Reaching over me for the nightstand drawer, he takes out a condom, and tears the packet open with his teeth. I can’t believe I didn’t think about protection in my haze of lust. When he sits back on his heels to fit the condom, I look at his cock. He’s covered in my blood and arousal. The sheets are a mess. My cheeks heat in shame of how badly I want him to finish this, how badly I need this from a man I hate.
After rolling on the condom, he pushes back inside me. A perverse part of me mourns the loss of his naked skin and resents the new barrier. Then all thoughts fly from my head as he pushes deep and slides almost all the way out before burying deep again. The movement strokes over nerve endings, adding new pleasure to the familiar. He massages my clit in slow circles as he takes me with an increasingly demanding pace. Only when my body starts to tighten and the pleasure reaches a new height does he lose his control.
He moves harder, chasing his own release faster. I moan, the sounds coming from my mouth belonging to a wanton woman. When my orgasm explodes, he throws back his head on a low groan, driving himself as deep into me as he can. His body hardens, his muscles growing taught under my palms. I can feel the knots and grooves of the maleness that defines his back under his shirt. He drops his head next to mine, breathing hard.
Turning his face a fraction, he plants a soft kiss on my temple. “You’ll be my destruction.”
I sag back, letting the mattress absorb my weight.
He’s already my destruction.
I’m no longer the woman I used to be.
I can never go back to how things were.
Chapter 11
Zoe
When Maxime rolls off me, I push up onto my arms. My thighs are covered in blood, much more than I expected there’d be. The sheets are soiled. Traces of my lost virginity mark the white fabric of Maxime’s shirt. He scans my face as he removes the condom. I need to escape that piercing stare. The invasion of my body was enough. I don’t want him digging through my feelings.
He gets up and walks to the bathroom. The moment the door closes, I’m on my feet. I have to escape this bed. I want to run, but the lounge is as far as I can go. The ache between my legs is persistent, an unpleasant reminder of my new reality.
I go straight to the wet bar and pour myself a whiskey. I’m not a big drinker, and I’ve never had whiskey, but I down the shot in one go. It steals my breath, burning all the way to my stomach. Spotting the packet of cigarettes next to the decanter, I snatch it up with the lighter and look around the room for something to wear. I’m not going back to the bedroom. Not yet. My gaze falls on the clotheshorse with Maxime’s tux jacket. I don’t give it a second thought. I pull the jacket on and push the sliding door wide open, not caring that the cold blasts inside or that my body feels frozen the minute I step barefoot onto the terrace.
I light a cigarette and inhale deeply. My gaze is trained on the beautiful view, the reflection of the streetlights in the water, but I don’t really see it. My thoughts are trained inward. They’re turbulent. How do I reconcile the woman I became in that bed with the one I used to be? How could I find pleasure at the hands of a man I loathe? Because he was gentle? A good lover? Considerate? Because he did everything right?
My fingers curl into a ball at that admission. It would’ve been easier and less confusing if he was cruel. I don’t know how to place the man, and I need to know. He’s my enemy. An unpredictable enemy is the most dangerous kind. I don’t understand him, and that scares me. I don’t understand his actions or motivations.
A shadow stretches over the floor. Maxime steps up next to me, dressed in tracksuit pants and a T-shirt. I don’t turn my head to acknowledge him. I keep my gaze trained on the water and the lights, an image as pretty as it is traitorous, because I know what ugliness lies underneath the foundations of this city.
He takes the cigarette from my fingers. I only notice now how much I’m shaking and how my teeth are chattering from the cold. I sense him looking at me. I’m aware of him, no longer lost in my head, but I don’t look at him or acknowledge his existence.
He takes a drag before putting the cigarette out in the ashtray. “Do you smoke?”
“No.” I experimented a little after school but decided I didn’t like it. “Do you?”
“No.”
My question was meant to be sarcastic, but his answer surprises me, and even more so his placating tone. Leaning my elbows on the rail, I finally turn to face him. The jacket falls open, but I don’t care. I don’t care that I’m cold. I welcome the frozen numbness of my body. I don’t care that he sees. He’s seen it all. There’s nothing left to give.
The wind blows his fringe over his forehead. He must be cold, but he just stands there quietly, watching me. It infuriates me. I want him to talk, to tell me why I’m here, to explain this twisted game he’s playing.
“Why did you do it?” I ask.
He dips his head, his stance casual but his eyes sharp and aware. “Do what?”
“The dress, the flowers, the opera…the extravagant dinner. Why?”
His gaze is level. “For the same reason I brought you here.”
“You’ve already done the convincing role-play for Damian’s sake yesterday. You didn’t have to repeat it today.”
“I could’ve done that anywhere.”
I still. I’ve had it figured out. Didn’t I? If not to convince my brother I was here out of my own free will, a loved and pampered woman, then why? I will him to speak, to say it, but he’s keeping that little distance between us, waiting patiently for me to connect the dots.
“I don’t get it,” I finally say.
His monotone voice is flat, a robot conveying facts. Or maybe reserved, as if he’s not sure how I’m going to take this. “To give you your fantasy.”
The words bowl me over. For a moment, I still don’t understand, but then, slowly, the meaning sinks in. Oh, my God. My chest constricts. It hurts to breathe. He didn’t bring me here to show my friends and Damian how lucky and happy I am. Maybe that too, but that was just a convenient bonus.
My lips part in shock. “You brought me here to fuck me.” Because he knows my most intimate ideals. He knows about Venice, my fixation with this particular opera house, and my version of the perfect dress. He stole my life and my dream, mixed them together in some fucked-up fantasy, and served them to me in a twisted version of reality. He knows my desires and used them against me. “You son of a bitch. You used my dream to create this whole romantic little scenario.”
His regard remains cautious. “Would you have preferred the crueler version?”
“I prefer the truth.”
He closes the two steps between us. Grabbing the lapels of the jacket, he brings the edges together to cover my body. “Is that why you didn’t tell me, Zoe? Because you prefer the truth?”
I look away.
His tone is gentle, one you’d use trying to coax the truth out of someone. “Why were you still a virgin?”
“I was waiting for the right man,” I say like it doesn’t matter.
He nods, a silent acknowledgment of understanding. There’s no remorse in his voice when he says, “No man can be more wrong than me.”