That’s it,” he instructed sweetly, guiding your fingers into a slow, circling motion over your clit. “Just like that.”

You shut your eyes tight, trying to be quiet despite what he’d said, and Connor gave a sigh.

“You’re not relaxing.”

He didn’t give you an opportunity to respond; Connor pushed your hand harder against the fabric barrier over your clit just as he gently wrapped his fingers in your hair, tilting your head to the side so he could press his nose against the side of your neck.

“Relax.”

He said the word against your skin, moving lips forcing a shudder out of you, and just as if he had you under a spell, you began to relax, muscles becoming loose and pliant under his control.

“That’s my girl.”

Between the guide of his skillful fingers, his lips teasing your neck, and his low, murmured praises, you were already well on your way to reaching that peak. He felt so warm, his voice more raspy than usual, and that hint of cologne you’d always thought smelled nice was now intoxicating.

But just as you started to feel your walls tightened, Connor pulled your hands away, and you gave a pitiful moan.

“Impatient, aren’t you,” he teased, drawing your hand up your mound and to the waistband of your panties. “Insatiable little thing.”

You were beyond speaking at this point; all that was left to you were needy whines and breathy, strangled groans.

Connor, meanwhile, seemed as composed as ever, even with his tie removed and the top button of his collar undone, leaving a delicious swath of pale, smooth skin. You wanted to reach out and suck on it, leave a hickey he would have to hide from his next patients, and the thought made you wild with need but your hands remained next to your legs, clutching the cushions for dear life. You didn’t know if he would let you touch him, but you wanted to, desperately.

Still leading your hand, he dipped your fingers under your waistband, moved them down, and guided them over your folds. Your face was on fire, made worse when you both felt how drenched you were.

“It seems to me you really needed this.” Was it your imagination, or did Connor’s breath hitch and nearly stutter? “How long have you been… wound so tight?”

As he said the words, he pressed your fingers inward, teasing and prodding your entrance. You rolled your hips and arched against the back of the couch, unable to keep still or quiet as you released a muffled cry.

“You’re holding back again.” You felt something warm and wet against your skin, and belatedly realized he was dragging his tongue along your neck. You whimpered and tried to squeeze your thighs together over his hand. The stimulation was too much and not enough.

With his free hand, he grabbed your knee and forced your legs apart.

“What did I say about relaxing?” he nearly growled, sending a shiver up your spine. “Even now, you’re still fighting it. You have to trust me.”

You nodded, eyes still shut down, because you couldn’t look at him without dying on the spot. It was purely self-preservation at this point. “I trust you,” you managed to breathe out.

“Good. I’m glad to hear it.” Connor nibbled at your earlobe, gentle but the scrape of his teeth still forced out your moan. “Now for this part… you have to make sure you’re properly lubricated.”

As if to make his point, he swirled your fingers between your folds, coating them with your slick. “If you do this technique dry, it’ll be uncomfortable. Painful, even. We don’t want that.”

You were barely able to follow his words, enjoying the lull of his voice more than anything. It was better than in all your fantasies combined.

He moved your fingers upward, placed them directly on your clit, and began to move them. A counterclockwise motion that was slow and methodical but already threatened to break you to pieces.

“The key is to set a steady, rhythmic pace,” he said, his tone ridiculously formal again except for the hoarseness. “Another tactic that people overlook is to keep your body relaxed, but to keep this area taut.”

Connor slid your fingers down again to your entrance, teasing against it before returning to your clit. He continued to speak, ignoring your choked cry as if he hadn’t heard it.

“Tensing and flexing your pelvic muscles is key to achieving a satisfying orgasm. So in this case, I do want you to tense up here. Can you do that?”

Oh, fuck, was about the most coherent response you could come up with, but you managed to choke out a, “Yes.”

You really did try to follow Connor’s instructions. Relax your muscles except for between your legs. Easy. Except you were a giant stress-ball of horny and you wanted to jump into Connor’s lap, unzip his pants, and sit on his dick.

The thought made you moan and arch your back again, desperate to move your fingers faster, but Connor wouldn’t let you, forcing your fingers to remain at the slow, torturous pace.

It was good, so good, but it wasn’t enough, and Connor was keeping you just short of reaching your peak. He might actually succeed in driving you crazy.

Fuck it. If he was going to keep torturing you, you were going to enjoy it was much as possible. With your free hand, you slipped it under your shirt, pulled your bra down, and rubbed your thumb harshly over the nipple. The additional stimulation made you almost sob with relief, unable to be still as you squirmed and pushed up against his hand.

You heard Connor suck in a breath, his hand suddenly still, and without thinking you grabbed his lax fingers and forced them back onto your clit. Directly. His hand remained frozen, even when you tried to move it. Despite his lanky limbs and slim body, he was very strong.

You finally opened your eyes, met his warm brown ones, and desperately begged.

“Please…”

He chewed the corner of his lip as if conflicted, even with his hand down your panties.

“Please, Connor.” Your words were a choked moan, his name a sinful plea on your lips, and you saw the moment his resolve break.

Swallowing hard enough for his Adam’s apple to bob, he removed his hand entirely from your panties. For a moment, you thought you’d misinterpreted, but then he lifted his fingers to his lips, glistening with your slick, and cleaned them off with his tongue before popping them into his mouth.

You just stared at him, sure your mind had just broken, especially when he pulled his fingers from his mouth with an indecent pop.

And then… he removed his glasses.

You’d never seen Connor without his glasses before. He looked… barely restrained. His eyes, normally so warm and soft, were sharp and edged like the blade of a knife. Like he wanted to take you apart and make you all his.

Apparently, that’s what he intended to do.

Connor rose to his feet and stood between your knees after kicking them apart, barely giving you any time to adjust before he knelt on the cushion between your legs. He grabbed your thighs and lifted you up, settling you into his lap and trapping you between him and the back of the couch.

You watched, mouth dry and chest heaving as he unbuckled his belt and harshly pulled it from its loop, tossing it aside. His eyes never left yours even as he unbuttoned and unzipped his slacks and pulled his cock out of his boxer-briefs.

You’d never thought it was possible for a cock to look so delicious, and his was mouth-wateringly gorgeous. A nice size and girth, flushed and already leaking precum at the tip.

He didn’t give you enough time to admire it; Connor looped one arm around the small of your back, lifted your hips, tugged aside the crotch of your panties, and pulled you up onto his lap. The tip of his cock pushed past your slick entrance, and he slid the rest of the way inside without much difficulty from how wet you were, but you were suddenly so full you could barely breathe.

“Fuck,” he gasped against your ear. It was the first time you’d ever heard him curse. “You’re so… tight.”

You held onto his broad shoulders like a lifeline, fingers digging into his dress shirt and whimpering as you wrapped your legs around his narrow waist.

“Connor,” you nearly sobbed from relief and the almost-painful fullness. You didn’t care if it would hurt, you needed this. Needed him. “Please… fuck me.”

With a low growl, he thrust forward, crushing you between the couch and his chest, half-holding you up as he thrust into you again. Each drag of his cock inside you made you moan, or cry, and you buried your face into his neck as your walls already started to tighten around him.

He felt better than a dream, hitting the spots you could never reach yourself, the sound of his hips slamming into yours wet and obscene in his small office. You could feel yourself dripping, making a mess of both of you, but neither of you cared.

“Connor.” You repeated his name, over and over, voice rising in pitch the tighter you became. “Connor.”

“I know,” he gasped out, fingers digging into your hips as he increased the brutal, merciless pace. “You’re doing… so well, baby girl. You’re… almost there.”

You half-sobbed at the praise, wanting to come so badly, but at the same time, conflicted. Never wanting it to stop. Not wanting this fantasy to be over.

Maybe Connor sensed it, because he latched onto your throat with his mouth, nipping and sucking and kissing your skin as if he could live on that alone.

“Come for me,” he growled, and you did, unable to do anything but obey.

You gripped him so tightly you must have left bruises, arched your back, and cried out sharply, your whole body shuddering as you pulsed and throbbed around him. Stars exploded behind your eyes as pleasure sparked through every nerve and inch of your skin, and all you could do was cling to him tightly so you wouldn’t drown beneath the waves.

Connor gave a choked curse, his pace staggering into shallow, uneven thrusts, before he pushed all the way inside and shivered hard. He held you tightly against his chest as he groaned into your hair, panting and holding you on his lap as his cock twitched and throbbed inside you.

Only when you felt his cum start to leak out of you did you remember you hadn’t used a condom.

Shit.

You expected him to pull out of you, to tell you to get out now that he was done with you. Instead, Connor kept his arms around you as he shifted over, sitting back and pulling you onto his lap, still embedded deep inside you.

And then he did something you never would have expected; he took your head between his hands and drew you forward, pressing his soft lips against yours. Tender, warm, and inviting, the tip of his tongue licked against your lips. You gasped and shivered and he pulled back, a small, satisfied smile pulling at his lips.

“So…” His smile fell and he looked almost nervous. You almost missed it because he had lowered his hands to your hips and begun tracing distracting circles on them with his thumbs. Even through the cloth of your skirt his touch was warm and electric. “I don’t know if you would be interested… but…”

He faltered again and you weren’t imagining the shyness there, which was crazy because he’d just given you the best orgasm of your life. What could he possibly have to be bashful about?

“Yes?” you asked, surprised at how raw you sounded. You curled your finger into his hair, liking the softness of it, and needed to do something with your hands before you decided to start riding him again. His cock, even though it had softened, was still very distracting inside you.

Connor’s cheeks a pretty pink, so endearing and awkward as he leaned into your touch. “I was wondering if you’d… maybe want to come over to my house tonight?”

You blinked at him. Probably the fifth time he’d broken your brain in so many minutes.

“I mean,” he flushed a deeper pink, “I feel like I at least owe you dinner. I’ve been told I’m a decent cook, and… that is, if you don’t want to sue me for… for malpractice—“

You surged forward and pressed your lips against his, forcing him to stop talking.

Connor gave a startled gasp, giving you the opportunity to lick into his mouth. You could feel his dick give an interested twitch inside you. You groaned, shifting your hips a little. You knew your time was almost up, so there was no possible way for a round two, but…

Going to Connor’s house? Having him cook you dinner? Maybe even stay the night in his bed?

You broke the kiss, took a steadying breath of air, and smiled down at him.

His chocolate-dipped voice easily made it through her thin front door when raised in concern. “Kate?”

No time to do a last minute tidy up. She yanked open her front door and her jaw dropped at the absolutely delicious sight of Thomas in a razor sharp black suit and tie. His head lifted from where he had been staring at the grubby concrete entryway and it felt so cliche, but her heart stopped at the soft, awestruck shine in his fine blue eyes.

“You look..” he appeared to struggle for the proper descriptor as he closed the distance between them to press a soft kiss to the crown of her carefully curled hair.

The nerves nagging her endlessly lessened some at the press of his large hands over her upper arms and the familiar wash of his spicy, citrusy cologne. “Way too hot to be your date, I know. I need to get my shoes and then I’ll be ready. Okay?”

“I will await you with bated breath.”

He tossed out such romantic nonsense like that with such earnest ease that she had no choice but to take him seriously. Her hand squeezed his quickly before she rushed back to her bedroom to slip on her nicest black flats and tuck her cellphone into her only nice clutch (thankfully also black).

“Who is Edmund Evans?”

The only slightly anxious smile fell from her face as she left the bedroom to see Thomas holding a folded up letter with a ring of condensation wrinkling the paper. Dread hung low in her stomach and she swallowed. “My sperm donor. Where did you find that?”

His eyes tightened with that feral fury she had glimpsed in the distillery. “I did not want this foul piece of filth ruining the coffee mug I found atop it. Does he say such awful things to you in each month’s letter?”

“I don’t typically read them,” she admitted, her eyes focusing on the clench of his hands as he crushed the paper in his grip. “But when I used to, he did, yeah.”

The low growl of his voice rumbled through her to clench low in her belly. “I would very much like to acquaint him with my fist.”

“He means nothing. Come on, GQ, let’s go drink some free whiskey and pretend that we actually care about some uptight blowhards.”

“Well. When you put it so nicely.”

*****

Anxiety gripped her after the door to his sleek, black car closed behind them with a wink from Andy. Her hand tightened in the crook of Thomas’ arm as they joined the swell of socialites smiling too brightly in sky high heels, men leering at them down the line of their upturned noses. 

Kate didn’t belong here. It was too much. What if Derrick was here? He would pick her out amongst his manicured ranks right away. Thomas would see that she wasn’t good enough for him or his lifestyle and toss her on her shapely ass, leaving her heart in tatters before the shined soles of his slick shoes.

“Breathe, Kate.” His head dipped down low to whisper the words against the shell of her ear. “It is they who are unworthy of you. Now how about a bit of liquid courage?”

It was much easier to play the part of soulless arm candy with the warmth of fine whiskey buzzing beneath her skin. She slipped into the familiar role of smiles, meaningless platitudes, and forced laughter as if she had never left. Thomas was as charming as ever, chatting up businessmen with pound signs in their eyes upon the exchange of business cards and handshakes.

“Allow me to refresh your beverage, sir. Excuse me one moment.”

She watched Thomas walk away with only a slight amount of hesitation before shifting her attention back to the distribution magnate across from her. Holding the glass against her lips with soft music playing beneath the din, her stomach filled with finicky finger foods and smokey liquor, catching the hint of Thomas’ cologne lingering against her skin from his parting kiss to her cheek, she was almost able to enjoy herself. When the conversation shifted to the dashing man currently bellying up to the bar, her forced grin gained a hint of sincerity.

“He is a fine young man and a driven businessman.”

Kate nodded automatically and did a quick, cursory sweep around the wood-paneled lounge. She recognized no one, and it appeared as if everyone who was anyone had arrived for the high-brow event. Affection slipped honey into her words and pulled her rouged lips into a true smile, “He is indeed. As a bar mana-”

“Is he alright?”

The concern in her companion’s tone jerked her gaze over to the bar where Thomas stood ramrod straight, glaring daggers at a man currently invisible to her for the thickness of the crowd. Even from such a distance she could easily pick out the tension pulling his shoulders back. Shit.

“Excuse me.”

She pushed her way through the crowd, uncaring if the whiskey clutched in her white-knuckled hand spilled for the unease rabbiting her heartbeat in her throat. Whatever had happened, they needed to shut it down immediately. She recognized the beginnings of a fight when she saw one, and this was not the time nor the place for it. Too much was on the line for Crimson Peak.

“Thomas, what are you-”

Her worried words died in her throat as she stepped up to his side and lighted a hand upon the tight muscles of his back. The ghost that had haunted her for the entirety of her life, staring back at her from newspapers and tabloids alike, scowled at her in the ruddy, pock-mocked flesh.

She hardly noticed her hand losing its hold on her tumbler, or the sound of shattering of glass as whiskey splashed against her bare legs. “Dad?”

****

Thomas glanced from the jumped-up toff before him to Kate, her face pale and drawn. So this old coot was his precious Kate’s father. Or, sperm donor, as she had so eloquently put it.

Edmund Evans might have been a dapper looking man in his youth, but he’d run to fat now, too much indulgence having bloated his waistline and given him sallow, overfed skin and jowls.

The older man had approached him to talk about Crimson Peak, and Thomas had been chatting away politely until the toff introduced himself. Evans had offered his hand, and Thomas had looked at it, and said “I’d rather not.”

That’s when Kate had arrived.

She looked a vision tonight. Easily worth twenty of these over-coiffed socialite girls. Kate was upfront and honest and real, and in some ways he wished he’d met her before, but perhaps his younger self wouldn’t have been worthy of her.

“Something wrong?” Evans asked, his lips slightly stained with red wine. Then he turned, having belatedly heard his daughter.

Kate looked at Thomas, stricken, and her eyes said no, no, don’t, but Kate had spent her entire life being cast aside as if she didn’t matter, and if Thomas had anything to say about it, it ended here.

“Katherine. What are you doing here?” Evans asked, as if she was a waiter rather than a guest.

“She’s here with me.” Thomas beckoned Kate over, but she stood stock still, a deer in headlights. He’d never seen her so…. cowed, and the shock of it made his anger burn even brighter, lighting a furious fire in his heart. “She is here as my guest, and as such you may not speak to her unless she gives her express permission, are we clear?”

Evans looked from Thomas to his daughter, surprise flickering over his jowly face. “Snagged a rich one here, haven’t you, Katherine? Your mother would be so very proud.”

Kate’s mouth fell open, her face rosy with embarrassment. 

Thomas advanced on Evans, looking down his nose at the shorter man, making his expression as icy cold as possible. The rest of the people at the event dropped away, and Thomas’ world narrowed to his desire to give Kate justice.

"Do you have the faintest idea of the brilliant, bright, self-sufficient woman you're missing out on, Evans? Do you? How strong and capable and smart and beautiful she is? I hope you know she neither needs nor wants you in her life, you charlatan."

Kate’s father smirked. “Oh yes, she’s got your wrapped around her little finger, all right. Actually, not so little, by the looks of it. You feeding her as part of the deal?” He shook his head, amused. “Just a whore like her mother, using you for your-”

In the next heartbeat he was on the ground, flat out.

Thomas swore at the pain ripping through his hand, but the sting and soreness was worth it to have flattened the bastard’s nose.

Evans lay on the floor, writhing pathetically, moaning. A few people looked in curiously, but at Thomas’ stone cold glare, no one intervened.

After a second, Thomas knelt on the floor, got right up in the toff’s face. “If you ever write to Kate again, if you ever contact her, I will make you sorry you ever accepted tonight’s invitation, and I will not even have to lift a finger to do it, understand? I will eviscerate you in society. I will ensure that copies of the drivel you write to her are published all over London.”

Evans took a shaky breath intending to speak, but Thomas wasn’t done. 

“From now on, if you arrive at an event and you see Kate there, you turn around and leave. Are. We. Clear?”

Evans clutched his nose and nodded weakly, blood leaking from between his thick fingers.

Thomas stood up, dusting off his trousers as if brushing away unpleasantness. He rounded Evans’ body and offered his arm to Kate. “Shall we, my dear?”

Kate closed her mouth, and blinked a few times, recovering. “Wow. You have a mean right hook, GQ.”

He opened his hand and flexed his fingers. “I’ve actually never punched anyone before. It’s…. rather painful.”

Kate lifted his sore hand and brushed her lips over his bruised knuckles. “Let’s get you some ice for that hand. C’mon, sweetheart.”

Thomas’ mood lifted even more as she led him to the bathrooms. “You called me sweetheart.”

A smile curved her lips, so kissable, and he couldn’t resist just dipping his head for a moment, and tasting the honeyed whiskey on her mouth. 

Her hand tucked into his elbow and squeezed, as she said cheekily, “Haven’t we established that I don’t hate you?”

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