Tears of Tess
Page 12
He released me, trailing soft fingertips through my hair. I swayed, broken so easily, confused completely.
“Until tonight, esclave.”
Chapter 10
*Swallow*
Being a slave was… dare I say… boring.
After Q left, Suzette hovered, never letting me out of sight. She came across as sweet and obedient, but I saw the truth. She was Q’s: a head housekeeper who helped keep his slave in line. What had she said to him in the dining room? She antagonized, while giving him permission. Q may pay her salary, but she held a power over him I didn’t understand.
I didn’t think he would’ve pressed against me or licked my tears if she hadn’t encouraged him to give in to the battle inside.
Sometimes, I really hated having sensitive instincts—I sensed too much—painted too vivid futures that I didn’t want to come true.
What freaked me out the most was Q listened to her—pushed by his maid to do something he couldn’t restrain. My eyes narrowed, trying to figure out their relationship.
Surprisingly, with Q gone, my hunger came back, and I devoured the cold poached eggs. Suzette never left, and once I finished, she guided me toward the library, nonchalantly closing the door.
She left and my ears pricked as the lock clicked.
She may have left with a sweet smile, and my cell might’ve upgraded to include expensive literature and crystal decanters, but it was still a cage.
My thoughts filled with Q. Where did he disappear to? Probably to run an empire full of illegal activities and debauchery. Only work that danced with unlawful things could grant this sort of wealth. I wouldn’t be surprised if he was a major drug dealer.
I threw myself into a wingback and stiffened. His scent enveloped me, sending heartbeats racing with notes of sandalwood, juniper, and citrus.
My throat closed, connecting the smell of him to unhappiness. I wanted to look out the window, plot my escape, but the library had dark cedar shutters blocking the sun, protecting delicate books within. The air shimmered with dust motes and slivers of light turned the room into a calming grotto.
Despite the relaxing vibe, I couldn’t sit still. Q’s threat before leaving—until tonight, esclave—careened in my skull. I wouldn’t wait patiently for whatever he planned to do. I needed to stay active. Find a weapon. Find freedom.
I tested the door, but the lock held firm. I tried the shutters, but try as I might, they wouldn’t open. The only way out was the fireplace, and climbing a chimney flue did not inspire me.
Going mad with the need to run, I turned to the books, skimming through signed, first editions of priceless literature, hoping words could take me away. But nothing worked. Slamming a novel closed, I stared at the licking fire, wondering. If I burned all his books, would that teach Q a lesson?
I stood, dangling a red leather book above eager flames. Do it. My fingers refused to let go, and I slouched in my chair. I couldn’t. I wouldn’t commit sacrilege on age-old literature, no matter how I hated him.
If I was here for a while, they might be my only entertainment.
Hours ticked past on a grandfather clock in the corner, chiming my life away every fifteen minutes and gonging my doom every hour.
How long before Q came back? How long before I could return to my tiny room and hide in sleep-oblivion?
My stomach grumbled as the winter sun set over rolling French countryside. I’d been curled up on the window seat for hours, peering through cedar slats. Mocked by the small slice of the world. Tiny sparrows darted, preening their feathers in the fountain. They were free—I was not.
I’d never longed for the sun so much. Its rays hadn’t touched my skin in over a week. I never thought I’d crave the outdoors, especially the cold, but I did. It was an itch I couldn’t scratch.
My heart squeezed as two black sedans drove sedately down the long gravel drive and stopped in front of the house. A chauffeur jumped out and opened the rear door.
Q stepped out, smiling reservedly at the man. He straightened his black trench and sucked in a deep breath, as if fortifying himself to enter his own home. The jacket stretched across his chest, showing the powerful breadth of shoulders. He tilted his head toward the library, searching for me no doubt, and fingers loosened the tie around his neck.
A look of depravity and unhappiness etched his features. I huddled on the window seat, hidden by the shutters and gloom, and conjured stories for him.
Who was this man? This conundrum, this enigma. A man so young, but so rich. A man who accepted women, who lived on his own with a galley of staff. A man who had more secrets than I ever did with Brax.
Was he hurting? Did he have a wife? I drafted a fairy-tale of his faults and flaws granting redemption. Perhaps he was kind under the gruff exterior. Perhaps I could appeal to a sensitive part locked far below and encourage him to release me willingly?
Perhaps.
Perhaps.
Perhaps.
I smashed at my eyes, warning them to stay dry. All my stories were just that: fiction. I had to stay in the real world. A world where focus and the preparation to bolt would save me.
My mind latched onto other things. Things like an escape pack. I needed warm clothes, a stash of food, and a knife to remove the GPS anklet. Those things would keep me alive when I found the opportunity.
I could somehow make it to the Australian embassy—wherever the hell it lurked. Would they save me? Send me home. Home to Brax, and parents who didn’t care. Parents who hated that I stole their retirement.
The front door swung wide as Q stepped into his home. The glass of the library doors showed him regal and proud, like a magistrate returning to his castle. All aura of confusion lining his face, gone.
He didn’t pause, heading straight to the library and unlocking the door.
I tensed and wrapped my arms around my knees. I sucked in a breath as he strode into the room.
It took him a moment to find me, looking in the wingback, by the bookcases. His body coiled tight as he hunted the room. When he found me, he froze.
Something snapped between us, arching with awareness, temptation. I mentally fought it, cutting the connection.
His nostrils flared as we glared from our sides of the room.
“Come,” he demanded, holding out a hand, fully expecting me act docile and follow. As if.
I bared my teeth, hugging myself hard. I didn’t grace him with an answer; my body language screamed all he needed to know: I despised him.
He didn’t demand again. Instead, he gritted his teeth and charged. With strength I feared, he plucked me from the seat as if I were an errant child. Fingers bit into my upper arm as he dragged me over plush carpeting and out of the library.
I squirmed, but couldn’t dislodge him. “Get off me.”
He didn’t answer as we almost jogged through the house. I didn’t see anyone. No noises of life, no visions of help.
Q headed straight behind the sweeping blue, velvet staircase. My breath caught as he punched the dark wood panelling.
I jumped when it popped open, revealing a door. Fear exploded in my veins. Upstairs in the house, I had the illusion of civility. If he took me down there, it symbolised a lack of constraint. My horror-filled visions might come true.
“No!” I twisted my arm, causing Q to grunt. He had no choice but to release me or earn a broken wrist.
I bolted, but Q was faster. He crashed against me and we collided into the wall. My rib roared and I panted, battling with pain. Turned out, I already forgot the lesson Leather Jacket taught me: obedience may be key, but I couldn’t walk willingly down those steps. I’d rather bleed and know I tried to save myself.
Q pressed h*ps into mine, sandwiching his entire body against me. “Stop fighting, esclave!”
He managed to capture my arms, pinning them in his hands. My tattoo burned along with rope injuries. A knee forced my legs apart, effectively trapping me.
I whimpered as my body once again disobeyed and grew hot beneath his touch. My heart rabbited as Q pressed his forehead against mine. His eyes blazed me to the core. “Arrêt.”
I stopped breathing, suspended by the hard-edged yearning in his voice.
I cocked my chin. “No.”
He sighed heavily, pushing away, but keeping hold of my wrist. My muscles trembled as he dragged me through the hidden door and down the steps. He tugged too hard and I tripped.
I landed against his back, causing him to almost fall. Arms came up, wrapping around, pressing us against the banister, stabilizing.
“Merde,” he muttered. “Can you not even walk? Is that why they gave you to me? Were you the reject? The one they couldn’t sell for top dollar?”
His words slapped, sharp and stinging.
Is that what happened? I’d disrupted their sick operation by standing up to Leather Jacket, the weak bastards removed me before I screwed everything. Anger as well as happiness heated. Anger that they dismissed me as the reject, happiness at standing up to them.
Thank God, I fought. I didn’t know how much danger I faced with Q, but I knew in my bones it was better than Mexico. I could’ve been drugged, raped repeatedly, and left to die in my own vomit. Now, I had to deal with a millionaire with issues.
See, Tess. Whatever happens, it’s not as bad as it could’ve been.
Perversely, I took strength in that. I still had wits, and consciousness. I was still fundamentally me, if only hidden beneath my gutter mouth, fierce persona.
When I didn’t answer, Q pulled me down the remaining stairs. The narrow flight ended, depositing us in a shadowed cave of a gaming room. To the right, an apple velvet pool table glowed beneath a low hung red chandelier. To the left, a sparkling bar with cut crystal sprinkled rainbows against the wall under spotlights. Wood panels on the walls and ceiling entombed us. All it needed were wisps of cigar smoke and smell of hard liquor.
The air was hushed, private. A man’s heaven.
Q threw me to the side, almost like he couldn’t touch me any longer. I stumbled with momentum, toward the pool table. Balls clacked together as I disrupted the neat triangle with an elbow.
I made to turn, to face him, but his hot length folded me, pushing me hard against the felt. I cried out as he forced my face against the table and ground h*ps into my ass.
I thought I’d been afraid up till this point. But I wasn’t, not really. Being trapped beneath his body, with hot breath on my neck, reminded he was the predator and I was his prey. It degraded, put me in my place, all the while my blood flowed faster, breath turned cloying in my lungs.
I fought.
Wriggling, I tried to buck him off. “Let me go!”
Fingers tightened in answer, pinning me harder in place. I turned feral; my hands grabbed a heavy pool ball and tried to smash his head behind. “Motherfucker, take your hands off me.”
Q moaned, sounding tortured and lost, but didn’t say anything. Heavy breathing disrupted the quiet tranquillity of the den.
His silence disconcerted me. I had no clue what he thought, or planned. The quiet amplified other senses, heightened my pain in bruises, and the worst horror, the wetness between my legs.
If Brax ever did this—treated me with such ferocity—I’d have come in a moment. I read the mind turned sex from good to great. Being forced would ruin me, so why did my body ignore my fear and soften?
I’d gone from fighting to primed, ready, even as my heart stuttered and panicked.
Q seemed to sense my acquiescence. He rocked gently, causing more heated blood to rush. He sucked in a breath, then a soft, slightly trembling hand landed on my hair, stroking, petting. Ever so slowly, he tucked blonde strands behind my ears, worshipping me with touch.
My heart unwound a little, soothed by gentleness. He forced me to surrender and accept his warped kindness.
Minutes of stroking turned my bones to molten and his touch dropped to caress my shoulder, my spine, never more than a whisper, but threatening just the same.
I expected roughness, yet he showed tenderness. How could I compete with that? Stay strong and fight when every animalistic part reacted to him.
I whimpered as fingers trailed down my ribcage, slinking to the side and the swell of a breast.
He hummed in his throat, a sound full of restraint, but also a warning. Slowly, fingers stroked, running circles over a tender breast, arching closer to my nipple with every touch.
My ni**les tightened, puckering with need. The knowledge he was about to touch me so intimately made me pant. My reaction flared Q, and he fisted a hand in my hair, tugging my torso off the felt. His h*ps kept mine pinned between him and the table.
I yelped as my scalp smarted, but at the same time pleasure radiated, fiery and hot. My entire body burned.
One hand cupped my breast, squeezing a nipple. His hot mouth descended on my neck, biting with sharp teeth.
I couldn’t control my body, but I didn’t want him thinking I wanted this. I didn’t. Not at all. “Stop. Please, don’t.”
I squeezed my eyes, wishing my mind could fly free from the overwhelming guilt crushing my soul. Guilt for reacting. Guilt for desperately wanting more. Guilt for wanting to kill him.
Q murmured something in French. Minty breath drifted over highly sensitive skin. His hand kneaded my breast, firmer, harder than Brax ever did. He rolled my nipple between dexterous fingers and an unwilling moan crawled up my throat.
Q tensed, pressing a hard c**k firm against my ass. “Putain, I want you so f**king much.”
He pinched my nipple and the flair of pain twisted my stomach. The pinch signified something—a claiming. “What is this?” he whispered darkly.
Q no longer bound himself to whatever rules he played by. Knowing sent aching need between my legs. I tried to stop lust from swarming, fogging, but I couldn’t.
I couldn’t breathe. Brax’s blue eyes filled my mind. What was I doing? Brax would hate me for eternity if I let this happen. It didn’t matter if I had no choice… I couldn’t return to him after being used by another. Tears bruised, hating my weakness, hating my body.
“Until tonight, esclave.”
Chapter 10
*Swallow*
Being a slave was… dare I say… boring.
After Q left, Suzette hovered, never letting me out of sight. She came across as sweet and obedient, but I saw the truth. She was Q’s: a head housekeeper who helped keep his slave in line. What had she said to him in the dining room? She antagonized, while giving him permission. Q may pay her salary, but she held a power over him I didn’t understand.
I didn’t think he would’ve pressed against me or licked my tears if she hadn’t encouraged him to give in to the battle inside.
Sometimes, I really hated having sensitive instincts—I sensed too much—painted too vivid futures that I didn’t want to come true.
What freaked me out the most was Q listened to her—pushed by his maid to do something he couldn’t restrain. My eyes narrowed, trying to figure out their relationship.
Surprisingly, with Q gone, my hunger came back, and I devoured the cold poached eggs. Suzette never left, and once I finished, she guided me toward the library, nonchalantly closing the door.
She left and my ears pricked as the lock clicked.
She may have left with a sweet smile, and my cell might’ve upgraded to include expensive literature and crystal decanters, but it was still a cage.
My thoughts filled with Q. Where did he disappear to? Probably to run an empire full of illegal activities and debauchery. Only work that danced with unlawful things could grant this sort of wealth. I wouldn’t be surprised if he was a major drug dealer.
I threw myself into a wingback and stiffened. His scent enveloped me, sending heartbeats racing with notes of sandalwood, juniper, and citrus.
My throat closed, connecting the smell of him to unhappiness. I wanted to look out the window, plot my escape, but the library had dark cedar shutters blocking the sun, protecting delicate books within. The air shimmered with dust motes and slivers of light turned the room into a calming grotto.
Despite the relaxing vibe, I couldn’t sit still. Q’s threat before leaving—until tonight, esclave—careened in my skull. I wouldn’t wait patiently for whatever he planned to do. I needed to stay active. Find a weapon. Find freedom.
I tested the door, but the lock held firm. I tried the shutters, but try as I might, they wouldn’t open. The only way out was the fireplace, and climbing a chimney flue did not inspire me.
Going mad with the need to run, I turned to the books, skimming through signed, first editions of priceless literature, hoping words could take me away. But nothing worked. Slamming a novel closed, I stared at the licking fire, wondering. If I burned all his books, would that teach Q a lesson?
I stood, dangling a red leather book above eager flames. Do it. My fingers refused to let go, and I slouched in my chair. I couldn’t. I wouldn’t commit sacrilege on age-old literature, no matter how I hated him.
If I was here for a while, they might be my only entertainment.
Hours ticked past on a grandfather clock in the corner, chiming my life away every fifteen minutes and gonging my doom every hour.
How long before Q came back? How long before I could return to my tiny room and hide in sleep-oblivion?
My stomach grumbled as the winter sun set over rolling French countryside. I’d been curled up on the window seat for hours, peering through cedar slats. Mocked by the small slice of the world. Tiny sparrows darted, preening their feathers in the fountain. They were free—I was not.
I’d never longed for the sun so much. Its rays hadn’t touched my skin in over a week. I never thought I’d crave the outdoors, especially the cold, but I did. It was an itch I couldn’t scratch.
My heart squeezed as two black sedans drove sedately down the long gravel drive and stopped in front of the house. A chauffeur jumped out and opened the rear door.
Q stepped out, smiling reservedly at the man. He straightened his black trench and sucked in a deep breath, as if fortifying himself to enter his own home. The jacket stretched across his chest, showing the powerful breadth of shoulders. He tilted his head toward the library, searching for me no doubt, and fingers loosened the tie around his neck.
A look of depravity and unhappiness etched his features. I huddled on the window seat, hidden by the shutters and gloom, and conjured stories for him.
Who was this man? This conundrum, this enigma. A man so young, but so rich. A man who accepted women, who lived on his own with a galley of staff. A man who had more secrets than I ever did with Brax.
Was he hurting? Did he have a wife? I drafted a fairy-tale of his faults and flaws granting redemption. Perhaps he was kind under the gruff exterior. Perhaps I could appeal to a sensitive part locked far below and encourage him to release me willingly?
Perhaps.
Perhaps.
Perhaps.
I smashed at my eyes, warning them to stay dry. All my stories were just that: fiction. I had to stay in the real world. A world where focus and the preparation to bolt would save me.
My mind latched onto other things. Things like an escape pack. I needed warm clothes, a stash of food, and a knife to remove the GPS anklet. Those things would keep me alive when I found the opportunity.
I could somehow make it to the Australian embassy—wherever the hell it lurked. Would they save me? Send me home. Home to Brax, and parents who didn’t care. Parents who hated that I stole their retirement.
The front door swung wide as Q stepped into his home. The glass of the library doors showed him regal and proud, like a magistrate returning to his castle. All aura of confusion lining his face, gone.
He didn’t pause, heading straight to the library and unlocking the door.
I tensed and wrapped my arms around my knees. I sucked in a breath as he strode into the room.
It took him a moment to find me, looking in the wingback, by the bookcases. His body coiled tight as he hunted the room. When he found me, he froze.
Something snapped between us, arching with awareness, temptation. I mentally fought it, cutting the connection.
His nostrils flared as we glared from our sides of the room.
“Come,” he demanded, holding out a hand, fully expecting me act docile and follow. As if.
I bared my teeth, hugging myself hard. I didn’t grace him with an answer; my body language screamed all he needed to know: I despised him.
He didn’t demand again. Instead, he gritted his teeth and charged. With strength I feared, he plucked me from the seat as if I were an errant child. Fingers bit into my upper arm as he dragged me over plush carpeting and out of the library.
I squirmed, but couldn’t dislodge him. “Get off me.”
He didn’t answer as we almost jogged through the house. I didn’t see anyone. No noises of life, no visions of help.
Q headed straight behind the sweeping blue, velvet staircase. My breath caught as he punched the dark wood panelling.
I jumped when it popped open, revealing a door. Fear exploded in my veins. Upstairs in the house, I had the illusion of civility. If he took me down there, it symbolised a lack of constraint. My horror-filled visions might come true.
“No!” I twisted my arm, causing Q to grunt. He had no choice but to release me or earn a broken wrist.
I bolted, but Q was faster. He crashed against me and we collided into the wall. My rib roared and I panted, battling with pain. Turned out, I already forgot the lesson Leather Jacket taught me: obedience may be key, but I couldn’t walk willingly down those steps. I’d rather bleed and know I tried to save myself.
Q pressed h*ps into mine, sandwiching his entire body against me. “Stop fighting, esclave!”
He managed to capture my arms, pinning them in his hands. My tattoo burned along with rope injuries. A knee forced my legs apart, effectively trapping me.
I whimpered as my body once again disobeyed and grew hot beneath his touch. My heart rabbited as Q pressed his forehead against mine. His eyes blazed me to the core. “Arrêt.”
I stopped breathing, suspended by the hard-edged yearning in his voice.
I cocked my chin. “No.”
He sighed heavily, pushing away, but keeping hold of my wrist. My muscles trembled as he dragged me through the hidden door and down the steps. He tugged too hard and I tripped.
I landed against his back, causing him to almost fall. Arms came up, wrapping around, pressing us against the banister, stabilizing.
“Merde,” he muttered. “Can you not even walk? Is that why they gave you to me? Were you the reject? The one they couldn’t sell for top dollar?”
His words slapped, sharp and stinging.
Is that what happened? I’d disrupted their sick operation by standing up to Leather Jacket, the weak bastards removed me before I screwed everything. Anger as well as happiness heated. Anger that they dismissed me as the reject, happiness at standing up to them.
Thank God, I fought. I didn’t know how much danger I faced with Q, but I knew in my bones it was better than Mexico. I could’ve been drugged, raped repeatedly, and left to die in my own vomit. Now, I had to deal with a millionaire with issues.
See, Tess. Whatever happens, it’s not as bad as it could’ve been.
Perversely, I took strength in that. I still had wits, and consciousness. I was still fundamentally me, if only hidden beneath my gutter mouth, fierce persona.
When I didn’t answer, Q pulled me down the remaining stairs. The narrow flight ended, depositing us in a shadowed cave of a gaming room. To the right, an apple velvet pool table glowed beneath a low hung red chandelier. To the left, a sparkling bar with cut crystal sprinkled rainbows against the wall under spotlights. Wood panels on the walls and ceiling entombed us. All it needed were wisps of cigar smoke and smell of hard liquor.
The air was hushed, private. A man’s heaven.
Q threw me to the side, almost like he couldn’t touch me any longer. I stumbled with momentum, toward the pool table. Balls clacked together as I disrupted the neat triangle with an elbow.
I made to turn, to face him, but his hot length folded me, pushing me hard against the felt. I cried out as he forced my face against the table and ground h*ps into my ass.
I thought I’d been afraid up till this point. But I wasn’t, not really. Being trapped beneath his body, with hot breath on my neck, reminded he was the predator and I was his prey. It degraded, put me in my place, all the while my blood flowed faster, breath turned cloying in my lungs.
I fought.
Wriggling, I tried to buck him off. “Let me go!”
Fingers tightened in answer, pinning me harder in place. I turned feral; my hands grabbed a heavy pool ball and tried to smash his head behind. “Motherfucker, take your hands off me.”
Q moaned, sounding tortured and lost, but didn’t say anything. Heavy breathing disrupted the quiet tranquillity of the den.
His silence disconcerted me. I had no clue what he thought, or planned. The quiet amplified other senses, heightened my pain in bruises, and the worst horror, the wetness between my legs.
If Brax ever did this—treated me with such ferocity—I’d have come in a moment. I read the mind turned sex from good to great. Being forced would ruin me, so why did my body ignore my fear and soften?
I’d gone from fighting to primed, ready, even as my heart stuttered and panicked.
Q seemed to sense my acquiescence. He rocked gently, causing more heated blood to rush. He sucked in a breath, then a soft, slightly trembling hand landed on my hair, stroking, petting. Ever so slowly, he tucked blonde strands behind my ears, worshipping me with touch.
My heart unwound a little, soothed by gentleness. He forced me to surrender and accept his warped kindness.
Minutes of stroking turned my bones to molten and his touch dropped to caress my shoulder, my spine, never more than a whisper, but threatening just the same.
I expected roughness, yet he showed tenderness. How could I compete with that? Stay strong and fight when every animalistic part reacted to him.
I whimpered as fingers trailed down my ribcage, slinking to the side and the swell of a breast.
He hummed in his throat, a sound full of restraint, but also a warning. Slowly, fingers stroked, running circles over a tender breast, arching closer to my nipple with every touch.
My ni**les tightened, puckering with need. The knowledge he was about to touch me so intimately made me pant. My reaction flared Q, and he fisted a hand in my hair, tugging my torso off the felt. His h*ps kept mine pinned between him and the table.
I yelped as my scalp smarted, but at the same time pleasure radiated, fiery and hot. My entire body burned.
One hand cupped my breast, squeezing a nipple. His hot mouth descended on my neck, biting with sharp teeth.
I couldn’t control my body, but I didn’t want him thinking I wanted this. I didn’t. Not at all. “Stop. Please, don’t.”
I squeezed my eyes, wishing my mind could fly free from the overwhelming guilt crushing my soul. Guilt for reacting. Guilt for desperately wanting more. Guilt for wanting to kill him.
Q murmured something in French. Minty breath drifted over highly sensitive skin. His hand kneaded my breast, firmer, harder than Brax ever did. He rolled my nipple between dexterous fingers and an unwilling moan crawled up my throat.
Q tensed, pressing a hard c**k firm against my ass. “Putain, I want you so f**king much.”
He pinched my nipple and the flair of pain twisted my stomach. The pinch signified something—a claiming. “What is this?” he whispered darkly.
Q no longer bound himself to whatever rules he played by. Knowing sent aching need between my legs. I tried to stop lust from swarming, fogging, but I couldn’t.
I couldn’t breathe. Brax’s blue eyes filled my mind. What was I doing? Brax would hate me for eternity if I let this happen. It didn’t matter if I had no choice… I couldn’t return to him after being used by another. Tears bruised, hating my weakness, hating my body.
