I know what he likes too. I cup his length while he twirls a tongue around my nipple, teasing me through too many layers of clothes. When I squeeze, he leans into my palm. My favorite way of feeling him is outlining the shape of the broad head with a finger. The light caress drives him crazy. With a growl, he rips his fingers from my body and brushes my hand away to center his cock between my legs. His hard length rubs over my clit, pushing the wet fabric of my panties over the bundle of nerves, but it’s not the silk I want to feel on my skin.
Digging my hands into the lapels of his jacket, I pull him to my mouth and take the kiss I want. He never denies me. He kisses me back with abandon and skill, making my body melt against his as all my nerve endings hum in need. I reach for his belt, fumbling with the buckle. He rips away my underwear. I’m starving, moaning as I pull down his zipper and sighing into his mouth when I finally fold my fingers around his cock. I stroke twice before catching the pre-cum on the tip and letting it lubricate my palm. It’s the firm downward slide of my hand that makes him lose control. His groan is guttural as he grabs my wrist and forces my upper body down. My free hand is in his hair, pulling at the silky strands, holding his lips to mine, but he easily catches that one too, pinning both wrists in one hand above my head. He grips the base of his cock and guides it to my entrance. I brace myself, but never enough.
When he enters me fully with a single thrust, my body shifts up the table. He fastens a hand on my hip to hold me in place, pulls almost all the way out, and slams back. My back arches from the intense stimulation. It’s more than I can take, but I lift my hips when he lowers his, meeting every thrust.
“Goddamn, Zoe.”
His eyes are glittering darkly, hard granite cut from a rocky cliff. The candlelight plays over his face, the shadows making the hollows of his cheekbones deeper and the harsh lines of his nose and jaw starker. I long to trace the bump on the bridge of his nose, but when I test his hold he doesn’t let go.
Kissing a path up my neck, he presses feverish words against my ear. “Do you know how beautiful you are?”
I still. The words trigger my suppressed insecurity, things I shouldn’t and don’t want to think about, but I can’t stop myself from saying, “Not forever.”
He slows his pace and lifts his head to look at me. “You’ll always be beautiful.”
“Not when I’m old.”
“Then as much as now.”
“Don’t lie to me.”
The lines around his eyes tighten. “I’m not lying to you.”
“Just withholding the truth?”
“You need to know what you must. That’s enough.”
“Then tell me honestly, when will you tire of me?”
He stills completely. His expression becomes veiled. “You don’t want me to answer that.”
My passion turns to rage. The embers of everything adrift in my chest have caught fire, and the fear I’ve been pushing away for the last few months jumps into flames of fury. “When the next woman you can abduct comes along?”
His jaw bunches. “I’m not interested in other women.”
“Only in whatever the hell you want from Damian?”
“No, my flower.” Despite his clipped tone, his voice is soft. “I like to see the world through your eyes.”
The answer is not what I expected. “Why?”
“You’re everything I’m not.”
I’m not sure what that means. It’s strange to have this argument with my wrists pinned above my head and his cock buried deep in my body. I don’t even know why or how the fight started, only that I can’t finish this.
I pull on his hold. “Let me go.”
His nostrils flare. “You’re five seconds from coming and you want me to let you go?”
“That’s what I said.”
His smile is one I both fear and hate, a cruel one. “As you wish.”
I’m empty when he pulls out of me, so incredibly cold that I fold my arms around my stomach. He flicks my skirt up over my hips and takes his cock in his hand. It only takes a few pumps before he comes, ejaculating thick streams of cum over my sex and my thighs.
When he’s finished, he takes a napkin and cleans himself. Dumping the crumpled napkin on the table, he adjusts his clothes. “It seems you’ll be happier with your own company tonight. As it’s supposed to be a celebration, I won’t spoil it for you.”
The venomous words are hardly out before he turns and walks back into the house. I cover myself with shaky hands, pulling my dress down over my sticky thighs. My legs are wobbly when I push off the table. The setting is in disarray with the tablecloth full of folds and the crockery pulled askew. It’s the remains of a wasted evening, the bitter result when feelings get in the way.
Francine exits with a tray. She places a platter on the table, but I’m too distraught to pay attention.
“Dinner for one?” she asks with a chuckle.
I stare at her face. Since when has this turned into a war between us? I suppose since the minute I set foot into this house.
“You’re an unthankful bitch,” she says, straightening the tablecloth.
“Excuse me?”
“This house, Maxime’s protection, the gifts…Do you know how lucky you are?”
“I didn’t ask for any of this.”
“Most women will give anything for what you have, but don’t worry.” She winks. “You won’t have to live here forever.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Tilting her head, she gives me a smug smile. “Enjoy your meal.”
I stare at her back until she disappears through the kitchen door. A part of me wants to go after Maxime. Another part wants to never see him again. That part is a lie. No matter how much I hate this inequality between us—the fact that I can’t express myself freely and am only treated kindly when I behave—it’s too late for me. I’ve formed a bond with Maxime. The fact that it’s forced doesn’t make the attachment weaker. If anything, it’s stronger. He made me dependent on him in every sense—materially, physically, and emotionally. There’s nowhere else to turn to. There’s only this house now, this beautiful place I both love and hate, and him. Love and hate. That’s an accurate description for what we share.
Taking the bottle of champagne, I kick my sandals off and make my way down to the beach. The sun is setting when I flop down in the sand, letting the water wash over my feet. It must be just after nine. By now it’ll be pitch black, dark in South Africa. It took me a while to get used to the longer days. Some days are just too damn long. Tipping back the bottle, I swallow a mouthful. The champagne is deliciously dry. I finish half the bottle before my spirit is gratifyingly numbed.
It’s so hot out here. Even at this hour, it’s still over thirty degrees Celsius. Pushing to my feet, I fumble with the zipper of my dress. I stumble a little as I step out of the dress and unclasp my bra. Oh, dear. I think my torn underwear is still lying somewhere under the table. I better pick it up before the poor gardener finds it.
The water is clear and cool. I walk in until it reaches my waist, flinching as the salt burns the abused skin between my legs. I take another swig of the champagne and make a face. Yuk. It’s lukewarm now.
After downing what’s left in one go, I fling the bottle out on the sand and wade deeper into the water until I can drift on my back. The lights of the house on the cliff are blurry in my view. It forms a hazy picture as I try to fit the puzzle pieces of tonight together, of what Maxime said. No, wait. What Francine said. Oh, crap. Whatever. I think I’m a little drunk.
I’m such an idiot.
“Why’s that, my little flower?” a husky voice asks.
Maxime? He’s not supposed to be here. He should be upstairs in his big house, ruling over cliffs and kingdoms of diamonds with his iron fist.
“For falling for you,” I reply.
Strong arms fold around me from behind, pulling me against a hard body. An impressive erection presses against my back. “I didn’t give you a choice
.”
My words slur a bit. “What are you doing?”
“Making sure you don’t drown.”
“No,” I say, wiggling when he slips his cock between my legs. “I mean what are you doing?”
Big hands cup my hips. Soft lips press on my shoulder and a warm breath washes over my neck. “Shh. I’m just going to make you come.”
The broad head of his cock rubs over my clit before dragging through my folds. I want to ask why. I want to make sense of it all but then that hardness presses against my forbidden opening. I go still.
“Relax.” He breathes against my ear.
Even in my drunken state, I can feel his dark excitement in the way his fingers tighten on my hips. I can hear it in the raw note of his voice. It stokes my fire. I’ve only had a taste of it once, and it hurt. I’m not sure I’m going to like it.
“You will,” he says. “I’ll make sure.”
I said that out loud? Oh, God. I’m a lot drunker than I thought.
A burning sensation explodes in my dark entrance as he pushes through the tight ring of muscle. I cry out, trying to scoot away, but his fingers are on my clit, rubbing the way I like.
“Wrap your legs around me,” he says.
The pleasure makes me blindly obedient, just the way he always wants me. I open my legs wider and hook my ankles around his thighs. My toes brush over sand. He’s sitting on his heels with my back against his chest. We’re shallow. He must’ve steered us closer to the shore.
I let my head fall on his shoulder. The act pushes out my breasts. I’m spread open. My body is a sacrifice, every hole accessible for his use. One hand finds my breast, gently rolling my nipple, while the other plays with my clit. I suck in a breath when he pushes his cock deeper. He holds still, letting me adjust. It still hurts, but I don’t want him to stop. I want him to push me to my limits. I want to fly over the edge.
As he pushes two fingers inside my pussy, his cock slips deeper into my asshole. He curls his fingers inside and rolls his thumb over my clit until I’m soft and pliant enough to take all of him. This is nothing like the night at the hotel. This is twisted lust, not punishment. It’s dark, and scary, and strangely exhilarating. He groans when I push back, a lustful sound that spurs me on. I lift higher and slide down over his length, focusing on the magic work of his fingers and how everything seems so full, stretched so tightly.
The pain is like a hot branding iron, but pleasure surfaces through the fire, sending mixed signals to my brain. I can’t distinguish any longer. I can only feel the pleasure coiling around my insides, squeezing until my breath is gone.
“Breathe,” he says, locking his fingers around the column of my neck.
I drag in a ragged breath, and then come so hard my teeth chatter. He doesn’t let me go. He continues to massage my oversensitive clit, milking every ounce I have left until his cock grows even thicker and he yanks me to his body so hard I’ll have bruises on my neck and hip tomorrow. He punches his hips up, even if he’s already sheathed to the hilt. He thrusts twice more, grunting as he empties himself in my ass. It must be the singular most powerful orgasm of my life.
“You did beautifully,” he whispers, “like I knew you would.”
It burns when he pulls out. My body sags in his arms. He catches me around the shoulders and under my legs, holding me to his chest. Out of nowhere, right in the middle of my drunken state, the reason why I was so upset earlier hits me. I’ve fallen for him, and since he’s incapable of returning my feelings I have no reassurance he won’t replace me with someone else. Wait. Shouldn’t I want him to replace me? Am I not supposed to want to get away? Isn’t being his captive the reason for my anguish and unhappiness?
I don’t know how I get back to the bedroom. Somewhere between the burn and gentle kisses I black out. My dream is weightless and painless, a place where broken hearts and bodies don’t exist. Idle words float in and out on a moonlight breeze, words that bring both terror and salvation as they promise to never let me go.
Chapter 5
Zoe
* * *
There are nine girls in Madame Page’s class at the Marseille-Mediterranean College of Art. Smelling of cigarette smoke, she’s an elderly woman with red hair and overlarge, square-rimmed glasses.
A delicate girl with jet black hair and slanted eyes sits next to me.
“Hi,” I say, taking my sketchpad from my satchel. “I’m Zoe.”
She gives me a sidelong glance, then moves an inch toward her side of the drafting table. Lifting her chin, she says, “I’m Christine.”
The woman on the other side of me snickers. She has dark brown hair and eyes, and freckles like mine. “I suppose you want to know my name, too,” she says. “I’m Thérèse.”
Madame Page walks into the center of the room. She’s wearing a straight white dress with square pockets and black piping. It’s a Saint Laurent number.
“Quiet, please. For your first lesson, I want to get a sense of each of your unique styles.” She claps her hands together. “Quick now. Open your manual on module one.”
I take out my notepad and pens while the others open the module on their laptops or tablets. Maxime won’t allow me a laptop or tablet. I didn’t even have the concession when I was studying French.
Madame Page pushes a printout titled Module One over the table without looking at me.
“Thank you,” I say, accepting the stack of papers stapled together.
Going through the introductory module, Madame Page explains we’ll start with the basics such as design principles, drawing, building form, textile science, business practices, and history, and work our way up to pattern creation. Practical design will only start in the second year for those who make it. A panel of independent judges will judge a design contest at the end of the second year, including compulsory evening wear and a wedding dress, to determine which scholars will make it to the third and final year. The competition is severe. Only six of us will be accepted into next year’s level. She talks about perseverance and discipline before pointing out a few class rules. No eating and drinking. No chitchatting. No copycatting.
“I’m looking for a fresh perspective, for a unique style,” she says. “Each of you shows potential.” She locks eyes with Thérèse. “Thérèse, you have an eye for lines but you’re lacking detail. In this class, we’re going to work on your strengths and weaknesses.” Skimming over me, she moves to Christine. “Christine, I love your dare, but there’s a fine line between eccentric and flamboyance. Juliette, your simplicity is refreshing. I love how you play with color and texture. I’m looking forward to seeing more of your work.”
One by one, she goes around the table, ignoring me. I shake it off. It was probably just an innocent oversight.
For the next hour, we make rough sketches and notes. Madame Page gathers the sketches and goes through our notes. She gives detailed feedback on each one with praise and critique, but she only glances at mine without making any comments.
My chest pulls tight as she places my pad back on the table. I flip the page back to find nothing written in red, not like on Thérèse and Christine’s sketches.
“I bid you a good day, ladies,” she says. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Taking my time to gather my stationary, I wait until everyone has left before approaching her worktable. “Madame Page?”
She looks up with a pinched expression. “Yes?”
“Is there a problem with my work?”
She goes back to what she was writing. “No.”
I’m tempted to just leave, but this is too important to me. “I’m sorry, but I don’t understand. Why didn’t you critique my work?”
Her pencil makes a scratching sound as she pulls it over the paper. “You don’t need my input, Mademoiselle Hart. You’ll pass with flying colors.”
The words don’t elicit the warmth of pride in my chest. Instead, they leave me cold, a terrible notion making me shrivel. “You don’t think I merit to be here, do you?�
�
“If that’s all, I have work to do.” She waves me off, not bothering to grace me with another glance.
Clutching my satchel under my arm, I make my way into the warm sunlight while coldness creeps over every inch of my skin. Maxime waits across the road, leaning on his fancy sports car. His eyes are trained on me, following my progress with undivided attention. Giving me this much freedom is a big deal for him, but I can’t appreciate it. Not right now.
A few of the women from my class are gathered on the lawn in front of the building. They’re looking my way, whispering as they too follow my progress toward the blue Bugatti.
I block them out. I block everything out. When Maxime kisses my lips, I can’t help but pull back. He stills. The coldness I feel in my bones settles over his eyes, turning the gray to winter instead of molten skies.
“How was the first day?” he asks, his observation sharpening on me as he gets my door.
I don’t bother to answer. There’s a tick to his jaw, but I can’t even bring myself to be scared. I just feel numb like on the night that was supposed to be a celebration when I drank myself into a stupor and spent the next day being sick. That sickness descends on me now, turning my stomach.
He says nothing as he starts the engine. The powerful hum of the motor is the only sound in my ears as he heads toward town.
When he doesn’t take our exit, I snap out of my haze. “Where are we going?”
“To celebrate.”
My stomach clenches. I dig my nails into my palms.
“We’re having dinner in town.” He glances at me. “There’s an opening of a new casino.”
“You have to be there,” I say in a flat tone.
He changes gears and accelerates too abruptly. “Yes, but it’ll still be a celebration.”
Diamonds in the Rough Page 4
