Paradise: The Masters of The Order Novel Two

by Verne, Jillian

  “Kiss me, Jacques.”

  “Oh, I plan to,” he ran his cheek against her thigh, “but you know what they say, Paradis. A kiss should be slow.”

  Isabella’s breath caught at the words and her chin rose with the arch of her pleading body.

  Jacques looked at the woman laid across his kitchen table. He hadn’t lied to Jerard. With her he was different. There would be no demands, no orders. He wanted to give this unique creature nothing but pure, unadulterated bliss. He wanted to satisfy her every fantasy. Fulfill her every need. And that would fulfill him. If Isabella ever truly belonged to him, he would be complete.

  He raised her foot to his shoulder and moved between her legs, rubbing the stubble on his jaw over the smooth, tender flesh on the inside of her thigh, then soothing the rawness left behind with a trail of light kisses. She moaned, her legs opening wider, and he repeated the attention on the other leg. When he scraped his chin from her bottom to her belly, she cried out in delirious expectation.

  Jacques fought to resist his urgency to taste her and let his hand bask in the paradise of her female perfection first. Two fingers stroked the thick flesh of her secret lips and her whole body undulated over the table in a sensuous wave. Isabella always moved with a certain sensuality, but when she was aroused, every part of her joined in the erotic dance. Her toes pointed, her hips rolled, her hands cupped her breasts.

  Beautiful. Breathtakingly beautiful.

  He fondled her folds, stroking the silky skin and the little puff of red hair on the top of her mound. He was glad she wasn’t completely bare. The lovely strip of red marked the threshold to paradise. He’d never let her remove it.

  She swelled and reddened beneath his persistent touch, adding the melody of soft feminine noises to her dance. He pressed into her luscious femininity, drawing her wetness out and letting it coat his fingers before one slippery tip moved lower and tickled over her back entrance. She shuddered in unexpected delight.

  “Has anyone ever touched you here, Isabella?”

  The sound she made was incoherent, but he was certain the answer was no.

  His finger stole into the tight clasp and she gasped. Smashing barriers with this type of invasion might be too much, too fast, but he couldn’t stop himself. That bit of virginity was a treasure beyond anything he’d hoped for and it was his. When nothing about her said she wanted him to stop, he went deeper. And deeper still as her body danced over the table.

  The vibrant reality of the woman laid out before him stripped his control. Brute hands spread her wider. He pressed his tongue into the tight rosette before licking up her core and plunging into her silk, thrusting his tongue as deep as possible. It wasn’t enough. It would never be enough. He could never get deep enough inside of her. She cried out with ecstasy as his fingers worked her tight ring, moving in time with an impassioned French kiss to her sex.

  “Maintenant, Paradis.”

  His tongue moved over the little hood covering her clit. Drawing the swollen nub between his lips, he sucked and thrust his fingers farther into her ultratight channel.

  “Dios mío, Jacques. Mon Dieu, Jacques. Oh, my God, Jacques!" She screamed his name and came in a glorious wave of trilingual spasms.

  He kept on, pushing her through the climax, keeping her suspended in the ecstasy he wanted to give her and savoring the satisfaction of feeling the hard release ripple through her succulent body.

  When his passionate angel stopped shuddering and moaning and writhing, he stood. His cock pressed tight in his pants, begging for release. Begging to find solace in her velvet heat. But he held himself back, wanting to prolong the sublime intimacy of having her, pliant and sated and glowing with what he’d done to her. Giving her a moment to think about what he could do to her.

  He laid his body over hers and breathed her in, her natural perfume intoxicating, then kissed her lips, putting her taste onto her tongue and letting her know just how delicious she was. She sucked him in and his hands thrust into her hair to hold her close.

  Chest to chest. Lips to lips. Soul to soul.

  As he kissed her, he felt her passion flare. Her hands grabbed at him, pulling him closer, then pressing on his shoulders as if to push him away, but the wet pulls of her mouth never wavered. It was almost a desperation, as if Isabella feared the loss of his touch as much as the touch itself. As if she needed respite from him as much as she hungered for him.

  A knowing smile crossed his lips as he devoured her. Poised on the brink of a true surrender, Isabella’s lust mingled with love, the intensity frightening her, and that only made him want her more. He used his hands, his tongue, his body to draw her in, stir her natural instincts and dominate her until the last shred of resistance fell away. When he broke the seal of his lips, she jerked forward to close the gap between them, her body quivering and straining, her eyes wet with tears.

  “Shhh. Shhh.”

  His thumbs ran over her temples to soothe her and she stared with a look of wonder. Those chocolate eyes held everything he wanted to see: a mixture of adoration and awe, vulnerability with a trace of fear, and desire. Desire for what only he could give.

  "You belong to me."

  Finally freeing himself, he eased into her and made them one. Even slicked and ready from release, her body struggled to accept him while those eager hands pulled him closer. He pushed deeper and deeper still, holding her eyes as he possessed her body and mind. Each slide was tender, measured. There would be no force, no pain in his possession of this woman. He stroked in and out with infinite patience until his entire girth and length found a home inside of her.

  He held her gaze and went still. They fit it each other perfectly. Nothing was between them. He was raw, exposed. She felt it too. He could see it in her face, feel it in her body.

  In all his years, he’d never experienced passion like this. It swept away the darkness and carried him into the light. He began to thrust gently, unprepared for the way this lovemaking would transform him. It ripped him apart at the seams. With each caress, the fiery, compassionate woman beneath him tore him to pieces, until emotion unlike any he’d ever known, nearly brought him to tears.

  Isabella belongs to me. And I belong to her. My destiny. My paradise.

  His eyes burned with unshed tears. He wanted to speak, but knew if he opened his mouth, the dam would burst. Looking into her eyes, he tried to tell her how he felt with his body, letting the intensity of their connection spiral through them as he made love to her. When the tears started to roll down his cheeks, his lips parted to release the words he could no longer hold inside.

  “I’ve searched for you, waited so long to find my destiny. I love you, Paradis. I love you forever.”

  Her next word shattered his soul.

  *****

  It was too much. Jacques invaded everything. Her body. Her mind. Her heart. Her soul. How did she think she could shut him out, love him one last time and not let him in? He was everywhere, binding her to him with a magnetism beyond comprehension. Her mind struggled through his possession desperate for retreat, for safety from the terrifying truth blazing in those copper eyes.

  Isabella didn’t have to hear Jacques say he loved her. She already knew.

  And she knew something else. She loved him too. Wholly, completely and forever. She found herself opening her mouth to say words better left unspoken, then closed her lips and laid her head back on the table.

  Forever won’t be long enough.

  The word cut her throat as she said it. “Blue.”

  *****

  “No!”

  Jacques fell back. That word, that curse, shot through his heart and sent his body and mind reeling.

  Isabella sat up and moved toward him. “I have to leave, Jacques. I can’t stay...”

  The words sliced through his skin, ripping open his chest to expose the heart that beat for the woman who was about to kill him.

  “…It’s not you, it’s me…”

  The syllables ran together as h
is mind tried to shut out their meaning. He fell to his knees unable to hold his body up under the weight of his panic. She shot to his side, knelt and wrapped her arms around him.

  She can’t do this. I still have a few days to convince her to stay. To show her that she holds my life in her hands.

  If he lost the ability to look at her, to wake up next to her every day, to feel her body next to his, he would die. He let his vulnerability to her humble him and for the first time in his life, begged for mercy.

  “Please, don’t do this, Isabella. Please.”

  Tears streamed down her face, but instead of offering compassion, she destroyed him. “I’m sorry, Jacques.”

  With three simple words, she utterly destroyed him.

  His life line snapped, leaving the man in love dead in its wake. He jerked free of her wicked embrace and shot to his feet, the anguish of her rejection like venom pouring through his veins. She was mocking him with her tears. Emasculating him with her platitudes. Violence rose from the ashes of his love for her and revived the beast at his core. Only now the beast was colder, meaner and lusted for her pain.

  He slapped Isabella hard across the face. She fell onto the floor, fear filling her eyes. He loomed above her, sucking delight at the red mark marring that pretty cheek.

  “Sorry. You think you can leave me with a simple apology?” The voice was an inhuman growl. “Words can’t repay what you’ve taken from me.”

  He pushed her down when she tried to sit. Blocked her path when she tried to crawl away. “This is not a game, Isabella. You will honor the rules and finish what we’ve started.”

  A voice in his mind screamed for him to stop. To find some compassion where she had none. To follow the rules himself. He’d given her the power to end this with one cursed word, but his need for vengeance allowed him to ignore that. To refuse the frightened girl at his feet an escape from his wrath. She rewrote the rules when she denied him compassion and she would feel his pain burn into her skin for what she’d done.

  She may leave, but she would never forget.

  “Offer me an even exchange, Isabella. My pain for yours.” He leaned over, and drawing near to her ear, said, “Say yes, Isabella.” The command was an icy dagger aimed at her heart.

  She hung her head. “Yes, Jacques.”

  He pulled her to a stand, her naked body quivering. “Remember, you did this to yourself.”

  *****

  Jacques dragged her by the hand into his study and left her standing in the middle of the floor.

  Isabella stood, shaking and silent, while he stepped away and opened the closet door. Part of her wanted the floor to swallow her up, but she owed him this. She’d taken his heart; she would not take his pride. Jacques didn’t explain what he would do, but she understood. An even exchange. Her pain for his. She would offer her penance and then walk away.

  Drawing a deep breath, he circled around her and stared, his entire concentration on her body. He was different from the time before and she knew why. This time, he was punishing her. Remembering his words about punishment, she tried to find solace in them. To a man like Jacques, punishment was a form of care. Maybe the physical pain was meant to snuff the pain in her heart at what she’d done to him.

  With a practiced flick of the wrist, Jacques slapped the cane against the arm of the chair next to her, testing it. The harsh crack echoed in the small room and she struggled to keep her composure.

  “Repeat after me, Isabella,” he snapped her name with ferocious challenge. The first lash came like hard fire against the front of her thighs just above the knees as he sneered, “I’m sorry, sir.” Then another landed with brutal precision across the back of her legs.

  The pain was caustic, burning into her skin, far more devastating than she’d expected. A guttural cry ripped from her throat, “I’m sorry, Jacques.”

  “No,” he roared and hit her again. She felt his ire flow through the cane as he repeated the cruel words. “I’m sorry, sir. Say it!”

  Her lips pressed tight. She would scream her apology one thousand times, but she would never call him “sir.” Their love affair might be over, but she would never deny the intimacy they’d shared. Her pain for his, but she couldn’t let him lock her on the other side of the wall.

  More blows. More screams. Until everything was replaced by hissing breath and the unholy whistle of the cane cutting through the air. Again and again. Layering precise lines up and down her body. One across the back of her, its mirror image across the front. He hit her thighs, her bottom, her belly, her back. Around and around and around. Faster and faster until she couldn’t differentiate the blows. Jacques showed no mercy, no pity, as he escalated the violence with each touch of the cane.

  Her body writhed in agony. The sting of the blows blended with the throb of the welts until Isabella burned with despair. There was no care in this, no benevolent purpose behind this cruelty. She’d been wrong. Her punishment wasn’t meant to snuff the pain in her heart.

  It was meant to break it.

  She dropped to her knees, her head falling to the floor between her arms, and wailed into the carpet, “I’m sorry, sir!”

  The cane landed with a soft thud next to her head. Swollen eyes watched through a veil of sweat-soaked red hair as Jacques turned his back and walked out of her life.

  14

  Scary Roads

  Jacques sat on the edge. The edge of the terrace and the edge of his sanity. The world had spun free of his control, leaving him frozen on the brink. He’d lost control of Jerard. Lost control of Isabella. And worst of all, lost control of himself.

  There was no majesty in the sea. No beauty in the fading sun. No shine in the rising moon. His world was black and in that horrible moment of crushing solitude, he understood why. The darkness emanated from inside of him. It poisoned the light. Jerard’s light. Isabella’s light. His world would always be dark.

  The words he’d believed in all his life took on a new meaning in Isabella’s wake. They weren’t a promise. They were a curse meant to create a vast, unquenchable longing for a destiny he would never possess. A punishment for the sin of his very existence. The epiphany put him somewhere beyond anger, beyond feeling. It did to him what he had done to so many others.

  It broke him.

  *****

  One hour.

  It had taken no more than one hour and Isabella was packed up, shuttled into a car and ejected from Jacques Meszaros’s life; the beautiful fantasy shattered into a thousand shards like crystal thrown against stone.

  She wanted to hate him. Realmente. Muy realmente. Hardcore or not, how could a person do that to another human being? For pleasure. For punishment. For any reason. The savagery was unfathomable. She cried through the entire trip back to Paris, disillusioned, ashamed and in unbearable pain. But the physical pain paled in comparison to the painful truth. It had taken Jacques exactly four days - ninety-six hours - and she was completely and indelibly his. Nothing he had done changed that and no amount of hours or days or miles would either.

  Jacques Meszaros was gone from her life, but never from her heart.

  As angry as she was at him, she was more angry with herself. Jacques warned her. She played with fire and she got burned. So cry me a river. The entire fiasco in Monaco, from start to horrifying finish, was her fault and she knew it. She would never forgive herself for what she’d done to him. As for the ending, she did what she had to do and now she had to move on.

  And here I am, playing with fire again.

  Jacques played with her heart. The man she was meeting today was playing with her life. Dr. Boucher was one of the finest doctors at the Institut and that meant one of the finest in the world. Had she not been on staff, it would have taken months to get a consultation with him, if at all. She should be grateful. Instead, she was terrified.

  Dr. Boucher's office was sterile, efficient. No personal pictures. No knick knacks. No reprieve from the medical. A series of framed certificates and awards chronicled his
accomplishments. Walls of books, neat stacks of papers, two computer screens, the space told her everything she needed to know. This man was an intellectual dedicated to his profession; his office, a place for study and serious contemplation. Instead of comforting, the thought made her more afraid. Dr. Boucher would be cold, unfeeling, indifferent to her fate. She was another data point. A statistic. A lab rat.

  The doctor entered and extended his hand. White coat, bow tie, silver framed glasses, grey hair. Ah, sí. The quintessential intellectual. Everything about his demeanor supported her assessment until he spoke.

  “Are you prepared to fight?” The clipped tone caught her completely off guard. When she didn’t answer, he repeated the question.

  “Yes, I think so,” she replied weakly.

  “You think so? We are talking about cancer here, aren’t we?”

  “What?”

  “You have cancer, Isabella.”

  There was no emotion in her voice as she answered, “I know.”

  “And you’re not mad as hell about that?”

  “I, um…”

  “Because I’m angry, Isabella. I’m fucking livid. I’ve ruled out surgery for now. It’s too risky. The alternative course of treatment is highly aggressive.” He looked her straight in the eye. “I plan to save your life, but I can’t do it alone. So I’ll ask you one more time. Are you prepared to fight, Isabella? Are you prepared to fight for your life?”

  Forget the heady scholar. Dr. Boucher was a soldier; his office, a battlefield of sorts. The degrees, the awards, the books, the computers, they were his weapons.

  “Yes, Dr. Boucher. I am ready to fight.” Her voice was firm despite her doubts.

  How can he fight on against a horrible enemy that takes so many innocent lives? How can he not run from the sea of despair that dwarfs his efforts? How can he have the courage to fight another battle with an infinitesimal chance of victory?