by Roxy Harte
He drops the riding crop at my feet and walks away, leaving me stunned. I wish he would just punish me and get it over with but as he climbs the stairs I begin to fear that whatever we shared before is long gone, never to be resurrected again.
* * * *
Everything hurts. My lower back is a hell zone of pins and needles. My legs are on fire, every muscle from the tips of my toes to my thighs. My wrist and neck, immobilized for hours, ache with a dull pain that becomes excruciating when I make the mistake of moving them. My head pounds and I pissed myself. I remember this.
To say that you belong to a person is mere words. To accept the truth of it when it is proven takes a singular strength. Some people can, some people cannot. Frankie is rubbing my face in the fact I am his if I want to be. The question is, do I want to be?
Do I want my every thought and deed orchestrated?
Do I want to give up control of my life to suit his will?
As far as my boss in Chicago is concerned, I am on vacation, making the return to my old life fairly simple. Board a plane, go home, forget Frankie and Pierre-Louis and France…
I want out of these wooden stocks. That is all I care about. If I have to promise to go away and never set foot on French soil again, I would agree to it, though I hope that is not the option I am given.
Chapter Fourteen
Both men come down the stairs together. I’m not crying; I am stoic. Whatever is … is; whatever comes to be … does. Frankie comes forward, but Pierre-Louis waits at the foot of the stairs. His head is bowed and his hands are clasped behind his back. He is a good little slave, waiting to be told what to do next. I’m not a good little slave. I accuse, “You wanted me to go on holiday with Pierre-Louis. You wanted to see how nature would take its course.”
“Oui.”
“And now I am punished for allowing whatever was going to happen to happen?”
A surprised look is my answer. “You think I am punishing you for fucking with Pierre-Louis?”
“And for leaving him marked. Yes.”
He comes closer, moving behind me. I can feel the heat of his body rising off him. His hand runs up my thigh, his fingers smooth over my labia, a single finger penetrates between my folds. “You are very wet, ma cherie.”
“Yes,” I whimper, as raw lust explodes through my core from his slight touch.
“You are wet for me?”
“Yes! Yes,” I declare fervently, pushing against his fingers. He rewards me by rubbing through the folds to stroke my clit, making my knees buckle with the pleasure of it.
“You enjoy being the property of François de Hart.”
Rhetorical, but I agree anyway. The whimpers forming in my throat that would have embarrassed me a week ago are now accepted as part of who I am … still … not the woman I once was, but the woman I am still.
“I am not punishing you, mon amour.”
“No?” I ask, reveling in his soft touch between my legs. His caresses take my mind off the pain everywhere else. My world centers around my pussy and my clit each time he strokes it.
“I want you to remember what it means to belong to me.”
“Yesssss,” I sigh, my hips buck against his hand.
“I want you to understand I will use you as I desire to. Pleasure, pain. If I choose to share you, I will share you.”
My eyes jerk up to Pierre-Louis, but his gaze stays stubbornly attached to the stonework beneath his bare toes.
His fingers penetrate my pussy, not one, fuller than one, two or three, and the fullness makes me moan with pleasure. I back up to take in more but the pain in my back stops me, making me groan in pain.
“Can you override the discomfort of your body to come for me?”
I close my eyes. His desire seems an impossible task.
“If you come for me, I will release you now. If you do not, I will leave you strung up.”
Oh, shit. My heart drops into the pit of my stomach.
He instructs Pierre-Louis to bring him the Hitachi and he hurries to do as he is bidden, handing him the vibrator; then returning to his post, keeping watch on the floor. I shouldn’t care what Pierre-Louis is doing. He shouldn’t even be a small part of my focus.
Frankie moves the Hitachi against my clit and my world focuses on the single pinpoint of bliss. High pitched barks spill from my throat. Frankie chastises, “I don’t even believe it feels that good yet.”
My body spirals up into a spinning vortex of pleasure, my body seems to levitate all pain forgotten. I scream, “Yes. It. Does.”
“You will tell me before you come.”
I am already falling into the chasm, bliss speeding through my veins. I manage to scream, “Now. Oh god, now!” He keeps the Hitachi centered on my clit, allowing wave after wave to crash through me. I scream, “Ahhahhhaaaaahhh. Ahhahhhaaaaaahhh. Ahhhahhhhaaaaaahhhh,” but he doesn’t release me from the pleasure or the pain as the Hitachi becomes torment. “Please, please, please,” I beg. “I’m done.”
He says very clearly. “You are done when I say you are done, Cassiopeia. Come for me until I say stop.”
The Hitachi feels like knife points on my super-sensitive clit. I sob and beg. I feel his fingers push into my pussy. He pushes against my g-spot and I push back, pain raking through my bent spine. It hurts enough to make me forget the Hitachi on my clit. I scream in pain and frustration, but then my brain registers the vibration on my clit as pleasure again, not pain, and I remember the Master from my past could play this game all night. Oh, dear God.
Chapter Fifteen
It is mid-day and I am lying by the pool, napping. I have been napping off and on since climbing out of bed this morning. Even following a day and night of recovery from the holiday, I am still exhausted. It reminds me again I am not twenty-two any more.
My eyes are hidden behind dark sunglasses; between the sun glare from the water and the glinting light off the glass panes of the orangerie, I would be blind without them. Plus, it makes it easier to hide the fact that I have been sleeping, not reading the book in my lap. I think guiltily that it is Wednesday and if in Chicago, I would be up to my eyeballs in mid-week research and paperwork. I sink deeper in my chaise, glad that I am here. I have to keep reminding myself that this is not a vacation, I do not have to be anxious that my time is running short… This is my life now … for as long as I desire it. I inhale sweet air, almost able to separate all the glorious scents that make it so: fresh tilled soil, lavender, the blooms on the grapevines, the pine forest on the other side of the stables, and of course the earthiness of the stables themselves. I smile, feeling the lull of sleep ease into my aching bones. This is my life now. It seems like a dream. One I don’t won’t to wake from.
“Belle?”
“Mmm?” I barely acknowledge Pierre-Louis’ presence.
“Do not panic,” he tells me, squatting beside me and covering my nakedness with an oversized towel. Of course I panic, sitting up, clutching the towel to my breasts.
“What has happened? What is wrong?” I gasp, pulling off my sunglasses to look at Pierre-Louis’ concern lined face, remembering that Frankie was going to the chai to check the progress of last years barrels of wine. Every imaginable scenario goes through my mind, including he’s hurt, he’s dead. Oh god, please don’t let him be dead!
“François asked me to inform you that your parents and daughters have just arrived and that they are waiting in the main salon. You are to please act surprised.”
“Act surprised? How could I not act surprised. I’m naked, I’m wearing a collar … holy shit!”
“I think you are panicking.”
“Thank God you, at least, have clothes on.”
He shrugs, “Lucky. I went to the chai with François.”
He went with Frankie? Was he invited? I wasn’t invited. I pout, slightly disappointed, my entire forehead frowning as I wonder why he was invited to the winery and I wasn’t … but then I remember my parents and children are waiting in the main salon to surpr
ise me.
He blocks any view of the house as he helps me stand, suggesting, “The backstairs through the kitchen should get you to your room without anyone seeing you.”
He shadows me as we walk, both of us knowing that if anyone looks through the main salon windows, they will probably see me … but at least I am wrapped in a towel.
“What are they doing here?” I ask out loud, knowing he has no more clue to that answer than I do. He stays with me, escorting me through the kitchen, up the back staircase, walks with me all the way to my room. And though it seems odd, I don’t question his presence, I’m actually thankful he is near. I let out a deep sigh as I enter the bedroom, seeing the invisible servants have tidied, leaving no trace of the explosion in an insanity factory I left it. Now the room is as perfect as the first day I arrived, not a single thing out of place, my discarded clothing taken, presumably to the laundry. I blush, wondering about the toys, remembering that at least two vibrators, a butt plug, nipple clamps, actually two sets of nipple clamps, and assorted lubricants and massage oils had been littering the nightstand when I left the room this morning.
Pierre-Louis helps me by pulling out several dresses and laying them across the bed.
“I’m supposed to be surprised to see my family; I think dressing for the occasion might be overdoing it.”
He returns the dresses to the armoire. “What would you wear if you were sitting around on a Wednesday afternoon in Chicago?”
“Sweats and a t-shirt.”
He looks despairingly through the armoire. “You didn’t bring anything like that with you.”
He turns toward the armoire and retrieves a pair of Khaki Capris and a pair of low-heeled leather sandals. “Put these on, I’ll be right back.”
I dress, wondering what top I can wear. Everything I brought with me is dressier than what I would ever wear at home. I am sitting in my bra, Capris, and buckling my sandal when he returns with a plain white t-shirt. He apologizes, “It might be a little loose, but it will be casual.”
I pull it over my head. It isn’t that loose, being a Lycra blend. I guess it would be skin tight and very sexy on him. He ruffles my hair playfully and waggles his eyebrows. “You look like a soccer mom.”
I laugh. “I am a soccer mom but thank you.”
“For?” He asks.
“For being here, for helping me not be hysterical in this moment.”
He kisses me gently before leading me from my room. With a heavy sigh, I head for the salon, preparing myself to act surprised when I see my daughters.
“Remember to act surprised,” Pierre-Louis reminds me.
“Trust me; I’m still shell-shocked, pretending surprise isn’t going to be hard.”
Seeing them, I throw my hands in the air and hoot. Though I needn’t have tried so hard, after quick hugs, neither girl gave me a second glance; they were too busy drooling after Pierre-Louis. Oh hell.
We sit. A woman I’ve only seen once enters the room bearing a tray of refreshing drinks and small snacks. Frankie lifts a glass and toasts, “Welcome to France, welcome to my home.”
My mother sits down on the couch beside me, sipping her drink. She whispers, “His age has settled well on him but then, I had no doubt. He was a very handsome young man wasn’t he?”
I smile tightly.
“And my, look at you,” she says. “Coming to France has done wonders. It must be something in the water; you look ten years younger.”
I try to look at my mother but am unsuccessful, I can’t take my eyes off Pierre-Louis and the daughter standing on either side of him, keeping him cornered. His eyes are a little too wide, and I wonder if I should have warned him to not panic. I pay little attention to what my mother is saying but do look at her when she asks, “So are you sleeping with Frankie again?”
“Mother!” I only realize after I have spoken my voice had become both loud and shrill as every eye turns toward me. I look at my father and smile even tighter, if that is possible, going to him to give him a hug. “You came to France! What a wonderful surprise. I can hardly believe you deviated from your planned attack of the Mediterranean. Was it twenty ports?”
“Twenty-three,” he corrects. “And the trip isn’t over. It’s just with three women haranguing me to come here and make certain you are all right, I had little choice but to obey.”
I laugh. “As you can see I’m well. I just needed a vacation and it seemed the perfect time to come to France when the invite was extended.”
Bree pulls her besotted gaze from Pierre-Louis long enough to comment, “I didn’t know you had friends in France. You should have told us!”
I pat the cushion beside me, hoping to draw her away from the man and am thankful when she joins me on the sofa. “François and I are old friends.”
My mother interrupts, “Your mother did have a life before you were born … college, dating, lovers.”
I turn my head and gape, bug-eyed. Beside me Bree giggles.
Ellie says from across the room, “I told her to find a boyfriend while we were away, I had no idea she would take me seriously.”
Pierre-Louis chooses that moment to escape to the kitchen. “I will see how meal preparations are coming; you are staying for dinner, oui?”
“We don’t want to be any trouble,” my father says.
“No trouble,” Pierre-Louis and Frankie say at the same time, causing their gazes to collide. Pierre-Louis turns a rosy shade of pink as he makes a quick exit.
“Will you be staying the night?” Frankie asks.
“No,” my father insists, but he isn’t heard over my mother and daughters’ quick acceptance of his offer.
I let out a deep sigh. This should be entertaining.
But it isn’t, it isn’t entertaining at all as my mother’s constant barbs go deeper and deeper. I’ll be the first to admit that most of my adult life, we haven’t had the best of relationships, but she’s never been so completely confrontational before.
When Frankie drives everyone down to the stables to see his prized Andalusias, I finally escape out onto the terrace for some fresh air before dinner. I thought mother had gone with them but when she suddenly joins me, I realize how wrong I was.
“Have I done something to you, Mother? Displeased you in some way.”
She shakes her head and comes nearer. “I don’t want to see you hurt by this man again. Wasn’t once enough?”
I rub at the tension in my forehead. “I left him; he didn’t leave me.”
“Of course you would say that now, but I was the one who had to watch your destruction. I had to see the light dim in your eyes until there was hardly anything left of you in their depths. Then finally, when you had the girls I had reason to hope you would heal and you rallied, but you were never the same … and now? We come here and I find your eyes are lit up with the excitement you once had … and yes, I’m angry that no one else could give you that much happiness. Not your father or I, not your beautiful daughters, not your husband.”
My mouth opens and closes before I finally say, “It was nothing to do with any of you. I just never stopped loving him. It was hard being apart from him.”
“And what happens when this ends? What happens when your vacation is over and you go back to Chicago? Are you going to make your children watch the light in your eyes die as I once did? Why would you do this to them?”
I gasp. “I’m not doing anything to them. The light in my eyes isn’t going anywhere.”
“Madame?” Pierre-Louis calls from the open door.
“Yes, Pierre-Louis?”
“Could I beg your assistance in the kitchen one moment, please?”
“Of course.” I walk away, leaving my mother on the terrace, telling myself that this doesn’t have anything to do with the girls, but as I near the house I decide it has everything to do with my daughters … and I’m only trying to convince myself otherwise.
Once in the sanctuary of the kitchen I bury my face in my hands and allow myself to be pull
ed into Pierre-Louis’s chest by his strong arms. “God, thank you for the rescue.”
“Is she always so intense?”
“Yes and no,” I say. “It depends on what she’s fighting for.”
“What cause is she championing today?”
I shake my head. “I’m really not certain.”
Clanging pans make me jump and I realize suddenly that we are not alone in the kitchen. I step guiltily away from the embrace. I have gotten so used to the house having invisible staff and the three of us having the run of the place that I’d forgotten that he actually does employ staff. Pierre-Louis pulls me back into his arms. “You have nothing to hide from anyone here and I like holding you.”
I look into his gaze and believe him … at least about the part where he likes holding me.
Even after our wonderful holiday, I am still not comfortable with strangers seeing me in Pierre-Louis’s arms. I feel too old for him. Being with him makes me feel others will be as judgmental about this relationship as I once was with John and the younger women he snuck around with.
I feel like what we are sharing should be secret.
Oh God in merciful heaven, what am I doing trying to keep secrets from my mother, knowing she is like a hound on a scent trail? She will not let it go if she catches the scent of this … of us.
I want him to kiss me.
I want him to hold me in his insanely beautifully muscled arms and tell me there is an us in addition to the us that makes me Frankie’s. I’ve never considered it until this second I might be developing feelings for Pierre-Louis. I am, and I know that I am because the green-eyed monster of jealousy was seriously freaked out my daughters were looking at him as if they could gobble him up. It wasn’t worries they might discover our secret; I was feeling possessive. Pierre-Louis is mine.
Oh hell.
I take his hand and drag him into the walk-in pantry, closing the door behind us. His eyebrow hikes with concern. “Do you want to tell me to stay away from the dining room tonight?”
“No,” I shake my head. “I want you there. I want you on my left and Frankie on my right as we sit every night. I want your undivided attention. I want you to laugh at my jokes and I want you to entertain me with your stories. I don’t want to feel like I am competing with anyone else.”