Beauty in the Broken: A Diamond Magnate Novel Page 16

The way he says my name makes me shut my mouth. I know his limits and to what pushing them leads.

  Shaking his head, he walks to the bed, empties the bags, and selects a pink sundress that he holds out to me. “Put this on.”

  It has thin straps and a low-cut back. It’s too pretty for someone like me. “No, thanks.”

  A calculated look invades his eyes. “Why? Because I chose it, or because it’ll show off your arms?”

  I flinch as he drops the subject I’ve been tiptoeing around since last night. “Both.”

  Stalking me with the dress in his outstretched hand, he says, “Woman up and wear it.”

  Who the hell is he, the very man submitting me to this torture, to tell me to woman up? Does he enjoy my suffering? Probably. No, definitely, which is why I don’t argue when he drapes the dress with exaggerated care over the arm of the chair and reaches for the hem of my T-shirt. I won’t give him more reason to bask in my discomfort.

  He yanks on the fabric, pulling it over my breasts, and I lift my arms at the silent prompt. Since he destroyed all my underwear, I’m naked underneath. When his gaze moves from my face to my breasts, it’s as if a switch flicks in him. He goes from angry to lustful in a second. This was a mistake. What I feared, happens. He circles my waist with his large hands and yanks me forward until my ass hits the edge of the seat. His eyes cut a heated trail over my midsection, coming to a stop on the button of the jeans. Crouching down, he unbuttons the jeans and pulls the zipper down slowly. I cooperate, lifting my ass, making it easy for him to push the fabric over my hips and down my thighs. Maybe, if I don’t delay the undressing, he’ll just pull the dress over my head and let me be. Wishful thinking. There won’t be any such mercy. I know it even before he pushes my thighs apart. My abdomen tightens involuntarily.

  Holding my gaze, he leans forward and nuzzles my slit with his nose. He doesn’t look at the exposed patch between my legs, even if his fingers are caressing the insides of my thighs lightly, working their way closer to my sex.

  His voice is scruff, like the stubble on his jaw. “I want to taste you.”

  I only manage a small shake of my head. No man has ever put his tongue there.

  “Lina.” He takes a ragged breath. “Let me eat you out.”

  “I don’t want you to,” I whisper.

  What if I come? His touch does sinful things to me, things I never thought I’d be able to feel at the hands of a man. What will his tongue do? I hated Jack’s hands on my body, but he never probed and prodded and pushed, exploring my tipping points to elicit my pleasure. My late husband never touched me with his mouth, and he never used his hands to hold me down. He didn’t need to, because he had my permission. I traded it for food. My nudity didn’t invite his lustful look. My pain did. This look, the one Damian gets in his eyes as he lightly rubs his chin over my sex, Jack only got when he carved his victory notch into my arm. One line for every time I sold my body. One line for every time I allowed him to fuck me in exchange for a meal.

  “Lina.” Damian’s breath feathers over my clit, pulling me back to him. “Let me fuck you with my tongue. I promise you’ll like it.”

  I’m scared of this man and the black magic of lust he uses on me. Lust is cruel. Lust is selfish. Lust chews away your defenses.

  At my silent denial, he sits back on his heels. I’m about to let out a breath of relieve when he takes my hand from the armrest and places it on my sex.

  “Touch yourself,” he rasps. “For me.”

  “Damian.”

  It’s a protest and a plea, even if I know it won’t help. He may not put his hands or lips on me, but he won’t settle for nothing.

  Cupping my hand, he manipulates my fingers, rubbing them in circles. The friction touches a nerve of pleasure. My hips arch involuntarily.

  “Slowly,” he says. “Make it last.”

  I tense when he straightens to sweep his hands over my shoulders and down my back, but it’s only to brush back my hair. The touch is so gentle, I forget what I’m supposed to be doing. My hand slips from my pussy to my thigh where it lays tentatively. I have a sudden urge to touch him, to feel the hard muscles of his abdomen, but he grips my hand and pushes it back between my legs while he towers over me, watching.

  I’m used to the watching, but this is different. It’s not my pain getting him off. It’s my pleasure. As much as I try to remain immune to it, the pleasure starts building in my core. It spreads through my lower body in a languid fire, heating my clit and swelling my folds.

  “Put your fingers inside and show me how wet you are.”

  My gaze snaps to his.

  “Two fingers.”

  The instruction leaves no room for argument. There is a choice, though. My fingers or an object of his choosing. That’s how his game works.

  Slowly, as he demanded, I sink a fore and middle finger into my center. I’m slick and hot, signs of arousal that should shame me, but physical sensations override the guilt of my logical mind, hardening my nipples and pulling my abdominal muscles tight under his observation. The pads of my fingers rub over a sensitive spot. I can’t stop myself from stroking deeper.

  Gripping my wrist, he stills my movement. “Show me.”

  I’m so wet it makes an embarrassing noise when he pulls my fingers free.

  His cheeks turn dark and his eyes wild as he inspects my glistening fingers. “You’re even more beautiful when you’re horny.” Satisfaction mars his features. He puts my hand back in place, his middle finger lying on top of mine. Applying steady pressure, he makes me take my finger. “Show me how you come.”

  He sets the pace, pumping until my channel clenches, and then he pushes another one of my digits inside. “Don’t hold back. Ride your fingers.”

  The friction is delicious, but it’s not enough. As if reading my body, he pulls my wrist forward, changing the angle of penetration. The new position gives him access to my clit. The pad of his thumb presses down gently, massaging in a slow circle.

  “Like this?” he asks huskily.

  Yes, oh, my God, yes. My pleasure gathers from somewhere deep in my core, consuming me with a slow burn rather than devastating me with an immediate explosion. He watches my eyes as I rise gently for him, at long last reaching the crescendo he wants. My hips rock and my globes lock. It’s the sweetest of agonies, helplessly coming undone with his body keeping my legs apart and his gaze bearing down on me. It’s only when the aftershocks dissipate that I realize he’s still rubbing my clit with lazy circles, and something other than lust shines in the possessive depths of his chocolate colored eyes. Victory.

  I allowed him to touch me.

  Applying steady pressure with his thumb, he lowers his body until his maleness envelopes me and his lips ghost over mine. “Put on the dress and come down for lunch.”

  Only then does he let go, dragging the pad of his thumb from my clit down my slit in a gentle caress before stepping back. I’m finally free to close my legs, but the knowledge of how cleverly he manipulated me holds me hostage in a trans-like state. Wide-eyed and wide open, I stare at him in both fear and shock. His gaze locks on mine before raking down my body. A bolt of self-conscious awareness zaps me back to the present. Hurriedly, I press my knees together.

  His lips pull up in one corner as he takes in the belated gesture. “No underwear.”

  “Seriously?” How old is he? Sixteen?

  “No wiping away your arousal.”

  I dig my nails into the armrests. “What?”

  “Ten minutes. Downstairs.”

  With those cryptic instructions, he leaves me naked, soaked, and defeated.

  Damian

  Holy fuck. I knew Lina would be gorgeous, but seeing her naked body almost pushed me over the edge. I’ve never been at the verge of my control, but one look at her tits and spread legs almost had me burying my dick in every hole of her body, right there, on the spot. I ached to touch her so much I forced my hand. Damn. I drag a hand over my face. Her scent still clings to me, making
it hard to think about anything other than what waits between her legs. I couldn’t have guessed how responsive her body would be. I’m all but floating into the dining room, feeling like I’m high. Anne and Zane are seated at the table, their plates loaded.

  “Dami.” Zane puts down his fork. “I was looking for you.”

  “Checking up on me?” I’m only half-joking. I hate being crowded. His fallen expression softens my heart. “I took Lina shopping,” I say, taking my seat.

  Anne, who is sitting on my right, cups my hand. “I’m sorry about last night. I can’t even begin to imagine how hard that must’ve been for you.”

  “Me?” I pull my hand away. Not nearly as hard as for Lina. “I made her wear that dress.”

  Approval lights up her face. She thinks I humiliated my wife on purpose. Worse, she takes pleasure from the knowledge. I like her less and less. If she weren’t Zane’s sister and Lina didn’t invite her to stay, I wouldn’t have thought twice about dumping her back on the street.

  Zane hands me a newspaper lying next to his plate. “I take it you haven’t seen today’s news.”

  It’s not front-page news, but it’s on the inside left page, which makes it just as bad. A color photo of Lina in that sexy-as-sin red dress takes up three columns. It shows her from the side, displaying a badly torn-up and healed-over arm with maximum impact.

  “It’s ugly,” Zane says.

  My voice hardens. “Are you saying my wife is ugly?”

  “I was referring to the article.”

  “What article?” a soft voice asks from the door.

  Lina stands in the frame, dressed in the pink dress that hugs her breasts and flares out around her tiny waist. I don’t miss how Anne and Zane’s gazes immediately fix on Lina’s arms.

  Folding the newspaper in half, I say, “Nothing.”

  She walks to me with confident steps, each one reminding me she’s naked underneath that skirt. Her gait is stubborn, as is the tilt of her chin when she takes the paper from my hand.

  I don’t fight her. It’s not that I don’t want to spare her more humiliation, not that I think her scars are something to be humiliated about, but she’ll have to learn to stand her ground. These types of articles aren’t going away. After what I’m about to do to Dalton Diamonds, it’ll only get worse.

  She turns to the offensive page. Her expression gives nothing away as she reads. She takes her time before folding the paper neatly and handing it back to me.

  “Lina,” Anne says. “I’m sorry.”

  Lina takes her seat. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “I feel bad for you.” Anne shoots me a look. “For you, too, Damian.”

  “Maybe we shouldn’t talk about it,” Zane says with a stern look at his sister.

  Acting unaffected, Lina attacks the salad on her plate like a locust who landed in a crop of lettuce during drought season.

  “Damian.” Anne covers my hand again. “I have to talk to you.”

  Lina’s gaze shifts to our hands for the briefest of moments.

  “Talk,” I say rudely around a forkful of salad.

  She squeezes my fingers. “In private.”

  I pull away. “I don’t keep secrets from Lina.” Not much.

  Anne clears her throat. “I can’t talk about it in front of everyone.” At everyone, her eyes dart toward Lina.

  “Then I don’t want to hear it.”

  She purses her lips but doesn’t argue.

  “I ordered the bat boxes,” I tell Lina to change the subject.

  She sits up straighter. “You did? Thank you.”

  “Installation will take place tomorrow. Think you can oversee it?”

  She beams. “Of course.”

  “Leave it to Andries,” Zane says. “The garden is his responsibility.”

  Lina doesn’t reply, but there’s something in her silence that says more than words. It bugs me. Why isn’t she giving Zane the obstinacy she thrives on giving me? I study my wife closely as she finishes her salad and reaches for the serving tray of fish.

  “By the way,” Zane continues, “I have meal plans from Jana to sign off. I need you to have a look at the budget.”

  “Give it to Lina.”

  She looks at me quickly, surprise flaring in her deepest of blue eyes.

  “You can handle that, can’t you?” I ask her.

  The softness that settles over her features is a bigger reward I could’ve hoped for.

  “I don’t think—” Zane starts.

  “That’s settled, then,” I say, not looking away from Lina.

  She breaks eye contact first. “Anne, about your clothes.” She clears her throat. “I’m afraid I damaged them. I’ll replace them.” She seems to catch herself. “I’m sure Damian will replace them.”

  “Gladly,” I say.

  Anne waves a hand. “Forgot about it. I didn’t expect them back, anyway.”

  The rest of the meal progresses with a quietly brooding Zane and Anne who talks too much to compensate for the uncomfortable silence. I’ll have to have a word with Zane about Lina’s responsibilities in the house. No matter how it happened, she is my wife. I’m not sure how she sees that forced role, but it won’t hurt to try out a few duties that’ll occupy her mind and keep her from unhealthy boredom. Boredom is the devil’s breeding ground. Boredom is too conducive to dangerous thoughts and self-harming actions.

  Lina

  As soon as lunch is over, Damian announces he wants to see me in the study. My stomach lurches. The study has become an uncertain place for me, a place where he pushes my boundaries and kicks my feet out from under me.

  I walk ahead of him, dreading each step that brings me closer to the door. Even Russell shoots me a sympathetic look as we pass. It’s the first shred of kindness he’s shown me since the torturing incident.

  My whole body jerks when Damian closes the study door. Panic starts to rush in, but he hasn’t locked the door. If I turn the handle, it’ll open. I’m still repeating the calming notion in my mind when he dumps a pillow from the sofa on the floor.

  Walking around me, he stops at my back. “Kneel.”

  Kneel means too many things. To kneel will put me on eyelevel with his erection. To kneel means to submit. When I don’t move, he doesn’t tell me a second time. He pushes me down with a warm hand on my shoulder until my knees hit the cushion. I glance over my shoulder to read his facial expression so I know what to expect. The tender encouragement I find on his hard, handsome face scares me. It makes heat travel over my skin and sweat break out under my armpits. Whatever he’s planning is going to be bad.

  There’s a rough edge to his deep voice. “On your hands and knees.”

  I hear his darkness and see his tight control in the way he focuses on me with exclusive concentration. Punishment. This is what it is. It’s going to be worse than bad. He’s hard, and men like Damian get harder from a woman’s pain than her pleasure. Despite the command, I don’t move. I can’t. I’m frozen in fear. This time, he’s really going to hurt me. I sense it in the way the air thickens until it’s hard to drag in a breath.

  At my disobedience, he places the toe of his shoe on my upper back, applying soft but steady force until my body bends forward, and I have to extend my arms to catch my weight. He keeps his foot there for a moment, a silent message to stay. When he lets up the pressure between my shoulder blades, I’m not self-destructive enough to defy him.

  His fist finds purchase in my hair, twisting it around his fingers before arranging it forward over my shoulder. He smooths a palm down my back and stops just before my crack. Holding my breath, I wait for the worst. It comes soon enough.

  Bunching the fabric of my skirt into his hands, he pulls it up, exposing my naked lower body. A flush coming from deep within my abdomen burns my skin. The heat crawls over me, inch by inch, igniting goose bumps in its wake. He’s seen me like this before, but I still feel vulnerable. Will he spank me? Will he make me touch myself again? Both thoughts make my fo
lds swell and turn slick. What an easy, twisted slut I am. Embarrassment crashes through me, but the sound of his footsteps cut off my train of thought.

  Lifting my head, I watch him through a veil of hair. He walks to the mantelpiece where his whips are displayed and takes one from the wall. The leather strap is flat and thick. He watches me as he rounds my body. Our eyes remained locked for as long as I have him in my peripheral view. Unlike earlier, I don’t crane my neck to look behind me. I prefer not to witness him studying my nakedness.

  The silence that follows tells me this is exactly what he’s doing—looking at where I’m exposed. The creaking of the leather chair tells me he’s taken a seat. Close. His fingers slip around my ankle. Gently, he removes my sandals. The tip of his shoe touches my naked heel, and then he wiggles it between my feet, forcing them apart.

  “Spread your legs.”

  No point in arguing. It’ll only drag this out. I widen my stance. Cool air brushes over my folds. I resist the urge to clench my globes in an effort to hide at least some of my intimate parts. A calloused finger runs down the crevice between my globes, whispering over my dark hole. Despite how hard I clench my teeth, I can’t contain my shiver. His touch is soft, barely there, reminding me of the unspoken permission I granted him earlier. His fingers now have access to me in ways I don’t care to think about, not in this position.

  His voice is dangerous, that raspy quality saturated in one hundred percent maleness. “You put your life in danger today.” The path of his finger continues south, feathering over my clit.

  Biting my lip, I swallow back a whimper.

  “Say it,” he commands.

  “I put my life in danger.”

  “You’ll never do it again.”

  “It wasn’t on purpose.”

  “You’ll never do it again,” he says a little more forceful.

  “I’ll never do it purposefully.”

  “No, you won’t, because you belong to me. What does that make you?”

  “Property.”

  A white-hot flash of pain rips over my left globe. Yelping, I arch my back to pull away from the source of the ache.