Exposed (Madame X, #2)(84)

I feel something sharp touch my neck. A needle. It pricks me, and something cold rushes through me.

Darkness rises from the shadows at my feet. Reaches up for me.

I fight it.

You point your gun at Logan.

No!

No! I scream, but it comes out a faint whimper.

I watch in slow motion as your finger tightens on the metal crescent of the trigger.

NO!

I want to scream and cry, but I cannot. I can only fade into darkness.

I don’t see it happen. I only hear a loud BANG!

And then there is nothingness.

Only cold and black and empty.





FIFTEEN


Consciousness eludes me. I seek it, struggling up through darkness, wallowing in silence, floating in absence of sound and sensation. Near consciousness. A slow, delicate sliding across the cusp of wakefulness. Where there is awareness of self, but no ability to truly perform higher functions.

I struggle. But it is like being wrapped up in a cocoon; it is a fight I cannot win. I succumb.

? ? ?

There is a fist in my hair. My head is tugged back. I’m moaning. I’m faking the sound, though, because the grip on my hair is painful, but the moans are expected.

I’m on my hands and knees. On a bed. In the dark. Silence, but for my moans, and the low male grunts behind me.

It hurts. Too big, too much. Too hard, too rough.

I’ve been here on my knees for an eternity. Taking the punishing, driving thrusts for forever. I’m raw.

I want it to stop.

But I’m not allowed to talk. Not allowed to make a sound but for the moans. I know the rules. I know the punishment if I break them.

I am expected to orgasm. But the breath washing over my neck smells of whisky, and orgasm seems to be out of reach.

A hand smacks across my buttock. “Say my name.” The order is a rough, slurred growl.

“Caleb . . .” I whisper it.

Another smack, to the other side. “Say it again.”

“Caleb.”

“Louder.” A harder smack.

The pain sears through me. These aren’t playful, sexual spanks. They are meant, they are punishment for a failing. They hurt.

But the pain at least is a distraction from other discomforts.

“Caleb!” I say it loudly.

“You’re going to come now.” Despite the whisky breath, the words are clear and lucid and not slurred.

I cannot. But I do not dare say this. Nor do I dare fake it as I do the moans. I am very bad at faking orgasms, I’ve learned. I am always caught out.

“Come, X. Come hard.”

“I—”

Upright now. Still behind me, the thrusts continue unabated. Fingers steal around my waist and between my thighs. It’s only a sizzle at first, but it’s something.

The fist in my hair tugs hard. Pulls my head back so I’m forced to stare at the ceiling. Whisky breath on my face, in my ear. “Come for me, X.”

The fingers at my core move swiftly, precisely, and lightning lances through me, hot and sudden. I do not have to fake it, thank god. The pleasure is a dull throb next to the anticipation of being released.

But I’m not released. The presence behind and within me pulls away, moves to sit at the edge of the bed. I remain kneeling, hunting for breath. My scalp tingles.

But I’m not done. A hard hand grips my wrist and tugs hard. Pulls me roughly across the mattress, shoves me to the floor, to my knees. Fingers curl into my chin-length hair. Guide me to the waiting member. Hard, but not completely.

“Finish me.”

I do as I am ordered. With my hands, with my mouth. It takes a long time. I am tired. So tired. My jaw aches. My forearms ache as well from constant up-and-down motion. When the release comes, it is much less forcefully than usual.

I am allowed to climb into my bed then. I curl up on the mattress, in the center, and a blanket settles over me.

I note the absence of footsteps, feel the presence beside me. Standing. Watching me.

I allow my body to go limp. Even my breathing. Let my mouth fall open. After many long minutes of pretending to sleep, I smell whisky, hear breathing. I am not entirely faking this descent into slumber anymore. I am nearly asleep now.

“Isabel.” This is whispered, so low it is nearly inaudible. “My lovely Isabel.” Sadness. Regret. Longing. Misery. The whisper is fraught with these things.

Who is Isabel?

Lips touch temple. Gently, so softly it could have been a whisper of air, a figment of my imagination. “It wasn’t supposed to be this way.”

What wasn’t?

“I’m so sorry. It wasn’t supposed to be this way.”

I am losing the battle to stay awake. I fight it. This close to sleep, nothing seems real. I am delirious with exhaustion. I am imagining this, surely. I’ve fallen asleep and I am dreaming. Surely. Surely.

The man I have come to understand over the past year would not speak thus, does not experience such emotions. It is a dream.

Just a dream.

Only a dream.

? ? ?

Wake up, X.” The familiar rumble in my ear.

I blink. Open my eyes, and experience a debilitating disorientation. Am I awake? Am I dreaming, still?

Where am I? When am I?

I am in my room. My blackout curtains are in place. My noise machine shushes with the sound of soothing crashing waves. My bed. The door to my bedroom is cracked, emitting a sliver of light. Through it I can just barely make out a slice of my living room. My couch. The Louis XIV armchair, the coffee table with its antique map.