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  Sex in return for board, boy. You knew the rules when we brought you back here.

  Frost pushed his thumb deeper, at the same time pressing his thighs to the other's. Stephen's pelvis lifted, back arching, and he pulled away. Frost roughly yanked Stephen back.

  “You'll hate me more and more as the days go by, Stephen. Especially when...” He drew his thumb out and positioned his cock at that tight entrance, applying a little pressure. “I do this.”

  “No! No, you can't.” Stephen lowered his arse away from Frost.

  “Why is that?” Frost gripped Stephen's waist harder and settled him back where he'd been.

  “Diseases. Shit like that. You don't want to go around having sex with people you don't know, man.”

  “Diseases. Whatever disease you think I have I do not. And you are clean. Remember the needles, Stephen? Remember how we took the blood?” The tension in Frost's balls intensified. “We...” He pushed his thumb inside again. Harder. “Shall...” Rubbed the nub harshly. “Proceed.”

  “No. Not your cock. You're dry. It hurt last time even with the lube. I—”

  “Dry?”

  “You need...you've got to—”

  Frost snatched his thumb out and raised his hands. Slapped them down on Stephen's back—hard. “I don't need to do anything. You do. You need to shut the fuck up and take what I give you. Dry or not.”

  Never shut the fuck up, Stephen. Always complain.

  Stephen moved to reach across the bed to the cabinet containing lube, but Frost held him fast. God, this young man was a defiant bastard.

  So very good.

  “I will do it,” Frost said, smacking Stephen's wrist and taking the lube from the drawer. “I prefer a soaked arse. Lucky you.”

  Stephen looked over his shoulder and watched Frost prime his own cock.

  Fuck, I'm a fine man. Fine and big and—

  A shiver went through Frost at the thought of his rod filling that hole. Stephen's shoulders sagged, and he shifted to where he needed to be, arse raised and balls clenching. Frost squeezed a pea-sized glob onto his fingertip, throwing the tube down then sliding his hand between them. He massaged Stephen's ring, inserted his finger, pushing in and pulling out with hard strokes.

  “Do you like me priming your arse, Stephen?” he panted.

  “No. Fuck, no. I hate you priming my arse.”

  “Good. Do you think you are ready for my cock now?”

  Stephen whimpered. “I'll never be ready. I want to go home. Please, just let me go home.”

  Frost's cock hardened to painful levels. If only this fool knew if he told me he liked it, I would let him go.

  Frost laughed.

  A thrill sped up his spine.

  With deliberate care, so Stephen thought Frost gave a shit about stretching his arse slowly, Frost pushed his cock inside him, stilling every time he sensed Stephen needed a break for his sheath to adjust.

  “This lube makes it much easier, doesn't it, Stephen?”

  “No. It still fucking hurts. Please, take it out. Just get off me!”

  Frost had pushed in to the hilt. “Uh...no. You agreed to the terms.”

  “I didn't! Shit, you drugged me. Did something to make me agree. To make me sign and—”

  “No.” Frost pulled out, leaving his tip inside. “We.” He shoved back in. “Did not.”

  Stephen started crying.

  “I smell you, Stephen. Smell your hate. Do you hate me?”

  “Yes. I fucking hate you,” he sobbed. “Hate all of you!”

  That did it. Those words and his cock easing in and out of Stephen, sent Frost's desire spiralling. He reached down and fisted Stephen's flaccid dick, caught up in coming. Frost pumped faster, his one-handed grip on Stephen's waist and the young man's strangled groans setting Frost up for the ejaculation of his life. He grunted, growled, thrust harder, faster, and matched his movements with his hand on Stephen's cock.

  Heart-stopping pleasure zipped from his balls to his cock tip—repeat, repeat, repeat—and Frost clenched his teeth, head rearing back as a forceful burst of cum shot from him. The heat of his semen joined that of the friction, and he keened, feeling the cords in his neck tighten and his heartbeat pick up speed. It was all so heady that he couldn't hold on to any one sensation. Heat from his body, the burn of his cock, the speeding pleasure jetting out, all combining into one massive, pleasurable tornado that took his breath away for a few heartbeats.

  Frost gasped and shunted inside that hole with two shorter, sharper jabs before he slowed.

  Heaven, that's where I've just been. Fucking Heaven.

  Frost lowered his chest to settle against Stephen's back. He moved his hands from the other's waist, let go of that limp cock, and slid his palms up Stephen's chest to cup his shoulders, his embrace somehow sealing the deal. That Stephen was, indeed, his consensual lover.

  Frost laughed, the sound echoing around the room. He pulled out, settling on the bed and bringing Stephen close in front of him in the spoon position. His giant arms enveloped the young man. He stroked Stephen's belly and kissed the top of his head. “You will remain with me until I tire of you.”

  “W-when will that be?” Stephen's words caught in his throat.

  When you start to like what I do.

  “You'll have to wait and see, Stephen.”

  “Oh, fuck. Oh, God, I hate you so bad.”

  Good.

  Frost slid his hand down the cleft of Stephen's arse. Rubbed the undoubtedly sore hole so his lover hated him more. A haze of emotion settled over him, like he was where he was supposed to be. He didn't query it—didn't want to admit this little specimen turned him on more than any other. For now, sated, Frost closed his eyes to the reassuring sound of Stephen's steady sobs.

  That's it, cry my little bastard.

  Frost thought about the coming evening. He could have had Russell and Toby killed without his man, Croft, bringing them here, back down south. But...no, that would not have been pleasurable. After they'd evaded him for so long...shit, they deserved a bit of discomfort, like they had given him. He needed to know what they knew, Russell especially. After all, he'd seen Frost's face that night in the graveyard. And Toby had seen Frost's men in the middle of an abduction; also when they'd questioned him here.

  That had pissed Frost off.

  Russell saving Toby had pissed him off even more.

  The murder of Toby's flatmate had been...unfortunate. That Sasha bitch had walked into the living room just as Frost's men arrived, earning a knife to the guts for her trouble.

  Thinking about it, she'd done them a favour. Or would have done if Toby and Russell hadn't gone to the police. If Russell had done as he was fucking told and gone home, forgetting everything he'd seen. But no, he'd found Toby. Gone back to the grave and poked his damn nose where it wasn't wanted.

  And now this was where they all were.

  It had taken a while to find them, but Frost was a patient man.

  That patience had paid off.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  * * *

  Chapter Four

  Stephen listened to the sound of Frost's breaths as they lengthened. Each exhalation cooled his shoulder, and he shuddered. Sick of this place already. Sick of Frost. What the fuck had happened here? Since when did going out to get milk for his mum turn into this?

  Tears pricked his eyes. Yeah, he may well be eighteen, a man, but he sure as shit felt younger. Out of his depth.

  His mum would be worrying. He never went anywhere without reassuring her as to whether he'd be late and when he'd be back. She fretted. Always had.

  "I'm not asking where you're going just to be nosey, but because something might happen to you. At least then I can give the police some idea of your last known whereabouts."

  Had she sensed this coming? Had she? Did she have some premonition that a sick bastard and his cronies would take him off the street and bundle him into a car, the milk carton trashed underfoot, white fluid bleeding onto
the path?

  Jesus.

  She would have called the police. She would have kept on at them until they listened. That despite him being an adult, him not coming home just wasn't like him.

  She'd be crying. Wouldn't have slept.

  Just like him.

  Stephen's eyes itched. How long could he keep sleep at bay, though? How long before exhaustion took hold and didn't let go?

  Nausea had him retching. As did Frost's clammy arm across his belly.

  Easing away slowly, Stephen managed to make it to the other side of the bed without waking Frost. Quietly, he padded toward the en-suite bathroom, his arsehole so damn sore that a fresh round of tears warmed his eyes.

  He hadn't cried like this since he was a kid. When he'd trapped his finger between the door and the frame, and his mum had held it under a stream of cold water then kissed it better.

  In the bathroom, he reached inside an opaque-glass shower stall and set the water to hot. He climbed inside, not caring that he stood on a beautiful black marble tray, that matching tiles were on the back wall. The water burned, but he needed the heat to erase Frost's touch from his skin. He cleaned his arse as much as he was able, wincing as his soaped finger slid inside.

  God that hurt.

  He didn't think he'd ever get that part of Frost out of him.

  When will he tire of me? When?

  This was only the second day. Was it only yesterday teatime he'd been taken?

  Sliding down the glass stall, Stephen sat in the mercifully cool tray and used a whole bottle of shower gel, continually cleaning his skin and washing the suds away. He watched the lather disappear down the plughole and wished his emotions could vanish as easily. Steam filled the stall, the tangy, pleasant scent of the shower gel heady and strong.

  Yet he could still smell Frost.

  His phone. Frost had taken it away. Said he'd burn the damn thing so the police wouldn't be able to track it. Stephen imagined his mum ringing it every five minutes. Imagined her crushed expression as the phone clicked onto voicemail.

  He hated Frost for what he'd put her through.

  Then the thought came that she wouldn't have the milk for her beloved cups of tea. That his little brother, Todd, wouldn't have had any for his cereal this morning. There was no one else to go out and buy it for them. Dad, well, he'd left them years ago, and they didn't mix much with the neighbours. Mum wouldn't want to leave the house in case she missed Stephen when he came back. Todd was too young to go out alone, and besides, even if he was older, Mum wouldn't let him now.

  What would they do without him?

  “The milk's on the path, Mum. They smashed it up. I'm so sorry.”

  Tears spilled, as hot as the damn shower water. A sob tore from Stephen's throat and out through his mouth.

  The sound echoed.

  What had happened after Frost slipped a black muslin sack over his head in the car? He couldn't quite remember. So far, his memories had been disjointed, coming back out of sync, the last not bearing any relation to the next. He concentrated to remember them in order.

  “They gave me something, Mum. Drugs. Something.”

  A drink. They'd taken him from the car after a long journey. His legs had gone to sleep, pins and needles making it painful to walk. Stephen was steered across what felt like grass. Something springy anyway. It was cold, a feisty breeze blowing through his T-shirt. What was underfoot had changed to a harder surface. Concrete maybe. The air changed. Became warmer. Smelled of furniture polish and bleach. He'd stumbled down what sounded like wooden steps. Someone pressed his shoulders, and he'd sat on a hard chair, the back of it reminding him of one from his school days. Rope bound his wrists behind the chair, his ankles to the legs.

  Fear. He'd never felt it so clearly in his life.

  The sack had come off. A blinding light, pointed right at him, made seeing impossible. All he could see was that circle of light surrounded by blackness. A blackness so deep and frightening he'd cried for a long time.

  “I wanted you then, Mum. Called out for you, but you didn't hear.”

  He'd been left alone for what seemed like hours.

  The click of a door opening came, and footsteps down the stairs.

  Frost had spoken, his voice soft and creepy. A forceful whisper right beside Stephen's ear. “Welcome to your new home.” His footsteps echoed, and he fumbled in Stephen's jeans pocket and removed his wallet.

  Stephen still couldn't see anything but the light and the blackness.

  “Stephen Brookes. Charming name. Now, I'm going to give you a drink. You must be thirsty, hmm?”

  He was, God how he was, but he recalled his mum's warnings of how people drugged drinks.

  "Even your average bloke in a nightclub drugs drinks, son."

  So if they could, it stood to reason this man could.

  And he had. Forced Stephen to drink what tasted like lemonade. The bubbles had burned his throat. Made him cough. And something had pricked his arm.

  His mind had gone fuzzy after a while. Questions came at him, rapid-fire fast, and he'd nodded, not knowing what he was nodding for. When the sound of a table being pushed across the room bit into his dulled senses, when a pen had been positioned in his hand, when they'd told him to sign his name or they'd kill his mum...

  Yeah, he'd given his consent. Nodded so hard his neck hurt. Shouted that yes, yes, he'd do whatever they fucking well told him, so long as they left his mum alone.

  “Good,” Frost had said. “And despite you thinking we're barbarians, we will leave her alone, if you stick to your promise. No sense in offing her for the sake of it. Leaves a nasty trail. Can't have that.”

  The shower water was cooling. Stephen wished it was hot again. Hotter than it had been. He still felt dirty. Used. He hated himself, his skin, his arse, every goddamn thing. He wasn't sure, if he got out of this alive, that he'd feel comfortable with himself again. Frost's touches were there even when his hands weren't. His scent was there even when he wasn't. Those cool breaths brushed Stephen's shoulder even now, when Frost slept in the other room. His voice circled around inside Stephen's head: Do you hate this, boy? Do you? Do you hate me?

  “Yes, God, yes. I hate you more than I thought it was possible to hate someone. More than my dad, and that's saying something.”

  “Oh good.” Frost's voice came to Stephen, muffled under the splashing water and the shower stall enclosure.

  No. Please, no more.

  “Get out,” Frost said.

  Stephen looked up, squinting through the steam, which would be gone soon, since the water cooled more by the second. He stood, muscles screaming and eyelids drooping, and pushed open the shower door. It banged against the wall.

  “Here. A towel for you.” Frost had dressed in jeans and a black Nike sweater, the red baseball cap of yesterday perched on his black-haired head. And those shoes, those damn pointy-toed shoes that didn't go with his clothing.

  Stephen took the towel, knowing it was useless not to. He didn't fancy being hit like last night. His back was still sore from the punishment. Even when Frost had just...done what he did, he knew he'd pushed his luck by telling the man exactly how he felt. That he hated his touch, his cock up his arse. That it hurt. He'd expected another punishment, but none had come. Frost hadn't seemed to mind what Stephen had said. What was up with that?

  Wrapping the towel around himself, Stephen bit back the urge to tell Frost to fuck off out of the room and leave him be. He'd given him what he wanted. Wasn't that enough?

  “I have something I need to do, Stephen. I have some guests I need to talk to when they arrive later on. It might take some time. You may go to your own room, to the living room, and to the kitchen. Oh, and you may use the downstairs toilet. Other than those rooms, you don't go anywhere else. Do you understand?”

  Frost stared at him with eyes that gave Stephen the damn creeps. They were hooded, black like that darkness when he'd first got here, and a livid pink scar marched down his cheek, thick and lo
ng. Why was it all mean people had scars? Why did every goddamn bad guy in movies or books have them?

  Stephen nodded.

  Frost walked toward the door. He turned, placing one hand on the oak jamb, the other on the edge of the matching door. He stared at Stephen again. “Oh, and if you think you can just walk out of here... Jonathan keeps guard by the front door. Kevin at the back. They're both armed. All the windows are locked and can't be smashed. And even if you did manage to get out, there are dogs on the grounds. Big ones. With big teeth. Think of your mum, Stephen, hmm?”

  Stephen nodded again, steeling himself not to cry in front of this sadistic fucker. He'd tried not to earlier in the bedroom, but hadn't been able to hold it back. His emotions had spilled, Frost's touch unleashing them.

  “Good. I won't bother you again tonight. Don't want to ruin your arse with too much fucking too soon.”

  Frost strode out, and Stephen sagged against the side of the shower stall with relief. At least he'd have some measure of comfort for a little while. But then again, not knowing when Frost would fuck him next would keep Stephen's nerves right on edge.

  Shit.

  He dried off, scrubbing hard at his skin until it reddened and grew sore.

  Frost was still on it.

  Stephen gritted his teeth and walked into the bedroom, half expecting Frost to still be there, even though he'd said he'd be elsewhere. The bed had been made, the quilt smooth, the pillows undented. Stephen's clothes spilled out of the dirty laundry hamper, and a fresh set, complete with shop labels, sat in a pile on the chair in the corner. He dressed absently, placing the tags in the small bin beside the bed. The socks were soft on his feet, but the boxer shorts chafed his arse.

  Wincing, he walked downstairs, resisting the temptation to go into the other bedrooms. And there were several—ten closed doors along the landing he stood on and ten opposite. People might still be asleep behind them.

  In the foyer, with its harlequin-tiled floor, the space as big as their living room at home, he glanced toward the front door. The guy named Jonathan, the one who had approached him on the street, stood with his legs apart, hands folded over his chest. A fucking mountain of a bloke, one Stephen wouldn't tackle if he was paid to do it. Near-white eyebrows rested in a straight line above eyes so blue Stephen wondered if the guy wore coloured contacts.