Wishing Well(40)
All the breath that had been held in my lungs rushed out at once.
My head fell back as his hand splayed over my stomach, slowly moving up until they palmed the weight of my breast over my dress and tore at the bodice of my gown. The material ripped apart, the beauty of the silk shredded as he stripped me bare except for the panties I wore and the heels still holding my feet at four inches above the floor. While his teeth grazed over my shoulder, the tips a sharp line against sensitive skin, one of his hands held me in place by the hip, while the other dove down beneath my panties.
My knees gave out and I would have fallen had he not been holding me up. Circling a fingertip over my aching clit, he’d never bothered to take his gloves off. The cloth was a rough texture against that pulsing place, the movement of his hand tortuous and demanding. His foot moved to kick my legs farther apart and he dipped that finger down to thrust inside me.
A startled moan burst from my lips, my body like putty as his teeth sank down again, his tongue licking over the skin for a taste. It didn’t matter the pain he caused, I didn’t care if he broke the skin to lick the blood away, all that held my attention in that moment was the way his finger played me. Every muscle beneath my skin tensed as a storm sparked to life in my body, the whispers of an orgasm licking at my brain until my hips moved to beg him to drive deeper.
I was so close to coming apart when he released the hold his teeth had on my shoulder, pressed his mouth to my ear and whispered in the most haunting voice I’d ever heard, “Du sang pour le plaisir, ma chérie. Je suis à genoux mais je te possède. ”
It didn’t matter what he’d said. I would agree to anything just to feel the pulse of him inside me.
His hand pulled away as his arm swept around to lock over my abdomen and lift me from the floor. From one second to the next I was standing in my living room and being tossed down onto my stomach over the bed. I tried to turn, my his hand slammed down on my back until I gave in, the tips of his fingers dragging down to cup me between the legs until he took both my legs in his grip, pulled my body to the edge and forced my knees apart.
His hot breath was a wash between my thighs, sending a violent tremor up my body. Slowly, oh so fucking slowly, he ran his lips up the inside of my thigh, his teeth softly biting on the soaked skin when he reached the apex, his tongue flicking out to taste me. A cry of desperation tore from my lips, his palm slapping my ass to silence me. I bit my lip to keep from crying out again, the skin of my cheek blistering hot from how hard he’d struck me.
His tongue sunk inside my body, his thumb finding the entrance to my ass and as he worked me into a whimpering plaything, I came apart over the bed. Unable to stop from releasing the force of violent, implacable pleasure, a moan tore from my lips and filled the room despite pressing my face to the bed to silence it.
He stopped as suddenly as he’d began...until his teeth sank into the inside of my thigh, another cry forced from my lips to be met by the sound of his dark laughter.
A rush of cool air swept in when he pulled away, the room silent and still until the sound of rustling cloth was a whisper to my senses, another slap against my bottom splitting the air. Before I could move away, Vincent had trapped my thighs in his grip, shoving my legs up until my chest was pressed to the bed and I was presented for his pleasure.
With a long, hard thrust, he took what was his, possessing me, claiming me, marking me as his toy that could be wound up to dance for his amusement. There was no care or concern for the pain and pleasure I felt, no words spoken with love, no questions asked as to whether or not I could handle him. This was violence. This was cruelty. This was primal and raw. This was a man showing a woman who owned her.
Not one complaint fell from my lips. Not one argument or protest. And as tears leaked from my eyes to mingle with the moans from my lips, his pace sped, his hips pounding until he was deep inside, spilling his approval of my submission inside me.
Releasing me, he left me sated and spent over white sheets that covered the bed, and when I thought he’d gone to the bathroom so that he could clean up, I closed my eyes and waited for his return.
A return that never happened.
A return that had never been planned.
When I found the strength to push myself up and off the bed, I whispered Vincent’s name and crept through the rooms to find that his mask was gone and that the soft click of a door hadn’t been Vincent going into the bathroom like I thought, it had been the sound of him quietly leaving.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Faiville Prison, 4:57 pm
For the first time since Meadow had started the interview with Vincent Mercier - the last confession he would give before his death by lethal injection - the man who had so easily led the dance she’d entered, sat silent and remorseful.
It wasn’t that he’d said a word to her to express what he felt, it was that she could see a subtle shift in his expression, a soft bruising beneath his normally cutting stare that betrayed his exhaustion. Something she’d said when offering him Penny’s recollection of events had reached inside that cold, cruel body and touched the careless heart inside to set it beating again.
“I guess it’s my turn to tell you I’ve stopped talking and yet you’ve remained quiet. A promise is a promise, Vincent. It’s your turn to tell me what happened.”
Without lifting his gaze to meet hers, he attempted a smile, the effort lost when his eyes failed to reclaim their ever-present glimmer. “I’m wondering why you continued forward,” he admitted, his voice empty, without inflection. “The deal we’d made was for you to tell me her perspective up until that afternoon in the garden, yet you took us past the ball, to the moment -“