Diamonds in the Dust Page 9

  My moan is mindless, shameful. My underwear is wet. The sound he makes when he discovers this is closer to animal than man. Abandoning the private place no man has ever touched, he grips the zipper on the side of the dress. It makes a scratchy sound as he pulls it down. He’s gentle as he slips the sleeve off my shoulder. The fabric pools around my waist. He holds my gaze as he pushes it over my hips, letting the dress fall around my feet. The gray of his eyes is smoky, the usual coldness burning hot. I’m mesmerized by their transformation, staring at the way the color darkens to molten mercury as he takes a step back and drags his gaze over me.

  The distance leaves me cold. It breaks the feverish spell. It shocks me back to the moment, dousing my desire with shame. I flatten by back against the glass, trying to put distance between us, but Maxime scoops me up in his arms and carries me to the bed. He lowers me carefully to the mattress, leaving my legs dangling over the edge. When he crouches down, I push up on my elbows with anxious expectation, but he only reaches for my foot. He takes off first the one, then the other shoe, kissing the bridge of each foot. Then he straightens again and grips the elastic of my thigh-high stocking. I watch as he rolls it down and discards it before doing the same with the other. It’s when he reaches for the panties that I stiffen.

  “Shh.” He leans over me, kisses my lips, and pushes me back with a palm on my chest until my arms give out and my back hits the mattress. “Just relax.”

  I don’t. I pinch my eyes shut as he pulls the underwear over my hips and feet. I feel him move over me and jerk when he places a kiss at the top of my sex.

  “Look at me, Zoe.”

  Reluctantly, I open my eyes.

  “That’s better,” he says. “I want to see your expression when I make you come.”

  When he reaches for the bra, I automatically put a hand over his to still him.

  He doesn’t force it. Instead, he says, “Take off your bra for me. I want to see all of you.”

  I’m already naked from the waist down, but I hesitate. Somehow, I’m reluctant to remove this last barrier. He waits patiently. He’s not going anywhere until I comply. Refusing is only pulling this out longer.

  My hands shake slightly as I unclip the front clasp.

  “Take it off completely,” he says.

  I push the straps from my shoulders, pulling one arm free at a time.

  He does a slow evaluation of my body. “You’re beautiful, my little flower. Gorgeous, just like I knew you’d be.”

  He pushes to his feet and unbuckles his belt. He lets it hangs loose as he removes his shoes and socks, and then the pants. He watches me intently as he pushes his briefs over his hips, so much so that I can’t look at him and have to turn my head to the side.

  “Eyes on me, Zoe.”

  The stern command is in stark contrast to the gentleness of earlier. Slowly, I face him again as he opens two buttons of his shirt from the bottom up. The shirttails don’t hide his hardness. His cock is thick and long, jutting out proudly. He’s huge. The sight is more erotic than I expected, making my lower body heat. I’ve never seen a man so close to naked or a stiff cock peeking out from the folds of his shirt front.

  I try to scoot back when he steps between my legs, but he grabs my thighs and spreads them wide before going down on his knees.

  “What are you doing?” I cry out.

  His lips quirk in one corner. “What does it look like?”

  He lowers his head, watching me watching him as he presses a kiss right in the center of my legs. My whole body jerks.

  He gives me a knowing smile. “No one has ever gone down on you?”

  I want to say yes, to tell a lie, but the sweep of his tongue over my folds steals my words. It’s hot. It’s delicious. Grabbing my knees, he keeps my legs open and licks from the bottom to the top of my slit. My thighs quake. The swipe of his tongue over my clit makes my back arch.

  “So responsive,” he says, sounding pleased.

  When he sucks lightly on the bundle of nerves, my body bows. The pleasure is exquisite. Heat unfurls and coils in my lower body, spinning a web of need. It climbs, transporting me to a place I desperately need to go, but then he slows down. I fist my hands in the sheets in frustration. Devouring me, he keeps his gaze on my face, gauging my reaction. He uses his thumbs to spread me, then nips and licks until the tightly coiled tension is about to snap, but just before it does, he slows down again.

  I moan in frustration. “Maxime.”

  His tone is lazy, teasing almost. “What is it, ma belle?”

  “Please.” Make it stop.

  “Do you want to come?”

  No, not like this but being kept on the edge of something unknown is torture.

  “You have to say it,” he says.

  Even in this, he forces my consent. Yet just like with our warped arrangement, he doesn’t give me a choice. Not really. Not when he’s tormenting me with his erotic administrations.

  The word escapes on a defeated breath from my lips. “Yes.”

  He immediately complies, focusing all his wicked attention on my clit. He drags his tongue in circles and bites down gently before flicking the tip of his tongue over the flesh that feels engorged and needy.

  At last, the tension snaps. Fireworks set off in my core. My muscles contract, my legs hugging his face as he continues his assault and pushes me higher, still. It’s better and worse than I imagined. Better because the pleasure is unique, a powerful sensation unlike any other. Worse, because the surrender tastes like defeat. The relief is physical. The agony is mental.

  The thoughts lash at me as I lie naked and spread with my ecstasy on display, little shocks tightening my sex while Maxime studies me, studies his work. I wish I could disappear within myself like yesterday when he forced me to write the letter, but the pleasure grounds me. I’m fully present in the moment.

  As Maxime shifts me to the middle of the bed and stretches out over me, I tell myself I’m someone else, the woman with the dark makeup. When he aligns his cock with my entrance, I don’t want to feel the heat that liquefies my center. I want to be cold and frigid, but I’m aroused and on fire.

  He threads his fingers through my hair, holding my head gently as he stares into my eyes. The moment imprints in my memory. What we’re about to do, neither of us can ever erase. It’s nothing, just sex, and yet it’s everything. It’s my whole life’s worth of dreaming combined. Destroyed. When the head of his cock nudges my folds apart and my wetness coats him, I see the pleasure in his eyes. I hope he can see the hate in mine. I hate him, but not nearly as much as I hate myself for what he makes me feel.

  When he pushes forward, parting me, I grab his upper arms despite my intention not to touch him. It burns. It feels like he’ll split me in two.

  “Shh.” He kisses my forehead. “You’ll adapt in a minute.”

  I don’t, but he’s patient. He moves slowly. When he slides another inch inside, I start to panic. He’s too big. It hurts too much.

  “It’ll soon be better,” he says.

  His promise is a lie, because the more he stretches me the more it hurts. He seems to have difficulty entering me deeper. My breath catches. I clench my teeth, trying not to show him my agony.

  Bringing his hands to my face, he brushes his thumbs over my cheeks. “You’re tight, my little flower.” His voice is strained. “Has it been a while?”

  I can’t speak for the fear of giving myself away. I don’t deny or admit it. I only focus on breathing through the intrusion that burns like fire and makes me regret not choosing a cell full of rats over this.

  He pulls out a fraction and pushes back gently. My inner muscles clench in an effort to expel the cause of my pain. He curses under his breath, sweat beading on his forehead.

  “You’re going to make me come before I’m fully inside you,” he says with a tight jaw.

  It sounds like a reprimand, but I don’t know what he wants from me. I moan when he moves again, and it’s not a sound of pleasure.

&
nbsp; “Relax, ma cherie,” he says. “Take a deep breath for me.”

  I do, and it helps a little.

  “That’s good.” He kisses my cheek. “Like that.”

  Just as the tension in my muscles ease marginally, he surges forward, driving past the barrier that prevents his entry. My inner muscles protest. It feels as if he’s tearing me apart. The stretch is unbearable, the pain white-hot. I forget to breathe. My lips part on a soundless gasp.

  Maxime stills. His entire body tenses on top of mine. His gaze goes wide. Shock settles in the winter-gray pools and bleeds into male pride.

  “Ah, Zoe.” He clicks his tongue and shakes his head, but possessive satisfaction burns in his eyes. “You should’ve told me.”

  Unbidden tears gather in my eyes. I try to blink them away, but they spill over when I lower my lashes.

  He kisses the corner of my eye, his lips tracing the path of my tears. “I would’ve prepared you better.”

  Him having this knowledge only makes it worse.

  “Don’t cry.” His big hands cup my jaw, holding my head carefully. “I’ll take care of you.”

  He moved as he spoke, his shallow thrusts making the burn flare. I dig my nails into the fabric of his shirt, clutching his arms as he punishes me with every roll of his hips, but then his lips are on mine. The kiss is sweet and tender. It somehow settles me as his hands find their way to my breasts, his fingers brushing softly over my nipples. They harden, and the pleasure his touch elicits echoes in my clit.

  The burn doesn’t abate, but I turn slicker. He presses deeper, his entry slightly easier. The more he kisses me, the more my body softens around him until he’s fully sheathed and our groins press together.

  “Zoe,” he says into my mouth, his voice drenched in arousal.

  I can only cling to him as he lets me get used to the feeling for a moment before increasing his pace. He releases my mouth and pulls away to look at my face. Pushing up on one arm, he slips a hand between our bodies. When his fingers find my clit, the pleasure of earlier returns, the need I’m now familiar with rising above the hurt and somehow diminishing the pain.

  “That’s my girl,” he says.

  I don’t want to touch him, but as the pleasure climbs, and I’m spiraling out of control I need to hold onto something. My arms go around him of their own accord, finding an anchor in his strong body.

  He starts moving faster, and my body follows instinctively. He groans when I wrap my legs around him in an automatic move to hold on. The pain is still there, but I don’t register it any longer. I only feel the tension of the building release I need like food or water. I’m almost at the crescendo when he pulls out of me violently. I cry out in discomfort.

  Reaching over me for the nightstand drawer, he takes out a condom, and tears the packet open with his teeth. I can’t believe I didn’t think about protection in my haze of lust. When he sits back on his heels to fit the condom, I look at his cock. He’s covered in my blood and arousal. The sheets are a mess. My cheeks heat in shame of how badly I want him to finish this, how badly I need this from a man I hate.

  After rolling on the condom, he pushes back inside me. A perverse part of me mourns the loss of his naked skin and resents the new barrier. Then all thoughts fly from my head as he pushes deep and slides almost all the way out before burying deep again. The movement strokes over nerve endings, adding new pleasure to the familiar. He massages my clit in slow circles as he takes me with an increasingly demanding pace. Only when my body starts to tighten and the pleasure reaches a new height does he lose his control.

  He moves harder, chasing his own release faster. I moan, the sounds coming from my mouth belonging to a wanton woman. When my orgasm explodes, he throws back his head on a low groan, driving himself as deep into me as he can. His body hardens, his muscles growing taught under my palms. I can feel the knots and grooves of the maleness that defines his back under his shirt. He drops his head next to mine, breathing hard.

  Turning his face a fraction, he plants a soft kiss on my temple. “You’ll be my destruction.”

  I sag back, letting the mattress absorb my weight.

  He’s already my destruction.

  I’m no longer the woman I used to be.

  I can never go back to how things were.

  Chapter 11

  Zoe

  * * *

  When Maxime rolls off me, I push up onto my arms. My thighs are covered in blood, much more than I expected there’d be. The sheets are soiled. Traces of my lost virginity mark the white fabric of Maxime’s shirt. He scans my face as he removes the condom. I need to escape that piercing stare. The invasion of my body was enough. I don’t want him digging through my feelings.

  He gets up and walks to the bathroom. The moment the door closes, I’m on my feet. I have to escape this bed. I want to run, but the lounge is as far as I can go. The ache between my legs is persistent, an unpleasant reminder of my new reality.

  I go straight to the wet bar and pour myself a whiskey. I’m not a big drinker, and I’ve never had whiskey, but I down the shot in one go. It steals my breath, burning all the way to my stomach. Spotting the packet of cigarettes next to the decanter, I snatch it up with the lighter and look around the room for something to wear. I’m not going back to the bedroom. Not yet. My gaze falls on the clotheshorse with Maxime’s tux jacket. I don’t give it a second thought. I pull the jacket on and push the sliding door wide open, not caring that the cold blasts inside or that my body feels frozen the minute I step barefoot onto the terrace.

  I light a cigarette and inhale deeply. My gaze is trained on the beautiful view, the reflection of the streetlights in the water, but I don’t really see it. My thoughts are trained inward. They’re turbulent. How do I reconcile the woman I became in that bed with the one I used to be? How could I find pleasure at the hands of a man I loathe? Because he was gentle? A good lover? Considerate? Because he did everything right?

  My fingers curl into a ball at that admission. It would’ve been easier and less confusing if he was cruel. I don’t know how to place the man, and I need to know. He’s my enemy. An unpredictable enemy is the most dangerous kind. I don’t understand him, and that scares me. I don’t understand his actions or motivations.

  A shadow stretches over the floor. Maxime steps up next to me, dressed in tracksuit pants and a T-shirt. I don’t turn my head to acknowledge him. I keep my gaze trained on the water and the lights, an image as pretty as it is traitorous, because I know what ugliness lies underneath the foundations of this city.

  He takes the cigarette from my fingers. I only notice now how much I’m shaking and how my teeth are chattering from the cold. I sense him looking at me. I’m aware of him, no longer lost in my head, but I don’t look at him or acknowledge his existence.

  He takes a drag before putting the cigarette out in the ashtray. “Do you smoke?”

  “No.” I experimented a little after school but decided I didn’t like it. “Do you?”

  “No.”

  My question was meant to be sarcastic, but his answer surprises me, and even more so his placating tone. Leaning my elbows on the rail, I finally turn to face him. The jacket falls open, but I don’t care. I don’t care that I’m cold. I welcome the frozen numbness of my body. I don’t care that he sees. He’s seen it all. There’s nothing left to give.

  The wind blows his fringe over his forehead. He must be cold, but he just stands there quietly, watching me. It infuriates me. I want him to talk, to tell me why I’m here, to explain this twisted game he’s playing.

  “Why did you do it?” I ask.

  He dips his head, his stance casual but his eyes sharp and aware. “Do what?”

  “The dress, the flowers, the opera…the extravagant dinner. Why?”

  His gaze is level. “For the same reason I brought you here.”

  “You’ve already done the convincing role-play for Damian’s sake yesterday. You didn’t have to repeat it today.”

  “I c
ould’ve done that anywhere.”

  I still. I’ve had it figured out. Didn’t I? If not to convince my brother I was here out of my own free will, a loved and pampered woman, then why? I will him to speak, to say it, but he’s keeping that little distance between us, waiting patiently for me to connect the dots.

  “I don’t get it,” I finally say.

  His monotone voice is flat, a robot conveying facts. Or maybe reserved, as if he’s not sure how I’m going to take this. “To give you your fantasy.”

  The words bowl me over. For a moment, I still don’t understand, but then, slowly, the meaning sinks in. Oh, my God. My chest constricts. It hurts to breathe. He didn’t bring me here to show my friends and Damian how lucky and happy I am. Maybe that too, but that was just a convenient bonus.

  My lips part in shock. “You brought me here to fuck me.” Because he knows my most intimate ideals. He knows about Venice, my fixation with this particular opera house, and my version of the perfect dress. He stole my life and my dream, mixed them together in some fucked-up fantasy, and served them to me in a twisted version of reality. He knows my desires and used them against me. “You son of a bitch. You used my dream to create this whole romantic little scenario.”

  His regard remains cautious. “Would you have preferred the crueler version?”

  “I prefer the truth.”

  He closes the two steps between us. Grabbing the lapels of the jacket, he brings the edges together to cover my body. “Is that why you didn’t tell me, Zoe? Because you prefer the truth?”

  I look away.

  His tone is gentle, one you’d use trying to coax the truth out of someone. “Why were you still a virgin?”

  “I was waiting for the right man,” I say like it doesn’t matter.

  He nods, a silent acknowledgment of understanding. There’s no remorse in his voice when he says, “No man can be more wrong than me.”