by Roxy Harte
Suddenly he claims my bottom lip with his teeth, holding my gaze as he traps me between the promise of pleasure and the threat of pain. This is the lure. This is why I dreamed of this man for years. This feeling—part adrenaline rush, part narcotic numbing.
This is what it feels like to be alive.
Still trapped by the vulnerability of my lower lip, I don’t resist as he grabs my ass, lifting me against him, pulling my dress up, baring my legs, finding silk stockings and my gun holstered around my thigh. Balancing me on top of the stone wall, he fumbles only a second with his slacks. Taking my mouth in a deep kiss before pulling back to look into my face, balancing me, legs spread, the tops of my thighs exposed as my dress bunches around my waist, he slides his hands over my bare ass, digging his fingers into my flesh. I don’t struggle, even when his fingers turn painful.
“I do, Eva,” he confesses solemnly, his words making me quake uncontrollably. However, it is the look in his eyes, the knowing that he truly means what he says that terrifies me and makes me fall in love with him again. “I take you as mine, forever. Say yes, Eva. Say yes to my promise.”
“Yes,” I whisper.
He pulls my hips close enough to bury his thick erection to the hilt in one solid lunge. I’d forgotten how large he is. God in heaven, how could I have forgotten this?
He bites my face as he moves within me, the solid wall under my bare ass refusing to give. My vulnerable flesh scraping, but it is a pain I am willing to embrace as his hard length slowly moves in and out. I shake against him as he rubs against my clit. Want, need and long-trapped emotion flood my veins, settling as heat between my legs, exploding the hard shell encasing my heart.
He whispers against my mouth, “I love you.”
I sway in answer and he holds me tighter, steadying me against him. His mouth dips and his tongue thrusts in, hot and demanding, his cock becoming equally demanding. “You are mine. Then. Now. Always.”
Yes. Yes. Yes.
The climax starts high inside my womb, exploding down and outward, a strong, wet orgasm. As he shakes against me, holding me tighter, I realize that he too came.
“I love you, Luka.”
“Ari,” he corrects.
I look into his eyes, and with my hands cupping his face, I pull him toward me and kiss his forehead. “I love you, Ari.”
We both hear the roar of Liam’s BMW before the round headlights illuminate the stone bridge. Awakening to the nightmare of my life, I am pulled back to the reality of the situation like a cold dunk in the icy Gartempe churning below us. Ducking beneath Luka’s right arm, I put as much distance as I can between us before Liam sees us. The car’s tires squeal to an angry stop, the passenger door flying open.
I tremble, stunned, between two raging men. Both powerful, both demanding complete ownership, though in distinctly different ways. I am not the kind of girl who trembles. It is a new, not very likable feeling, being scared, vulnerable, confused. First fainting, now fear. I am ruined.
“Get in, Eva!”
“You don’t have to go with him,” Luka says, grabbing my sleeve, willing me to stay.
“I have to go—there’s something I have to do,” I whisper.
“You want to stop my brother, I understand. I can help you.”
“I’m trying to save him!”
“He’s beyond saving.”
It kills me to pull away. I offer, softly enough that only he will hear over the loud purr of the car’s engine, “I have to try. Come for me in three days.” God, I hope he heard me.
Not daring to look back for fear I’ll change my mind, I demand of Liam, “Take me home!” as I slide into the leather seat and pull the car door closed.
The interior is like an inferno, suffocating.
I am suffocating.
“Would the world ever have been made if its maker had been afraid of making trouble? Making life means making trouble.”
George Bernard Shaw, Pygmalion
Chapter Fourteen
Kitten
January 2
“Celia?” my secretary calls from the other side of the door. I am locked in my private bathroom and have absolutely no intention of coming out, but she doesn’t know that yet. “Celia?” She knocks on the door. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine. I’ll be out in just a minute. Is there a problem on the floor?”
“No, no problem.” She pauses. “I thought I heard you cry out. It scared me.”
I grit my teeth. Shit! I put a fake smile on my face, remembering from a past telemarketing job that a smile changes the way your voice sounds. “Oh I’m sorry, Holly. There was a wet spot on the floor in here and my heel slid. I thought for a moment I was going down. You must have heard me gasp, but really, I’m fine.”
“Oh, okay then.” I hear her footsteps retreat from the room and peek through the cracked door to be certain before I step into my office. It really is a very serene room. I love my office, which makes it so incredibly insane that I want to trash it right this second.
I race to the office door, shutting and locking it to make sure I am not interrupted again. Then I run back to the bathroom and check the progress of the little plastic indicator strip, one of the new pregnancy strips that you pee on and in less than two minutes it actually says the words digitally, Pregnant or Not Pregnant. I pick the offensive tester off the vanity top and curse, “Damn it,” before tossing it into the trash can with the previous six kits. “Damn it all!”
I sit down on the toilet, the last of the kits used, not knowing what to do now. I don’t know what to think or say or do, I’m just numb. I can’t possibly be pregnant.
It has to be a false positive. It has to be.
I’ve been on the Pill since I turned twenty. Master and I always use condoms. Lord Fyre and I always use condoms. This just isn’t possible.
I cover my mouth, the results of the test sinking in, and close my eyes, a wave of dizziness threatening to send me reeling from my porcelain seat onto the floor. I steady myself by holding on to the vanity.
I can’t be pregnant!
I can’t be, I can’t be, I can’t be!
This would change everything…
It has to be a false positive. It has to be.
I expected a period four weeks ago, being on the dosage that allows for only four periods a year. I dread them so, when I was late, I was thankful, thinking that maybe my body was just tired of the whole bleeding thing. But then I noticed I was getting fat, and while I can admit that life with Garrett means eating well and overindulging with both sweets and alcohol on a regular basis, I’ve never had a problem with weight.
Although Thomas would say I have a problem keeping the weight on. I’ve always just been thin. Bony thin. And when I’m depressed…
Thin turns ugly.
Lifting my shirt, I look in the mirror and note the swell between my pelvic bones. Not fat. Baby bump. Holy fucking saints. I shake my head, knowing that I can’t tell Master. He would get his hopes up. I can see his face lighting up like a child’s on Christmas morning because he honestly believes he wants a child. I wish Thomas was here…
I sigh, desperately wanting him to be on a business trip. He comes and goes so often that his being away is the more expected lately than his actually being home. But God, when he is home…
He isn’t here though and although he hasn’t admitted it, I know he is with the other woman. I used to worry about his wife and family returning and how that would affect our life together, but the more nights I spent sleeping in his arms, I knew his wife wasn’t the woman occupying his thoughts. Nor was I. Eva. “Fuck!”
I shake my head, hard, wanting to yell and scream, wanting to lose my mind, but that would be too easy. Can I even be thinking what I am thinking? Could I honestly go behind Garrett’s back and have an abortion? Could I keep this a secret from Thomas?
I’ve lived with guilt and regret for so many years, hating my ex, Lion, hating my father, for forcing me to have an abortion.
I killed a child, I certainly don’t deserve to be a mother—ever—so how can this be?
The tiles on the floor blur and merge.
How can this be?
I have to talk to Thomas. I have to find him. Now.
“Do you know anything on earth which has not a dangerous side if mishandled and exaggerated?”
Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, The Land of Mist
Chapter Fifteen
Eva
January 3
Ile St. Louis, Courtyard Apartment
Standing in the bathroom, I look at my ass in the mirror, still reddened, the marks a trophy of sorts. My ass still burns where the rough stone left scrapes, but the pain is a reminder that the moment happened at all. I did not dream it, I did not hallucinate. Luka—Ari—made love to me on the Saint-Savin-sur-Gartempe Bridge. He isn’t dead.
Love, I told him I loved him. And he said it back. We’ve never shared those words, except in my dreams. There is a saying about distance and the fondness of hearts. I wonder if it works the same with death? I thought him dead for a decade. Can he possibly live up to the memory in my mind?
For three days, I have not had a moment alone. Liam doesn’t speak but he watches me, until today. Now another watches. I do not know his name, only that he sits in my living room. I’m pissed off that Liam feels I need a babysitter. Isn’t it enough that I came back here with him? Sitting in the dark, I watched Liam leave for an assignment through the bedroom window, trying to decide if it was worth killing the man in my living room to escape the prison of my apartment. Liam’s stonewalling has shredded what is left of my nerves. I’ve fallen apart—completely—mentally, emotionally.
I hide in the bedroom, behind a closed door. My babysitter is smart enough to stay on the other side. It is too early to be awake but I can’t sleep. I haven’t slept in the three days I’ve been home. I jump at every sound. The phone rings and a part of me dies each time it is not Ari. I’ve stopped eating. Whether anxiety or heartache is the cause, the resulting nausea and diarrhea are unlike anything I’ve ever experienced. I wait for my opportunity to do what I need to do, but none has opened up.
Now that Liam is away from the apartment and I have my chance, I am weak, maybe too weak to kill the man in the living room. God, I’m a mess, a total and utter mess.
A streak of yellow breaks the otherwise dark sky. Depressing gray days have become routine, matching the bleakness of my heart. Hours will provide the answer I long for. He will come for me or he won’t. I should never have left his side. I am not sure why I thought I could go back to business as usual. I’m not sure why I thought it would be so easy to put the game into play. I guess I never anticipated Liam’s level of scrutiny.
Or that he would leave me guarded.
If I hadn’t been puking my guts out, I might have made a stink about it.
* * * * *
Buzz. Buzz.
The doorbell startles me but at least it isn’t Liam, he wouldn’t ring the bell. I glance behind me at the man lying on the floor. He’s not dead, but he won’t be walking around for a while. With a heavy sigh, I try to decide if his prone form is visible from the doorway. Not likely.
Automatically I unfasten my underarm holster and ready my hand on the door handle. Peeking through the peephole, I see a floral deliveryman standing in the hallway. Always the professional, I draw my weapon before unlatching and opening the door.
“M-Miss H-Hildebrandt?” The man’s nervous stutter does little to ease my anxiety. I open the door and pull him into the apartment, pressing the gun barrel into the side of his neck.
Seeing calla lilies behind his back, I lower my weapon. Six dozen pristine white calla lilies. Master.
I fight tears, taking the flowers, waving the man away with the barrel of my gun. Luka always summoned me to him with calla lilies. It was our secret signal, whether they arrived at my apartment or at the office, I would know to meet him at the warehouse. Closing my eyes, I say a prayer of thanksgiving to the nonexistent God I’d cursed so severely the night before.
* * * * *
He isn’t at the warehouse when I arrive, leaving me disappointed. Still, it is obvious I am expected. A St. Andrew’s Cross stands at the ready where the kitchen table used to sit. I know what’s expected, I’d once been Master’s well-trained slave. Memories swallow me as I walk toward the cross, the scent of old wood and leather bringing it all back. Once upon a time, I would have stripped naked, walked over to the cross, climbed onto the raised pedestal and secured my ankles with the buckled leather straps without waiting to be told.
He would enter, expecting me to be in position. Facing the cross, I remember it all, securing my own blindfold, ankle restraints and left wrist restraint. Master would take care of the rest when he arrived. He was always pleased that I obeyed so well. Sure, I fought and clawed and even bit on occasion, but it was part of the game, part of what I needed to do in order to be able to surrender to him emotionally. He understood that surrendering made me free.
Unbuttoning my blouse, all I can think about is my need to please him still. Even sick, I will do all I can to please him. Besides, there is nothing left to puke out.
Blindfolded, I hear his footfalls before I’ve even finished buckling my wrist into place. His hand closes warm and gentle around mine, finishing the buckling process for me. He doesn’t speak but I feel his breath on the nape of my neck as he leans close. I expect his lips on my shoulder. Instead, he takes my right wrist in his hand and secures the leather cuff more tightly than I would have preferred.
“Master?” I whisper, needing to hear his voice, needing the comfort his voice always brings. Something is wrong. I am answered by his footsteps taking him farther and farther away. More noise follows—clanking and banging, metal scraping against metal and items dropping with heavy thuds onto the floor.
Nervous, I remain silent. I’m early, very early. Is he displeased that I interrupted his preparations for my arrival? Weird. I thought he’d be as anxious as I to renew our bond. Early seemed like a good plan, not one that would make him mad, especially when he learned my news.
After what seems like hours but was probably only thirty minutes, my arms ache and my mind runs wild. I’m not up to this. I still feel like shit and he’s never ignored me so completely before. But then, it has been so very long. Did I expect things to be exactly the same?
God, I am sick. This was such a bad idea. I should have sat on his bed and waited for him. In my enthusiasm, I really screwed up. I cannot vomit! That would be too humiliating.
“Master?” I whisper, knowing my voice will carry easily across the span of the warehouse. “Please answer me.” In answer, the room swells with voices—someone, not Master, and at least two others, talking, grumbling, laughing—the combination racking confusion on my brain. Tired, my legs and arms ache, and in my heart, I know that something is truly, terribly wrong.
“Master?” I call out loudly this time. “Please answer me!”
Searing red light glowing through the black silk blindfold is my answer. Heat radiates over my face, neck and shoulders, my bare back and buttocks. So much blinding light and for what purpose? My brain answers with intelligence but the pictures that come to mind aren’t welcome. The worst-case scenario suddenly playing in my mind scares the shit out of me. Footsteps fall behind me and I know all of the answers to my questions are imminent.
“Master?” My voice shakes and I hate the evidence of my fear. True fear was never a part of our relationship before, and it is an unwelcome element now.
A soft kiss on my shoulder startles me.
“No, Eva, but you’ve waited very patiently for your lover, haven’t you?”
“Liam?”
“Aye, it’s Liam. Are you surprised?”
Blood surges to my brain and my heart explodes with a surge of adrenaline that, were I not bound, would save my life. As it is, I’m royally fucked.
“Let me out of this contraption,” I demand, trying to regain the upper hand.
“Not possible, love. I have gone to a lot of trouble to make this a memorable night for many people,” he answers, then screams at one of the others in the room, “Is that damn satellite feed ready yet?”
“Satellite ready,” is the reply from an unknown male voice.
“All right, love, the question is are you ready?” Liam asks softly, leaning close enough for his breath to fall over my shoulder. I cringe when his hand slides around my waist, feeling honestly afraid.
How could things go so horribly wrong when I finally had the answer to years of prayers? Master is alive, and before this night is over, I will be too dead to enjoy him. The icy cold of truth shooting up my spine is the final straw. I vomit. Not a nice and tidy vomit, but spewing, projectile vomiting.
Liam’s reaction is to laugh. “I hope you’re getting this on the live feed!”
“Internet connection is up, four-second delay, oh God, is that vomit?”
Liam laughs again. “How does it feel to have your fifteen minutes of fame, Eva?”
Trying to breathe, I force air out of my nose to clear my airway. Liam’s hand slides lower, cupping my buttocks before abruptly pushing his fingers inside my vagina. I buck, trying to escape. There is no escape, there will be no escape. Laughter fills the room, great echoes of laughter.
His fingers withdraw and I am so greatly relieved that I cry out.
“So wet,” he declares, moving to stand in front of me, his fingers drawing moisture over my lips. I choke on my own scent, trying not to vomit again.
“Do you feel that, Eva? Adrenaline.” Liam sighs, his breath falling hot on my cheek. “It’s racing through your system at sonic speed. Biologically, it’s the main ingredient in your fight-or-flight response system, but poor you—you can’t fight or flee, and the wondrous beauty of adrenaline is its adaptability.”