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 presses 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.
“You better have an early night,” he says. “It’ll do you good.”
After the main meal, he excuses himself. I follow him to the entrance where he pulls on a jacket and coat, but he’s withdrawn again, already preoccupied with the business and the fires I imagine he had to put out after last night. When the door shuts behind him, I can’t help but stand in the middle of the foyer with my arms wrapped around myself, feeling lost. I can’t help but think that every time he walks out of the door he may never come back.
Chapter 11
Zoe
The minute my back hits the mattress, I pass out. I have no idea if Maxime came to bed, because I sleep nine hours straight, and when I wake in the morning, I’m alone. It’s still early. Part of me is worried and part of me grateful for the space. My emotions are all over the place. I’m tearful, and my defenses are down. That makes me vulnerable—a susceptible target for more hurt. I need to pull myself together.
I try not to think, but the gears won’t stop turning in my head. Where is Maxime? How is Gautier’s family coping? Are the police going after Maxime for the killings? Will I ever get away from my captor now? Do I want to get away? Can I really turn a blind eye to everything and throw myself into my studies even if I don’t deserve a place in the program?
The questions are futile, because the answers, even if I had them, won’t change anything. Very little is in my control. By the time I’ve showered and dressed, I don’t feel lighter. The killings and truth Maxime revealed still weigh heavily on my chest.