He glances at the ashes, and then at the photo book on the coffee table. “What did you do with yourself today?”
“I arranged the books alphabetically.” A belated thought strikes me. “I hope you don’t mind?”
He looks at the shelves. “You didn’t strike me as the OCD type.”
I shrug.
His steps are purposeful as he walks over and stops in front of the chair. “Come here.”
I made a promise. I said I wouldn’t give him trouble. Slowly, I rise.
Approval sparks in his gray eyes. “Take off my tie.”
Reaching up, I untie the knot and pull the tie from his collar.
His face is harsh, his features always frightening, but there’s something friendly, playful almost, in his expression when he says, “Go pour me a drink.”
My first reaction is resistance. It’s like telling a dog to fetch a newspaper. I’m not his damn servant. Yet yesterday’s lesson with the picnic gives me pause. Fine. I’ll trust him on this. I’ll play along.
I go to the wet bar and pour a few fingers of whiskey the way I saw him do it, then carry the glass back to him. Our fingers brush when he takes it.
“Thank you,” he says, holding my gaze as he takes a sip.
The way he looks at me heats my belly. It’s a stare that communicates want, need, shared secrets, and praise. It’s the praise that makes the warmth spread to my chest. I’ve always been a pleaser.
His lips curve as he hands me the glass. It’s more than offering to share his drink. It’s sharing a private moment and a part of himself with me. He’s opening up, letting me in. He’s making himself vulnerable. That’s what this lesson is. He didn’t order me to fetch his drink to humiliate me. He’s showing me how to be kind to him, and how my kindness will be rewarded in return.
I turn the glass and put my lips on the spot where his has been. His eyes widen a fraction, surprise thawing their usual coldness. The alcohol burns down my throat when I swallow. Taking the glass back from me, he leaves it on the table and reaches for the zipper of my dress. Without the fire it’s cold, but I let him push the dress over my shoulders and hips. My breasts tighten in the lace cups of my bra. The matching panties grow wet. Now that I’ve had a taste of the forbidden, my body craves it.
He drags his gaze over me, lingering on the underwear and long boots. “I think I’ll leave those on.”
The approval of earlier turns into a different kind of approval, something more carnal than appraisal. He likes what he sees, and he doesn’t mind making himself vulnerable by showing me. No. He’s exposing himself on purpose, rewarding my trust by giving me power. The exchange feeds the part inside me that needs approval and above all kindness. I’m starving for this kindness. I need this kindness.
As he shrugs out of his jacket and starts unbuttoning his shirt, a revelation hits me. This is nothing but science, the law of energy. The more he tortures me, the more I need kindness to restore the imbalance in my soul. What he proved yesterday when he forbade me to speak to his brother is that the only person permitted to give me kindness is Maxime himself. The man who torments me is the only man who can make it better.
The cure for my pain is the cause of the pain.
It’s confusing. It feels like a mind-fuck. It’s messing with my head as he unbuckles his belt and pulls down his zipper. I need distance from this, to figure out what he’s doing to me, but his cock is hard and huge. I know it’ll hurt a bit, and I need that, too. Maybe it’s to punish myself for giving in to the emotional needs I allow him to fulfill. Maybe I’m flogging myself with physical pain for my weakness.
He removes his shoes and socks and straightens to stand naked in front of me. He shows me his scars and ugliness, a gift for my kindness. He’s exposed—vulnerable—but so am I, and I can’t tell the difference between manipulation and lessons any longer. Not that it matters, because when he touches me, my mind recedes to a place where thoughts don’t matter. All that matters is the burning desire for him to hurt and please me, to bring me relief from the torment he orchestrates with such clever design in both my body and soul.
He steps up against me, letting his cock brush my stomach. “Don’t think so hard, my little flower.”
No, he wouldn’t want me to think, because thinking leads to the truth. “What do you want me to do?”
His voice is husky, a foreign accent targeted on seduction. “Just feel.”
I don’t argue when he lifts me and carries me to the desk. As much as I made a deal, I need this. He made me need this.
Posing me on the edge, he spreads my legs and steps between them. He reaches over, lifts the lid of an antique silver box, takes out a condom, and hands it to me. As I tear the packet open with my teeth like I saw him do, he rubs a thumb over my clit. My body tightens where he touches me, pleasure already starting to build. My hands shake when I roll the condom over his thick length.
Grabbing a fistful of my hair, he kisses me softly. “How do you want it?”
I don’t have to think about it. The tender kiss is sweet, but it makes me inexplicably sad. It’s the pull on my hair that makes me wet. “Hard.”
He brushes his knuckles over the lace that covers my nipple. “You surprise me, Zoe.” He drags his lips over my neck, planting another sweet kiss on my shoulder. “Rough it’ll be.”
His hands lock around my waist, yanking me flush against him. Impatiently, he moves aside the elastic of my panties and aligns his cock with my entrance. He doesn’t move slowly this time. He drives in deep, taking me with a single, hard thrust. I’m wet, but it hurts. It burns. I gasp, embracing the pain, wanting the punishment. He doesn’t disappoint. He fucks me like I wanted, so roughly my eyes water and my insides feel raw. He must know I can’t handle this pace for long, because he rolls my clit between his fingers until that pain also turns to pleasure, and I come with a wail as relief floods my body. He slams into me while the aftershocks ebb out, and then he climaxes with a grunt.
We’re both spent, perspiration beading on our skins. I’m tender when he pulls out, and he’s gentle when he picks me up and carries me to the shower. He’s careful when he washes me, especially with the part that aches between my legs. He dresses in a tracksuit and I in one of his T-shirts and his robe, and then we have dinner in the formal dining room like two normal people, like the sex in the study never happened.
The following day, Maxime comes home with a tablet on which almost a hundred books are uploaded in English. They range from romance and thrillers to books about clothing design and traveling. I delete the ones about Venice.
Reading brings a measure of relief, but I’m developing cabin fever. I’m lonely, too, being cooped up in the big old house with no one but Francine who goes out of her way to avoid me. The only person I see and speak to is Maxime. I’m losing my concept of time. I don’t know what day it is, let alone what hour. I look at my face in the library’s antique mirror with a network of cracked spider webs under the glass. I have the odd sensation I’m not real, that life is an illusion slipping through my fingers. The thought scares me. The last thing I can afford is to lose my sanity.
I’m quiet when Maxime comes home, reflecting on this new state of mind. We fuck where he finds me in the library, have a shower, and eat dinner. Now that my body has grown accustomed to being used, he fucks me more often. When we go to bed, he takes me more gently.