“Am I?” She looks away, staring off into the corner of the room. I follow her gaze. The wallpaper is a lovely, peacock-printed brocade but it's not interesting enough to hold her attention for long.
“Why won't you eat?” I ask, loosening my tie.
“Not hungry,” she whispers, leaning away from me. I yank my tie over my head and drop it on the bedside table.
“Too bad, ma petite,” I say as I lean toward her, placing my hands on the mattress. “You will eat.” She shakes her head, dropping her eyes to my hands. My left hand, specifically. My wedding ring catches the light, making itself known. Chuckling, I stand and work the gold band off of my finger. I drop it unceremoniously amongst the rest of my shit. She sighs lightly, relaxing back against the pillows like all it took all of her strength to talk. The door opens and the strawberry blond nurse steps just inside the room, a tray in her hands.
“Leave it and go,” I say. The nurse keeps her head down and places the tray on the table beside the chair. Then she scurries out again, closing the door. I stroll to the tray and peruse the contents. A bowl of beef broth. Steamed carrots. A rye roll. A cup of tea with honey. No wonder she doesn't want to eat. But she will.
When it comes to her body, she doesn't have a say.
She'll do what I tell her to do.
She'll learn that, eventually.
*****
Dorian Armstrong is here.
He's here, in the room with me now, as unbelievable as it may seem. His presence is so big, it takes up all of the space. His sudden appearance is almost hard to process, but if the events of the past few weeks have taught me anything, it's that the world hates me. Maybe this means I am really dead. Maybe being stuck in a room with Dorian Armstrong for the rest of my life is my own patented version of hell. I wonder how much time has passed since I've been here. Sitting in this stifling but opulent room and smelling my own stench, it feels like years. I watch him bring the tray of food towards the bed. I have no intentions of eating, but my stomach clenches painfully at the scent of the food.
Something about him is different, but I can't put my finger on it. He seems less stiff, if that's possible. Less cold. His posture is more relaxed and his body is less rigid. Even when he was molesting me at the museum, he held himself rigid, like he was afraid he was going to lose control. As he reaches the bed, I scoot away from him, even though my movements are slow and sluggish. I don't know exactly what drug cocktail those Slavic bitches have been giving me, but it's been making me dazed and out of sorts. The worst of the pain seems like a bad dream now but I wish my mind was clearer. I need clarity to deal with the devil with the ice-blue eyes.
“Where am I?” I repeat, feeling like there are marbles in my mouth. I know he's not going to answer me, but I ask him anyway.
“Sit up,” he says, setting the steaming bowl on the bedside table. The meaty scent of the broth draws my eyes to the bowl and my mouth waters. I work my teeth over my lower lip, forcing myself to look away.
“I want Jessica,” I say, trying to keep my voice from wavering. “I want to talk to her. Does she know where I am?”
“Sit up,” he repeats, as if I didn't say anything.
“I'm not hungry.” I stare up at him, forcing myself to meet his eyes.
“I can arrange for a feeding tube if you would prefer,” he says.
“Why are you doing this?” I whisper. A pang of white electric pain runs up my left leg and I clench my jaw and gasp. He glances sharply at me but I grit my teeth and bear it. I don't want to be drugged again. I don't want to go back to sleep, not now, anyway. “If I don't want to eat, I don't have to.”
“That's where you're wrong, Adrienne.” He sits on the bed, putting his back against the antique headboard and crossing his long legs in front of him. I pull the sheet higher up my chest, well aware that I stink and look like hell. The pain makes me prickly and jumpy, but he's relaxed and calm and clean. He smells just as tempting as the food, maybe more. He pats his lap. “Come here,” he commands lightly. I press my fist to my growling stomach. I want him to go away. The smell of him mingled with the smell of the food is too much.
Without warning, he grabs me under the arms and pulls me over to him. I cry out as the bandages on my legs scrape across the sheets. I stiffen in his grasp, my head rolling back and my eyes closing as the pain ripples through me. He pulls me onto his lap, taking advantage of my still-altered state. The sheet slips off of my legs and the cool air hits my slick skin. Goosebumps raise on my thighs and send off another wave of pain. I moan and buck my hips involuntarily, pressing my sweaty face to his clean shirt. I breathe deep, his scent mingling with the sharp agony of the pain. My whole body clenches.
Sex.
Rough and raw.
Mind-blowing, mind-altering sex.
That's what it reminds me of. It's fucked up, but I can't stop myself from thinking it.
He rubs my jaw with his thumb as the pain subsides to a manageable level. Then he cups my chin and forces me to look up at him.
“Do you remember what happened to you?” he asks. I can't help but stare at his mouth when he talks. His lower lip is thicker than his top lip, and less cruel. It looks almost soft. Almost. I shake my head no, hoping that I'll finally get some answers. “What's the last thing you remember?” I stare at him, not wanting to say the last thing I remember. The museum, of course. Jessica's gala. I remember the cold, hard floor. His rough hands. His lips on mine. The way he hurt me, in more ways than one, but also made me feel good. Good enough to make me moan and beg shamelessly. “Do you remember the café?” he asks and I furrow my brow in confusion. He tsks lightly and shakes his head, like I'm a child he has to scold. “There was a bomb in a café, ma petite. They said you'd been killed.”
“Oh,” I say, because I can't think of what else to say. It seems like he's telling the truth, despite the fact that he's a born liar.
“Do you remember how I came to you in the hospital in Istanbul?” he asks, his face impassive. “You were half-dead. Covered in blood. So small in that white metal bed. I couldn't leave you there, Adrienne. So I brought you back.”
“Why?” I ask, my voice barely there. “What do you care if I live or die?” He narrows his eyes briefly, and if I weren't so close to him, I might've missed the slight hitch in his breathing.
“That is the question,” he says, then runs his tongue over his bottom lip. My eyes catch on the slight movement. Without another word, he leans over and grabs the bowl and spoon off the tray. His arms circle me and I'm too weak to lift my head from his chest. He dips the spoon in the broth and brings it to my lips, like I'm a child who can't feed myself. “Eat, Adrienne,” he says, his voice vibrating through his chest and against my cheek. I jerk against him, spilling the hot liquid down the front of his bright white shirt. He snorts out a humorless laugh then brings another spoonful to my lips. The scent of the broth is intoxicating and I open my mouth without thinking. I moan in pleasure as the flavorful broth coats my tongue.
I'm weak. For the second time since this war began, I let him win.
It won't be our last battle, though.
He feeds me the rest of the broth in silence. With every spoonful, I feel better and better. My belly is warm and silent, for the first time in days. Even my legs feel better, if that's possible. When the bowl is empty, he returns it to the tray and then feeds me the steamed carrots. This time, he uses his fingers. I don't bother fighting him. I lick his fingers clean every time he brings a bite to my lips. His fingers are long and elegant and it's oddly erotic to see them messy and covered in food. Everything about the man is erotic, truth be told. He can't help but ooze sex from his pores.
“Maybe tomorrow, they will bring dessert,” he says, wiping his hands on the cloth napkin.
“Chocolate cake,” I say without thinking. He raises an eyebrow, but doesn't respond. He lifts me carefully off his lap, but I still wince at the pain in my legs. I do feel better, however. The loss of the hunger has taken the edge off. I settle back aga
inst the soft down pillows as he places the dishes back on the tray. He puts the empty dishes exactly the way he found them, arranging them just so on the tray. I watch him, the urge to upend the tray rising up in me. If my arm was strong enough, I might've done it.
I want to see his well-ordered life destroyed. I want to see his control crumble. I want to see the real Dorian, the Dorian I first met along the wall outside of my father's house. The Dorian who grabbed me and pressed his face to my neck like he couldn't get enough. The Dorian who ran after me in the tall grass. I know the real Dorian is in there under this frustratingly cool and calm surface, itching to get out.
He turns back to me and this time, I don't bother covering what's left of my legs. I want to see his reaction to the horror that my body has become. I want to see the pity or the disgust or the sadness. Anything. But he gives me nothing. His blue eyes remain cold. His posture is still loose, but controlled. There's a brown stain on his expensive white shirt from the broth and the sight pleases me.
“Aren't I hideous?” I ask. “Don't I disgust you?”
“You smell,” he says, as if that answers my question.
“When you first saw me in the hospital, what did you think? Did you think that I was like a three-legged dog you couldn't bear to put down? Did you feel pity for me? Did you feel anything?” The food has given me enough strength for the burst of words that spill from my mouth. I push myself up on my elbows and stare at him, wanting answers.
“The truth?” he asks, his voice dropping low. A shiver runs up my spine at his tone. It reminds me of a dream I had, when I was under the haze of pain. A dream where he fucked me like I crave to be fucked. A dream where his breath was rough in my ear as he shoved into me like he couldn't stop himself.
I nod, because although I expect him to lie, I still want the truth.
“When I saw what had happened to you, I was... perturbed,” he says, his eyes dragging down my lower half. “You had beautiful feet.” His wistful words send another shiver down my spine and I shift my hips. A pang of sadness, sharp and pitch black, shoots through me. I force my own eyes down my legs. They're jagged now, uneven. They end bluntly, not gracefully like they used to. I never used to think much about my feet. Now they're all I think about.
They were beautiful, I realize. But now they're gone.
“After the shock wore off, I realized the beauty of the situation,” Dorian continues. “The day you lost your legs, fate gave me a great gift.” I look at him sharply, the anger rising again and overtaking the sadness. How dare he say that to me, when I'm suffering more than I've ever suffered in my life? The blood still stains my bandages. The pain is still very real. It's the only thing that feels real at this moment, in fact. Not Dorian and not this big, strange room. It all feels like a nightmare. “I stared at you in that hospital bed and I realized that you would never run from me again.” He brushed the knuckles of his right hand across the sensitive skin of my thigh. I shiver, but I don't move away from his touch. He sighs, heavily, like the weight of the world is on his shoulders. What he says next destroys me, because I know he believes it with all of his black soul.
“No one knows you're here. No one is coming for you. No one is going to take you from me.” His fingers find the rough edge of the bandage on my thigh. I watch his graceful, long fingers dance along the blood-soaked gauze, my heart in my throat. “You're mine, Adrienne,” he says, matter-of-factly. “And there's nothing you can do about it.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
I carry her into the bathroom adjoined with her bedroom, amazed at how light she is. She's light as a feather. Her slim arms circle my neck and her head rests against my shoulder. She didn't fight me as I picked her up. She didn't respond after I told her that she belonged to me. She just went still and her eyes glazed over, shutting me out.
I revealed too much.
I took away whatever hope she had.
I suppose I shouldn't mind that she's unhappy with me. She's a woman who values her freedom, after all. Unfortunately, she has no more freedom, whether she wants to admit it to herself or not. She's my prisoner. She will remain my prisoner. Period.
I sit her down on the toilet and she stares at the floor. I work the sweat-soaked chemise up over her hips then I raise her left arm and then her right, working the thin fabric over her head. I toss the expensive silken chemise into the trash. There are more where that one came from, in all the colors of the rainbow. She slumps miserably but doesn't bother to cover herself, which I appreciate. I want to look at her for a moment, so I do.
I love her tits and all the other places where she's soft and smooth. She's too skinny now, but it won't always be like that. She shifts her hips on the seat, trying to make herself as comfortable as possible, but I know it's difficult for her. I can tell she's not used to the way her body feels now. Without the weight of her lower legs and feet, her balance is off. I drop to a crouch and put my hands on either side of her ribs to steady her. “You'll feel better when you're clean,” I say, even though I know it's a lie. The brief high that the food gave her is wearing off. She's drifting away from reality and I know I have to get her back.
We have a long night ahead of us.
I turn on the water in the shower and unbutton my stained shirt. I toss it onto the floor and kick off my shoes. When the water is hot, I settle her new shower bench under the steady stream of water. Steam fills the bathroom as I drop my pants and step out of them. She opens her eyes, like she can sense my nakedness. She raises an eyebrow and, just like that, she comes back to me.
“The great Dorian Armstrong,” she says, bitterly. “Magnificent even when he's limp.” I know her words are barbed, but I can't help but smile.
“The bewitching Adrienne Hamina,” I reply. “Exquisite even when she smells like death.” She snorts out a laugh, dropping her head to hide her smile, but I don't let her. I lift her chin and her smile falters, the fire igniting behind her amber eyes. I'm tempted to shove my cock in her mouth and let her show me how magnificent I am, but first things first. I haul her up and she slaps her arms around my neck, like she's afraid to fall. As if I would ever let her fall. I drop my hands to her soft ass as I carry her to the shower. When I set her on the bench, she dips her head back, wetting her hair. When she's stable, I take a step back and admire her again. Water runs in rivulets between her heavy breasts, down to the thatch of hair in between her thighs. She sighs as the hot water caresses her body and the sound sends a ripple of lust through me.
Fuck, I want to taste her.
I want to suck her soft nipples into my mouth and flick my tongue across them until they harden. I want to suck her until she screams and writhes and begs me to fuck her. I want to slam my cock into her until I don't know where she ends and I begin. But I don't. I stand back even as my erection hardens because I want to savor the moment. Adrienne is my prize. I don't know what I've done to earn such a prize, but I'm not giving her back. No fucking way am I giving her back.
“Where'd you get this ugly thing?” she asks, running her palms over the white plastic of the shower seat.
“A home for invalids and the infirm,” I say.
“Which one am I?” she asks, lightly, balancing herself with one hand and raising the other to her smooth her hair back under the water. The black strands curl around the curve of her neck and I lick my lips. I'm not usually one for delaying my pleasure, but in her case, I know it will be worth it. Water cascades down her skin and I want to catch every drop in my mouth.
“Take your pick,” I say, running the palm of my right hand over the head of my cock. The slight movement sets my teeth on edge. I grab the shampoo off of the ledge. It's her cheap French brand. The brand I saw in her hotel room. When I pour a dollop into my palm, I can smell the fine mixture of honeysuckle and mint that I've had stuck in my mind since the night at the museum. I close the gap between us and she jumps in surprise when I drop my hands to her head lightly. She doesn't fight me as I massage the shampoo into her hair. After a fe
w moments, she closes her eyes and lets out a quiet little sigh.
That's all it takes for me to get hard.
She opens her eyes again and slowly lifting them to meet mine. I can feel her examining every inch of me and it only makes me more aroused. Then her eyes drop to my cock again, her lips parting slightly as she studies it. I drag a hand down her face. White suds slide down her cheek and then drop to her breast. It's the sexiest thing I've ever seen in my life. “Open your mouth,” I say and she presses on hand into my thigh, to balance herself. She slowly opens her mouth, taunting me with her slick pink tongue. I tangle my fingers painfully in her beautiful hair and she winces and moans. She raises her hand, circling her fingers around the thick base of my cock. She guides me slowly to her open mouth, her quick breaths tickling my wet skin.
When she wraps her full lips around the head of me, it's like a dream come true. I don't move, even though I want to buck my hips and force myself down her throat. Watching my cock disappear into her does something to me I can't explain. She pulls me deep and moans, the vibration causing my balls to tighten. Her eyes roll back in her head and I force myself to get control. If I don't, I won't be able to savor her like I want to.
I rear back and she takes a deep breath through her nose. She swallows hard, readying herself for me. Then she runs her tongue up the underside of me and sucks me back in. I don't even try to prevent the smile that spreads across my face as she submits to me. I haven't wanted anything this badly in awhile; I also haven't had to work this hard for something I wanted in awhile. It feels satisfying to win. It also feels right to have her her mouth on me, just like how I knew it would feel. I loosen my grip on her hair and start washing it again, brushing the suds away from her forehead with my thumbs. She works me softly with her hot mouth, her fingernails dragging down my thigh.
“Fuck,” I hiss as pure pleasure slivers through my chest and takes root. “I love how you suck my cock,” I whisper before I can stop myself. The words are true, but I don't like saying shit like that out loud. I don't use words like 'love'. They're not in my normal, everyday vocabulary. I also don't like how she makes me speak truths instead of lies. I'm used to lying. Lies are my stock and trade.
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