Tears of Tess (21 page)

He
jerked me against his chest, never looking away. “
Esclave
...” He ran his
nose along my cheek, dipping to neck and collarbone. Hot breath increased heart
flurries to a million a second. I wanted to run fingers through his hair, to
press hips against his—but I swallowed the diabolical urges. That wasn’t what I
really wanted to do.
I want to slit his throat so I can run home to Brax.

Sharp
teeth nipped my throat, stealing my balance.

It’d
been a week since his last touch, but it might’ve been a minute or a millennium
and I would’ve exploded the same. I hated him. He turned everything against me
and it hurt, so much.

Walking
me backward, lips on my neck and hands on my waist, he steadied us when I connected
with the pedestal and tripped. Taking my hand, he helped me perch on the
platform. He gazed up, face at chest height, lust glowing in lime coloured
eyes.

Unexpectedly,
he wrapped arms around me, dragging my breasts against his face. Keeping me
prisoner, he licked through the holes of the dress, sending wet trails
scorching.

“Stop,”
I whimpered, cursing my trembling stomach and melting core.

To
my surprise, he obeyed and stepped up, joining me on the podium. With a slight
smile, he reached above and caught the leather cuffs.

I
couldn’t look away as he pulled my right arm up and wrapped the leather cuff around
my wrist. The buckles tightened and I sucked in a breath. It reminded too much
of Mexico, the tattoo, inspection, injection. My fear consumed, and I jerked
away. My shoulder bellowed as I tried to get free. I shoved Q in panic, tugging
at the cuff, fingers fumbling to undo the buckle.

Q
laughed softly, rubbing his lower lip with a thumb. “I’ll let you in on a
secret,
esclave.
This is a first for me, too.” His hand dropped, cupping
his erection through his trousers. “And it turns me the fuck on, watching you
struggle.”

Two
things I wanted most in the world: for Q to die a miserable death, and for him
to fuck me. Being restrained highlighted all my stupid fantasies; I couldn’t
stop the building moisture. Wetness coated inner thighs as Q gathered me closer.

“
Fuck,
tu me donne des envies primal.”
Fuck, you make me hot. His voice throbbed, making me ache,
yearn.

My
heart broke a little more. He owned my sense of hearing, as well as my sense of
smell. I couldn’t ignore the baritone of seduction, or the overwhelming need to
obey.

Q
pushed my left arm up and secured it. Lungs stuck together when he stepped
back, leaving me shackled with arms in the air. My ribcage rose and fell with panicked
breathing, igniting pain. “You can’t do this.”

He
cocked his head. “I just did.”

“You
know what I mean.” Swallowing back fear, I added brazenly, “You don’t want to
do this. Something in you doesn’t want to abuse me. I can sense it.”

He
froze, nostrils flaring. We stood, silently glaring, before he fisted my hair.
“You don’t know anything,
esclave.
I want this. I’ve wanted this for too
damn long, and you’re wrong that it hurts.” Chest strained in his immaculate
suit as he leaned in, kissing the shell of my ear. He whispered, “I’m not
afraid of hurting you. I’m afraid of how far I’m willing to go.”

If
not restrained, I would’ve collapsed.

“
Maître,
vos invités sont arrivés
,” Suzette said. The guests are here.

My
eyes flew frantically to her, begging for help. She stood in the doorway with a
mix of emotions flickering. The one I read the clearest was want. Her tongue
darted between her lips, dropping her gaze.

Q
waved toward the corner of the room. “Pull the rope, Suzette.”

Her
gaze popped wide, and the need in her face dispelled, leaving shock in its
place. “You sure,
maître?
”

He
growled in warning and she jumped to obey. Wrapping tiny hands around a thick
red cord, she pulled with one swoop.

I
screamed as my shoulders wrenched upright and body weight transferred from feet
to wrists. My tiptoes pointed, still on the pedestal, but only barely. I’d
become shackled well and truly by gravity.

Q
stepped off the podium, inspecting me. My breasts stuck out proudly with arms
above my ears, the mosaic dress exposing all parts. “Leave us,” he demanded,
not looking at Suzette.

I
couldn’t breathe.

Suzette
left the room quickly, and all hope of getting away went with her. Q stood
below, looking up. Slowly, he inserted a middle finger into his mouth and
sucked. Eyes flashed with so much darkness I would never see the night again
and not think of him. His tongue licked with intoxicating grace.

My
lips parted, mesmerized. Somehow, focusing on him helped dispel panic, a
reminder Q might be bad, but he definitely wasn’t the worst.

It
was almost a relief when he grabbed my hip, holding me steady. Fingers bit into
flesh. Slowly, he poked a finger through the fabric of the dress and found the
dampness on my thigh.

Eyes
shot to mine. “You continue to surprise me. I didn’t need to lick my finger
after all.”

Cheeks
pinked as he feathered up my leg and stroked my entrance. His finger slipped
into wetness, and a groan rumbled in his chest. He pulled me closer and, like a
pendulum, I went—his to move where he wanted. Pressing his face into my chest, his
finger thrust inside, making my knees buckle. I swung slightly in the bindings.

His
hand left my hip, wrapping around my lower back, securing tightly. “Ah,
esclave
.
You continue to lie. Your body tells the truth.”

I
wanted to curse. I had no control, but he was a maestro and like an unwilling
instrument, I came to life.

“Q,
it seems you’ve started without us,” a masculine voice oozed. Followed by
another, “It looks as if he couldn’t restrain himself. Look at that delectable
morsel.”

Chagrin
painted my cheeks red. Four men stood, watching greedily as Q finger fucked me.
He stroked hard, quick, wrist rubbing against inner thighs as I tried to
squeeze my legs together to stop him. He wasn’t gentle, and I couldn’t focus on
his touch and the men at the same time.

Heavy
eyes closed on their own accord as Q hooked his finger, stimulating my g-spot.
I jumped as pressure inside built to a crescendo. Oh, God. I couldn’t come. Not
like this. Not with men watching, hearing, wanting.

As
my inner muscles clenched greedily around his finger, Q pulled away, leaving me
panting and red cheeked. I swayed in the restraints, scrambling on tiptoe not
to spin.

Q
backed away, facing me. As he walked, he brought his finger to his mouth and
sucked. Sucked the glistening wetness lingering there, sucked my taste, my very
essence.

I
wanted to weep.

My
body pulsed, throbbed, and I resisted the urge to scissor my thighs, to try and
find relief. I wouldn’t add to the smug look in his eyes. He knew I hurt, and
he’d leave me that way.
Fucking French bastard
.

Reaching
the four men, he shook their hands. They exchanged pleasantries in English,
never taking eyes off me. I became the centrepiece. The object to gawk over,
but not acknowledge.

“I
didn’t know you’d taken up the family business, Q,” one man said, rubbing his
greying moustache while eye-fucking me.

I
expected Q to laugh, to mingle with the men I thought were his mercurial
friends, but I jumped when he stabbed a finger in the man’s chest. “Don’t you
fucking say that. It’s completely different.”

The
man froze; a battle of testosterone took place between them, before he averted
his gaze, shrugging. “Whatever you say.”

Another
man, this one in expensive jeans and black shirt, looked about Q’s age. His
face reminded me of a 1920’s movie star. Hair swept back and oiled, skin so
smooth it looked like porcelain. “Q… ” he started, gawking at me with fear in
his eyes.

Fear?
My terror ratcheted up a notch. Why did he fear me? My mind ran wild with
nightmares of what Q would do—hurt me, make me wish I were dead.

Q
rolled his neck, slinging an arm over the man’s shoulders. They walked away
from the other men, Q talking urgently in his ear. I couldn’t hear a word, but
Q kept flicking hard-edged glances at me, while 1920’s man nodded as if Q had a
valid argument. Finally, fear disappeared from his eyes, regarding me with keen
interest.

Q
jerked his head once in acknowledgement as the man patted him on the back; he
returned to deal with the other guests.

1920’s
Guy watched Q go, before stepping closer.

My
breaths came faster as he stopped below, looking up with sapphire eyes. With a
steady hand, he touched my thigh, adding pressure so I wobbled in the cuffs.
“So, you’re the one to finally break him.”

He
walked around, running fingers along my ass and other thigh as he did a full
circle. When he stood in front again, he reached for a nipple and tugged.

I
twitched, lashing out with a foot. I swung precariously as the man laughed. He
grabbed my waist, helping me balance on my toes again. I frowned. What the hell
was going on?

1920’s
Man cocked his head, nodding. “I can see why.” With the cryptic comment, he
strode back to the group.

Ten
minutes passed as egotistical words filled the tomb. Every syllable shimmered
over my flesh, especially Q’s deep tone. I dreaded the future.

How
could I stop my body reacting to his voice and smell? Two senses he owned… leaving
me with four: sight, touch, taste, instinct. One thing I swore, he’d never own
my instincts—never own something so powerful.

Suzette,
along with two other maids in frilly black and white uniforms, entered the room
and placed platters of scrumptious looking food on the side board. Most of it was
finger food—crackers with salmon and crème fraîche, stuffed olives, prawns wrapped
in prosciutto, and a fondant fountain with a waterfall of silky chocolate.

My
stomach panged, looking at the sweet delicacies to dip in the chocolate:
pineapple, strawberries, marshmallows, the list went on. I hadn’t had anything
sugary since I arrived at Q’s tortuous mansion. Suzette wouldn’t let me.

The
staff ate bland, and frankly, rather depressing food, considering we were in
the heart of a country that prided itself on cheeses, breads, and wine.  

The
men stopped talking and helped themselves to the buffet. Once they’d filled plates,
they sat in one of the crimson booths by my feet.

Q
eased into the booth, unbuttoning his silver blazer to sit comfortably. Full
lips opened to plop a stuffed olive into his mouth. He chewed—the motion of his
jaw and the muscles in his neck caused my stomach to clench.

I
looked away, inspecting the men. One had a big nose and shaggy black hair. His
suit didn’t fit well and a dark stain marked a lapel. Compared to Q, he looked
as if he came from the streets for a free dinner and a show. How did Q know
him? Even with his dark erotic desires, he was leagues above these men.

The
other man never took his eyes off me. His gaze was a dagger, puncturing, making
me ooze with fear. He was big. A foot taller than Q—about the size of a professional
basketball player and just as wide. His buzzed cut blondish hair, showed pink
scalp, and a nasty scar behind his right ear.

He
didn’t wear a suit. Instead, he favoured a white tacky jumpsuit, with the
number nineteen on the shoulders and back. Everything about him didn’t make
sense. He didn’t fit in Q’s world. In fact, the only one who did was 1920’s Man.
Something linked him and Q: friendship.

While
the men ate, my hands turned icy cold as blood stopped pumping so high up my
arms. Wrists chaffed in the leather, and my barcode tattoo itched like crazy. I
tried to tilt my head, to stand on the very tips of my toes to give my
shoulders a break, but I couldn’t get purchase. I moaned with overwhelming
discomfort.

Q
didn’t look at me once. He kept his attention on Mr. Big Nose and munched his
way through the small plate of food.

That
left me strangely alone with the man in the white jumpsuit. He devoured the
plate of hor d’oeuvres and asked Q in English, “You like our gift. Yes?” He
cocked his head, dragging horrible eyeballs up and down my golden wrapped body.

My
ears pricked. His accent was Russian, not French. My mind kicked into gear
trying to work it all out.

Q
stopped eating, and dabbed his mouth with a napkin. His motions so smooth and
controlled compared to Russian Lumberjack. Q’s eyes smouldered with barely
restrained tolerance. “
Oui.
Very satisfactory.” He threw a
fleeting glance at me, before adding, “Where did you buy her from?”

The
Russian puffed his chest, glowing with pride. Why did he care if Q found me
satisfactory? He bought me as a bribe to make Q do something. But what?

“I
won’t share my contact’s name. But I requested a white girl. I know you have
preferences.”