The Villain

by Shen, L. J.

  “Nine thirty.”

  Jesus Christ and his holy crew.

  “Do you always work this late?”

  He undid his tie with one hand, shrugging off his coat at the same time.

  “My social calendar is—by choice—wide open. As your legs should be every night when I come back home, by the way. It is not my job to undress you to candlelight and Frank Sinatra.”

  “I prefer Sam Cooke and incense.”

  “I don’t care what you prefer.”

  “Rectify that,” I said dryly. “Today. Or live a life of celibacy. I’m not your blowup doll. If you want me to fulfill my marital duties, you better believe you are going to fulfill yours. You will never, ever touch my things without my permission again, move me around like I’m a chess piece, or make a decision about our lives without consulting me first. Additionally, you will be home every evening not a minute after seven, so we can have a meal together before we have sex. Like a normal couple.”

  “What part of our relationship gave you the illusion of a normal couple, the fact I bought your ass like you were a discounted bread maker on Black Friday, or had you sign a thirty-seven-page contract, an NDA, and a waiver before putting a ring on your finger?” He tossed his tie and coat on an upholstered recliner in the corner of the room.

  I ignored his words. The scar tissue Andrew had wrapped around this man made it hard to pierce through and touch his core.

  Tough, but not impossible, I hoped.

  I wasn’t a quitter, and I sure as hell wasn’t going to quit on a man who I was pretty sure had been let down by everyone else in his life.

  “Furthermore,” I drawled in my teacher tone, ignoring his words, “during dinner, we’ll perform the taxing task of small talk.”

  I could swear my husband actually paled. He looked like he was going to gag. I continued, undeterred.

  “You’ll tell me about your day, and I’ll do the same. Then, and only then, will we make love.”

  His eyes nearly popped out of their sockets at the mention of the L-word.

  “The answer is no.”

  “Fine. Let’s go through the whole routine where I refuse you a few weeks in a row, and you march back to your bed unsatisfied, then go to the office, see Hunter waving around 3D ultrasound pictures of his future child, then do it my way.” I smiled sunnily. He opened his mouth, about to say something snarky, but he knew I was right.

  He needed an heir.

  I needed more time to prove to him we could be more.

  “Careful, Flower Girl.” He wrapped his cold, strong fingers around my jaw, drawing me close to his lips with a snarl. “Run with scissors and you’ll get hurt.”

  “I’ve been cut deep before.”

  “Whatever you’re trying to do won’t work.”

  “Humor me, then.”

  “Humor me first.” He tugged at my leg, one hand still on my neck, and hoisted me into his lap. I straddled him, wrapping my arms around his shoulders. My core landed straight on his erection, and when I looked down, I saw it nestled on the side of his leg. Swollen, hard, almost too much to handle.

  His fingers trailed the delicate spots on my throat.

  “I can give you anything your heart desires, Persephone. Jewelry, lavish vacations, every Hermès bag ever produced.” He brushed a lock of hair from my cheek, his voice so menacing it almost sounded demonic. “But I can’t give you love. Do not ask me for something I am incapable of delivering.”

  I pressed my cheek to his palm, kissing it softly, refusing to let his words sink in.

  “My heart is a terrible place. Nothing ever grows there.”

  “Stop.” I shut him up with a kiss.

  Maybe it was because he’d moved me here, into his kingdom. Dragged me to the underworld. Because he wanted to prove to himself that my being here meant nothing.

  “Ever step on artificial grass, Flower Girl?” he murmured into my lips.

  “Yes,” I growled, kissing him deeper.

  “It’s shinier than regular grass but feels awful.”

  You don’t feel awful to me.

  His lips demanded my surrender. I yielded, riding his muscled thigh, all concerns for my still-sore butt flying out the window. He broke the kiss, his forehead dropping to mine.

  “I’m going to ruin every good thing about you.”

  “I’d like to see you try.”

  I produced what I’d found earlier that evening on my treasure hunt in his room. I’d rummaged through his drawers, using every piece of information I could find to piece together the puzzle of who he was. My husband left much to be desired. He kept his room blank and impersonal.

  Having seen his closet, I’d had no doubt Cillian was incapable of anything but an arranged marriage. His clothes were organized not only by season, but also by color, brand, and cut. He wasn’t exactly a fan of surprises.

  Kill’s eyes narrowed at the white ribbon I pulled out of my bra. It nestled between my breasts while I was asleep.

  “Where did you find this?”

  “Your cigar box.”

  “You were going through my things.”

  “Your talent at deduction is staggering.” I curved an eyebrow, willing my heart to stop somersaulting like a reckless kid in the sun. “You took my things out of my apartment without consulting me. Consider it me getting even. Why did you keep the fastening band?”

  “Tradition.”

  “Please.” I snorted. “You’re not the sentimental type.”

  He pushed off the bed, seizing the ribbon from between my fingers.

  “Good point. It’s not too late to throw it out.”

  He galloped to the bathroom, presumably to the trash can.

  “Shame. You were so good at tying us with it,” I purred from his bed.

  He stopped midway, turning around, staring at me in annoyance.

  At that moment, all my energy was channeled into not having an orgasm based on that exchange alone. It was fitting that Cillian couldn’t feel anything and I was a puddle of feels. I was angry, depraved, lustful, and desperate. Every sense was heightened, every cell in my body raw with carnal hunger.

  “You noticed.” A devilish smirk curved on his face.

  I noticed everything about this man, so this wasn’t exactly breaking news.

  “Why are you doing that?” I wet my lips.

  “Doing what?” His dark eyebrows furrowed in mock innocence.

  “Looking at me like I’m your next meal.”

  “Because you are,” he deadpanned. “That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”

  Something sizzled between us. I couldn’t look away from him.

  He advanced toward me. I scooted to the center of the bed. Kill flipped me over on my stomach and pinned me to the mattress. Pressing his knee between my thighs to pry them open while my butt was in the air, he grabbed my wrists and locked them behind my back. The satin of the ribbon fluttered around my wrists, making me shiver. He wrapped the ends of the ribbon, reversing the direction to secure me in place. He did it quickly and expertly, cinching and completing a second loop to ensure I couldn’t move my arms.

  “So this is how you knew how to tie us both with one hand,” I panted.

  “It’s called a hogtie.” He gave his work of art a tug. “Lift your feet up.”

  Next, he tied me by the legs, connecting the ribbon between my wrists and ankles. Like a little piggy about to get barbecued in a fire. I laughed breathlessly, partly because I was aroused and partly because there was something thrilling about giving up control. The bed dipped as Cillian leaned back, examining his work behind me. I couldn’t see his expression, which somehow made things ever hotter.

  “Should’ve undressed me first,” I muttered into the linen, frustrated.

  I wanted out of my clothes so bad they burned against my skin.

  My desire scared me. It was foreign, overwhelming; I enjoyed sex with Paxton, but it was also something I could go without. The famished, depraved notion that came with being
with Kill was new and frightening.

  “Do you trust me, Persephone?”

  His voice sounded so far away, he might as well have been on another planet.

  “Yes.”

  The speed and conviction in my answer startled me. I didn’t know why I trusted him, or even if I should. I just knew I did. That he would never hurt me. That he would stop if things went too far for my taste.

  He got up from the bed and walked to a small desk facing one of his windows. I craned my neck to watch him from my position, tied on his bed, still in my conservative teacher dress. He opened a drawer and returned with a letter opener. My entire body blossomed with goose bumps.

  “Sure about that, Flower Girl?” He ran the edge of the letter opener over my calf, so gently and teasingly I wanted to push myself into it.

  “I’m not scared.” I trained my voice to sound as bland as his.

  I was carefully bowed like a gift—his gift—and I wanted him to unwrap and ravish me.

  “Why?” He sounded curious. Almost…hopeful?

  No. It couldn’t be.

  Hope was an emotion, and Kill didn’t do those.

  “Because I know you would never hurt me.”

  “That’s an optimistic assumption to make.”

  “You saved my life three times, and counting,” I said. “That’s optimistic. I’m realistic.”

  The next part happened so fast my head spun. One minute, I was in my dress, and the next, it was ripped from my body by the letter opener in one clean movement. Kill grabbed the fabric so it didn’t cling to my skin and ran the blade through it, all the way down my butt. The dress pooled beneath me while my husband got rid of my panties, clipping them from each side, boomeranging the letter opener back to his nightstand.

  I wormed, pushing my ass upward, toward him. It was so brazen that I didn’t recognize myself in the act. I wasn’t that girl. At least I didn’t think I was. But I guessed a dormant part of me was wild all along. I simply never let myself explore it.

  Cillian paused. For a moment, everything was so quiet, I half-suspected he wasn’t in the room anymore. Maybe it was a part of the game. The waiting. The suspense. The anticipation.

  “Your ass,” he said finally, pulling away from me. “It’s…”

  Red as hell. I know. I peed squatting in the air all day.

  “Oh, that.” I laughed it off. “My skin is super sensitive. Welsh heritage, and all.”

  “I did that to you,” he said gruffly.

  “It’s nothing,” I protested. And it was. Yes, he spanked me last night, but it wasn’t something I hadn’t heard about from friends or seen on HBO shows. Heck, I’d been spanked worse by my own mother growing up. And it wasn’t like I hadn’t wiggled my butt in his direction, asking for more.

  His hand went to the bondage, and I felt him unfastening it, letting me loose.

  “Don’t you dare.” I used my firm teacher voice. “Mr. Fitzpatrick, you did not ask for permission to untie me. You will not do so until I explicitly request it. Am I clear?”

  The air was scorched with sex, bloated with endorphins.

  “I don’t normally see them the morning after,” he admitted tersely. “I’ve never stopped to wonder what it looks—”

  “Don’t tell me about your whores while we’re in bed!”

  I was screaming at this point. I was so deep in teacher mode that he was lucky I didn’t send him to time-out. He said nothing, and I was annoyed I couldn’t see what was on his face. “Actually, don’t tell me about them out of it, either.”

  “There are no whores anymore,” he barked back. “You made sure of that.”

  “Good.” I felt supremely authoritative for someone who was tied naked on a bed. “I hope your mistresses go bankrupt now that you are not there to pay them, and get a real job to support themselves.”

  “You’re insane,” he offered, his voice as calm as ever.

  “Well, lucky for me, hubs, you’re not charting high on the sanity spectrum, either. Now do what you want to do to me. And make it worth my while.”

  Cillian pulled the knot between my wrists and ankles, one gentle hand on my butt cheek. He slipped two fingers between my folds. The sound of my wetness against them filled the room.

  I closed my eyes, hissing. “Yes.”

  Kill fingered me, the slurps of my want for him drowned by my moans. He curled his fingers when he was inside, hitting my G-spot.

  He was a generous lover, something he omitted from our conversation during our negotiations.

  He snuck his free hand to my lower belly, propping me up and supporting my body as his mouth joined the party, feasting on my dripping pussy from behind, his tongue lapping between my folds.

  Groans of pleasure and delight escaped both our mouths, and I mentally yelled at myself that it meant nothing. That this wasn’t intimacy. It was sex. Foreplay. Nothing but a means to an end for him.

  I dropped my head to the black satin pillows, breathing in his singular scent, a white-hot thrill zinging through my spine. The electric currents of an impending orgasm chased one another. I quaked, losing control, mumbling incoherent things into his pillows.

  The minute the climax hit me, he withdrew his tongue and fingers, ripped the bondage on my ankles off, and slammed into me in one go. I didn’t know if this was a trick, but it sure made my peak feel twice as violent as it rippled through me. His entire body pressed against my back, his heavy arousal sliding in and out of me from behind.

  I groaned, adjusting to his weight on me.

  Cillian went very still while he was inside me.

  “Tell me to stop.”

  “Go harder.” I pushed myself against him.

  He did.

  We were endless together. One searing entity without a beginning or an end.

  He brushed a curtain of hair plastered to the side of my neck, pressing his lips to it as he rode me hard and deep.

  “You please me, Persephone.”

  I sank my teeth in his skin, not even sure what I was biting. He let me.

  Allowed me to touch him, to mark him, to claim him.

  Progress.

  He came to his release, and I found mine again, in his words.

  Once he was done, he untied my wrists, kissed the top of my head, and left the room. His unspoken words were clear and cutting as blades—we were done.

  I slipped back to my room, feeling miserable and elated and confused and frustrated and defeated and victorious.

  His words echoed inside me like flashes of light through the dark.

  You please me, Persephone.

  His soul bled all over me tonight.

  Now I was expected to fall asleep smeared in his pain.

  Cillian and I fell into a routine after that night.

  He showed up for our daily dinners obediently, but made it a point to walk through the door three or four minutes after seven, even if it meant waiting in his Aston Martin, scowling at the front door like it was an ingrown hair he couldn’t get rid of.

  He defied me like an unruly child, waiting to see how his mother would respond to his pushing the limits. This was a man without limits. A tycoon who had spent his life demanding and receiving everything he’d ever desired, in quick fashion. He was raised in the arms of nannies, private boarding schools, and au pairs who had taught him Latin, table manners, and how to tie a tie four different ways.

  No one had taught him love.

  Patience.

  Compassion.

  How to live, laugh, and enjoy the sensation of raindrops on his skin.

  No one had shown him humanity.

  Maybe that was one of the reasons he was so fond of bondage. It allowed him to remain in control, even in a situation where letting go was required.

  Dinners at the Fitzpatrick household were, to put it mildly, a pain in the butt.

  I’d tried to spice them up, no pun intended. I’d invited Petar, Emmabelle, Hunter, Sailor, and Aisling to join us a few times each week, since the cook had made
enough food to feed the entire neighborhood. One time, I even took it upon myself to invite his parents.

  Cillian accepted his new reality with quiet resignation. He was clearly unhappy with the socialization I injected into his life, but he suffered through it, knowing our nights together were worth it.

  Not only did we have daily dinners together, but I made sure to fill them with stories about my day. Funny anecdotes about the kids I taught, and things they said and did in the classroom. Most of the time, he answered with monosyllabic groans. He volunteered next to nothing about his days at work and refused to address the Green Living lawsuit.

  I knew he wanted to ask me if I ever heard back from Andrew Arrowsmith about that job.

  The answer, by the way, was a big, fat, disappointing no.

  But I didn’t volunteer any information. Waited for him to ascend from his underworld kingdom and play with his little mortal wife. Take interest. Make conversation.

  Something compelled me to still send him pictures of lone clouds whenever I found them in the sky, even though he’d failed to respond. Maybe to remind him miracles did exist, and so did magic.

  We made love every night.

  Sometimes, it was depraved and rough, and sometimes, it was slow and taunting. It was always a wild exploration. A symphony of new notions and tastes and colors I’d never experienced before.

  Three weeks after I moved in, I got my period.

  I cried when I saw the first spot of blood on my panties. I wiped my tears, took a shower, threw the underwear in the laundry basket, and drank two glasses of water to calm myself down. It was my second period since I’d started sleeping with my husband.

  I wasn’t sure what hurt more—my wanting a baby so much and not getting my wish, or letting Cillian down, which I was undoubtedly going to do.

  “Aunt Flow is in town,” I announced during dinnertime. It was one of the rare occasions where it was just the two of us.

  “Better than Aunt Tilda, I suppose.” Kill didn’t look up from his plate.

  “Is this supposed to be funny?” I asked in a thin voice. He patted the corners of his lips with a napkin, still staring at his plate.

  “Thanks for letting me know. I’ll plan my evening accordingly.”