by Lily White
His hot breath was a wash between my thighs, sending a violent tremor up my body. Slowly, oh so fucking slowly, he ran his lips up the inside of my thigh, his teeth softly biting on the soaked skin when he reached the apex, his tongue flicking out to taste me. A cry of desperation tore from my lips, his palm slapping my ass to silence me. I bit my lip to keep from crying out again, the skin of my cheek blistering hot from how hard he’d struck me.
His tongue sunk inside my body, his thumb finding the entrance to my ass and as he worked me into a whimpering plaything, I came apart over the bed. Unable to stop from releasing the force of violent, implacable pleasure, a moan tore from my lips and filled the room despite pressing my face to the bed to silence it.
He stopped as suddenly as he’d began...until his teeth sank into the inside of my thigh, another cry forced from my lips to be met by the sound of his dark laughter.
A rush of cool air swept in when he pulled away, the room silent and still until the sound of rustling cloth was a whisper to my senses, another slap against my bottom splitting the air. Before I could move away, Vincent had trapped my thighs in his grip, shoving my legs up until my chest was pressed to the bed and I was presented for his pleasure.
With a long, hard thrust, he took what was his, possessing me, claiming me, marking me as his toy that could be wound up to dance for his amusement. There was no care or concern for the pain and pleasure I felt, no words spoken with love, no questions asked as to whether or not I could handle him. This was violence. This was cruelty. This was primal and raw. This was a man showing a woman who owned her.
Not one complaint fell from my lips. Not one argument or protest. And as tears leaked from my eyes to mingle with the moans from my lips, his pace sped, his hips pounding until he was deep inside, spilling his approval of my submission inside me.
Releasing me, he left me sated and spent over white sheets that covered the bed, and when I thought he’d gone to the bathroom so that he could clean up, I closed my eyes and waited for his return.
A return that never happened.
A return that had never been planned.
When I found the strength to push myself up and off the bed, I whispered Vincent’s name and crept through the rooms to find that his mask was gone and that the soft click of a door hadn’t been Vincent going into the bathroom like I thought, it had been the sound of him quietly leaving.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Faiville Prison, 4:57 pm
For the first time since Meadow had started the interview with Vincent Mercier - the last confession he would give before his death by lethal injection - the man who had so easily led the dance she’d entered, sat silent and remorseful.
It wasn’t that he’d said a word to her to express what he felt, it was that she could see a subtle shift in his expression, a soft bruising beneath his normally cutting stare that betrayed his exhaustion. Something she’d said when offering him Penny’s recollection of events had reached inside that cold, cruel body and touched the careless heart inside to set it beating again.
“I guess it’s my turn to tell you I’ve stopped talking and yet you’ve remained quiet. A promise is a promise, Vincent. It’s your turn to tell me what happened.”
Without lifting his gaze to meet hers, he attempted a smile, the effort lost when his eyes failed to reclaim their ever-present glimmer. “I’m wondering why you continued forward,” he admitted, his voice empty, without inflection. “The deal we’d made was for you to tell me her perspective up until that afternoon in the garden, yet you took us past the ball, to the moment -“
Voice trailing away, he shook his head, tracing his finger against the edge of the table. The silence of the room was cut through by the soft rattle of his chains. “Is that all she wrote about that night?” Eyes finally tipping up to capture hers, he asked, “Did she mention what she felt in her heart?”
No. Meadow hadn’t told him what she knew about that. She’d purposely avoided describing the adoration, the odd safety, the hopelessness of falling for a man Penny knew she could never have.
Penny’s entire being has been changed that night, an independent girl who’d accepted a master’s glass, drinking the poison offered to her in order to become a slave that would give him everything. Her heart. Her soul. Her life. So easily stolen by a man who’d been playing games. All for a bet, it seemed, which was why Meadow refrained from telling Vincent that, on the night he’d brought Penny Graham to life, he’d also destroyed her by quietly leaving.
“I think you know how she felt that night. You were there with her. You’d led her away from that ballroom in order to take the first bite...literally.” Pausing, Meadow wished she had a pen she could use to busy her hands, something she could spin or click, a distraction from the pain she was feeling. “Not to skip ahead, but you’d left your mark. The bruises you’d left behind disappeared before you felt the need to taste her again.”
It was that particular visual that changed Vincent’s expression, life bleeding back into the eyes of a sadist and murderer. Lips tipping up at the corners, he crooned, “I’ve left many marks, Meadow. Not just on Penelope, but on any woman that came to my bed. Nobody has ever complained.” When she didn’t answer, when her anger was plain on her face, Vincent leaned forward to whisper, “I’d leave them on you, too, ma belle , if my present situation didn’t prevent that from happening.”
“I would never let you touch me!”
His sly grin widened. “Wouldn’t you?”
Meadow wanted to rip the teasing note from his voice and shove it up his arrogant ass.
Smirking, he tsked his tongue and reminded her of her earlier question. “What did Penelope feel that night? Was it love?”
Irritated by his refusal to drop the subject, Meadow asked, “Why do you want to know? Won’t it just be another notch on your bedpost, another victory you so easily sweep aside along with the rest of the shattered hearts you’ve left in your wake?”
“It’s important to me,” he admitted, saying nothing more as to why Penny’s feelings that night mattered.
Giving in, only because she was curious about the reason Vincent cared, Meadow confessed, “It was the first stirring of love, at least until you left quietly without telling her, until you tortured her by keeping your distance for the weeks that followed.” Blinking away tears that threatened, ignoring the whispers of Penny’s pain, Meadow asked, “Were those weeks all part of your game?”
His jaw ticked just as the door to the interview room burst open, a male guard walking inside to announce, “It’s after five. You’ll need to conclude the interview for today.”
Irritation at the interruption felt like claws scraping down Meadow’s spine. Vincent said nothing as Meadow struggled to push to her feet, as she turned to stop the tape and gather her things. It wasn’t until she was walking to the door to be escorted from the room that Vincent spoke again.
“Tell me, Meadow, why did you go past the point of the story we agreed to? Why did you feel the need to tell me Penny’s perspective from the night of the ball?”
Standing in the doorway of the room, the guard waiting not-so-patiently in the hall, it was Meadow’s turn for a wry grin. “Because I knew that night was the first time you had her, it was the first time you conquered Penny and pierced her heart. I didn’t want to hear it from you at first. Didn’t want to listen to you brag. I plucked the moment from your hands, Vincent.” Meadow locked her stare with his. “I kept going so that I could steal your thunder.”
Vincent’s responsive smile matched hers, the guard’s hand wrapping over her bicep to lead her away.
“It’s a shame you see it that way, Meadow, because it wasn’t my thunder you stole, it was somebody else’s.”
Eyes widening, Meadow only had time to shout, “What are you talking about?” before the guard yanked on her arm and raised his voice in warning.
“It’s time to leave. Continue resisting and we won’t allow you to return for the next two days.”
Bringing his fingers to his lips, Vincent blew Meadow a kiss, the last thing she saw before she was dragged down the hall.
The last thing she heard was Vincent’s voice chasing her through the prison. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Meadow. Sleep well tonight.”
. . .
Meadow barely slept at all that night, her thoughts scattered, her body moving between the bed where she attempted to lie down and the table upon which sat the recorder she kept incessantly playing. Vincent’s voice haunted her, the secrets he had yet to reveal cutting scars into her mind, taunting.
It’s a shame you see it that way, Meadow, because it wasn’t my thunder you stole, it was somebody else’s...
His last statement was forcing her jaw to clench, punishing her teeth, as questions wouldn’t stop screaming, as puzzle pieces fell into place.
Was he toying with her as he had all the others? Or had there been more lies and secrets that blinded Penny despite her presence within the game?
Meadow didn’t know, her heart tearing open, her own secrets boiling to the surface, spilling over because they were too painful to contain.
By the time the first fingers of sunlight were scrabbling up the horizon to scratch at a midnight sky, Meadow remained seated at the table listening to a sadist weave his tangled web. She had to be at the prison in less than two hours, she had to force herself from her seat to get ready to begin the second day.
She showered and dried her long hair, putting it up per prison protocol even though she wanted to let it fall down her back in cascading, soft waves. Dressing with extraordinary care, she intended to seduce Vincent while staying within guidelines of what the prison would allow her to wear. They didn’t make it easy. No skirts, no embellishments, only shirts that weren’t revealing and pants that hid her legs. And while buttoning into place her white, long sleeved top, she knew she would loosen those closures once it was Vincent’s eyes that looked her way.
He spoke easier when beauty faced him, lost his tongue while luring a woman into his sordid games. She should have worn a sturdy bra beneath the top, but had chosen a loose, lacy camisole instead.
The drive to Faiville Prison was made in silence, the sky as dreary as it had been when she’d first arrived the prior day. Armed with the same recorder with fresh batteries and tapes, she walked the same scarred sidewalks from the parking lot to the front gates, flashing a professional smile at the guard who stood waiting to escort her in.
“Good morning,” she said, approaching the same exhausted guard she remembered.
“You came back,” he answered, somewhat surprised if his expression were any indication of his thoughts. “And here I thought Vincent would have chased you off on day one. You must be tougher than you look.”
Laughing softly, she allowed him to go through her things, to check her identification and papers although he knew her already. “Vincent’s not so bad,” she mentioned, desperate for something to say.
The guard shook his head, his lips a line of disapproval. “Yeah, tell that to his victims.” With a wave of his hand, he said, “This way. You should already know where we’re going. Vincent will be waiting in interview room three.”
After being escorted through to interview room three, Meadow discreetly unfastened a button, revealing more of her body so as to addle the mind of a man who wouldn’t be able to look away. If there was one thing she knew about Vincent, it was that a pair of shapely breasts could loosen his tongue before he realized what he was saying.
His gaze trapped hers as soon as she stepped into the room, his green eyes beaming above an white jumpsuit, his shackles rattling as he settled himself into his seat and allowed himself a few moments to survey her body with unhidden approval.
The door slammed shut behind her.
“Good morning, Meadow.” Canting his head to the side, Vincent ran the tip of his lying tongue along his lower lip. “Are you going to set up your recorder and take a seat, or are we going to spend the day simply staring at one another?”
Meadow’s heels clicked across the scuffed, concrete floors as she approached the table. After setting up her recorder, she took her seat opposite Vincent, her hands folding demurely over the surface of the table. “What did you mean it was somebody else’s thunder?”
Laughter burst from his lips, the sound rolling and expanding until it had filled every tiny nook and cranny of the room where they sat. “Did that keep you up last night?” He paused, his smile triumphant. “Meanwhile, I slept like a baby.”
“Quid pro quo, Vincent. I told you Penny’s perspective, now you owe me yours. I want to know what happened the night of the masquerade ball, whose thunder it was that I stole.”
Tsking, he rolled his shoulders. “Such a demanding voice from such a small woman. That turns me on, you know?”
She scoffed, “And here I thought it was a helpless woman that turned you on the most.”
“Not helpless,” he corrected her, “submissive. There’s a difference.”
She wouldn’t take the bait, so he explained his meaning without Meadow bothering to ask. “A helpless woman has no say in how I treat her. She can’t fight or bargain her way out of the pain. A submissive woman on the other hand...”
He flared his fingers adding emphasis to his words. “A submissive woman simply accepts the treatment she’s given. She thanks her master for every strike, every bite, every punishment and every slap. She begs for more of the rough treatment, much like Penelope did when she learned to behave.”
His words couldn’t have cut deeper, even if he’d used a hatchet instead of a scalpel.
Palm slapping down on the surface of the table, Meadow answered, “Your perspective of that night, Vincent. You owe it to me.”
“And I’ll give it to you. All good things come to those who wait.”
Leaning forward, she spoke through clenched teeth. “I’ve waited long enough and we’re running out of time.”
Smiling, he leaned toward her, closing the distance. “Actually, Meadow, our time has just started, but I’ll give in to this demand of yours because I already had my fun yesterday when you left. I knew my words would keep you up all night.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Vincent
Staying away from Penelope following our meeting in the garden was far more difficult than it should have been. I was a man acclimated to handling women, a seducer who had grown tired of the easy games, yet with that particular woman I couldn’t quite rid myself of a constant question of whether or not she’d accept my invitation and take me to her bed.
Seeing her in the halls of Wishing Well wasn’t easy, watching her as she pushed her housekeeping cart, and spent her time polishing and sweeping, her heart shaped ass bouncing with every step and every swipe of cloth on some soiled surface. It amused me far too much when I’d pass by and see her eyes tracking my path, the shy smiles she gave me that I never returned. It was always more fun to keep a woman guessing.
To pass those days without giving in to my need to taste her, I spent some time visiting my other hotels and properties that would never bring me as much joy as Wishing Well. Several nights, I’d taken different women to bed when I wasn’t within easy view of a young woman still making up her mind. None of those women could please me. They were too easy. Too greedy. Too experienced for what I had in mind.
Only Penelope would satisfy that craving inside me, only her wide eyes, her startled gasps, her introduction into a lifestyle that would test her every boundary and make her mine.
One day remained before the night of the ball and I was seated at my desk in my office at Wishing Well when my door popped open and John peeked his head inside. “Do you have a minute to talk?”
“Is there a problem?” I asked, my eyes focused on financial documents that were giving me a massive headache.
“It’s Maurice,” he stated calmly as he shut the door behind him. “He’s chased off another counselor.”
Sitting back in my seat, I released a heavy si
gh. “Is the counselor injured in any way?”
John shook his head, “No. This one didn’t get close enough for Maurice to touch, but before leaving the hotel, she told me that Maurice was demanding to speak to you. She claimed he was complaining that he hasn’t been let out of the basement for over a week. He’s refused to work with anybody until you go down to see him.”
Pinching the skin between my eyes, I clenched my teeth. After the night in the garden when Penelope found both Maurice and I near the well, I’d been avoiding my brother. He was adamant that I give him Penelope as if she were some gift, but I refused to surrender the girl just so he could destroy her as easily as he had others. “I’ll go see him, John. Thank you for letting me know.”
Inclining his head, John left without saying another word. I spent several minutes in the silence of my office before finding the strength to leave my seat and head down to the basement to face my brother.
Stepping into the entryway that was as dark and elegant as a rich man’s tomb, I noticed the lights had been turned off for the sake of the flame sconces, the dancing shadows cutting across Maurice’s face where he sat on the brown leather sofa waiting for me.
“I want her,” he barked, taking no time to jump back to the last argument we’d had following that night in the garden.
Patiently, I responded, “I’ve already told you, she’s not that type of girl. You’ll end up killing her when she fights back. I can’t afford to lose another employee, Maurice. The bodies are stacking up.”
Rage twisted his expression. “Her,” he said simply, refusing to listen to anything I was saying.
Leaning a shoulder against the wall, I stared at him, careful not to show my frustration. He took what he considered to be rejection too close to heart and could react without thinking. “This is why I haven’t taken you up to the garden for a week. You’ll need to let her go. How can I trust you not to make a scene if you won’t even calm down while in your cage? You chased another counselor away.”
