by Nina Lane
And yet, he would do everything the exact same way all over again, if it meant Lydia’s safety. Over the past weeks, she had become far more important to him than his own sense of self-preservation. He wanted her to know the freedom she thought she had lost, to be able to live in the world without a storm cloud of fear hovering over her.
Still, Gabriel knew that as long as Preston Severine’s poisonous obsession with Lydia continued, she might very well never be free again.
CHAPTER FIVE
LYDIA WENT THROUGH the days that followed in a haze of unreality. She learned to answer to the name Jane again, but privately still thought of herself only as Lydia. Before leaving her bedroom, she applied a proper coating of cosmetics and fastened herself into elegant suits and dresses. Under her father’s directive, she quietly removed all the money from overseas bank accounts to repay her former employer and gave all the details of her extortion activities to the investigators.
She entered society again. Carnival season was in full swing, and she attended several balls and parades at her father’s side. She wore fashionable, demure clothing and pearl necklaces while accompanying her mother and sister to various charity functions, tea parties, and evening events. She obeyed her mother’s newly imposed dietary restrictions and ate small portions of protein and vegetables for every meal. She worked out at the gym with a personal trainer, visited old friends, called upon her father’s political allies. In public, she was Jane Worthington, successful daughter of a state senate candidate.
But in private? The instant she closed and locked her bedroom door behind her, Lydia yanked off her dreadful clothes and left them in a heap on the floor. She spent as much time in her room as she could. She’d agreed to do some paperwork for her mother’s charities, and she sat naked in the middle of the bed as she wrote checks and signed letters. She had meals sent up to her room as often as she dared, instructing the maid to leave them outside the door. After slipping on a robe so she could retrieve the tray, Lydia would sit at the table and try to eat, wishing she was in the plantation solarium.
She took meticulous care with maintaining her personal hygiene, as she knew the three men would want her to. She bathed in rich, peach-scented bubbles, hydrated her skin with silky lotions and oil, kept her legs and mons shaven and smooth.
She didn’t masturbate again. Though the urge was always there, pulsing like a river beneath a layer of ice, she refused to allow herself to surrender to the need for release. And somehow, adhering to that one inviolable order gave her a sense of pride that kept her ever-present despair at bay.
Gabriel would be proud of her. Kruin would approve. And Preston… well, Preston would secretly hope she would break down and bring herself to orgasm again so that he might have an excuse to exact a creative punishment.
Not that Preston ever needed an excuse to punish her.
A shiver rippled through Lydia. She went to the laptop computer at the desk and did a quick search for Preston’s name. The only thing that came up was an old school record. Lydia wondered why he’d never changed his name, but she supposed he hadn’t had reason to. He had always been so good at disappearing.
Lydia pulled on cotton underwear and a bra, then slipped into jeans and an old sweatshirt before going downstairs and out the back door.
Her parents’ estate contained an old greenhouse in a corner of the vast grounds, which her grandmother had once kept filled with plants and seedlings. After she’d died, the greenhouse had fallen into disrepair. None of the other family members had ever taken an interest in it, and Carol had been threatening for years to have the place demolished.
When Lydia had asked if she could try to put the greenhouse back in order, Carol had waved her hand with a sigh of both agreement and disinterest. And so, aside from the privacy of her bedroom, Lydia had found another haven in the humid warmth of the greenhouse.
She crossed the yard, then stepped inside and closed the door. She breathed in the scents of dirt, rotting leaves, dampness, flowers, and herbs. It was like the smells of the plantation solarium and garden all mixed into one. The air was hot and moist, the sun streaming in through the glass roof.
The constant tension slipped from Lydia’s shoulders. She dug into her pocket for a rubber band and tied her hair back before going to check on the herb seedlings she had planted.
She watered the seedlings, tested the soil, plucked dead leaves from the pansies, and picked several ripe tomatoes. She repotted two ferns, enjoying the sensation of digging into the dirt with her bare hands. Even more, however, she relished chipping her perfectly manicured fingernails.
She filled the watering can again and brought it over to water the ferns.
“Ah, my Lydia. I’m so pleased you still find such enjoyment in gardening.”
The familiar voice bolted shock through Lydia. She dropped the watering can, which spilled at her feet. Her heart slammed up into her throat. She spun around to stare at Preston Severine.
He stood just inside the closed door, a faintly sinister smile on his handsome face, the sun glinting off his blond hair. He wore a crisp, white shirt and dark trousers, and his arms were folded loosely across his chest.
Lydia was so shocked she couldn’t speak, could only stare at him as if he were an apparition caused by her overzealous imagination.
Preston pushed himself away from the door to approach her. His stride was slow and easy, like a water moccasin slithering from the bayou.
“What’s wrong, my dear?” he asked. “So surprised to see me that you can’t speak?”
Lydia swallowed, bringing a trembling hand to her throat. “I… well, yes. What… what are you doing here?”
“Don’t worry. No one knows I’m here.” He smiled his beautiful smile. “No one except you and me, in any case.”
“But what are you doing here?”
“Checking up on you, of course. Ensuring that my Lydia is behaving well.”
A shiver ran down Lydia’s spine. She had been behaving well, both by her parents’ standards and by Preston’s. She continued to adhere to every dictate he had laid out for her, with the exception of keeping her legs spread at all times—because that, of course, would attract more than one strange look from family and friends.
Still, Lydia did find moments—such as sitting at a dining table—when she could part her legs to symbolize her availability. Even if she was the only one who knew about it, the gesture served as an odd kind of comfort.
She stared at Preston’s blue eyes, feeling her insides begin to weaken with both fear and relief.
“I… I’m behaving well,” she whispered.
He reached out to grasp her chin, tilting her face toward him. His expression tightened a bit.
“You look different,” he observed, stroking his thumb across her lip. “Your hair is horrid. And you’re back to wearing cosmetics, are you?”
“Only because they expect me to. Not because I want to. I usually wash my face as soon as I get back to my room.”
Preston lifted his finger to show her the smear of red lipstick on his thumb. “What’s this, then?”
“I had a fundraising breakfast to attend this morning, so I had to dress appropriately,” Lydia explained hastily, as her heartbeat began to increase. “When I came home, I was in a hurry to get to the greenhouse and forgot to take my makeup off.”
“I don’t like it.” Preston wiped his thumb on his shirt, leaving a smudge of red that looked like blood. “You look like a whore.”
Dread curled around Lydia’s heart. She took an instinctive step back, bringing her sleeve to her mouth to scrub away the offending lipstick.
Preston moved closer, like a panther approaching its prey, until Lydia’s rear-end hit one of the wooden tables and she could retreat no farther.
“You’re not a whore anymore, are you, Lydia?” Preston asked, reaching a finger to stroke across her purple-shadowed eyelid. “You were once, remember, when you allowed filthy teenaged boys to touch your pussy. And when you let
that brute mechanic fuck you over the hood of a beat-up old Chevrolet. You used to spread your pretty legs for anyone with a dick, didn’t you? But not anymore. Not since you became mine.”
Lydia couldn’t respond. Old shame crawled up her throat. No one but Preston had the power to shame her to the core of her being. And she hated her uncontrollable response to the ease with which he could humiliate her.
She reached behind her to grasp the edges of the wooden counter. The point of a splinter dug into her palm.
Preston’s gaze raked over her body, clad in torn jeans and an oversized, shapeless sweatshirt. He made a sharp gesture with his head, a mere jerk of his chin toward her, and Lydia was reaching for the button of her jeans before she even realized what she was doing.
She had the zipper halfway down, her blood zinging with trepidation, before she glanced out the smudged windows toward the house in the far corner of the yard.
“Preston, my…”
“No one comes out here but you.”
A flame was beginning to light in his eyes as he watched her strip off her jeans. She had to take off her shoes to remove the jeans completely, and her feet sank into the cold mud formed by the spilled watering can and the layer of dirt on the ground.
Her hands trembled. She pulled off her underwear to reveal her neatly shaven sex. A flicker of pride rose in her at Preston’s intake of breath, emboldening her to remove her sweatshirt. Though the air in the greenhouse was heavy and thick, a shiver prickled her skin. She reached back to unfasten her bra.
And then she was naked. With Preston standing in front of her and her heart beating so fast and hard it felt like a bird frantically trying to escape its cage. She drew air into her tight lungs. Her nipples hardened in the humid air, and a slow, pulsing throb began between her legs.
He stood there, studying her body with the same intent scrutiny he’d used the first time she had walked into the plantation and been instructed to disrobe. Then he frowned.
“You’ve lost weight,” he remarked.
“My mother insisted upon it.”
Preston’s frown deepened to a scowl. “I don’t like it. Your body was made for curves. You’re flesh and blood, not bone.”
He stepped closer, reaching out to tuck his hands beneath her full breasts, as if testing their weight. Lydia trembled at his touch, as he pinched her nipples and flicked his thumb across them. It felt as if it had been years since a man had touched her, and Lydia’s whole body yielded to the sensation of his hands, the heat of his eyes, the tension beginning to lace his lean, muscular body.
He trailed his fingers down to cup her sex. His eyes gleamed with that feral light Lydia had learned to both fear and revel in.
“This I like,” he murmured, bending to flick his tongue against the corner of her mouth. “You’ve been keeping yourself bare for me, haven’t you, my dear?”
A buzzing noise filled Lydia’s head, making her suddenly dizzy. It made no sense. Why would she still want to shave herself every single day when she’d thought she would never see Preston, Gabriel, and Kruin again?
Since she couldn’t respond, she just closed her eyes and tried to breathe, tried not to feel Preston’s fingers dipping into her labia, squeezing her folds, his forefinger circling her sensitive clit. His touch was possessive, edged with ownership, as if he had every right to touch her for as long and as intimately as he wished.
Except that he no longer had that right. He had once, when she’d been in his debt. But now…?
Lydia’s thoughts tangled into a knotted mess until all she could do was shove them aside and feel Preston’s finger tickling her most vulnerable flesh. With a groan of surrender, she leaned back and parted her legs wider.
Preston chuckled, his breath brushing her forehead. “Ah, my hot little Lydia. One touch and you go up in flames.”
A blush burned Lydia’s skin, even though she couldn’t deny the truth of his words. She closed her eyes tighter as Preston’s lips moved to her ear, his erection pressing against her belly.
“Have you been diddling your sweet, wet pussy, my shameless slut?” he whispered obscenely. “At night, in bed, do you tuck your hand between your legs and rub yourself to orgasm? Do you fuck yourself with your own fingers, clenching around them as if they were my prick?”
He pushed two fingers into her. His teeth closed on her earlobe. Lydia gasped, her blood rising to a fever pitch.
“Show me,” Preston ordered.
Lydia tried to turn her face away, tried to resist, but her hips began to move almost of their own volition, her body craving the press of his fingers inside her, filling her, stretching her. Perspiration collected between her breasts, which swayed enticingly with every motion as she rocked her hips forward and thrust her body onto Preston’s fingers.
His breath rasped against her neck. He sank his teeth into the soft juncture where her neck met her shoulder. The scrape of his teeth jolted heat through Lydia, and she moaned softly as he circled his thumb around her clit and drove her arousal higher. She felt it, the swirl of heat and bliss dangling just beyond her grasp.
Just as she began to sink farther into the whirlwind of sensations, Preston pulled abruptly away from her. Lydia almost cried out with frustration, even as part of her was relieved that she hadn’t succumbed to orgasm, for she still, even now, felt the need to earn Preston’s consent.
Preston was breathing heavily, his eyes dark and hot. He rubbed the front of his trousers, against which the bulge of his erection pressed. When he ordered her to turn around, her heart jolted with trepidation.
She did, arching her body against the rough wood counter and spreading her legs wide. She lowered her head, wincing when her sensitive breasts pressed against the splintered wood, the hard edge digging into her belly.
She closed her eyes and breathed in the musky, heavy air of the greenhouse, imagining Preston staring lustfully at the curve of her back, the furrow of her buttocks, the spread lips of her sex. Again that unmistakable tingle of pride rose inside her at the knowledge that she was the object of his desire.
When his hand landed hard against her bottom, she jerked forward but managed to stifle her cry of surprise. A sting prickled her skin. She squeezed her eyes shut tighter and bit her lower lip. He spanked her again and again, a light but firm rhythm that painted a warm, rosy glow on her upturned cheeks.
Lydia pressed her forehead against the wood. Flashes of memory overtook her—how many times at the plantation had she bent over in this exact same position?
Her legs trembled as Preston struck her bottom again, then rubbed his palm over the heated flesh in a caress of surprising gentleness. She felt him move behind her and clutch her hips. Her whole body tensed in readiness for his penetration.
“Now,” he whispered, his voice guttural with lust while he slipped the knob of his erection over her slick folds. When he began pressing into her, easing his shaft into her taut channel, Lydia moaned, her fingers reaching for something to grip, for she knew this easy, slow stretching of her body would not last.
And it didn’t. He stilled only for a moment when he was fully embedded inside her. Then he dug his fingers into her hips and began to pump back and forth with quick, hard thrusts that pushed Lydia’s body against the rough table.
She gasped, reaching down to grab the edge of the counter again, arching her back to facilitate the acceptance of each immersion, her bottom stinging anew every time Preston’s stomach slapped against the sore flesh. Her mind swam with sensations and lust, intensifying every time Preston plunged into her, a coil of urgency wrapping around her loins. She dug her fingers into the wood and gritted her teeth to forestall the inevitable cascade toward rapture.
Then, without warning, Preston grabbed her waist and brought her to the ground. Lydia fell with a cry of shock—not from pain, but because the greenhouse floor was coated with a layer of cold, slimy mud and grit.
She scrabbled to get her bearings as Preston landed beside her with a grunt. Mud splattered
them both. Lydia lifted an arm to grasp the edge of the counter. Preston latched his hand around her wrist and started to pull her across the slippery floor. Panting, Lydia pushed away. Dirt caked her feet and arms. Fear lit inside her, along with the horrific indignity of finding herself naked on the dirty floor with mud streaking her skin.
Preston got to his knees, his heavy erection bobbing in front of him, his shirt filthy. That feral intensity was back in his eyes, making them gleam like sapphires as he crawled toward her. A touch of panic rose in Lydia’s throat. She scrambled backward, her hands and feet slipping on the slimy mud, her nose filling with the smells of damp, moldy earth.
Preston grabbed her ankle, pulling them closer together. Lydia’s breath burned her chest as she stared at him through the veil of hair that had fallen over her face. Even through the shock and renewed fear, she was painfully aware of the heat still firing her blood, the ache of unfulfilled need.
And then, because she couldn’t move, because there was nowhere to go, because she needed him to take her again like she needed her next breath, Preston was on top of her, pushing her legs apart and plunging inside her with a grunt of pleasure.
Lydia fell onto her back, her hair clotting with mud as she received the full force of his animalistic fucking. He gripped her thighs, holding her legs apart as he surged into her again and again, his body slamming against hers. Lydia parted her lips to draw in air, but didn’t close her eyes, wanting to see the lustful tension lining Preston’s frame, the burn of his eyes and the jostle of her dirt-streaked body beneath his.
He pulled out of her with a growl, grasping his compact stalk in his fist before spurting copiously over her shaven mons. Lydia shuddered in instinctive response, the thud of her heart filling her ears, her urgency so close to breaking that she would cry with relief if Preston deigned to allow her to achieve orgasm.
She hoped, she wished, she prayed…
Preston heaved in a breath and got to his feet, reaching to pull on his discarded trousers. He was as filthy as she was, his skin soiled with a combination of sweat and mud, his blond hair matted. He yanked up his trousers and shot her a cold look that made something shrivel in the center of Lydia’s heart.
