Revenge on the Ex

It had been years since he had seen her. Years since he had been dragged away in handcuffs, to spend the next months in prison. Years since she had lied, betrayed him, turned him in to the cops. It had been years, but his anger hadn't cooled. Jack Doherty wanted revenge. And now was the time to get it.

In front of him in the small concrete room was a metal folding chair. It was empty now. It wouldn't be empty for long.

Jack paced the small room rhythmically, his steps long and sure. At six and a half feet tall, his head nearly brushed the low ceiling. He looked down at his hands—large, callused, and scarred, clenched so tightly that the knuckles were blanched completely white. He could hardly wait.

It wasn't long before the heavy door clanged open. Two men, Alex and Sean—his right-hand men, his favorite thugs—burst in, each holding the elbow of a petite, half-collapsed figure between them. They threw her forward; with her hands tied behind her back, her knees bit the concrete hard. To her credit, she didn't cry out. The color of her blood on the gray floor was electric. The cloth bag over her head hid any emotions that might be crossing her face.

"Get her in the chair," Jack ordered. His palms were sweaty. He pushed up each of his sleeves past the elbow, displaying tattooed, sinewy flesh. The veins on his forearms were visible, pulsing. He was Michelangelo's triumph come to life.

Sean and Alex grabbed the prisoner's arms again and bundled her back into the chair.

Jack stepped forward and pulled the bag from the girl's head in one swift motion. And there she was. Cassandra Lane. She was just as Jack had remembered, in that first glance. The same ruler-straight white-blond hair that fell to her elbows. The same round, doe-brown eyes, framed in lashes so long and feathery they were in danger of getting tangled when she blinked. The same full pink lips—the top one slightly fuller than the bottom—, dimpled cheeks, straight little nose, sharp cheekbones.

He let his eyes travel down her creamy throat. Languidly. Sensually. Her body was the same too, just as he had remembered it. Petite yet curvy, with full breasts and a tiny waist, muscled long legs and a firm, round ass like a peach. She was dressed in a white blouse and black skirt—professional, but still sexy. Her skin was pale with fear, her lips trembling. He liked the way panic looked on her. It suited her.

"Hey, Cass," he greeted her throatily. He took a step forward, ran his knuckles down her milky cheek. She flinched at the contact and the coldness of the silver ring he wore, a tear trickling down to her left dimple.

"Jack," she said coolly. Her voice too was just the same, husky but sweet, always sounding like she'd spent the night before screaming at a rock show, or inhaling a few too many cigarettes. It was smoky and smooth and one of the things he'd always loved about her. He could hear her purring his name in his memories, feel the creamy warmth of her skin beneath his body.

He blinked, and then he finally saw a few changes. She had a burgeoning black eye, a trickle of blood running down her chin. (She'd put up something of a fight, then.) Her nails—always short when he knew her—were almond-shaped and perfectly manicured, ballet-pink. She was wearing stockings. The girl Jack knew never wore stockings. Something about the changes irked him. Particularly the bruises. He didn't want someone else marking up that pretty face. That job should belong to him alone.

Alex and Sean were still watching him, waiting to see what he'd do. He ran his hand down Cassandra's neck, feeling the thin silk cloth of her blouse between his rough fingertips. "How old are you, Cass?"

The girl shut her eyes, the corners of her cherry lips turning town. "Nineteen, Jack. You know it."

He did, of course. "And how old am I now, Cass? Remind me."

Eyes still closed, her tongue darted across her lips. "Twenty-eight."

"That's right." He ran his fingertips back up to her smooth face, tracing the edges of the bruise that spread across her nose and cheekbone. "And what do you think about those edges, Cass? Do they suit you?"

A muscle twitched in her jaw. Her coffee-colored eyes flew open. "It wasn't about the ages, Jack. You know it."

"No? The judge seemed to think so. Funny, though, that that came up at all. Seeing as I never fucked you. That's right, isn't it, Cass?"

Cassie was squirming in her seat. "Jack—"

"Isn't it, Cassandra?" The crack his hand made as it struck her cheek was so loud that it echoed in the small room. Cassie's head snapped sideways, gossamer hair flying, an immediate red handprint outlined on the girl's porcelain skin.

Cassie's lips were open in a soundless gasp. Her eyes were teary. "Yes," she admitted. "That's right."

...

The night they met had been the coldest night that November. Jack's band had been playing at the Corner, their first show in the States that year. It was a good crowd, a wild energy, even early in the evening. And then Jack had seen her.

The girl was standing alone, wearing a black dress. Her skin was pale and luminous, her hair pure gold. Her lips were painted blood-red. Her shoes had six-inch heels, but she was still shorter than most of the crowd. Somehow, though, the room seemed to be revolving around her. Somehow, no one could look away from her—the golden girl in the black silk dress so short and loose it would have looked like a pillowcase on anyone else. On her, it was magic.

She was dancing, swaying side to side, with one pale moonlight arm above her haloed head. Her eyes were closed, dusky lashes sweeping across her cheek like swaths of velvet. Those ruby lips. Those glossy legs. She was some other species entirely. Made of gold and silk and sunlight.

Jack reached out his hand to her. The crowded parted like an ancient sea. Those shining eyes. That satin skin. Her hand was in his, delicate-boned and cool. She was beside him on the stage, soaking up every ray of the spotlight. It danced under her skin. He sang every song to her. She spun across the cherry wood like a nymph. Her skirt twirled up to show the very top inches of her slender thighs. He was drunk on her.

The show ended and they were stumbling up the stairs, drunk on music and lust and whiskey. He shoved open the door of his suite, pushed her back onto the wide white bed. She was like an angel. Her cheeks were flushed, her red lips laughing. He was kissing her thighs, her wrists, the perfumed curve of her graceful neck. Her dress was tumbling off and he was melting in the sight of her breasts in a black lace bra, pushed up and perfect and tantalizing. Her slender stomach, faintly muscled and concave, with a perfect little belly button. Her panties, high-cut and lacy, showing that her glossy skin was smooth and perfect all the way up. Showing the curves of her taught, round ass. The gap between her thin, smooth thighs.

His cock was hard beneath his jeans. Her tongue was dancing in his mouth, her tongue silky, her lips like pillows. She was biting his shoulder, clawing up his back. And then she was pulling away. And then she was saying, "We can't." And she told him her secret.

And they hadn't. He hadn't minded the idea of waiting. He'd been with his share of women—hell, several men's share of women—but he'd been raised Catholic (he was Irish, after all)—and the idea of that perfect little virgin waiting for him. It wasn't like they couldn't find other ways to amuse themselves.

For the next six months, they'd been constantly together. They drank too much alcohol and partied too hard and kissed their lips raw. He couldn't get enough of her strawberry-smell and her glossy hair and that perfect, smooth, untouched skin. They fought and screamed and drove each other crazy. He'd been a mess, then. Too many drugs and too little sleep and too many demons. She was so sweet to him, holding him when his nightmares came, stroking his hair back from his forehead and sliding her smooth body over his. Offering him her neck to choke, letting him squeeze bruises into her skin. It always made his cock the hardest. And he's stroke it until he came, imaging the day he'd get to hold her down and slide that cock into her little pussy. They worked well together. She calmed his rage, his craziness, his monsters. He bought her dresses and played her songs and imagined bending her over the foot of the bed and fucking her, that muscled little ass bouncing against his cock. Sometimes they played a little rough—he had to, with all that aggression building up. A man can only wait so long. Especially a man like him. And usually she'd liked it. She liked being choked till her vision faded, liked being spanked over his lap until his handprints turned from red to purple. But he wanted more than that. He pushed a little. And one day, he'd pushed a little too far.

And she'd ran. And then the police had arrived. The charges read, Assault. Battery. Rape.

But he hadn't raped her. He'd done a lot of things, but that wasn't one of them. And it had ruined his life. He'd watched her stand there in the courtroom and lie to everyone, her mother and father a half-dozen lawyers behind her. Dressed in a sweater and skirt that he'd never pictured her in. She was usually dressed in leather pants and mini skirts, with tight, cropped shirts.

She'd stood there, and met his eyes when they sentenced him. And then her parents had bundled her away. He hadn't seen her since then. All the time he'd been in jail, he never heard from her. When he'd been released, he started planning. And now, here they were. Here she was. Finally.

...

"You lied," Jack Doherty's steely eyes were glinting. He had grown over the last years. He had been to prison. His body was hard and muscled. His face didn't hold a single trace of softness. His skin was scarred and covered in tattoos. When she'd known him, he'd had just his family crest and a Celtic cross. When she'd known him, those green-gray eyes had been wild, but not like this. Nothing like this.

"I'm sorry," Cassie said, her voice on the edge of pleading. "I didn't understand things then. I was pressured. But I shouldn't have done that to you. I know that. I'm sorry."

"You're going to be." Jack was smiling, but it was a terrifying smile. Cold and sharp and predatory. "I went through hell because of you."

Cassie's eyes were becoming more and more frightened. He held up a hand to silence her when she tried to speak. It was his time now. Hers was over. "You know something, Cass? It's hard to find work when the world has labeled you a rapist. I've had to be a little creative with my work."

Cassie's pupils were saucers in those dark eyes. "What have you done? What are you doing?"

Sean and Alex were laughing. "Darling," drawled Sean, "your man here goes by another name now."

"Many names," Alex singsonged. "Ace. The King. Big Jack."

Cassie's eyes were getting larger and larger. "You're one of them, aren't you." She said at last, the news articles from the last eight months flashing before her eyes. People killed. Henchmen everywhere. Drugs, pouring into the cities. All run by three men. The Colonel, the Captain, and the General. Hundreds of men followed their orders. People disappeared weekly. Everyone was afraid. And Jack was one of them.

"Captain Jack, at your service," he said with a grin. "It's funny, what prison does to you, Cass." He cracked his knuckles. The message was clear.

Cassandra was twisting her hands unconsciously, rubbing the skin raw against the rough rope that bound her. "Are you going to kill me?"

Jack shrugged. "Maybe. Probably. But not just yet. Not anytime soon. I'm going to break you, Cass. I'm going to beat you and fuck you and humiliate you and use you until you can't even scream. Until you don't even beg anymore. Until you're just quiet. Until you don't even care. I'm going to make you feel like I felt when you fucked me over, and all these months since."

Cassandra's mouth was dropped open, her terror abject and obvious. She moved her lips as if she wanted to say something, but no sound came out. Her body trembled so much the chair began to tap against the cement floor.

"Oh, and baby, you made a liar out of me." Jack's voice was dangerously smooth, sweet as honey. "And you know, don't you baby, that I always tell the truth. That's right, isn't it?"

He waited for her terrified nod before continuing. "You know what that little lie was, don't you, baby?" His voice was too sweet. Dripping saccharine. Dripping poison. "I'm a rapist, aren't I baby? You made me one, didn't you baby? But there's one little problem. Isn't there? You see it, right, little girl?"

Cassie was sobbing, choking on her own breaths. He could practically hear her heart beating. "The problem, Cass, is that I never raped you." He was spitting, he was so angry. Practically vibrating. His hand was on her throat, squeezing just a little. "It's about time we fix that. In fact, it's way past time."

Alex and Sean were pressed against the far wall, as if the force of Jack's anger was physically keeping them there. He was a monster, a god. Too furious to be human.

He pulled a knife from his boot and slid it down the front of Cassie's silk shirt, sending buttons scattering across the floor. She was wearing a light blue silk bra with a front clasp that deepened her cleavage enticingly. He could see the outlines of her ribs, jerking back and forth with her gasps. He flicked his knife against the center of her bra and tore it from her body, leaving a tiny, bleeding scratch on her skin. Her tits were nothing short of magnificent. Perky C-cups with delicate, pale pink nipples that were already hard as pencil erasers in the cold air. Jack ran his fingers over them, watching her flinch hard at the touch.

He got to his knees and pulled off her shoes, slid her stockings down her thighs. He kissed her smooth calf. He was going to enjoy this. He was going to take his time. "You belong to me, baby. You got that?"

She was shaking, her skin damp and cold. But somehow, she made herself speak this time. "No," she said. "I'm not."

Jack smiled. He grabbed her breast roughly, finding her nipple and pinching it until Cassie's face was blanched from the pain. "You are, though," he corrected her gently. He grabbed her jaw and pressed his lips against hers. She tried to pull away, but his grip was strong. She bit down on his lip hard, breaking the skin. He bit back, harder. She screamed out at the sudden pain, blood falling in steady drops down her chin and onto her chest.

"Scream all you want," Jack was warming up a little now, his voice rising excitedly. "No one can hear you, baby. Anyway, there's no one I don't own for miles." He slapped her hard across each cheek, making them flush from white to pink. He drew his fist back and punched, hard. It felt good. Too good. He didn't want to stop.

He gripped her throat and squeezed, hard. She tried to gasp, her breath catching abruptly as he tightened his hold on her neck. Her skin grew redder, her eyes rolled up. God, she was beautiful. God, his cock was hard.

He hit her again, laughing out. He felt so free. All this time, worried about this little whore. And now here, she was, his. All his.

Her face was already beginning to show bruises. Her skin was so delicate. He liked that. She was always so beautiful bruised.

"Scream for me, Cass, won't you?" He found a pressure point in her soft forearm and squeezed. She bit her lip, trying to stay silent. He pressed harder. She screamed.

So beautiful.

He pulled her off the chair and pushed her to her knees. "You're going to suck my cock now, Cass. You ready? You're going to suck me until I come, and then you're going to lap up every drop of cum and beg for more like a good little slut. Okay?"

Her face was aghast. He was practically purring. "But here's the thing. If you refuse, I'll let you blow Sean and Alex first. Get a little practice. Then me. Do you want the practice? No?"

Cassie was crying in earnest now. "Please," she said.

"That's not an answer. Do you want to suck my cock? Or do you want to suck all three of us?" Jack slapped her hard across the face again.

Cassie lowered her head shamefully. "Just you," she said at last.

"If you bite me, disobey, or displease me in any way, I'll beat the living shit out of you. And then you'll get to suck off Alex and Sean. Maybe I'll call in a few of the others, two. What do you think, Cass? Can you be a good girl for me?"

Cassie was sobbing harder. "Yes," she choked out.

"Yes, sir," Jack corrected.

"Yes, sir," Cassie whimpered.

"Good girl." Jack stroked her head like she was a dog. "Now, you want to suck my cock?"

Cassandra bit her lip, fighting herself. Jack slapped her other cheek twice, sharply. "Quit hesitating, baby."

"Yes, sorry." He raised his hand again and she hurriedly added, "Sir. Sir."

"Tell me you want to suck my cock."

"I want to suck your cock," Cassie parroted obediently. Her eyes were sparkling with tears.

"That wasn't very convincing." He raised his head again.

Panicked, Cassie's words starting tumbling over each other as she tried hastily to speak. "Please, sir, let me suck your cock. Please, let me make you come. I need to suck your cock. Please, sir." Hands still bound, she leaned forward, licking across the head of his cock. He was fully hard and over eight inches long, with a fat, swollen mushroom head that was glistening with pre-cum. In different circumstances, Cassie would have been wet at the very sight.

She lowered her smooth pink lips over the whole head and swirled the tip of her tongue over the sensitive skin. Jack groaned softly, deep in his chest. His eyes were closed. Alex and Sean still watching, Cassie dipped her head forward, letting his thick shaft slide into her throat, pressing forward until her nose was touching his pubic hair. She began to bob up and down, sticky strands of saliva coating his slick shaft.

"Look up at me, Cass." Jack wound her white-gold hair around his palm twice and pulled back, making Cassie strain back to meet his gaze. He could see the bulge of his cock in her throat. "That's a good girl." This view he'd seen before. But, god, it had been a long time.

"I can't wait to feel my cock inside you, baby." Jack began hammering his cock into Cassie's throat harder and harder, quickly picking up speed. "Are you still a virgin, baby? Or are you a little whore? You suck like a whore."

He pulled his cock out of her mouth, letting her gasp for air for a second. "Which is it?"

"I... I've been with a man," Cassandra offered up shyly, her cheeks bright red. "I have a boyfriend..."

"Oh, do you?" Jack laughed. "Skinny fellow, blonde hair? Drives a blue car?"

"How do you know that?"

"How do you think I knew where to find you this morning? I paid him a few grand to tell everyone you skipped down. To tell me where you work, when you take your lunch. And now here we are."

Cassie's mouth fell open. "Brad did that?"

Jack nodded. No need to mention the threats that had been involved in that little deal. "No one's going to find you, baby. Not here with me."

He leaned in, kissed her swollen lower lip. "Such a bad girl. You were supposed to save yourself for me. I waited all those months for you, remember? And here we are. You've let me down again."

Cassie was still shaking her head over the betrayal. "We broke up, Jack."

"We didn't break up. You just left. You got scared and you left. And then you fucked me over."

"I'm—"

"Don't tell me you're sorry." Jack pulled her hair again, forcing her head back, and plunged his cock deep into her throat. He pulled back, his cock dripping with her spit, and cock-slapped her hard across the face.