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.