You Are Mine (27 page)

He was also so angry with her he didn't know what to do. He could feel it inside him roaring up like a fire, threatening to burn everything in its path.

Even her.

Especially her.

He lifted his head, looked down at her.

She'd sagged back against the chair, her hair a pale, tangled silver mess. Beneath the edges of her blindfold, her cheeks were wet with tears and her mouth was open. A deep flush stained her skin, going all the way down her neck and over those lovely, perfectly round little breasts, extending even down over her stomach.

How often had he fantasized about her like this? Bound and begging. Wet for him. Wanting him. His in every single way.

Oh, he'd known that when it happened, when she finally gave herself over to him, it would be good. That it would be intense, a pleasure he'd savor for years to come.

He just hadn't thought she would break him. That when he pushed inside her, the tight, wet heat of her body would undermine his precious control quite so badly. Making him want to claim her for himself. Keep her for as long as he could. Even forever.

He'd never had that reaction to any woman before. All those beautiful subs he'd disciplined and given pleasure to. All those lovely women who'd begged him to be their Master, he'd never even felt the slightest inclination toward keeping.

But Eva was different. She always had been.

And now he was furious with her. For being different. For making him wait so bloody long. For being so strong. For being so much more than every fantasy of her he'd ever had …

Anger was a bad thing for a Dom. A bad thing for him.

Zac pulled out of her, making her gasp a little, which he ignored. Then he got off the chair and turned around, moving to deal with the condom and zip himself back up again.

His hands shook.

Get. Yourself. The. Fuck. Together.

Christ, he
had
to. He couldn't manage the rest of this night if he wasn't in perfect control of himself.

He'd intended to play with her for much longer before he fucked her, yet he hadn't been able to stop himself from climbing into that chair and taking her like a goddamn beast.

It was just … the taste of her had been in his mouth, the feel of her pussy around his fingers, and he'd felt the weight of every second of those seven years descend on him like a boulder.

With her legs tied and spread and her arms above her head, she'd been a gift he hadn't been able to resist.

He turned back to the chair where she sat, still trembling, still panting, and moved automatically behind it to release her wrists from the hook in the back of the chair. Then, keeping hold of her wrists, he came around to the front of the chair again and drew them down to untie the length of silk he'd wrapped around them.

Concentrating on the small, mundane movements and not the furnace burning furiously away in his gut helped get the anger back under control.

Her fingers were cold so he chafed the skin gently, rubbing back feeling into them. When they were warmer, he laid them down on the arms of the chair and moved to untie her ankles. The silk ropes he'd used had left marks on her pale skin.

A brand of your ownership.

He ignored both the thought and the hot burst of desire that followed it, focusing instead on unhooking her legs from the arms of the chair and laying them back on the seat, chafing her ankles too to make sure the blood was flowing properly. She shivered as he did so, her breathing harsh.

He rose then bent, gathering her into his arms. Her bare skin burned through the cotton of his business shirt, the musky sweet scent of her wrapping around him. Making his hunger rise, the intensity of it mirroring his anger.

She kept you at a distance all those years when you could have had this. Such a fucking waste of time.

His jaw tightened. He was a selfish prick. It hadn't been her fault, she'd been scarred by her experience.

She let it come to this though. And you helped her. You're to blame as much as she is.

Zac ignored the snide voice in his head, keeping an iron grip on his emotions as he carried Eva to the couch. He laid her down on it and covered her with the soft throw she often liked to wrap around herself whenever she visited.

Then he went over to the liquor cabinet where he'd left the plate of treats he'd organized earlier, pouring a glass of wine and taking it and the plate back to the table beside the couch.

Eva lay quiet under the throw. Her breathing had normalized and the shaking had stopped.

He sat down beside her, reaching out to pull her into his lap. She didn't protest, her body loose and relaxed, her head coming to rest against his chest as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

She was so slight in his arms. She really didn't eat enough.

“Are you okay?” He brushed her hair back over her shoulders. The blindfold was still on; he wasn't ready to take it off her yet. Without her sight, her other senses would be heightened and he hadn't finished awakening those just yet.

“Yeah.” Her voice had a ragged, hoarse edge to it, probably from the screams he'd brought from her. Even just hearing it made his cock start to get hard again. All those cries, ragged gasps, sobs, wild, high screams …

Zac shifted her a little so he could reach the plate at the side of the couch. He picked up an olive from the selection of food he'd laid out. “Open your mouth.”

She let out a long breath but did as she was told.

He eased the olive into her mouth, watching her face as her lips closed around it. She grimaced then muttered, “What the hell is that?”

“An olive.”

She chewed, pulling a face. “I don't like olives.”

“Taste it properly, Eva.”

“I am. It's … salty.” She swallowed, her mouth twisting. “Why are you feeding me olives?”

“Because I've seen inside your fridge. All you eat are TV dinners.” It had been one among many depressing discoveries when he'd used his key to come and wake her up that morning. He'd gone to try and find some food for her before he'd woken her, but there had been nothing in the freezer but ready-made meals. Bland and tasteless. Food for fuel, not for pleasure.

“I like TV dinners.”

He studied her. “That's all they fed you wasn't it?” He didn't elaborate, but then he didn't need to. She knew exactly who “they” meant.

She didn't reply for a long moment, her cheek resting against his chest. “Yes,” she answered finally. “That and takeout sometimes. I didn't know how to cook and they didn't want me using a stove or anything. So they bought TV dinners I could heat up myself in the microwave.” She paused then added quietly. “I'd never had so much food in all my life.”

Of course. She must have gone hungry when she'd been on the streets.

Ah, but this was a line of conversation he didn't want to pursue because every aspect of it made the anger inside him burn hotter. The life she'd led before she'd been captured made him want to hurt someone. Because he knew what it was like to be afraid. To go hungry. To wish someone—anyone—gave a shit about you.

That fucking refrigerator and its pathetic contents had only reminded him of the one in his parent's house back when he was growing up. A big, white thing that should have been full of food but wasn't. Only sour milk and bottles and bottles of high-end French champagne.

Luckily he'd had a nanny who had fed him out of her own purse. Eva hadn't even had that.

He picked up the next offering. A smooth, creamy piece of camembert.

“What's wrong?” Her hand was resting against his chest, the heat of her palm like a small ray of sunlight, her blindfolded face turned up toward him.

A strange shock went through him that she'd noticed. “Nothing's wrong.”

“Yes, there is. I can feel it. You're all tense.”

For a second it felt like there was a hot wire twisting inside him. A painful, tight, burning feeling, which only made him angrier. She shouldn't have been able to read him so easily, especially not with that blindfold over her eyes, yet she had.

You really think after seven years she wouldn't know you like you know her?

No. She couldn't know him like he knew her. She hadn't made him her study. He wouldn't have let her even if she had. No chinks in his armor were allowed.

“Open your mouth again,” he ordered, trying to keep his tone even.

She'd gone still, like a cat sensing the movement of a bird. “Zac?”

Except he wasn't a fucking bird. And he'd already warned her once.

He twisted his fingers hard in her hair and pulled her head back across his chest, exposing her long white throat. A soft, outrush of breath escaped her. Lowering his head, he murmured, “I very much hope you're not going to make me repeat myself.”

She shivered against him and he could see the goose bumps rise all over her skin, down over her breasts, her nipples hardening into little pale pink points. “I'll eat what you give me,” she said hoarsely. “But only if you tell me what's wrong.”

The hot wire feeling twisted again. “Since when do you get to make demands?”

“Since you gave me a safeword that can end this right now.”

Holy fucking Christ. He gripped her hair harder. “What did I say about respect?”

Her jaw had hardened, that stubborn determination he knew all too well in every line of it. “I do respect it. But you need to respect my right to ask you a goddamn question. Especially when you apparently have no qualms about forcing answers out of me.”

God, she had guts. He didn't like she'd used the safeword to get what she wanted, but then she wasn't a sub he'd picked up for the night. He knew her. And whether he liked it or not, she knew him.

Give her what she wants. What does it matter? The past can't hurt you anymore.

Not that it ever had.

“Open,” he repeated.

This time she did, letting him put the piece of cheese in her mouth. And he watched her while she ate it. No grimaces this time, and she made a humming sound in the back of her throat as she swallowed. “That was … different. Nice, I think. Cheese?”

“Camembert.”

“Camembert,” she echoed, mimicking his accent. “You're such a fucking aristocrat. Now tell me what was bugging you, otherwise this is over.”

He could make it over right now too if he wanted. Crush her stubborn mouth with his, run his hands all over her body, feed her burgeoning sensuality, make her forget any question she wanted to ask. Make her forget she even wanted to ask it in the first place.

He was a selfish prick. A mercenary. A monster. And he'd been protecting himself too long. She didn't need to know anything about him, she really didn't.

Yet he found himself speaking all the same. “I was thinking your fridge looked like mine. When I was a child.”

Her head shifted against his arm and he could almost feel the pressure of her gaze through her blindfold. “Oh? You had a shitty childhood too?”

“I
was
a fucking aristocrat. At least my parents were. An obscure branch related to the royal family. The title was apparently gambled away by one of my ancestors a couple of hundred years ago, but the money still remained. At least it did until my parents spent it all on heroin.”

Pale and fragile and perfect in his arms, she said nothing. So he went on. “They didn't bother much with food, though they had expensive tastes in champagne. But I had a nanny who made sure I ate.” He flexed his fingers in her hair, momentarily distracted by the feel of the silky strands against his skin. “So you see, I appreciate good food when I have it. And so should you.”

“That's awful,” she said quietly. “That's really awful. Junkies suck.”

“It wasn't particularly pleasant, no, and yes, they do.”

“What happened to you?”

He didn't want questions. Didn't want to talk about himself. It was a protective mechanism that had stood him in good stead for years and he couldn't see any reason to change now.

Hasn't she earned it?

Zac looked down into her face turned toward him, soft mouth and sharp chin. He couldn't see her eyes but he knew they'd be full of challenge. Goading him.

Typical Eva.

Then again, he was strong enough in his authority to withstand a few pushes from one small, determined young woman.

He leaned over the plate again, picked up another treat. “Open your mouth.”

She obeyed without protest this time.

Yes. She'd earned it.

He put it in her mouth, feeling her body tense in surprise.

“Oh,” she murmured. “Chocolate.”

“Excellent ninety-percent cocoa solids dark chocolate. Bittersweet. Just like you.”

She chewed. “This is better than Hershey's.”

“Of course it's better than bloody Hershey's.” He eased his grip in her hair, letting the silky strands sift through his fingers instead. “So what happened to me? I was brought up by a series of nannies. Some took an interest in me, some didn't. And when they weren't there, I used to go to the local cinema and watch movies.” He twisted a lock of pale hair around one finger, examining it. “Surprising what values old movies can teach you. They certainly taught me more than my parents ever did about being a decent human being. Anyway, I managed to survive their parenting, and the first chance I got, I left. I joined the army, the SAS, and did rather well.” He focused on the strand of hair looped around his finger, rubbed it gently with his thumb. “Then I came across an officer assaulting a woman, a new cadet.” So much rage, a red cloud over his vision. He'd always hated people who took advantage of those weaker than themselves, like the dealers who used to visit his parents, preying on their addiction. He'd lost his head, overwhelmed by the emotion. “I pulled him off her. He tried to attack me, so I hit back and he hit the ground. Fractured his skull. He died in the hospital two days later.”