Tears of Tess (31 page)

“I
don’t care if you do or don’t. You won’t because I say you’re not allo—”

He
smothered me with his body; the post dug into my back as his mouth captured
mine. A tongue speared between my lips.

I
whimpered, melted, wanting so badly to kiss him back. But that wasn’t allowed
in the role I played. The role I
needed
to play.

His
lips branded, tearing another moan from me, rather than a curse. His tongue
possessed my senses, forcing me to duel, to parry, to taste and savour. Was I
returning his kiss? No, I wasn’t. I was fighting to breathe, in every sense of
the word.

I
bucked, breaking the kiss, breathing ragged.

He
turned the scissors on me again, hands deathly still as he snipped the waistband
of my shorts. He murmured, “You want me to stop?”

God,
no. Never.

“Yes,
you bastard. I won’t let you do this. It’s sick. Wrong. Let me go.”

His
body trembled with some undescribed emotion; keeping eye contact, he cut again.

I
squirmed as the metal continued lower and lower, brushing against my core. “You
don’t have permission. Stop.”

Eyes sharpened
with challenge, and he deliberately cut slower, dragging out suspense, snipping
clothes away, one clip at a time.

The moment he
cut the crotch, the shorts fell away, puddling to the floor in disgrace. If Q
touched me, I’d combust. My damp knickers clung to every part. Pretending to
fight stimulated my lust to a forest fire.

No wonder
missionary didn’t do it for me. I needed scissors and threats to become drunk
on need.

Q slammed to his
knees, wrapping strong arms around my thighs, jerking me toward him. I screamed
as his mouth connected over my knickers, hot breath radiating like a bomb
between my legs. He nibbled my swollen clit through the material, dragging more
erratic breaths from my lungs.

I wanted to open
my legs, to hook them over Q’s shoulder and ride his mouth, but that wasn’t the
character of unwilling slave. Instead, I wriggled, trying to run from his
probing, mind-melting tongue.

He rumbled in
his chest; it vibrated against my legs. With one hand, he grabbed my ankle,
purposely bringing attention to the GPS anklet. His silent touch spoke volumes.
You’re mine. I track you. You can’t escape
.

It was a red
flag to my brain, knowing I could be wild and wanton because he wanted it. I
could scream and writhe, and it only excited him. Brax would run if I ever
screamed in bed.

Q
tongued me, pressing with a pointed tip, licking wet cotton. I couldn’t stop my
breath turning softer, feathery, needful.

“You
don’t want this?” Q murmured again, standing slowly, trailing a finger up my
inner thigh, right to my mouth. With a twist of his lips, he forced his finger
into my mouth.

The
primal instinct to suck consumed, but I forced myself to go against instinct
and bite instead.

He
jerked, yanking his finger away.

I
smiled darkly. “Put anything in my mouth and I swear to God, I’ll bite it off.”
My mouth filled with saliva, anticipation making me hungry. 

Ever
since I belonged to Q, I discovered things I was never strong enough to visit
before. This new, dark part wanted to taste his blood. To get real and gritty
and deliciously wrong.

Q
stepped closer, jeans scraping highly sensitive flesh. A band of release sparked
from the contact
. I’m so close. I’m never this close. God, Tess, he’s barely
touched you.

It
was the mind games—my brain made it raw, wonderful.

His
eyes glazed with need and he bit my lower lip, dragging soft flesh between his
teeth: a warning he’d bite back.

I
shuddered as he let me go. I expected him to cut my knickers off, but he
paused, turning the scissors on himself.

Arching
his neck, he snipped the collar, cutting down the centre of the t-shirt, just
like with mine. Once in half, he shrugged it off, letting it join my ruined
clothes on the floor.

My
world spun and all I could think of was sparrows.

Q
glared, daring me to judge him. And judge I did. His entire torso and right
side was covered in fluttering birds. The panic in a sparrow’s eyes closed my
throat as they flew frantically from brambles, barbwire, and stormy clouds. The
clouds roiled on his side, swallowing up unlucky birds, suffocating them to
death.

My
heart hurt looking at Q’s intricate tattoo. There lurked an evilness, a sadness,
reminding me of the mural on the wall of the pedestal room. I wanted to run
fingers along perfectly inked feathers. I wanted to lick his nipple where one
bird had gotten free, the joy in its eyes blazed with hope.

So
much was said by the design, but I didn’t understand it. I looked into his eyes.
He held contact for a moment, before looking over my head. His hands curled and
he sucked in a breath, outlining perfectly cut stomach muscles.

He
vibrated with tension. My heart fluttered like little sparrow wings, and I gave
my last sense to Q. My sense of sight. Standing so erect, standoffish, he
filled my vision with everything I ever wanted. He owned everything but
instincts and heart.

“Tell
me. Tell me the story of the birds.”

He
clenched his jaw. “It isn’t a story you need to know.”

“But
it means so much to you. I see a reoccurring theme, Q… I want to understand.”

His
face blackened. “You don’t have the right to call me Q when you’re tied to the
bed. I’m your
maître
. Address me as such.”

Anger
at being denied made me argumentative. “I’ll fight you. You’ll have to wrap me
up in brambles, same as the sparrows on your chest, if you want to fuck me,
maître
.”

My
taunt worked; he grabbed my chin with hard fingers. “You think you’re so fierce
with your threats. My job isn’t to wrap you in shackles,
esclave.
My job
is to
unshackle
you. And as much as you deny it, I’m doing a damn fine
job.”

He
ran his nose against mine, murmuring, “So shut the fuck up, stop looking at me
like I’m some code to be cracked, and let me do what I fucking want to you.”

Stepping
back, he attacked his jeans. Rather than undoing them, he cut them. Sawing
through the waist band, slicing down the legs. Each snip revealed hard thighs
kissed by little curls, firm quads, and perfect bare feet. “Let’s see how you
stick to your threats when I take your body.”

Oh,
God. My insides were liquid, heated. Embarrassment at being wet painted my cheeks
with red. I couldn’t control my reaction. Q was my master in every sense.

Q
stepped from the ruined jeans, closing the small distance between us. I
couldn’t look away from his tattoo. I related to it and in a way, I knew what
it represented, but the conclusion kept leaping from grabbing distance.

Rolling
hips into mine, wearing only boxer briefs, Q murmured, “Tell me again you don’t
want this,
esclave
.”

How
could I lie when my body screamed the truth? My mind was lust filled, hazy, but
I had a part to play. Q wanted me to fight so… I fought.

I
leaned forward, snapping my teeth, coming within a hair breadth of his nose.
“Go to hell.”

His
cock jumped in his boxer-shorts, scalding me. Out of nowhere, his palm
connected with my cheek, sending spasms of heat.

I
gasped, glaring with watering eyes. “You fucking hit a woman when she says no?
You’re perverted.”

He
pursed his lips. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

Taking
him up on his offer, I whispered, “You think you’re a monster. You’re not.”

He
grabbed my hair, twisting my neck. Agony flared, and I whimpered in real fear.
“Would a kind man do this?”

When
I didn’t answer, he twisted further until I screamed. “No! Only a monster does
that.”

Not
pacified, he reached for the scissors, quickly snipping my knickers and his
boxers. They fluttered to the floor in pieces. Q weighed the scissors in his
hand, before tracing my naked stomach with the blade. “Would a kind man do
this?” With a flick of his wrist, he nicked me. Blood welled in the tiny cut. I
shivered, wanting to put my hand over the wound, to hide it, heal it.

Real
tears dripped. I was an idiot to think there was something redeemable in this
man.

“No,
only a monster would do that.” My voice was barely audible.

Q
sneered. “Now you know the truth.” He bent and licked the blood off my stomach.
His tongue lapped; my core clenched, reacting to the tenderness after inflicting
pain. His saliva staunched the bleeding and he straightened, licking his lips.

Everything
tightened, my mouth parted, desperate to taste his blood. Tasting him was fair.
He cut me—a debt must be paid.

Q
narrowed his eyes, our souls screamed at each other, unhindered by human words.

I
want to hurt you.

I
want to own you.

I
want to devour you.

I
want to make you mine.

I’m
already yours.

Who
thought that? Me or him? Whose eyes spoke the truth before we acknowledged it
in our minds?

Q
reached up, and with a quick slice, nicked below his nipple with the sparrow
flying free. A droplet of crimson welled. I watched with crippling need.

Taste.
I have to taste.

He
stood taller, placing his chest against my mouth. I greedily lapped the
droplet, moaning as salty metallic fogged my entire being. Once I cleaned him,
he pulled away, murmuring, “Monsters find each other in the dark.”

I
couldn’t read his tone, and I didn’t like the implication.
Am I a monster?
Compared to Brax most definitely, but Q… there were limits he crossed that I
never could.
Had
we found each other in the darkness? I may have black
desires, but I loved light, too. I needed tenderness to temper pain and
degradation. Was that an option?

Q
wrapped a hand around his cock, stroking, looking deep into my eyes. With another
hand, he found my centre, easing a finger deep inside.

Even
though my body rippled, I never stopped being in character. Q couldn’t know how
much I wanted this. I had to fight—I
wanted
to fight.

I
somehow tapped into a kickass actress, coaxing a tear to fall. “I don’t want
this.”

His
nostrils flared. Unwrapping fingers from his cock, he captured a tear on a fingertip.
He stared at it, then me, indecision searing in his gaze. The night reclaimed
him, shadowing his face. He licked the salty tear. “You’ll be crying more
before I’m finished with you.”

I
began a file on what turned my master on. Tears was one, struggles another.
What was his ultimate undoing? I wouldn’t stop until I found out.

Tears
shed again, forcing myself into the headspace of hating him, just like when I
first arrived. Before he saved me, killed for me. Q didn’t want a meek slave.
He loved my unbrokenness.

Another
puzzle locked into place. Was that what Suzette meant when she said Q didn’t
touch her because she was ruined? He touched me, because I fought—I was strong.
He couldn’t fuck an injured… yet he wanted… what did he want? To tame me? To
parry? Something in him wanted to be accused of being a rapist, of being sick
and twisted, because that’s how he honestly saw himself.

Q
flicked a tongue over my cheek, catching tears. I gasped and wriggled, biting
my lip as our naked bodies slid against each other. My nipples sprang to an all
new hardness, budding with excitement.

His
head bowed, forehead to forehead. I breathed him in, gluing myself to the post,
making sure no part reached for him. That would ruin the game. I couldn’t
forget, I didn’t want this.

“Ah,
esclave
.
Tu m'excite au-delà de la croyance.
” You excite me
beyond belief. Fingers shot between my legs, plunging deep. My knees trembled
as his hand rocked, hard.

I
whimpered, body reacting—swelling, melting,
needing
. I was ravenous for
whatever Q gave. I wanted him so badly, but I wanted to fight just as much. The
act of saying no did strange things to me, turning sex from mediocre to
knee-wobbly and carnal. I became a hungry, libido-driven woman; only Q could
scratch my erotic itch.

Q
murmured in French, dialects swallowed by the silent night-shrouded room. I
panted, but it sounded hushed, like a dream.

His
finger was the ultimate ownership. Palpitating my core, he sucked in a breath
as I thrust, needing more

I
couldn’t help it. I moaned.

He
pressed his cock against my hip, smearing glistening pre-cum on me. His
erection was hot, hard, and tempting beyond belief. His breathing matched mine
in roughness. “You can’t lie. Not now. Not when your body blares the truth.” He
moved his fingers, stroking inner parts of me, throbbing with the need to release.