“No, you will answer this, right now. I do trust you, but I have to know what you mean.” Apparently I couldn’t give a damn that it’s Christmas anymore. I just want this endless backwards and forwards to end, and my fucking headache to go. I need to get on with it so that we’re all comfortable, together or separately. The games end, now. He starts to leave the room, so I follow him out, towel wrapped around me. “Don’t you fucking dare walk away from me.” Happy sodding Christmas. Let’s do this full-on, shall we? Who the fuck does he think he is? He swings his eyes back to mine, and they’re scowling. It seems he’s suddenly as pissed as me.
“Watch your tone, Elizabeth,” he sneers.
“Why? Fuck you... You put me through the shit you have done, and then you dismiss my questions when I try to deal with you? Seriously, screw you. I am tired of not understanding your brain. When were you thinking of discussing this with me? Ten minutes before you disappeared into your oblivion and left me in the hands of another sadist who more than likely couldn’t care less about my welfare? I deserve more than that.” I can see the fury building in him, see his fists clenching and his eyes hardening as he tries to hold it back. Fuck him. If I’m the only one who’ll question his orders, then so be it. That’s what love is, and he’s going to have to deal with me.
“Stop this. It isn’t the time for it. I’ll answer when I’m ready to.”
“You’ll damn well answer me now. I will not be-” One hand immediately yanks me towards the bed. It happens so quickly I don’t even realise it until I’m pinned and turned onto my front. Without warning, his hand comes down on my arse with such force that I squeal out a yelp and try to move away. Not a hope. He keeps me still and delivers another, then another. Heat and pain radiate across my thighs and backside until I’m panting and trying to distract myself from the fact that it feels incredible, delicious, and yet frighteningly hard. Another comes down and I hear the grunt of satisfaction behind me as he pinches roughly at the exact spot he’s just hit and then drives home another slap. “Stop, please,” I cry out almost automatically, as the pain intensifies. My eyes start to water with tears but there’s no denying the ache that’s once again building inside. I need that, more of it. He flips me over with ease and wrenches one of my legs back to my shoulder, knee bent and pinned to the mattress by his weight. Those piercing eyes have been replaced by the monster inside him, sending all those confused signals flying around within me. There’s no point in struggling, no point trying to get away from him so I just stare with wide eyes into black holes of lust and gulp in thin breaths as his thumb pushes down on my throat a little, his throat. I’m not worried or nervous. I’m strangely relaxed in his grip, given the beating he’s just given me. I feel safe somehow, regardless of the scratching of his jeans against my now heated and sore skin. He tilts his head a little and watches me with interest, as if surveying something he’s never seen before.
“I won’t be there with you, Elizabeth. I won’t care, and he knows that. I will do this, and far worse. I will use anything I can to hurt you, or him. I will feel every second of your pain and push you for more of it. Without him, when it’s just us, I can control it. With him, I won’t want to. Do you understand that?” he says, squeezing his fingers tighter and moving his other hand across my stomach. “Your brittle little neck could crumble, you could be ripped open, you will be filled with pain, and unless you do as you’re damn well told, you’re not going to love me much at the end of it.” I’m sure he feels the gulp of nerves in my throat at his words. He is, after all, holding it in his hand.
“I...” I manage to squeeze out of my mouth, but there are no words to follow. For the first time, I finally get what he’s trying to tell me. He won’t be there to look after me, and presumably doubts Pascal will either. What feels like two fingers slowly insert themselves inside me, and the moan that leaves my lips is consuming. I’m so ready. How the hell does he make me feel like this when he’s being so malicious? Is it that that I don’t understand more than him? Is it my need for it that I can’t fathom?
“I’m a sadist,” he growls out proudly, for the first time as his fingers begin stroking in and out. It’s yet another moment of me falling hopelessly in love, another moment of pure honesty from him. He’s not hiding anything from me; he’s just being what he is and hoping I’ll cope with him. “I want your pain. I want to have you begging me to stop, and I love you. Can you possibly imagine how scared I am of destroying you?” If I could smile without the need to pant for air, I probably would. What a lovely thing to say in the midst of manhandling me. I am so fucked up. I think I may be as bad as he is. And all I can feel is his butchering hand slowly drawing me to orgasm while my inner slut reminds me how much I want this, need it. There’s nothing frantic about his movements, nothing aggressive really. It’s almost loving as he holds me there with deadened eyes and clearly depraved thoughts. I twitch my head around to get some air.
“I’m not scared of you,” I pledge. I’m not. He will stay with me even if he can’t see that yet. He could leave me now. I can see it in his eyes, but he’s still looking after me, isn’t he? Still giving me what I need from him. He wouldn’t have fought so hard to keep me if he wanted to destroy me, would he? “Let me up.” He doesn’t, just keeps those fingers driving forward, deeper, bliss, torture. Oh God, I could come so easily. Just a few more twists of his hand and I could explode around them, but I have a point to prove in this moment. “Alex, let me up, now.” His hand stills a little but his grip on my throat is still relentless. “I love you. Let me up.”
“Why?” he replies as he pushes another finger in and drags his thumb across my clit. In, out, round and round, rubbing, more pressure. Yes. My back arches into his hand as the moan leaves my mouth and gives him all the power again. I so want him to do it, just take me and let me forget this need to understand him, make my mind go quiet like Pascal’s must. Somewhere in my muddled brain, I grab hold of the need to show him again and back away from his fingers. I will show him he loves me, that he can stay in control of himself when the time comes.
“No, let me up,” I pant out as I push on his stomach muscles through his soaking wet shirt. He slowly pulls his fingers out and smirks a little as I rapidly scoot away, for some reason absolutely bereft at the loss of his fingers. Get a grip.
“Where do you think you’re going?” he says as I reach the other side of the bed and get to my feet. Christ, my arse hurts.
“I have a point to prove,” I reply. He just stands there, looking at me with amused eyes. Where the hell have they come from? I’m still very confused.
“Which is?”
“That you will listen when I need to be heard.” He chuckles and snatches the towel off the floor to throw it at me.
“Hmm,” he says as he walks out of the bedroom. What the hell? I’m pretty sure we were just in the middle of a reasonably important conversation. Am I going to have to talk to Pascal about this instead? Jesus. God, my head hurts, too. I rub at my arse and wince at the tender area around it. He’s suddenly at the door again with a smile on his face and his hands behind his back. I grab the towel because God knows what he’s about to do. He gets to about three foot in front of me and flicks his eyes at the floor. He wants me down there. I stare back at him in defiance. “Did we not just have a talk about you doing as you’re told?” Bastard. “Down you go.” I narrow my eyes in response and continue my glare of superiority. “I could make you...” He doesn’t bother with the ending. What’s the point? I huff out a breath and sink down onto the carpet, noticing all the wet patches from his sodden clothes all over the floor. He takes a step forward and puts a small white box in front of me. “Merry Christmas.”
Oh my god, he suddenly wants to do Christmas?
“Could you be any more bloody confusing? We were just fighting.” He smirks at me, those blue eyes now sparkling again with amusement, and then crouches down.
“The supreme art of war is to subdue the enemy without fighting, Sun Tzu, which
you just tried, and won in a roundabout way, I suppose. Well done. Very clever. Open your present.”
“I...” I don’t even understand what that means. Did I? Great, yes, well done, me. Although I thought I was just proving that he loved me enough. “I’m not your enemy, Alex.”
“Far from it, Miss Scott. Now, present. Come on. We have work to do.” Okay. There’s no way we’re making lunch for my family. Are Chinese takeaways open on Christmas Day? I hope so. I slowly unwrap the box and lift the lid only to find another smaller box. My eyes shoot back to his because that looks suspiciously like a ring box. “If I was going to ask you that, do you really think I’d do it here, or spank your misbehaving arse before doing so?” Christ knows, to be honest, and what’s wrong with here anyway? But at least he’s clarified the point.
My hand shakily lifts the lid and my hand flies to my mouth. I thought I’d seen the most exquisite diamonds in my life before now, thought there would never be anything more beautiful than my necklace and bracelet. I was wrong, because the utterly breathtaking ring that’s twinkling back at me has me gaping in response. That’s all I’ve got, a gaping mouth and no words. It’s a replica of my bracelet. The banding is exactly the same, and its clearly part of the matching set, but the main baguette stones are huge. I don’t know what I expected for Christmas, but this wasn’t it. I just continue to stare at it as if it may morph into something less stunning if I remove my eyes from it. “Are you going to put it on at some point?”
“I can hardly stuff my hand up a turkey’s arse with that on,” I reply. Frankly, just the thought of wearing it terrifies me. He laughs out loud and falls back onto his backside while still shaking in hilarity.
“Only you would say something like that. What have I done to deserve you?” He chuckles as he pulls it from the box and raises a brow, almost as if he’s asking me which hand I want to hold out to him. Given that he just said he wasn’t asking, I go to lift my right hand. “Are you sure?” he cuts in. What? Is he asking me now? He will not fuck around with asking me to marry him. He’s right. He’ll do it properly, if he ever does, that is. I raise my right hand further up and hold it out to him. He nods knowingly with a smile and gently pushes the diamonds along my finger. Of course it slides on perfectly. It doesn’t surprise me in the slightest that he knows my ring size. Andrews probably dusted my finger for size specifications, too. Arsehole.
“I don’t know what to say.”
“Don’t then. Get ready. You can show me how appreciative you are later, after I’ve done battle with your father.” That’s a fair point, given the fact we haven’t made Christmas lunch. What time is it anyway? It seems I still don’t care because I can’t stop admiring my ring and sitting on the floor. Beautiful just doesn’t cover it at all. “Up you get,” he says as he offers me a hand – very gentlemanly I’m sure. I stare at it for a moment, remembering what that same hand did to my backside just a few minutes ago, and then back at my ring.
“We have a lot of things to talk about still. I’m not letting any of this go. I want to know everything,” I say as I take his hand and he yanks me to him.
“And you will, as much as you want, just not today. Today we do Christmas, your way.”
“Okay.” Yes, Christmas.
Having showered ourselves again, I watch him leave and set to with donning some clothes. I choose a rich green, long sleeved silk dress and throw my hair up into a messy bun, which, quite ironically, has the exact opposite effect and looks like I’ve just stepped out of the salon. I’m getting good at this looking elegant thing. It appears the rich life is rubbing off on me, as did Mr. White himself less than an hour ago. I laugh to myself at the thought as I touch up the foundation around my bruised neck and run my final layer of brown lipstick on. I wouldn’t want Daddy seeing those in a hurry. As I hit the bottom step, I hear Alex singing in the kitchen. Singing? And Christmas carols, no less. Bing Crosby doesn’t have a thing on Alex, it seems. I can’t stop the images of family Christmases running through my mind as I walk along the hall and envisage two small children laughing and chasing each other about. I run my thumb over my shiny new ring and sniff back a small tear that’s threatening at the very thought. Marriage, children, a real life with a man who’s no longer hiding from me, just being himself and letting me find my way through his layers, bit by bit. I still haven’t asked him if he wants children. Well, there’s no time like the present, I suppose.
“Alex, we’ve never talked about…” Oh, holy shitballs. Everything is done, and I mean everything. I just freeze in the doorway and gaze around the kitchen at the array of chopped and prepared food that’s engulfing the pristine white surfaces. When the hell did he do this? He’s bloody well smirking at me. I don’t even have to look at him to know he’s doing that. I can see the tea towel over his shoulder as I watch him moving towards me out of the corner of my eye. I’d love to be unimpressed, but I can’t. How? When? Why?
“No need for hands up arses, I’ve done that bit,” he says. I’d quite like a hand up my arse if I’m honest. I can’t believe I thought that.
“When did you do all this?” I mumble out as I sweep my fingers over the endless jars of sauces and packaging.
“You needed to sleep, and I needed something to do to take my mind off things. The spanking also helped with that,” he replies as he grabs two bottles of red wine and walks straight past me into the hall.
“Where are you going now?”
“Dining Room. Bake something.”
“What?” I call after him.
“I don’t do cakes or deserts. Make a cake.” Oh right, yes. My cake. Have I got time to make a cake? The doorbell rings. Obviously not. Shit. I spin on my heels and launch myself at the cupboards to see if I can at least knock something up in time. Scanning quickly, I find everything I need for a take on Christmas pudding, maybe, ish. It’ll have to do. Just as I throw the flour into the mixing bowl, I hear Conner’s laughter sweeping along the hall and smile to myself at his family. Conner’s the only one really. Evelyn may be related, but I’m still not comfortable with her.
“Sticky fingers, dude.” He says as he whistles his way around the kitchen. “Jesus, you’ve been busy, Beth.”
“Not me,” I giggle out as I mix furiously and tip the sugar in. “I’ve been sleeping.” And being spanked for being a naughty girl. “Pass the eggs, please.” I nod at the top cupboard and watch him reach for them.
“I thought Mary went home for Christmas?” he questions as he passes them over. Alex comes in behind him, holding a bottle of Champagne and some glasses.
“She does,” he says.
“Where’s Belle?” I ask.
“Sorting her lips out. Who did all the cooking then?”
“Him, the love of my life.” I smile over my shoulder at Alex and watch those blue eyes crinkle back at me as he pops the champagne elegantly and pours. I return to my furious mixing and giggle at the thought of those hands half an hour ago. Would I have it any other way? Absolutely not. I’ll never deal with dull again, not in this household anyway.
Chapter 20
Alexander
C hristmas, at home. She couldn’t possibly imagine what this meant to him.
He watched as she gave Belle a tour of the house. She guided her around with boundless enthusiasm as if she’d decorated and prepared every room herself, as if it were made just for her. It was, even if he hadn’t realised it at the time. She was his reason to live. She was the explanation for every breath he would take for the rest of his life.
Elizabeth White. He pondered the thought for the thousandth time as he moved across the room and waited for the doorbell to ring again. This time it would be her parents. She could have said yes upstairs. She could have accepted his offer, but he knew she wouldn’t. She’d want it all, wouldn’t she? She’d want the whole proposal, not a quick spanking and then a quiet what do you think? And she’d probably get it one day, when they were both ready. She’d get everything just the way she needed it to be. H
e chuckled at the thought of marriage again and wandered over to throw another log on the fire.
“You scared?” Conner asked from the chair, now on his fourth glass of Champagne. What the hell sort of question was that? His phone beeped in his pocket so he swiped it out and trawled through an email about the rising cost of shipping transference, then another about some delay in the legal department.
“That’s a very unlikely thing for me in any circumstance,” he replied shortly, trying to distract himself from the very thought.
“Yeah, but Christ, man, her parents for Christmas? At what point did you think that was a good call? I’ve never even met them.”
“She loves her parents. I want them to like us.” Fucking emotions, still addling him and telling him he wasn’t good enough. He fucking was, should be, could be at the very least.
“Us? You talking me and you, or you and her?” Conner replied, laughing at his own joke.
“Everyone likes you.” No one liked him, not the real him. Only three people even knew the real him existed, and their opinions couldn’t be trusted because they loved him, for whatever reason. He watched Conner smile his typically arrogant ‘of course they do’ smile and reach for the bottle again. “Stop drinking so much. You’ll make a dick of yourself,” he said as he put his phone away and fiddled with his cufflinks. Fiddled? For fuck’s sake, he was as nervous as a hormonal teenager, again. This shit had to stop. He’d met them before and it was fine. He took in a deep breath and pulled at the collar of his shirt to loosen the restriction, not that there was any there. Dad. Daddy. Bastard father. He’d been hearing the bastard’s voice in the back of his mind all morning.
“Worthless little boy, useless, tedious. You’ll never amount to anything. Look at your puny little body. You’re weak, Nicholas. You disgust me. Christmas? There’s no Santa Claus for little shits like you. You don’t deserve anything nice. Why would he come for you? Why would anybody come for you?”
Absorbing White Page 33
