Diamonds in the Dust Page 13

  The kiss is brutal. His teeth cut my lip. I taste the blood as our tongues tangle. His breathing is harsh, his growl a primitive sound. He mashes our lips together, sucking the very life out of me as if this is a new kind of war. I fight back. I kiss him like my life depends on it. I don’t know where my desperation comes from, only that this mutual roughness feels purging.

  He takes, but I take, too. I bite down on his lower lip until our blood mingles. I use the aggression as an outlet for my pain like he won’t allow me to use my sharp words or self-preserving pride. I stop being a passive participant, trying to hold onto something precious with both hands, something I don’t want to share, and take something from him for myself.

  It’s a tipping point. To take, your hand has to be open, not clutched tightly around your heart. When I take from Maxime, I open myself. I’m vulnerable to the unknown, susceptible to the sensations of a violent kiss, surprised to find I like it. It’s like a fight for life, a fight to death. Only one of us will be left standing when this is all over. The desperation transforms into arousal. Heat blooms between my legs. It’s not gentle and slow building like in the study. It’s instant and demanding. I moan, a keening sound of need that triggers Maxime’s tipping point in turn.

  He grows gentle. The warning hold on my neck loosens to a possessive caress. He drags his tongue over the cut on my lip and molds his mouth around mine with tender precision. It’s a skilled kiss, a seductive kiss. I lean into it, pushing our bodies together. Placing one hand next to my face on the wall, he drags his hand from my neck to my breast, squeezing softly. My back arches. He tilts his hips toward mine, pressing his hard-on against my stomach. Water washes over us, drawing an abstract picture with blurry lines, but right and wrong vanishes with the need that pulses in my body as if it has a life of its own.

  Like my aggression stoked his, his slower pace awakens new needs in me, a need to touch and to be held. Lifting my hands from the tiles where they’re plastered next to my hips, I place them on Maxime’s chest. The muscles are hard and unrelenting under my palms as I expected, but it’s the bumpy texture of his skin that stills me.

  I lean back, blinking the water from my eyes. Maxime freezes. His eyelids lift with wary apprehension. My gaze skims down. The skin of his chest is red and angry, patchy all the way to his stomach and covering half of his abdomen, an aggressive pattern of pain painted on a man. I’ve never seen anything like it. My heart squeezes in involuntary empathy. What happened to him? What caused such scars?

  When I splay my fingers to inspect the damage, he catches my wrist.

  The pressure of his grip is too hard. “Don’t.” The single word is harsh, but there’s a plea in his eyes, and it’s mixed with agony to reflect a portrait of stunning suffering in those ash-colored pools.

  “What happened?” I whisper.

  “Fire.”

  He moves my hand away, down, and places it over his erection. I close my fingers involuntary. He hisses. The sound gives me power. I stroke. He growls.

  I know what he’s doing. He’s using distraction to prevent me from asking the questions turning in my mind, and it’s working. His cock twitches under my palm, hardening more. I look at my fist, my fingers barely meeting, and back at his gaze.

  He’s watching me with sharp attention. I watch him in turn as I slide my fist up and down. I see what I do to him. I see the angry hunger in his eyes.

  He cups my hip, angling his erection toward my opening. “Actions have consequences, little flower.” He grabs my wrist and moves my hand away. “You came in here knowing full well what could happen.”

  I came in here to avenge myself for how he used me. Instead, I find myself pressed up against a wall, wet and needy. He grabs the base of his cock in one hand and presses the head against my clit while holding my hip with the other like I’m fragile and about to break. He rubs in a circle, sending flushes of heat through my body. Slickness covers my sex. He drags his cock over my opening, bringing my arousal back to my clit. I open my legs to give him better access. I’m panting, needing this now that I know what it feels like and how good the release is.

  He rubs a thumb over my hip, a soft backward and forward brush. “I wasn’t going to do this so soon.”

  When he grips my thigh and drapes it around his ass, I place my palms on his shoulders. I’m not going to let him make me forget why I came in here. There are lines he can’t cross. “I won’t let you bully me.”

  “Then stop bullying me.”

  His words take me by surprise. Is that how he sees my actions, my sharp tongue and spiteful attitude? I gasp, but not because of his words. He’s parted me and slipped inside an inch. It burns, but not as much as last night.

  “This isn’t punishment,” he says. “I don’t want to hurt you. You can tell me to stop.”

  I don’t. A spark ignites when he slides over sensitive nerve endings. Leaning my head against the tiles, I bite my lip, feeling the fire steal over my body, incinerating me from the inside out.

  I adapt faster than yesterday. The stretch still hurts, but my body is suppler, welcoming the intrusion instead of trying to push it out. He’s excruciatingly gentle, moving inch by inch until he is fully sheathed. He cups a hand between my legs, massaging my dark entrance with a middle finger. The stimulation makes me clench my knees together, trapping him inside me. My inner muscles squeeze. He curses and lets go, giving me room to relax and take him deeper.

  I cling to his shoulders when he starts to move. His pace is slow and careful. He locks his hands around my middle, circling my waist. Bringing down his head, he catches my bottom lip between his teeth, sucking it gently into his mouth. He kisses me softly, reverently, as he drags his hands over my ribs to the sides of my breasts. He pushes the curves together between his palms until my nipples brushes over his chest. I feel the quick intake of his breath in our kiss. I hear it as he lets my breasts touch him where he wouldn’t allow my hands.

  His soft kiss and gentle touch stoke the fire inside me higher. Its fuel is as effective as the aggressive kiss that started this. Tilting my hips forward, I urge him to move faster and send me over the edge.

  He’s good at this dance. He knows the rhythm and the steps. He knows how to lead me. The way our bodies rub together stimulates my clit. I feel it coming, a band that stretches to breaking point.

  “I’m going to—” The orgasm hits. It’s white-hot and a symphony of pleasure exploding in every cell of my body. I dig my nails into his arms. A cry escapes my lips as he rips himself from me.

  I want to mourn the premature ending of the fireworks under my skin, but when ribbons of cum erupt from his cock and fall over my thighs, I understand. I’ve almost forgotten a fundamental precaution. The consequences of him coming inside me make me go cold. Dammit. How could he disarm me this much? I haven’t even asked if he’s clean.

  I’m scolding myself for my irresponsible behavior when he presses his forehead against mine. He’s breathing heavily. We both are.

  “Maxime.”

  He cups my cheek, this thumb hooking under my jaw. “What is it, Zoe?”

  “We almost forgot.”

  He leans away to look at me. “I’m careful, but you’re right. I’ll take care of it first thing tomorrow.”

  “You’re my first, but…” I bite my lip. I don’t want to insult him again, not until I’ve decided how to move forward, if I’m willing to fight to the death of my soul or if I’m going to take the white flag he’s offering.

  His lips pull up in one corner. “Do you seriously think I’d risk giving you diseases?”

  I study him. “I don’t know.” Despite what I said earlier, I don’t really know him, and I’m having a tough time figuring him out. He’s too confusing, a dangerous cocktail of mixed signals.

  His mouth tightens. “I’m clean.”

  “Okay.” It’s a meek word, a feeble attempt at guarding our fragile peace.

  “The water is getting cold.”

  He reaches for the spo
nge, soaps it, and starts to wash me. By the time he’s done, the scalding hot water of earlier is lukewarm. He turns off the water and wraps me in a thick towel before taking one for himself. After drying me, he pulls on a T-shirt and a pair of tracksuit pants.

  I’m lethargic and sore, and I have a strange glowing feeling in my body. I’m also hungry, and my stomach rumbles to announce it.

  “Go to bed,” he says, watching my reflection in the mirror as I’m brushing out my hair. “I’ll bring up a tray.”

  I turn in surprise. “I can go down to eat.”

  “You’re tired.”

  He doesn’t wait for my response. He walks from the bathroom, leaving the door open. I go back to the room and rummage through the suitcase Maxime had packed, but there are no pajamas. He didn’t get me any. I settle for a pair of silk panties, the ones that cover my bottom the most, and one of his T-shirts. Then I slip between the cold sheets, resting my back against the headboard.

  I really am tired, and by the time he returns my eyes are drawing close.

  He sits down next to me with a chuckle. “My little hellcat is exhausted.”

  I don’t say anything. I’m not sure how I feel about what I did, about hitting him then kissing him like an animal and fucking as if we were having make-up sex. I don’t want to turn into my father, my mother either.

  He brushes a strand of hair behind my ear. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.” Except that I almost apologized to my kidnapper for slapping him. Am I losing my mind?

  “Fran made magret de canard.” He forks a bite-sized piece of meat and holds it to my lips.

  I stiffen a little at the mention of his lover, or ex-lover as he’s claimed, but I open my lips. I’m too hungry to refuse, hungrier than I’ve ever been. I’m surprised that I have an appetite at all. Maybe it’s the sea air, or the colder winter, or the sex.

  The duck is delicious. He alternates the meat with grilled potatoes, feeding me until the plate is empty.

  “What about you?” I ask when he hands me a glass of red wine.

  “I still have work to do. I’ll eat later.”

  “Oh.” I take a sip of wine, contemplating the man who fed me, taking care of my needs before his. Does he have a split personality? How can he be so caring in one moment and cruel in the next? Because he doesn’t harbor feelings for me. I’m an object, his hostage.

  He gathers the tray and stands. “It’ll do you good to have an early night.”

  As if that will make everything all right.

  “Goodnight, Zoe.”

  With that, he walks from the room. I stare at the closed door. I’m unsettled. Uncertain. It’s only my first day in his house. How will I get through four years? I take another sip of the wine. It’s good, rounded and smoky. It makes me feel warm and relaxed. What I need is some fresh air to clear my head. I need to decide how to handle this. I can’t do this see-saw thing with Maxime. It’s too exhausting. I’m either consenting to my fate or defying him to the point of my soul’s destruction. What I can’t do is become a person I hate. We’d vowed this to each other, Damian and I, that we’d never repeat our parents’ mistakes.

  I pull on a pair of socks and Maxime’s thick robe that hangs behind the bathroom door. Taking my wine, I open the balcony doors and step outside. It’s freezing. The wind nips at my skin, making me shiver. It’s dark over the ocean save for the wedge of moonlight that illuminates the cove. A half-moon of sand shines in the light. There’s a small beach at the bottom of the cliffs.

  A movement on the boulder catches my eye. Someone is walking along the edge of the cliff. It’s impossible not to recognize Maxime’s powerful frame and purposeful stride. He’s dressed in the same clothes from earlier, no coat. I suck in a breath. He’ll catch his death out there.

  I rest my arms on the rail, leaning over farther for a better view. He stretches his arms over his head. What the hell is he doing? He’s taking off his T-shirt. Stunned, I watch as he strips naked. I’m caught so much off guard, I don’t come to my senses until he steps right up to the edge and jumps.

  Chapter 16

  Maxime

  * * *

  The water is like icicles driving into my skin. The shock is thermal. It makes me feel alive. I go down deep, a place I’ve gone many times before, and not just literally. I don’t swim. I don’t fight. I let the cobalt hole swallow me, and I count. When I get to sixty, I start to kick. Another sixty, and I break the surface. Four times as much as I made Zoe take. If she suffered, I have to suffer, too.

  Gasping for air, I fight the cramps that set in due to the cold. My lungs burn. The punishment blazes through my chest like a fire while the cold encases my skin. I embrace it. Fuck, it feels great. Power surges through me. Strength bursts in my veins. I turn away from the shore and swim deeper into the ocean with strong breaststrokes. The cold vanishes until only the invincible sensation remains. In the stretch of moonlight that falls over the water, I float on my back to look at the stars. The sky is clear. It’s a cold kind of clear, that dry, iciness that settles over the night and frosts the landscape like icing sugar sifted over a cake.

  This is part of what I love so much about this place—the silence. I drift about aimlessly, enjoying the quiet and weightlessness for as long as I can. Chaos awaits on the shore. With a life like mine, there’s always chaos. I should turn back soon. I may not feel the pain, but hypothermia will set in after a few more minutes. I drag my fingers over the scar tissue on my chest. The skin is dead. There’s no feeling. There hasn’t been since the multiple skin grafts.

  That’s the problem with men like me. We’re unfeeling. It goes deeper than my scarred skin. It goes all the way down to the hardened, black, rotten organ I call my heart. In my occupation, we do things, see things. It desensitizes us. It makes us monsters to others and dead to ourselves. Until Zoe touched me.

  When I held her against me in the lobby of her building, I felt something. It was different to the usual physical arousal that comes with sex. She stirred things inside me, things I thought were dead. She stirred my curiosity about life, about staying pure and beautiful amidst the sins that make grown men unfeeling. When she put her hands on my chest in the shower tonight, I swear my dead skin crawled. There was something there underneath the flesh and blood. I felt her touch in my heart. Longing. Compassion. Admiration. A need to protect. A need to please.

  It’s new. It’s confusing. Fuck me if I know what to do with it.

  What shall I do with her, my little flower? I look at the house that stands on the cliffs, a beacon of status and wealth with the lights shining from its windows. My gaze finds the room where she’s sleeping, and then I still. A figure stands on the balcony, small and vulnerable against the evil myths and unfortunate truths that lurk in the night. A gust of wind rips her hair across her face. She shouldn’t be out there. She’ll catch pneumonia.

  Turning back to the shore, I swim fast. I can find the passage between the sharp rocks blindfolded. In no time, I walk out on the sand, and when I look up, she’s no longer there. I take the path, climbing up the steep steps to the cliff top where I left my clothes. I pull them on over my wet body and make my way back to the house.

  I push the front door open, and Zoe stands there, hugging herself. She’s dressed in my robe, one of my T-shirts, and a pair of socks. A different kind of power surges through me. It has nothing to do with being invincible and everything about vulnerability. It’s possessive. I’m overwhelmed with male pride, with owning what stands in front of me. My clothes mark her as mine. The way I took her body is an irrevocable claim. I’m jealous of her. I’m jealous of the men who’ll have her when we’re over, and suddenly the thought is unthinkable.

  She’s looking at me with parted lips, questions in her eyes. I lock away my revelations, the strangeness of these new feelings, and shut the door behind me.

  Sleeking back my wet, windblown hair, I ask, “What are you doing up?”

  “My God, Maxime.” She steps toward m
e, her eyes big. “You’ll freeze to death.” She scans my face. “Your lips are blue.”

  Her concern warms my chest. Pathetically, I want more of her worry. “I thought you would’ve been glad if I dropped dead.”

  She grabs my arm and drags me deeper into the house. “Don’t joke about that.”

  A smile plucks at my lips. It’s not a forced gesture, but one of those spontaneous ones that feels so unfamiliar it must look unnatural. “About what? Death?” I’m not afraid of it. Not for myself. Yet for her I’m terrified.

  She slaps my arm. “Shh. If you say it, you’ll make it happen.”

  That makes me smile. It’s not just a quirk of my lips. It’s the full nine yards. “If I talk about my death, I’ll die?”

  Her blue eyes grow even rounder. “We attract what we think.”

  I’m intrigued. It’s this part of her that fascinates me. “Do you believe in that hocus pocus hippy stuff?”

  She gives me a chiding look. “It’s not hippy stuff. It’s quantum physics. It’s the law of energy. What you give is what you get.” Lifting a cocky brow, she continues, “You are what you think. Never heard about that?”

  I cross my arms. “Is this a misguided lesson in morals?”

  She scrunches up her nose. “No, it’s science. For every action there’s an equal reaction.” She cocks her hip, her posture a challenge. “You said so yourself, didn’t you? Not in so many words, but if you think about it, we really believe in the same thing.” She shrugs. “Actions have consequences.”

  She’s cute, this tiny woman. I want to throw her over my shoulder and carry her away to somewhere nicer, someplace happier, but this is who we are, and we’ve already set the chain of actions in motion. It does give me insight into her mind and her thought process though, and I’m hungry to understand her.