Tears of Tess (37 page)

My
body warmed, even as my mind told me to be careful.

He
grunted, swaying toward the mattress again, almost tumbling on top.

Hell,
my master was inebriated. I knew he shouldn’t drink with his migraine. His
shoulders rolled, rather than straight and proud, eyes glazed and watery.
Don’t
tell me he’s been drinking with the police all this time?

I
sat up, pushing covers off and climbing out of bed.

Q
blinked, shaking his head. He tripped, grabbing hold of a bedpost. I approached
him warily, with hands up in surrender and heart rabbiting. “Q… get into bed,
before you fall over.”

He
giggled. Literally giggled like a little girl. “Trying to t—take advantage in m—my
intoxicated state,
esclave?
” French accent thickened, slurred. I had
trouble understanding.

I
stepped closer, my palate catching the smell of booze. He scooted back and swayed
like a human tower of Piza. For God’s sake, how much did he drink?

I
darted forward and caught him, propping him up with a shoulder. The alcoholic
whiff tingled my senses. I swear I grew high off the fumes. Or was it his hot,
hard, sinful body pressed against mine? Or the deep musky scent of aftershave
and sandalwood?

My
stomach twisted as Q leaned heavily, turning his head to sniff my hair. He sighed.
“Smell so good. So fucking good. Like rain… no, no like frost. Sharp and fresh
and icy and cold and…and painful.” He closed his eyes, voice trailing into a
whisper. “You love c—causing pain.”

My
heart stopped.
I
hurt
him
? It was the other way around.
Completely. I never suffered so much since he owned me.

Eyes
flashed to mine, swirling with liquor and lingering headache. “That’s what you
are. Painful.” He thumped his chest. “Painful to me.” Closing his eyes again,
he frowned and swallowed.

Unable
to address the swirling mess of feelings inside, I pushed him toward the bed. “Sit
before you fall.” Breathing hard, I helped lower him till he lay down.

He
moaned, clutching my forearm when I moved away. His grip was a death trap, and
I had no choice but to sit by his side, letting him wrap strong, heated fingers
around my barcoded wrist.

Inching
closer, I hesitantly ran fingers through his short hair, relishing once again
in being able to touch him. I thought I wouldn’t see him again—be alone with
him again. The fact he wouldn’t remember visiting me in the morning didn’t
matter. He was here. For now. In this window of time, before the sun rose—he was
all mine.  

He
quieted, purring under my gentle touch. Sadness fell as I realized he was about
to pass out. So much for having him to myself. He came to hog my bed and left
me out in the cold.

His
breathing settled, low and even; I pulled away. He was asleep. The moment I
moved, fingers tightened on my wrist. “Snow. Snow. You’re named after winter…
my favourite season.”

I
froze. He spoke with no holds barred. Voice clearer, but still loose with booze.
“Why do you like winter?” I whispered, so afraid he would comatose before answering.

“The
season where everything dies, but is reborn better than ever.” His eyes flared,
and wedged himself upright on elbows, wincing. “That’s what I do, you know. I’m
winter.”

I
had no clue what he meant, but stayed as quiet as possible
. Please, keep
talking.

A
strange light filled his pale eyes. “Fifty-seven,” he mumbled.

Heartbeats
raced. Somehow, I knew Q was about to open up. He dropped his guard, allowing
me to glimpse inside. I launched into interrogation mode. Trying hard not to
look too interested, I linked fingers with his, stroking ever so gently. “Fifty-seven
what, master?”

His
eyes closed and he moaned, swaying toward my touch. Then his lips twitched and
he jerked away. “Not master. Fucking hate that word.” Jaw clenched, and he
waged a war inside. Smouldering jade eyes entrapped and I couldn’t move.

Drunken
glaze stole him again; he sighed with the weight of the world. “Not true. Love
that word when I’m
your
master. I love hurting you, fucking you, playing
mind games with you. It makes me just like him.”

Q
curled a fist, and I yelped as he punched himself hard in the chest. “I’m sick.
Nothing but evil lives inside.” He grabbed me, dragging me close, almost pressing
his nose against mine. “You came along, and made me accept the darkness.”

I
didn’t know what he meant. I didn’t like the rage and strange glint in his
eyes. I felt lost and breakable. Swallowing, I changed the subject. “Why
fifty-seven? What does the number represent?”

Q
chuckled darkly. “Girls, of course. Fifty-seven little birds I froze in my
winter frost and helped thaw.”

Girls?
He owned and lived with fifty-seven girls before me? Sick jealously rolled, and
I froze.
What the fuck does that mean?
My brain hurt. Q’s drunken
metaphors didn’t make sense. No one could have fifty-seven women. It was
monstrous.

I
wanted to slap him. “You’ve owned fifty-seven girls?”

He
nodded, as if it made perfect sense. “Fifty-seven.” A finger connected between
my breasts, marking, branding. “You’re fifty eight.” His eyes dropped to my
chest and he cupped my flesh fiercely. “Number fifty-eight, who ruined my
life.”

I
whacked his hand away. “
I
ruined
your
life?” Fierce rage
consumed, mixing with jealously, drowning in jittery angst. My heart refused to
stop beating a billion flurries a minute. “You sleep with fifty-seven slaves
and have the audacity to question how many men I’ve been with? You’re a fucking
hypocrite.” I shot off the bed, tangling fingers in my hair, inflicting pain to
stop the bone-crushing agony of the truth. “You have no idea how fucked up
you’ve made me.”

Q
flung his long legs off the bed, standing. He promptly sat heavily, holding his
head. “Stop screeching,
esclave
. Come here.” He kept his head bowed, but
a hand outstretched, fully expecting me to obey. Not this time. I’d reached my
limit.

I
stalked back and slapped him. “I was right to call the police. You’re a
bastard.”

Oxygen
cracked with tension as Q looked through heavy lids. His teeth ground and the
sloppy drunk morphed into angry drunk. In a flash, Q whipped upright, picked me
up and threw me on the bed. I yelped as he collapsed on top, pinning me to the
mattress.

He
growled, “I’m a bastard? Isn’t that a requirement to being a master? To be
cruel and unapproachable? ” He traced my ear with a tongue, lacing me in brandy.
“I love treating you like dirt. It gets me fucking hard.” Q ground his raging
hot cock against my flimsy night shorts. “Can you feel that,
esclave
? See
what you do to me by fighting? By defying me? I’m a walking hard on needing to
punish you, fuck you, remind you that your place is beneath me to take my come
and welcome my palm.”

He
thrust again, a feral shadow on his face. “Every moment with you in my home is
delicious fucking torture. Every time I see you, I want to make your skin flush
with pain, your breath ragged from pleasure. I want to do everything that I
shouldn’t want to do. Do you get it? You cause immeasurable pain as you bring
alive the sickness in me.”

My
mind whirled with every word; I tried to push him off. My arms were weak and
trembly, body wet and needy. The blackness in his tone warmed, thrilled, repulsed,
terrified.
Not one sense, but everything, sprang to hyperawareness. I
wanted to scratch his eyes out—to draw more anger from him for some ludicrous
reason.  

My
core rippled, needing to be taken violently, even as my mind rebelled against the
thought of him being with so many others. “Get the fuck off me.”

His
answer was to kiss me. His tongue darted past my lips, thrusting, claiming with
every angry stroke. I wriggled, but it was no use. While he smothered me with
taste, he pinned my wrists above my head, breathing hard. Biting my lower lip,
he pulled away. “Why didn’t you want me to know your name?”

The
sudden change from anger to inquisition left me reeling. I pursed my lips,
glaring.

Temper
blazed on his face, and he kissed me so hard, I cried out with the pain. Q took
advantage of my open mouth, plunging his tongue deep, almost choking with ferocity.
When he finally let me breathe, he bit my neck and shook his head like a lion
with prey. My skin stung then screamed as teeth punctured my skin.

“Fuck!”
I bucked; he laughed.

His
tongue lapped the wound, saliva stinging with liquor.

I
squeezed my eyes and just lay there. “Why are you being so cruel?”

Tears
pressed and my topsy-turvy emotions flicked from lust to lusty hate. “I wish
the police arrested you.” I could never make up my mind which feeling was true
when it came to Q. One moment, I thought I might be able to give him what he
needed, be his slave if I got something more in return, other times, I wanted
him dead.

He
reared back, looking with temper and remorse. My heart stuttered, then raced
erratically. He was full of personalities tonight; I couldn’t keep up.

Q
muttered, “
Tu ne peut pas être la mienne, mais je suis en train de devenir
le vôtre.”

My
stomach twisted, filling with frothy bubbles. Our eyes locked and I couldn’t
look away. Q brushed lips against mine ever so sweetly, repeating in English, forcing
me to swallow the words. “You may not be mine, but I’m fast becoming yours.”

Time
froze.

His
confession tied me up, stole my mind. His drunken state let me see the depth of
his feelings. Time began anew, sparkling with new possibilities. My body was no
longer mine, it belonged to Q. Everything belonged to Q.

“Goddammit,
you don’t play fair,” I whispered, brushing away a tear that had the audacity
to leak.

Q
rolled, propping himself on his elbow. One finger traced my nipple through the
thin t-shirt. His deep French accent rumbled, “
Esclave
… I can’t…. I won’t…”
he slurred.

My
hand reached on its own accord to cup his cheek. Clammy skin burned beneath my
fingertips. He leaned into me as if I was a lifeline.

I
murmured, “What do you need, master?” My body knew. It had known all along. Q
fought more battles than I did, and after his crazy drunk rantings, I began to
understand just how deep he went. Just how much he suffered. “Tell me. Anything
you want.”

“I
killed him. I killed him for doing things to girls I desperately want to do to
you.” He sat on his knees, hazy with alcohol, but still focused, aware.

He
sucked in a breath. “Let me have one night where I can do anything I want.
Submit to me completely, no more arguing, fighting. Become a perfect slave.” He
lowered his voice, throbbing with intensity. “For me.”

In
his request, I saw black need—need so extreme it eclipsed my lust making it
seem like a crush compared to a violent love affair.

“You’re
not just a possession,
esclave
. I could force you to do this, but I
won’t.” He rubbed an unsteady thumb along my bottom lip. “I’m giving you a
choice.”

The
connection between us strengthened, lengthened. By giving me the choice, he
showed he cared as much as he may want to destroy.  

The
rest of the world ceased to exist. The police didn’t matter. Brax didn’t matter.

Q
and I become our entire galaxy, and I revelled in the gift I was about to give
him. The gift I was about to give myself.

I
dropped off the bed and fell to my knees. Bowing, I splayed my legs like every
image I’d seen of a submissive before her master. I bowed further; hair curtained
my face as I whispered, “
Je suis à toi
. Fuck me, master, act out your fantasies.
Hurt me. Debase me. Make me yours.” Every word I uttered turned on a power
inside unlike any other. The fact I willingly gave myself to him, to do
whatever he wanted, unlocked new dimensions I’d been too chicken-shit to visit.
I needed this as much as he did.

Q
unfolded himself from the bed, positioning himself in front of me. His breathing
grew harsh and thick, chest pumping with exertion. He stroked my hair before
fisting it, jerking my eyes to meet his. Everything about him smouldered: eyes,
mouth, body. I could’ve come just with the pheromones he shot into the air.

“You’ve
made your choice. You can’t take it back. I take you up on your offer,
esclave
.”
He pulled me upright by my hair. My scalp screamed, and I winced, holding onto
his hands.

When
I stood, he said, “You can scream. You can cry. But I give you my promise I’ll stop
if you say the safe word.”

“What’s
the safe word?” I didn’t need to ask. I smiled crookedly.  

Together,
we murmured, “Sparrow.”

With
another look, singeing my soul, we signed our bargain. Q swelled with dominance
and I burned with power of my own. A power I didn’t have a name for—power over
Q.

“You’re
mine tonight.” Q kissed my cheek.