Make Me: Twelve Tales of Dark Desire

by Aleatha Romig

  How long before Q came back? How long before I could return to my tiny room and hide in sleep-oblivion?

  My stomach grumbled as the winter sun set over rolling French countryside. I’d been curled up on the window seat for hours, peering through cedar slats. Mocked by the small slice of the world. Tiny sparrows darted, preening their feathers in the fountain. They were free—I was not.

  I’d never longed for the sun so much. Its rays hadn’t touched my skin in over a week. I never thought I’d crave the outdoors, especially the cold, but I did. It was an itch I couldn’t scratch.

  My heart squeezed as two black sedans drove sedately down the long gravel drive and stopped in front of the house. A chauffeur jumped out and opened the rear door.

  Q stepped out, smiling reservedly at the man. He straightened his black trench and sucked in a deep breath, as if fortifying himself to enter his own home. The jacket stretched across his chest, showing the powerful breadth of shoulders. He tilted his head toward the library, searching for me no doubt, and fingers loosened the tie around his neck.

  A look of depravity and unhappiness etched his features. I huddled on the window seat, hidden by the shutters and gloom, and conjured stories for him.

  Who was this man? This conundrum, this enigma. A man so young, but so rich. A man who accepted women, who lived on his own with a galley of staff. A man who had more secrets than I ever did with Brax.

  Was he hurting? Did he have a wife? I drafted a fairy-tale of his faults and flaws granting redemption. Perhaps he was kind under the gruff exterior. Perhaps I could appeal to a sensitive part locked far below and encourage him to release me willingly?

  Perhaps.

  Perhaps.

  Perhaps.

  I smashed at my eyes, warning them to stay dry. All my stories were just that: fiction. I had to stay in the real world. A world where focus and the preparation to bolt would save me.

  My mind latched onto other things. Things like an escape pack. I needed warm clothes, a stash of food, and a knife to remove the GPS anklet. Those things would keep me alive when I found the opportunity.

  I could somehow make it to the Australian embassy—wherever the hell it lurked. Would they save me? Send me home. Home to Brax, and parents who didn’t care. Parents who hated that I stole their retirement.

  The front door swung wide as Q stepped into his home. The glass of the library doors showed him regal and proud, like a magistrate returning to his castle. All aura of confusion lining his face, gone.

  He didn’t pause, heading straight to the library and unlocking the door.

  I tensed and wrapped my arms around my knees. I sucked in a breath as he strode into the room.

  It took him a moment to find me, looking in the wingback, by the bookcases. His body coiled tight as he hunted the room. When he found me, he froze.

  Something snapped between us, arching with awareness, temptation. I mentally fought it, cutting the connection.

  His nostrils flared as we glared from our sides of the room.

  “Come,” he demanded, holding out a hand, fully expecting me act docile and follow. As if.

  I bared my teeth, hugging myself hard. I didn’t grace him with an answer; my body language screamed all he needed to know: I despised him.

  He didn’t demand again. Instead, he gritted his teeth and charged. With strength I feared, he plucked me from the seat as if I were an errant child. Fingers bit into my upper arm as he dragged me over plush carpeting and out of the library.

  I squirmed, but couldn’t dislodge him. “Get off me.”

  He didn’t answer as we almost jogged through the house. I didn’t see anyone. No noises of life, no visions of help.

  Q headed straight behind the sweeping, blue velvet staircase. My breath caught as he punched the dark wood panelling.

  I jumped when it popped open, revealing a door. Fear exploded in my veins. Upstairs in the house, I had the illusion of civility. If he took me down there, it symbolised a lack of constraint. My horror-filled visions might come true.

  “No!” I twisted my arm, causing Q to grunt. He had no choice but to release me or earn a broken wrist.

  I bolted, but Q was faster. He crashed against me and we collided into the wall. My rib roared and I panted, battling with pain. Turned out, I already forgot the lesson Leather Jacket taught me: obedience may be key, but I couldn’t walk willingly down those steps. I’d rather bleed and know I tried to save myself.

  Q pressed hips into mine, sandwiching his entire body against me. “Stop fighting, esclave!”

  He managed to capture my arms, pinning them in his hands. My tattoo burned, along with rope injuries. A knee forced my legs apart, effectively trapping me.

  I whimpered as my body once again disobeyed and grew hot beneath his touch. My heart rabbited as Q pressed his forehead against mine. His eyes blazed me to the core. “Arrête.”

  I stopped breathing, suspended by the hard-edged yearning in his voice.

  I cocked my chin. “No.”

  He sighed heavily, pushing away, but keeping hold of my wrist. My muscles trembled as he dragged me through the hidden door and down the steps. He tugged too hard and I tripped.

  I landed against his back, causing him to almost fall. Arms came up, wrapping around, pressing us against the banister, stabilizing.

  “Merde,” he muttered. “Can you not even walk? Is that why they gave you to me? Were you the reject? The one they couldn’t sell for top dollar?”

  His words slapped, sharp and stinging.

  Is that what happened? I’d disrupted their sick operation by standing up to Leather Jacket, the weak bastards removed me before I screwed everything. Anger as well as happiness heated. Anger that they dismissed me as the reject, happiness at standing up to them.

  Thank God, I fought. I didn’t know how much danger I faced with Q, but I knew in my bones it was better than Mexico. I could’ve been drugged, raped repeatedly, and left to die in my own vomit. Now, I had to deal with a millionaire with issues.

  See, Tess. Whatever happens, it’s not as bad as it could’ve been.

  Perversely, I took strength in that. I still had wits, and consciousness. I was still fundamentally me, if only hidden beneath my gutter mouth, fierce persona.

  When I didn’t answer, Q pulled me down the remaining stairs. The narrow flight ended, depositing us in a shadowed cave of a gaming room. To the right, an apple velvet pool table glowed beneath a low-hung, red chandelier. To the left, a sparkling bar with cut crystal sprinkled rainbows against the wall under spotlights. Wood panels on the walls and ceiling entombed us. All it needed were wisps of cigar smoke and the smell of hard liquor.

  The air was hushed, private. A man’s heaven.

  Q threw me to the side, almost like he couldn’t touch me any longer. I stumbled with momentum, toward the pool table. Balls clacked together as I disrupted the neat triangle with an elbow.

  I made to turn, to face him, but his hot length folded me, pushing me hard against the felt. I cried out as he forced my face against the table and ground hips into my ass.

  I thought I’d been afraid up till this point. But I wasn’t, not really. Being trapped beneath his body, with hot breath on my neck, reminded he was the predator and I was his prey. It degraded, put me in my place, all the while my blood flowed faster, breath turned cloying in my lungs.

  I fought.

  Wriggling, I tried to buck him off. “Let me go!”

  Fingers tightened in answer, pinning me harder in place. I turned feral; my hands grabbed a heavy pool ball and tried to smash his head behind. “Motherfucker, take your hands off me.”

  Q moaned, sounding tortured and lost, but didn’t say anything. Heavy breathing disrupted the quiet tranquillity of the den.

  His silence disconcerted me. I had no clue what he thought, or planned. The quiet amplified other senses, heightened my pain in bruises, and the worst horror, the wetness between my legs.

  If Brax ever did this—treated me with
such ferocity—I’d have come in a moment. I read the mind turned sex from good to great. Being forced would ruin me, so why did my body ignore my fear and soften?

  I’d gone from fighting to primed, ready, even as my heart stuttered and panicked.

  Q seemed to sense my acquiescence. He rocked gently, causing more heated blood to rush. He sucked in a breath, then a soft, slightly trembling hand landed on my hair, stroking, petting. Ever so slowly, he tucked blonde strands behind my ears, worshipping me with touch.

  My heart unwound a little, soothed by gentleness. He forced me to surrender and accept his warped kindness.

  Minutes of stroking turned my bones to molten and his touch dropped to caress my shoulder, my spine, never more than a whisper, but threatening just the same.

  I expected roughness, yet he showed tenderness. How could I compete with that? Stay strong and fight when every animalistic part reacted to him.

  I whimpered as fingers trailed down my ribcage, slinking to the side and the swell of a breast.

  He hummed in his throat, a sound full of restraint, but also a warning. Slowly, fingers stroked, running circles over a tender breast, arching closer to my nipple with every touch.

  My nipples tightened, puckering with need. The knowledge he was about to touch me so intimately made me pant. My reaction flared Q, and he fisted a hand in my hair, tugging my torso off the felt. His hips kept mine pinned between him and the table.

  I yelped as my scalp smarted, but at the same time pleasure radiated, fiery and hot. My entire body burned.

  One hand cupped my breast, squeezing a nipple. His hot mouth descended on my neck, biting with sharp teeth.

  I couldn’t control my body, but I didn’t want him thinking I wanted this. I didn’t. Not at all. “Stop. Please, don’t.”

  I squeezed my eyes, wishing my mind could fly free from the overwhelming guilt crushing my soul. Guilt for reacting. Guilt for desperately wanting more. Guilt for wanting to kill him.

  Q murmured something in French. Minty breath drifted over highly sensitive skin. His hand kneaded my breast, firmer, harder than Brax ever did. He rolled my nipple between dexterous fingers and an unwilling moan crawled up my throat.

  Q tensed, pressing a hard cock firm against my ass. “Putain, I want you so fucking much.”

  He pinched my nipple and the flair of pain twisted my stomach. The pinch signified something—a claiming. “What is this?” he whispered darkly.

  Q no longer bound himself to whatever rules he played by. Knowing sent aching need between my legs. I tried to stop lust from swarming, fogging, but I couldn’t.

  I couldn’t breathe. Brax’s blue eyes filled my mind. What was I doing? Brax would hate me for eternity if I let this happen. It didn’t matter if I had no choice… I couldn’t return to him after being used by another. Tears bruised, hating my weakness, hating my body.

  Q bit my neck again, pressing lips along my collarbone, his expensive suit rasped against my back. “Tell me, esclave. What am I touching?”

  My mind whirred with white noise, detaching itself. He may use my body, but my soul wouldn’t be broken. I’d remain untouched. Untouchable.

  When I didn’t answer, he thrust against my ass, making me cry out. “What is this?”

  “M—my nipple.”

  He bit the shell of my ear, breath gruff and loud. “Wrong. This is mine.” He let me go and I breathed in relief, then froze as he touched my ass. Fingers sent fiery trails along my skin in agonisingly soft strokes, working inward, working down.

  Legs trembled, breathing quickened, and my traitorous body preened, softening for more.

  Q murmured, “Your skin is so soft here.” His touch fluttered higher, inching closer.

  A tear oozed and dripped onto the felt, turning apple to forest.

  Q sucked in a breath. “I’m hurting you so much you need to cry? Have I hit you? Beat you?”

  I shook my head, unable to answer.

  His touch went from fluttering to branding. I gasped as an invasive hand cupped between my legs. Embarrassment, need, desire, loathing, all shot through my heart.

  One fingertip brushed against my entrance through damp knickers. “So wet, ma chérie.” He ran his nose down my neck as his fingertip found my clit. I bucked in his arms. His chest strained against my back. “Your body doesn’t lie. It likes it. It likes me.”

  “I may not be able to control my physical response, but don’t confuse anything with me liking you,” I half-panted, half-snarled. “I won’t. Ever.”

  He chuckled, sending vibrations. “So determined to fight? Fine.” In a sharp move, he grabbed the back of my neck and pushed me toward the pool table again. Bent over, a finger moved firmer against my core. “What is this?” he whispered.

  My cheeks flared with heat; I wished to be far, far away.

  “Answer me, esclave.”

  “My vagina.”

  He chuckled, cupping harder. “Wrong again.” Expert fingers worked the sides of my knickers, easing them to the left, exposing me. Everything inside tightened, wound, twisted. Oh, God.

  Why was this happening? Brax. I didn’t want to replace memories of him with this monster who thought he owned me. Don’t think. Tears slipped silently.

  The smell of sandal-wood and citrus filled my nose as Q settled over me. He didn’t touch, which made it worse. His fingers were there; the heat of his skin blazed against my thigh. Anticipation drove me wild as much as it killed, knowing what was to come.

  Q fisted my hair, tilting my head to the side. His mouth descended on mine, a tongue opening the seam of my lips effortlessly, despite clamping shut. The moment his tongue entered my mouth, a finger plunged into me, hard and fast.

  “Oh, God.” My mouth opened wide; I trembled with the onslaught—the act of ownership. He wasn’t gentle, he wasn’t sweet.

  “This is mine. Everything is…”

  I knew what he wanted. The word balanced on my tongue but I swallowed. I would never say it.

  “Mine,” he growled. With no warning, he inserted another finger and fucked me, plunging deep and fast, my body quivering with hunger. My breath was harsh, too fast. I’d never been taken so completely. Nothing else mattered but his fingers inside, and the relentless rhythm he set. The sharp banding of an orgasm sparked in surprise; I moaned. I couldn’t climax. That would be the ultimate betrayal.

  I jolted, trying to remove his fingers, but he pressed harder, grinding his cock into my ass. “Merde, you’re so wet. Wet for me.” Surprise layered his voice, almost reverent. Had he never made a woman wet before? That couldn’t be true, not with the expert way he dragged repulsive need from me. I hadn’t gone Stockholmy—I hated him, knew what he did was wrong, but my body, shit, my body didn’t care.

  Q gave me something I needed since I’d started dreaming of sinful things, started looking at images online of men fucking women with a fine edge of violence.

  Q rocked his hips again, and I rocked back, against my will. He sucked in a breath, tickling my neck. Even as I fought to get free, my core rippled with pleasure. His dominance created an unwanted, potent cocktail in my brain. I don’t want this. Stop!

  His fingers thrust inside, drawing more moisture from my body.

  He sighed heavily, working a knee between my legs, splaying me wider. I lost balance and his fingers slipped out, gripping my hip.

  His legs bent, and he grinded a trouser-covered erection against my wetness. He rocked, hard as steel and hot as a branding iron.

  Little stars exploded behind my eyes. Only fabric stopped him from taking me. I hated every thrust. “Please…don’t,” I cried. Tears ran uncontrollably, joining the stain below.

  He struggled to talk, deep and ruff. “You chose option one. Remember?”

  Pressing an elbow into my back, he fumbled behind me. Hips disappeared as he unzipped his fly. The sound of metal teeth unzipping terrified me and I snapped. My body may want this, but I sure as hell didn’t.

  I jerked upright, ignoring the pai
n of his elbow. I feinted to the side, kicking his kneecap. His leg gave out, but he caught himself on the edge of the table. “Don’t fight. You’ll only make it worse.”

  How many times had I heard that? And every time it turned out to be the truth. But I couldn’t not fight. I’d never be able to live with myself.

  I breathed so hard my lungs ached. I looked frantically for the stairs. Where the hell were the fucking stairs?

  I made to run, just as Q recovered. He lurched and wrapped arms around my heaving chest, dragging us to the floor. We landed in a pile of limbs, my rib screaming. Q’s fly was undone, trousers hanging precariously on his hips. My knickers were bunched to the side and oversensitive flesh swollen, needing a release. No! I’m not turned on. I’m not broken. Not yet.

  Manic possession scorched his eyes, and I slapped him. Q reared back, lips twisted. Violence bristled as he slammed me down, securing himself above.

  I froze, locking my knees together so he couldn’t settle between my legs. He clutched my chin, forcing me to look deep into his gaze. “What are you?”

  I squirmed, hating the hunger in his voice, echoing the budding need in mine. I was sick to think I ever wanted this with Brax. But I never wanted this with Brax. I wanted light role-play, tame bondage, nothing like this. Please, not like this.

  Q shocked me silent as he kissed my throat. He lingered, breathing deep. My stomach flipped. Pulling back, shock resonated in his face, as if he hadn’t meant to resort to being gentle.

  A conflict of emotions skittered in his eyes, dampening undisguised lust, twisting it into something else. He sounded regretful, “Say it, and I’ll let you go. I won’t hurt you. I won’t rape you. Not tonight.”

  I bit my lip. If I said it, I threw myself at his mercy, but if I didn’t say it, I’d be raped and I couldn’t handle that. Not after the trauma of everything. Not after my entire world dumped me and left me bereft. Especially not with my body being enemy number one.

  “Esclave, say it.” His mouth tickled my ear again, words vibrating through flesh.

  My fight drained, the will to disobey unspooled into meekness. “Yours,” I breathed, sick to my stomach, wanting to scrub my mouth out.