Tears of Tess (15 page)

I
tested the door, but the lock held firm. I tried the shutters, but try as I
might, they wouldn’t open. The only way out was the fireplace, and climbing a
chimney flue did not inspire me.

Going
mad with the need to run, I turned to the books, skimming through signed, first
editions of priceless literature, hoping words could take me away. But nothing
worked. Slamming a novel closed, I stared at the licking fire, wondering. If I
burned all his books, would that teach Q a lesson?

I
stood, dangling a red leather book above eager flames.
Do it.
My fingers
refused to let go, and I slouched in my chair. I couldn’t. I wouldn’t commit
sacrilege on age-old literature, no matter how I hated him.

If
I was here for a while, they might be my only entertainment.

Hours
ticked past on a grandfather clock in the corner, chiming my life away every
fifteen minutes and gonging my doom every hour.

How
long before Q came back? How long before I could return to my tiny room and
hide in sleep-oblivion?

My
stomach grumbled as the winter sun set over rolling French countryside. I’d
been curled up on the window seat for hours, peering through cedar slats. Mocked
by the small slice of the world. Tiny sparrows darted, preening their feathers
in the fountain. They were free—I was not. 

I’d
never longed for the sun so much. Its rays hadn’t touched my skin in over a
week. I never thought I’d crave the outdoors, especially the cold, but I did.
It was an itch I couldn’t scratch.

My
heart squeezed as two black sedans drove sedately down the long gravel drive
and stopped in front of the house. A chauffeur jumped out and opened the rear door.

Q
stepped out, smiling reservedly at the man. He straightened his black trench
and sucked in a deep breath, as if fortifying himself to enter his own home.
The jacket stretched across his chest, showing the powerful breadth of
shoulders. He tilted his head toward the library, searching for me no doubt,
and fingers loosened the tie around his neck. 

A
look of depravity and unhappiness etched his features. I huddled on the window
seat, hidden by the shutters and gloom, and conjured stories for him.

Who
was this man? This conundrum, this enigma. A man so young, but so rich. A man
who accepted women, who lived on his own with a galley of staff. A man who had
more secrets than I ever did with Brax.

Was
he hurting? Did he have a wife? I drafted a fairy-tale of his faults and flaws
granting redemption. Perhaps he was kind under the gruff exterior. Perhaps I
could appeal to a sensitive part locked far below and encourage him to release
me willingly?

Perhaps.

Perhaps.

Perhaps.

I
smashed at my eyes, warning them to stay dry. All my stories were just that:
fiction. I had to stay in the real world. A world where focus and the
preparation to bolt would save me.

My
mind latched onto other things. Things like an escape pack. I needed warm clothes,
a stash of food, and a knife to remove the GPS anklet. Those things would keep
me alive when I found the opportunity.

I
could somehow make it to the Australian embassy—wherever the hell it lurked. Would
they save me? Send me home. Home to Brax, and parents who didn’t care. Parents
who hated that I stole their retirement.

The
front door swung wide as Q stepped into his home. The glass of the library
doors showed him regal and proud, like a magistrate returning to his castle.
All aura of confusion lining his face, gone.

He
didn’t pause, heading straight to the library and unlocking the door.

I
tensed and wrapped my arms around my knees. I sucked in a breath as he strode
into the room. 

It
took him a moment to find me, looking in the wingback, by the bookcases. His
body coiled tight as he hunted the room. When he found me, he froze.

Something
snapped between us, arching with awareness, temptation. I mentally fought it, cutting
the connection.

His
nostrils flared as we glared from our sides of the room.

“Come,”
he demanded, holding out a hand, fully expecting me act docile and follow.
As
if.

I
bared my teeth, hugging myself hard. I didn’t grace him with an answer; my body
language screamed all he needed to know: I despised him.

He
didn’t demand again. Instead, he gritted his teeth and charged. With strength I
feared, he plucked me from the seat as if I were an errant child. Fingers bit
into my upper arm as he dragged me over plush carpeting and out of the library.

I
squirmed, but couldn’t dislodge him. “Get off me.”

He
didn’t answer as we almost jogged through the house. I didn’t see anyone. No
noises of life, no visions of help.

Q
headed straight behind the sweeping blue, velvet staircase. My breath caught as
he punched the dark wood panelling.

I
jumped when it popped open, revealing a door. Fear exploded in my veins.
Upstairs in the house, I had the illusion of civility. If he took me down there,
it symbolised a lack of constraint. My horror-filled visions might come true.

“No!”
I twisted my arm, causing Q to grunt. He had no choice but to release me or
earn a broken wrist.

I
bolted, but Q was faster. He crashed against me and we collided into the wall.
My rib roared and I panted, battling with pain. Turned out, I already forgot
the lesson Leather Jacket taught me: obedience may be key, but I couldn’t walk
willingly down those steps. I’d rather bleed and know I tried to save myself.

Q
pressed hips into mine, sandwiching his entire body against me. “Stop fighting,
esclave!
”

He
managed to capture my arms, pinning them in his hands. My tattoo burned along
with rope injuries. A knee forced my legs apart, effectively trapping me.

I
whimpered as my body once again disobeyed and grew hot beneath his touch. My
heart rabbited as Q pressed his forehead against mine. His eyes blazed me to
the core.
“Arrêt.”

I
stopped breathing, suspended by the hard-edged yearning in his voice.

I
cocked my chin. “No.”

He
sighed heavily, pushing away, but keeping hold of my wrist. My muscles trembled
as he dragged me through the hidden door and down the steps. He tugged too hard
and I tripped.

I
landed against his back, causing him to almost fall. Arms came up, wrapping
around, pressing us against the banister, stabilizing.

“Merde,”
he muttered. “Can you not even walk? Is that why they gave you to me? Were you
the reject? The one they couldn’t sell for top dollar?”

His
words slapped, sharp and stinging.

Is
that what happened? I’d disrupted their sick operation by standing up to
Leather Jacket, the weak bastards removed me before I screwed everything. Anger
as well as happiness heated. Anger that they dismissed me as the reject,
happiness at standing up to them.

Thank
God, I fought. I didn’t know how much danger I faced with Q, but I knew in my
bones it was better than Mexico. I could’ve been drugged, raped repeatedly, and
left to die in my own vomit. Now, I had to deal with a millionaire with issues.

See,
Tess. Whatever happens, it’s not as bad as it could’ve been.

Perversely,
I took strength in that. I still had wits, and consciousness. I was still fundamentally
me, if only hidden beneath my gutter mouth, fierce persona.

When
I didn’t answer, Q pulled me down the remaining stairs. The narrow flight
ended, depositing us in a shadowed cave of a gaming room. To the right, an
apple velvet pool table glowed beneath a low hung red chandelier. To the left,
a sparkling bar with cut crystal sprinkled rainbows against the wall under
spotlights. Wood panels on the walls and ceiling entombed us. All it needed
were wisps of cigar smoke and smell of hard liquor. 

The
air was hushed, private. A man’s heaven.

Q
threw me to the side, almost like he couldn’t touch me any longer. I stumbled
with momentum, toward the pool table. Balls clacked together as I disrupted the
neat triangle with an elbow.

I
made to turn, to face him, but his hot length folded me, pushing me hard
against the felt. I cried out as he forced my face against the table and ground
hips into my ass.

I
thought I’d been afraid up till this point. But I wasn’t, not really. Being trapped
beneath his body, with hot breath on my neck, reminded he was the predator and
I was his prey. It degraded, put me in my place, all the while my blood flowed
faster, breath turned cloying in my lungs. 

I
fought.

Wriggling,
I tried to buck him off. “Let me go!”

Fingers
tightened in answer, pinning me harder in place. I turned feral; my hands
grabbed a heavy pool ball and tried to smash his head behind. “Motherfucker,
take your hands off me.”

Q
moaned, sounding tortured and lost, but didn’t say anything. Heavy breathing
disrupted the quiet tranquillity of the den.

His
silence disconcerted me. I had no clue what he thought, or planned. The quiet
amplified other senses, heightened my pain in bruises, and the worst horror,
the wetness between my legs.

If
Brax ever did this—treated me with such ferocity—I’d have come in a moment. I
read the mind turned sex from good to great. Being forced would ruin me, so why
did my body ignore my fear and soften?

I’d
gone from fighting to primed, ready, even as my heart stuttered and panicked.

Q
seemed to sense my acquiescence. He rocked gently, causing more heated blood to
rush. He sucked in a breath, then a soft, slightly trembling hand landed on my
hair, stroking, petting. Ever so slowly, he tucked blonde strands behind my
ears, worshipping me with touch.

My
heart unwound a little, soothed by gentleness. He forced me to surrender and
accept his warped kindness.

Minutes
of stroking turned my bones to molten and his touch dropped to caress my
shoulder, my spine, never more than a whisper, but threatening just the same. 

I
expected roughness, yet he showed tenderness. How could I compete with that? Stay
strong and fight when every animalistic part reacted to him.

I
whimpered as fingers trailed down my ribcage, slinking to the side and the
swell of a breast.

He
hummed in his throat, a sound full of restraint, but also a warning. Slowly, fingers
stroked, running circles over a tender breast, arching closer to my nipple with
every touch.

My
nipples tightened, puckering with need. The knowledge he was about to touch me
so intimately made me pant. My reaction flared Q, and he fisted a hand in my
hair, tugging my torso off the felt. His hips kept mine pinned between him and
the table.

I
yelped as my scalp smarted, but at the same time pleasure radiated, fiery and
hot. My entire body burned.

One
hand cupped my breast, squeezing a nipple. His hot mouth descended on my neck,
biting with sharp teeth.

I
couldn’t control my body, but I didn’t want him thinking I wanted this. I
didn’t. Not at all. “Stop. Please, don’t.”

I
squeezed my eyes, wishing my mind could fly free from the overwhelming guilt
crushing my soul. Guilt for reacting. Guilt for desperately wanting more. Guilt
for wanting to kill him.

Q
murmured something in French. Minty breath drifted over highly sensitive skin.
His hand kneaded my breast, firmer, harder than Brax ever did. He rolled my
nipple between dexterous fingers and an unwilling moan crawled up my throat.

Q
tensed, pressing a hard cock firm against my ass. “
Putain
, I want you so
fucking much.”

He
pinched my nipple and the flair of pain twisted my stomach. The pinch signified
something—a claiming. “What is this?” he whispered darkly.

Q
no longer bound himself to whatever rules he played by. Knowing sent aching
need between my legs. I tried to stop lust from swarming, fogging, but I
couldn’t.

I
couldn’t breathe. Brax’s blue eyes filled my mind. What was I
doing?
Brax would hate me for eternity if I let this happen. It didn’t matter if I had
no choice… I couldn’t return to him after being used by another. Tears bruised,
hating my weakness, hating my body.

 Q
bit my neck again, pressing lips along my collarbone, his expensive suit rasped
against my back. “Tell me,
esclave.
What am I touching?”

My
mind whirred with white noise, detaching itself. He may use my body, but my
soul wouldn’t be broken. I’d remain untouched. Untouchable.

When
I didn’t answer, he thrust against my ass, making me cry out. “What is this?”

“M—my
nipple.”

He
bit the shell of my ear, breath gruff and loud. “Wrong. This is mine.” He let
me go and I breathed in relief, then froze as he touched my ass. Fingers sent
fiery trails along my skin in agonisingly soft strokes, working inward, working
down.