Paper and Asphalt (Part 15)

I offered you my hands, steady and sure, as you rose from the bath.

Water slid down your skin in languid trails, clinging to the curve of your hip before falling in delicate drops to the floor. You swayed slightly, legs weakened from everything I had taken from you tonight, but I didn’t let you stumble.

The towel was warm in my hands when I drew it around you.

I dried you slowly, deliberately- starting at your shoulders, dragging the soft cotton down your arms, over your ribs, across your stomach.

Every pass was unhurried, every touch intentional, mapping the faint marks and heat I had left on your body.

My gaze never wavered from yours. Even when I moved behind you, pressing the towel to the curve of your spine, I caught your reflection in the mirror.

You didn’t look away. You couldn’t.

Between each careful motion, I bent to press my mouth to you- your shoulder first, then the inside of your wrist, then the damp skin at the nape of your neck. My lips lingered just long enough to make you wonder if I was going to move lower.

Ownership in its purest form never needed chains or knots- it was in the way my hands claimed the right to be here, to care for you as if you were mine by law and blood.

When I finally finished, the towel clung to your skin like my hands still did, and my breath was close against your ear.

“Perfect,” I murmured. Not just for what you had endured tonight, but because you were standing here now, in my hands, and nowhere else.

I didn’t release you once the towel was in place.

My hands stayed on your waist, guiding you forward with ease, the faintest pressure telling you where to go.

You let me lead, bare feet padding softly across the tile, until I stopped in front of the vanity.

In one smooth motion, I lifted you- effortless, as if you weighed nothing and set you on the cool marble counter.

The towel shifted, slipping just enough to expose a curve of hip, the swell of your thigh.

I didn’t fix it.

My palms bracketed either side of you, caging you in without touching anything but air and intent.

“Look at you,” the words lingered, leaning in until my mouth hovered just above yours.

The reflection in the mirror behind you showed every detail- your damp hair clinging to your neck, the flush still painted across your spine, the way your hips parted in anticipation.

I kissed you once, light enough to make you chase me when I pulled back.

Then I returned, slower, deeper, letting my tongue brush yours, tasting the faint heat of lust and something sweeter- submission, still lingering on your breath.

My hands slid up your legs, fingers curling against the inside of your thighs, pressing just enough to make you tense and open for me at the same time.

My lips moved from your mouth to your jaw, then down the side of your neck, teasing at the edge of the towel but never giving you the relief of more.

“You still don’t understand,” I whispered against your skin, voice low, almost amused. “I could spend hours like this,” my hands climbed higher, “and you’d still be begging for more.”

Your eyes met mine in the mirror, wide and unguarded, and I smiled because I knew that you knew, I was right.

Without a word, I slid an arm under your knees and another behind your back, lifting you from the counter as if you were nothing but air.

You gasped softly, your arms instinctively circling my neck, damp hair clinging to your skin and brushing my jaw as I carried you down the hall.

The master bedroom was dim, shadows curling in the corners, the low light from a single lamp gilding the edges of the room in molten amber.

The air here always felt different- warmer, heavier, thick with something that pressed close and left no room for distance.

I laid you in the center of the bed with deliberate care, as though placing something rare, irreplaceable, and entirely mine.

The towel slipped away with the faintest whisper of fabric, pooling at your sides and leaving you bare under the full weight of my gaze. My eyes darkened, tracing the map of your body- the marks, the heat, the way you flushed under the attention.

I didn’t bind you.

Didn’t command you.

Not now.

My hands curved around your hips, thumbs brushing the hollow just above your thighs, holding you in place as I began my descent.

I traced the tip of my tongue along the line of your ribs, tasting the faint salt of your skin, feeling the way your stomach tightened beneath my mouth.

Each inch downward was deliberate- my lips brushing, my tongue following, my breath ghosting over you until the muscles beneath my hands twitched in restless need.

I felt every shallow hitch in your breathing, every subtle arch of your spine, and I matched my pace to it- slow, measured, as if your anticipation was the map and I intended to savor every stop along the way.

When I reached the soft inside of your thigh, I didn’t give you what you wanted.

Not yet.

I lingered there, my mouth exploring your skin- pressing slow kisses, dragging my teeth lightly, tasting you in fragments.

Your fingers curled into the sheets, your hips shifting in small, helpless movements, as if that might draw me closer.

I made you wait until you trembled.

Until the tension in your body reached a taut, beautiful line.

Only then did I tilt my head and press my mouth to you fully, tongue parting you with unhurried precision. My strokes were patient, steady- meant to unravel you one shiver, one gasp, one desperate heartbeat at a time.

Your moan was low and fractured, hips surging up instinctively to chase more, but my hands tightened, holding you exactly where I wanted you.

I controlled the pace, dragging you up that climb so slowly that the ache became almost unbearable.

And when I finally let you have it- when I pressed deeper, stroking harder, my tongue moving in a rhythm that left no escape, your sounds broke apart, wild and ragged.

Your thighs clamped instinctively around my head, trembling so violently that I had to grip you harder to keep you open for me.

Every muscle in your body was tight, drawn to a single, impossible point, and I could feel you trying to hold on and give in at the same time.

“Don’t fight it,” I moaned into you, the vibration pulling a sharp cry from your throat.

Your fingers knotted in the sheets, in your own hair, in anything you could reach, the tension coiling so high it almost hurt.

And then, like something snapping, you broke.

It came in a rush, your whole body surging up toward my mouth, your hips jerking helplessly as if you could press yourself deeper into me.

The first wave hit hard, shuddering through you, dragging a moan so raw it seemed to tear from somewhere deep inside.

I didn’t stop.

I stayed with you, kept my mouth locked to you, coaxing every last tremor, every twitch.

Another wave came, and another, each smaller than the last but just as sharp, until you were shaking beneath me, whimpering through the aftershocks.

Only when your muscles began to go slack- when your legs fell open in surrender, when your chest rose and fell in desperate, uneven breaths, did I ease the pressure, letting you drift down slowly.

You collapsed into the bed, flushed and damp, eyes half-opened, your body still giving the occasional faint, involuntary tremor.

You looked utterly ruined. Utterly mine.

I pulled you into the curve of my chest, my arm locking around your waist, my hand splayed over your stomach. Our breathing found the same rhythm, the room settling into a deep, warm quiet, like the night itself was holding its breath for us.

You shifted slightly in my arms, your head resting heavier against my chest, your voice low and blurred by sleep as you asked me, “What’s the last thing you need from me?”

I let out a quiet chuckle, the sound vibrating against your cheek as I brushed my lips over your temple. “We can deal with that in the morning,” My tone warm, almost indulgent. “You’ve earned your rest, and I think I have too.”

Your breathing slowed, deepened, and your body melted fully into mine, every last thread of tension dissolving.

My hand stayed at your waist, steady and warm, holding you close as your eyes fluttered shut.

I let my own eyes close, my body relaxing into the mattress, into you.

The steady rise and fall of your chest against mine carried me with it, pulling me under.

Your eyes fluttered open to the sight of me already out of bed, bare feet silent against the floor, my shoulders squared as I reached the door.

You didn’t have time to ask what was wrong.

The door exploded inward, the blast of sound rattling the air in your lungs. Wood splintered, the frame shuddering from the force, and four masked men flooded the room in a coordinated rush.

Two came straight for me- fast, heavy, their weight hitting the floorboards like drumbeats.

The other two split off, skirting wide, their eyes locked on you. They moved low and quick, skimming around the bed as though they’d done this a hundred times, cutting off any way you could slip past them.

You barely had time to push back against the sheets before they were on you.

The sheets tore away in a rush of cold air before rough, gloved hands closed around you- one clamping hard around your upper arm, the leather biting into skin still warm from sleep. The other hand gripping your wrist so tightly your pulse throbbed against his palm.

The second man caught you by the waist, his fingers digging in with bruising force as he hauled you upright. The heat of his body pressed into your back, the stale scent of sweat and cloth filling your nose.

Your toes barely brushed the floor before they were moving you, dragging, not guiding, your shoulder jolting in their hold every time you resisted.

The third man came at me.

You watched as I met the masked man head-on, catching the full force of his momentum with my shoulder and driving it hard into his chest.

The impact was sharp, controlled, calculated, not frantic.

He staggered back, off balance, but I was already moving in, my fist snapping up in a clean, brutal arc. The crack of his jaw echoed in the room, loud and final, before he dropped to the floor with his hands holding his face.

The fourth man came from the side, fast, swinging wide.

I didn’t flinch.

My hand shot up, catching his arm mid-strike, my grip locking just above his elbow. A twist- sharp and precise as I forced a sickening pop from his shoulder.

The fourth man was still reeling when my elbow drove into his back with bone-deep force. His knees went limp and forced him to buckle.

You realized then- this was not luck.

This was not desperation.

Every move I made was by design, each strike placed exactly where it would do the most damage in the least amount of time.

You had seen me angry before, but this, this was something else. Something trained.

I turned toward you.

And froze at the glint of metal in the dark.

The third man, already on his feet, had a pistol leveled at my face. His breath was ragged, but his aim was steady.

At the same moment, you froze under the grip of the fourth man- his arm locked around your chest, the muzzle of another gun pressed hard against your temple.

“Stop trying,” one of them said, his voice muffled behind the mask but edged with a cold, lethal authority. “You like her alive, don’t you?”

Your breath caught hard in your chest.

My gaze locked with yours- unflinching, unmoving.

I didn’t speak, didn’t so much as shift. Just watched you, the weight of my stare holding you like an anchor, even as the rest of the room moved around us.

Rough hands wrenched your arms behind you, the bite of plastic zip ties cinching around your wrists until your skin ached.

Another set snapped around your ankles, forcing your steps into stumbles.

You fought to scream, but the moment your mouth opened, a strip of duct tape was shoved hard across your lips.

The taste was bitter, chemical, and every sound you tried came out muffled- desperate, high, and frantic in your own ears.

The men dragged you toward the door.

Your cries broke against the tape, your shoulders straining against the bonds until your muscles burned.

I didn’t move.

Not an inch.

My body was still as stone, my eyes locked on you with a quiet, razor-sharp intensity- like if I moved too soon, I would end it all right there.

You twisted in their grip, fighting to keep me in your sight. The hallway darkness swallowed me in pieces- first my body, then my face, until there was only the glint of my eyes in the dark.

And then that was gone too.

The night air hit you cold and sudden as they dragged you outside, every breath burning in your lungs.

You tried hard to resist, feet digging for the ground, but the zip ties around your ankles pulled taut, biting so deep into your skin you swore they could cut straight through.

You tried to scream, but a gloved hand clamped over the tape holding your mouth, crushing your jaw in its grip until your teeth ached.

The sound died in your throat, reduced to a desperate hum against tape and leather.

The SUV was already there- black, hulking, windows tinted so dark they swallowed the streetlights.

One of them yanked the door open while the other shoved you forward with enough force to knock the breath from your body.

You hit the seat hard, your shoulder slamming into the door before you slid sideways. Your wrists were yanked back, the zip ties digging cruelly into the thin skin over bone, the edges sharp and unforgiving.

You jerked against them, only for the plastic to tighten, the pain blooming up your arms.

One masked man climbed in beside you, his grip clamping around your upper arm like a vice, pinning you in place.

Two more took the front seats, the driver’s gaze fixed forward, the passenger twisting once to look at you. His eyes were unreadable behind black fabric, but they stayed on you a second too long.

The door slammed. The engine turned over, vibrating through the frame of the SUV.

The man in the passenger seat turned slightly, his eyes scanning the vehicle. His gaze flicked to the back seat where you sat pinned under a crushing grip. “Where’s Four?”

The man beside you jerked his head toward the direction of the penthouse. “Four was holding him at point,” he said, his voice flat under the mask.

The front passenger’s eyes narrowed. He picked up the radio from the console.

Static hissed. “Status?” he asked, his tone low but edged.

Silence.

He pressed the button again, sharper this time. “Four, status.”

Just then, breaking the silence, over the radio a voice came back, “Finished.”

The front passenger glanced at the driver, a flicker of tension passing between them before the driver pushed the accelerator harder, the SUV lurching forward.

The leather seat was cold against your bare legs, the chill biting at your skin with every shift of the vehicle.

Each bump in the road jolted through your bound body, the zip ties at your wrists and ankles digging deeper, a constant reminder that you weren’t going anywhere.

It was only then when the first wave of shock began to numb that you realized.

You had been dragged out exactly as you were sleeping- a thin, barely-there nightgown top clinging to you from the struggle, hem riding high, and panties that left almost nothing to the imagination.

The cool air from the vents slid over your exposed skin, making you suddenly, painfully aware of how little separated you from the eyes in this car.

The man beside you adjusted his grip, his gloved fingers digging harder into your arm until you stilled.

His touch was not just controlling- it was claiming, his hand heavy enough to remind you of the strength behind it.

You tried to look past him, out the window, but the glass was blacked out. No city, no lights, only your own faint reflection staring back, wide-eyed and disheveled.

The driver said nothing, eyes locked on the road.

The man in the front passenger seat turned slightly, watching you in silence, gaze fixed as though he was memorizing every flicker of fear on your face- and maybe, every inch of exposed skin.

Your breathing quickened under the tape, each inhale shallow and uneven, the sound trapped in your own ears.

The man beside you shifted closer, his gloved hand releasing your arm only to trail mockingly up the side of your neck.

The leather was cold at first, then rough as he brushed the backs of his fingers along your cheek, almost gentle- almost.

He leaned in, his masked mouth so close you could feel the warmth of his breath on your ear. 

“He won’t be coming to get you,” he whispered, the words curling low and poisonous. “He won’t be doing much at all now.”

His tone dipped darker, his fingers sliding along your jaw before falling away. “Can’t let something like this go to waste.”

The SUV slowed, the steady hum of the road replaced by the uneven grind of gravel under the tires.

The driver took a sharp turn, the headlights slicing briefly across brick walls before the vehicle rolled into darkness.

The smell hit you first- damp, oil, and rot. Then the sight- a narrow alleyway, its walls pressing in tight, the ground littered with trash that crunched under the tires.

The engine cut. The driver didn’t speak.

The man beside you squeezed your arm once, hard, before shoving the door open.

Cold night air rushed in.

He hauled you out by the ties at your wrists, forcing you to stumble on bound ankles. The zip ties bit deeper with every step, sharp edges sawing into your skin.

The driver moved ahead, unlocking a steel door sunk into the side of a graffiti-covered building. The hinges groaned when it opened, revealing a narrow staircase that disappeared down into shadow.

You hesitated on the first step.

The man behind you didn’t.

His hand flattened against your back and shoved, hard enough that you nearly pitched forward. You caught yourself on the wall, the damp concrete scraping your shoulder through the thin fabric of your nightgown.

The basement smelled worse- mold, rust, the faint copper tang of something old and unwashed. A single lightbulb swung from the ceiling, casting slow-moving shadows over the cracked cement floor.

A chair waited in the center of the room.

They dragged you to it, the legs screeching against the floor as they shoved you down into the seat.

The masked man who was sitting next to you stepped forward, a coil of rope in his hands.

“Leave her,” the driver said, his voice deep, certain.

But he ignored the driver at first, leaning in close as he tied you down, his gloved hands brushing far too slowly over your bare thighs. The rope scraped your skin as he wound it tight around your wrists and ankles, his fingers lingering longer than they needed to, the leather of his gloves catching on the hem of your nightgown.

His eyes looked up from below you, a sinister smile was under that mask and you could feel it.

When the knots were finished, he stepped back, his eyes raking over you with the kind of patience that made your skin crawl.

The driver’s voice came again, sharper this time. “I said- leave her.”

The man finally stepped away, but not before his hand dragged, deliberate, from your knee to your hip.

Every small movement made the rope dig deeper, pushing the rigid edges of the zip ties into your skin until they felt like they were sawing through flesh.

The bite was constant, hot, each throb of your pulse pressing you harder against them.

Your ankles ached where the plastic cut, your wrists burning in their binds, the ropes layered over them holding you in a vice.

You didn’t want to give up, but the pain made it almost unbearable. Your movement went still.

The three masked men stood together near the base of the stairs for a moment, shadows swaying under the swinging bulb.

Then, without a word, they began to move toward the far side of the basement.

Their boots thudded heavy on the cracked concrete, each step deliberate. The sound of them scraped across your nerves, dragging out the seconds as they passed in front of you.

One of them glanced your way as he passed, the one who sat next to you- just a flicker of dark eyes above the mask, enough to make the cold under your skin spread deeper.

The three of them didn’t disappear completely.

The far wall opened into another room- not closed off, just a rectangular doorway with no door to hide them from view.

From where you sat, you could see the glow bleeding out into the basement. Screens created cool blue and green light pulsing across the floor like water. The faint reflection of shifting graphics danced over the cracked walls, bending over the uneven floor.

They stepped through one by one, their shapes blotting out the glow in turns before being swallowed by it again.

The soft hum of electronics carried into the space, followed by the faint scrape of chairs.

“…GPS shows Four’s on the way,” one of them said, his voice low but cutting through the quiet. “Should be here in a few minutes.”

“Good,” another replied, a metallic creak marking him leaning back in his chair. “We wait for him. Then we call it in- report the girl’s secured, and that we’ve taken care of him.”

A low, broken chuckle scraped from the third man’s throat, the sound too long, too eager. “Yeah she’s secured,” he said, his voice curling around the words. “Couldn’t stop us if she begged, and I bet she begs pretty.” The way he lingered on the last word made it drip with something rotten, something that didn’t belong in daylight.

The hum of the machines filled the silence that followed, steady and cold. That shifting light stopped just short of your feet, like even it knew better than to touch you.

And in the stillness, the words looped in your head.

Taken care of.

 

 

 

-Gambit