Total pages in book: 74
Estimated words: 71865 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 359(@200wpm)___ 287(@250wpm)___ 240(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 71865 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 359(@200wpm)___ 287(@250wpm)___ 240(@300wpm)
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.
Draping me over his chest afterward, he drags a hand through my hair. “What did you do today?”
“Read.”
“What did you read?”
“Dunno. Can’t remember.”
He sweeps my hair over my shoulder, caressing the curve of my neck. “You were reading Gone with the Wind. You said it’s a long one. Did you finish it?”
“Oh.” I rub my cheek over his chest, craving the warmth and contact. “Yes.”
“Did you like it?”
I frown. “Mm.” The truth is, I can’t remember. The words registered but the meaning didn’t. I’m filling my brain with empty phrases, with letters and lines that don’t form pictures. I’ll pay better attention tomorrow. Right after I’ve written Damian’s letter. I write to him every week, saying how happy I am but planting clues about the truth via our code language.
“Zoe?”
“Mm?”
His hand stills on my shoulder. “Did you hear what I said?”
“Sorry, what was that?”
He grips my chin and turns my face toward him. “I said you need exercise.”
“Oh. Right.” The thought of it alone makes me tired.