Diamonds in the Rough

by Charmaine Pauls

  Chapter 9

  Maxime

  * * *

  The thought of Zoe coming around a vibrator in my bed is a temptation impossible to resist. I go to my study and lock the door behind me before activating the security camera, letting the image reroute to my laptop. I enable sound, too. I told her not to make noise. I can’t let her get away with anything, not after she pushed an icepick against my heart and broke my skin. Not after the attempt on her life last night. Her obedience is all the more important. As long as she obeys me, I can keep her safe. It’s defiance that opens opportunities for my opponents and puts her at risk.

  With her dark hair spread over my pillow and her naked limbs stretched under the sheet, she’s too beautiful to be human. I wish I’d left her uncovered to better appreciate the view, but her body temperature will eventually drop from exhaustion, and I didn’t want her to be cold.

  Watching her wrestle with her arousal, I take the tupper dish Francine had given me yesterday from the windowsill and place it in front of the laptop on my desk. I flick the lid off with a finger. The inhabitant immediately raises its tail. It’s a buthus occitanus, a black scorpion. Francine found it in the kitchen. They’re hardy little buggers to kill, so she threw a plastic container over the invader and slid the lid underneath to catch it inside. It tries to climb out of its prison, but the container is too deep.

  A moan pulls my gaze to the screen. Head thrown back, Zoe orgasms so hard I can see her body convulse under the sheet. I smile. She’s gorgeous when she comes. I’m looking forward to witnessing every one of her climaxes. I wonder how many times she’ll come.

  The scorpion turns inside the container. Leaning forward, I study it. Their venom isn’t deadly. There are plenty of the small species around here. They favor the rocky landscape. Every year, we find at least a dozen in the garden.

  I’m not a huge cigar fan like my father, but I light one now and suck on the end until the tip glows red. I’m a punishment behind, tonight excluded. I never made up for the night I fucked Zoe like a whore in the hotel.

  Taking a big drag on the cigar, I roll the smoke around in my mouth before exhaling it into the container. It makes the scorpion furious. They don’t like smoke. It swings its claws in the air, snapping its pinches together. I inhale and blow on it again, aggravating the little creature. Smoke is a danger. Its instinctive reaction is to escape that danger and to protect itself by attacking whatever threatens its life. When it’s in full-blown survival mode, I stick my finger in the container.

  It behaves exactly like it should. It hollows its back and zaps me with the sharp tip of its tail.

  Motherfucking Jesus.

  It hurts like a bitch. The burn is like nothing I’ve felt before. It creeps through my finger and up my arm, setting fire to my veins. It’s different to the flames that cooked my skin. That burn came from the outside and melted inward with pain. This one starts on the inside, burning outward until it feels like my nails may peel back from my skin.

  “Good job, buddy,” I say as I sink back into my chair with grunts of agony.

  I don’t cut off my blood circulation to prevent the poison from spreading. I eat it up eagerly, letting my body’s natural functioning carry it farther. My heart pumps faster. My blood flows stronger. The poison burns in my shoulder and down my chest. Sweat breaks out over my body.

  Zoe comes.

  Perfect. Beautiful.

  I take a last drag of the cigar before putting the tip out on my finger, right on the sting.

  Fuck, that hurts.

  It sizzles and burns, killing one pain with another, but the affected parts of my body continue to hum as the venom works through my system, and Zoe starts crying from frustration.

  The only way I can handle her tears is if I hurt myself worse than I’m hurting her. This isn’t hurt for Zoe per se—I didn’t lie about not physically hurting her—but sexual suffering can sometimes be worse. Her agony is riveting. It stokes my fire, making a different kind of poison burn in my blood. I want her lips around me. I want to fuck her mouth and come down her throat while agony rips through me, while three kinds of fire are wracking my body.

  I unzip and take my cock in my hand. I’m so hard I’m aching. Going to my flower now won’t serve tonight’s lesson. She’s got to live this one out alone. I stroke a couple of times, making the burn in my arm brighter. Closing my fist, I squeeze hard and rip my hand up and down. I let the cocktail of pain fuel me, mixing rough pleasure with agonizing suffering and twisted stalking on a laptop screen until my balls draw up and violent release erupts.

  I catch my seed in my injured hand. It irritates the cigar burn. Using the en-suite toilet, I clean up. I’m still hurting. It’s difficult to breathe. The poison must’ve spread to my chest. It’ll fizzle out there, the crippling effect slowly diminishing. By the time eight hours are over, my pain will be gone.

  Taking the container, I unlock the patio door and go out into the garden. A good distance away from the house and the path to the beach, I tip the container over. The scorpion scurries for freedom. It covers a good distance before hiding under a rock. I straighten and let my gaze linger on the house, on the window of the room where my flower is a prisoner spread in a spider’s web made of ropes and lust. There’s no more freedom for her now. There’s no escaping my poison.

  Chapter 10

  Zoe

  * * *

  I wake up to the smell of rose petals. Blinking, I sit up. My hands and feet are untied. The toys are gone. The sheet lies discarded at my feet. Maxime sits on the edge of the bed, still dressed in the sweatpants and T-shirt from earlier.

  He hands me a porcelain cup. “I brought you an infusion.”

  I reach for the offering with mixed feelings. I’m thirsty and the tea smells delicious, but I don’t want to take anything from him, not after what he did. My body aches everywhere. Fighting an internal battle, I contemplate if I’m going to accept his peace offering. In the end, my dry throat wins. I take the cup from him and fold my palms around it.

  “It’s not too hot,” he says. “I reckoned you’d be thirsty.”

  Damn right. I give him a cutting look as I sip the brew. It’s become my favorite since he made me try it in Venice. It’s not only the herbal tea that makes the room smell of flowers. The scent is stronger than just the rose petal tea. My gaze falls on a small ornate glass container on the nightstand filled with golden liquid.

  “Drink up,” he says, “and then lie down.”

  I tense. “Why?”

  “I need to take care of you.”

  My tone is scathing. “Does your care involve ropes?”

  He chuckles. “Only rose oil.”

  I look at the bottle. “It smells good.”

  “It’s pure. I had it brought in from Grasse this morning. It took forty-thousand roses to fill that little bottle, and I’m going to drench your body in it.”

  I feel like slapping him. The only thing preventing me is the promise I made to myself and him not to ever do it again. “I’m angry with you.”

  His lips quirk. “I’m sure you are. However, I bet you’ve learned your lesson.”

  “Multiple orgasms? Who knew it could be such an effective method of torture?”

  “I’ll take that as an affirmative.”

  When he reaches for the cup, I gulp down the last of the tea. “What’s with this thing you have for roses, anyway?”

  “You,” he says, taking the cup from my hand and leaving it on the nightstand.

  “Me?”

  “You always smell of roses.”

  “I do?” I blink. “You noticed?”

  “There’s not anything about you I don’t notice. Now lie down.”

  Cautiously, I shift down the mattress. I’m still not sure I trust him not to inflict some other kind of punishment.

  “Your lesson is over,” he says as if reading my mind.

  I relax a little. I still have much to process after last night. I’m drowning in guilt when I think
of Gautier’s mother. I’ll never trample on the enormous gift of his life by being ungrateful, but a small part of me wishes he hadn’t left me with this guilt. Maybe it would’ve been easier if he’d let me take the bullets meant for me. Shame burns in my stomach for the thought. I’m alive thanks to him. The least I can do is honor him by living it as well as I can. I just have to figure out how to cope with the truth Maxime finally shared with me last night. The deceit is a bitter pill to swallow. I thought I couldn’t forgive him for cheating and lying about my admission into a top fashion design school, but this is so much worse. This betrayal goes even deeper. I hate him. I hate him with every fiber of my being. I hate that I care about him, and I hate that I need him even more. I hate what he’s doing to me, and I’m powerless to prevent it.

  The very subject of my turbulent thoughts rubs his knuckles over my breast.

  “Turn over.”

  I don’t want to react, but I can’t stop it. The tip contracts. More shame churns in my stomach until acid pushes up in my throat.

  “Turn over, Zoe,” he says in that sinful accent, his tone non-negotiable.

  I turn onto my stomach. At least I can hide my face and his effect on me. A few cold drops dribble on my back. I suck in a breath. When he starts rubbing the oil into my skin with his big, warm hands, I almost forget to think. He finds every knot in my shoulders, every tense spot that aches because of last night’s strain, and takes his time to massage the hurt away. He moves down my back to my glutes, legs, and feet, and then my arms before finally massaging my scalp. I can’t help but succumb to how good it feels. Like everything Maxime does, he’s an expert at this, too. I’m all but melting into the mattress by the time he’s done, my body buzzing drunkenly on relaxation. I’ve only slept for a couple of hours, so I’m about to doze off when he clicks his tongue in disapproval and says, “I’m not done yet.”

  The mattress dips as he lifts. I tense a little again, some of the agreeable fuzziness evaporating. Turning my head to the side, I watch him. He’s pulling the T-shirt over his head, exposing his powerful, scarred chest and broad shoulders. Holding my eyes, he pushes the tracksuit pants over his hips. I trace the deep line of the V that cuts to his groin and the semi-hard cock that hangs heavy between his legs.

  After the night I had, I don’t want to have sex, but my conditioned body turns wet looking at him. His body is like a statue chiseled from stone. Every muscle is perfectly cut. His cock grows hard under my stare, making my mouth water. The warm, velvety flesh isn’t the same as a plastic toy. Not at all. If he can’t give me affection, he can give me pain and lust to forget just for a moment how much I hate both of us. I’m already his whore. What’s one time more? Nothing in the scheme of bigger things. I can’t go back to the virgin I was when he found me. I can’t undo the sinful things we’ve done. Does it really matter if I’m knee-deep or sinking?

  Maxime climbs back onto the bed. Dragging his palms up my legs, he spreads them and kneels between my thighs. My body jumps to life. My over-stimulated and over-used parts swell and turn slick. I can stop my reaction as little as I can turn off my love. He’s trained me too well. He’s a mastermind. The way he played and caught me in his game is brilliant, really.

  Stretching out over me, he brushes my hair over one shoulder and kisses the shell of my ear. “I assume your pussy has had enough.”

  I can never have enough of him. It makes me want to break down with sobs. All I can do is close my eyes and bite my lip in futile denial.

  “Get up on your knees for me, cherie.” He assists me with a hand around my waist. “Lean down on your forearms. It’ll better support your weight.”

  When he’s arranged me the way he wants me, my legs are wide open and my ass in the air. I’m stretched open and on show. A flush of heat spreads over my cheeks as I look back and see where his gaze is trained.

  His eyes darken. The frosty gray turns into that molten mercury I’ve come to associate with his lust. Taking his cock in his hand, he grabs the bottle of oil from the nightstand, tips it over his shaft, and stroke a few times to lubricate it. He drags his palm up and down and rolls it over the thick head of his cock. The wet sounds he makes with his hand as he all but masturbates right in front of my eyes turn me on more. I’m still processing this new discovery, storing it away with the rest of my shameful ones when he dribbles the oil in the crease between my globes and uses the slick head of his cock to spread the oil around my dark entrance.

  I grip a fistful of sheet in each hand when he leans forward, applying pressure on the tight ring of muscle.

  His voice is strained, his accent sounding stronger. “Do you want this, Zoe?”

  Zis for this. Rounded like a full-bodied wine. The pronunciation drips sensuality. If I get drunk on it, I won’t hear the lies.

  “Use your voice,” he says.

  I let go, surrendering my grip to the quicksand of my body’s betrayal. “Yes.”

  Easing forward slightly, he teases me. “Why?”

  “Because it feels wrong.”

  “You’re such a good little bad girl,” he says, leaning over to caress my breasts and play with my nipples while sliding his cock deeper.

  It doesn’t hurt like before. I’ve been stretched all night, ready to take him.

  “I need to fuck you hard,” he whispers through clenched teeth, “after last night.”

  Last night.

  Neither of us can get it out of our heads. It’s a tipping point in time. Our dynamic has shifted. He used to hold back with me, never coming inside my body. I was the fool who silently begged him to let go. I asked for it. I wanted his everything. He reciprocated by giving it. Now that he’s marked me, I’m his property, something he can no longer let go. Not after four years. Not ever.

  Fuck, I’m such an idiot. I took the noose from his hands and put it around my neck myself. All because he made me love. He made me need more, but he’s empty now. He’s given everything he was capable of giving. There’s no love in his heart, and there will never be. If my heart’s to survive, I’ll have to find my happiness elsewhere. Even if I got in by cheating, I’ll pour my soul into my studies. I’ll give it everything I’ve got, filling the stretching holes in my heart with the passion and purpose Maxime so charitably offered me.

  “Fuck, Zoe.” His fingers tighten on my nipple, twisting not to hurt but because lost as we are in the midst of this new phase of our forced relationship, he’s forgetting his own strength. “If you don’t want me to pummel your ass, you have to tell me now. Don’t tease me, little flower.”

  No. I want the dirty. I want the reminder of who I am. I need to remember this wanton woman on her knees is all I’ll ever be so that I’ll never want things I can’t have again. It hurts too damn much.

  “Goddamn, Zoe. You’re killing me.” He kisses my shoulder and starts pulling out.

  I reach behind me to grip his wrist. “Give it to me, Maxime.”

  He hesitates.

  “Give it to me, damn you.”

  “Why?” he asks in a hoarse voice.

  “Because I need it too.”

  Stroking a palm up my spine, he offers tenderness in an advance exchange for the violence we both crave. “I’ve got you, cherie.”

  In this, he does. On a physical level, he’s the king. Gripping my hips, he enters me slowly, taking his time until his groin is pressed against my ass, but that’s all the concession he gives me before he lets go. We’re rough. He gives me what I need and takes what he wants. Despite last night and everything it signifies, despite the endless orgasms, I beg him to make me come.

  It’s a vicious circle I can’t escape. I’ll hate him now and be back on my knees tonight, begging him to fill me with the token of his ownership. His name whispers over my lips in a frantic cry as he rubs my clit and makes me explode before spilling his release in my body.

  I collapse onto my stomach when my arms give out. Maxime follows me down, keeping his cock buried in my body and his weight on his elbows. He press
es kisses and sweet words on my ear, praising me for how well I’ve taken him.

  I’m already lethargic again. It’s hard to keep my eyes open. Needing something—someone—to hold onto, I fold my fingers around his hand that rests next to my face. At the hiss of air he sucks through his teeth, I open my eyes. The tip of his index finger sports a nasty, red scab. It looks like a burn.

  Lifting my shoulders off the mattress, I turn his finger toward the light for a better look. “Maxime! What happened?”

  He pulls away. “Nothing.”

  I wince at the bite of pain when he frees his cock.

  “Did that happen in the fight?” I ask, rolling onto my side to face him. I hadn’t noticed it last night, but I’ve been so wrought out it’s possible I missed his injuries.

  His laugh is cold. “There was no fight.”

  Pushing off me, he gets up. “Have a shower with me. I need to go shortly.”

  My mood darkens. “Business? Now?”

  “Yes,” he replies in a clipped tone.

  Instead of pushing the matter, I let him pull me to my feet.

  He washes me in the shower and insists on drying my hair with the hairdryer afterward as if he’s scared I’ll catch a cold and my death with it. We dress and have an early dinner together. Francine’s eyes are red-rimmed from crying. Maxime doesn’t comment, and I don’t ask, assuming it’s because of worry over what could’ve happened to him.

  “Isn’t it weird to keep an ex-lover around?” I ask when she’s gone.

  He shrugs. “It was sex. Now it’s over. There’s nothing weird about that.”

  Right.