Page 23

Twenty-Two

Sebastian

This wasn’t how this was supposed to go, but I’m certainly not complaining.

I don’t think Ophelia quite realizes how she ended up at this point either. Her eyes widen, but she doesn’t pull back. Doesn’t run away or try to bite my finger off. In fact, by the way she’s shifting about on her knees, I’d say she’s enjoying this more than she wants to.

“Good little pet,” I murmur, and I swear she leans toward me. The praise gets to her. She drinks it in like a flower turning toward the sun. I can work with that. I don’t take my finger from her mouth as I undo my trousers and free my aching cock.

Her eyes flick to it, black and gray pools, and I swear it grows another inch as she sucks harder on my finger. Does she know she’s doing it? Fuck.

I stick to the deep, soothing voice she seems to like and speak words I know she’ll find patronizing as all hell. “Now, you’re going to switch from my finger to my cock, and you’re going to do such a good job. Because you’re my perfect little slut, aren’t you? Say, ‘Yes, sir.’ ”

I hold my breath to see if she’ll actually do it. When the mumbled “Yes, sir” comes, it’s music to my battered mind. When I’m with her like this, the endless madness of my thoughts settles. There’s only her and what I’m going to do to her next.

I pull my finger free, replacing it instantly with the head of my cock. Her mouth is warm, wet, and heavenly, but the stretch of her lips is the best thing I’ve ever seen. The fleeting urge to take a picture comes and goes. No. This moment is just for me.

I slide in, control already starting to fray. I promised her I’d fuck her, and I’m not going to disappoint. I’m desperate to grab her hair and get to work but can’t resist drawing the torment out a little longer.

“You have no idea how beautiful you look with your lips around my cock. This is what you were made for. Just this.” I grip her hair. “Your mouth belongs to me, and now I’m going to use it.”

I punctuate the words by sliding all the way in, pressing her head down until she starts to fight against my hand. I loosen my grip, and tear-filled eyes stare back at me as she gasps in a breath.

Christ, she’s so vulnerable. I’ve taken a strong woman and stripped her down to nothing. Just a body. Just a mouth. That dangerous rush of power urges me onward, and I force her head down again.

I wait until she struggles. Then a little more. A little more. I decide when she breathes. She doesn’t even get to control that. This time, when I release her, her eyes are wide and frantic.

Make sure she’s scared of you.

No time like the present.

I fuck her in earnest, all traces of tenderness gone. She’s a puppet, a thing that only exists for me to use. She claws at my arms, desperation in every jerky movement, but I ignore her. I’ll do whatever the fuck I want.

I breathe deep as I force her head down again. And again. And again. Pleasure starts to build, but I keep it at bay. I want her to feel this every time she swallows. I want her voice to croak at dinner and to tell everyone the reason why.

I feel the moment she accepts her fate. Her hands fall, her throat relaxes, and I take full possession of her mouth. Her eyes and nose stream—such a beautiful mess—and the image sears itself into my brain. A core memory. The moment Ophelia Calder surrenders completely.

I can’t last much longer with her looking at me like that.

I speed up, raw need taking over, and drive myself up to the edge and past it. “Good pets…don’t waste…their food,” I grind out as I spill down her throat. She twitches and mumbles, but I hold her there until white liquid dribbles from the corners of her mouth.

When I finally let her go, she doubles over, gasping. Some come and spit flies from her mouth, but most of it went right down her throat. Where it belongs. I relax into the chair and catch my breath as Ophelia gets herself under control. She swipes at her eyes, glaring at me.

I let a cruel smile grace my lips. “What? I know you love it when I’m gentle, pet, but I can’t be soft all the time. And of course the gentlemanly thing would be to let you orgasm, too, but that’ll have to wait for later. I’ll make it up to you, don’t worry. I’ve got something special planned.”

“What is it?” She’s aiming for a snap, but it comes out as a scratchy croak that makes my heart glad.

“You’ll find out later.”

I lean to kiss her head again, and she tries to pull away, but I wrap her in my arms before she gets the chance. As my lips meet her brow, I whisper, “You’re the best little fucktoy I could have hoped for. Incredible. Let's take a nap before dinner.”

Ophelia is oddly quiet and compliant as I lock her into her shackle and tuck the blanket over her on the pet bed. “Are you wondering why you enjoyed that?” I ask as I strip.

“I didn’t.” A sharp response, but color stains her cheeks.

“Of course not. What sort of lady would?” I climb under the cover. “But you’re not a lady, are you? I’m going to enjoy making you admit it, pet.”

***

I sleep deeper than I have in weeks. Months, probably. Ever since I began planning to take Ophelia, I’ve slept in short, fitful bursts, mind filled with probabilities. Success or failure. Satisfaction or death. But nowhere, in any of my models, did I factor in that I might actually feel something for the woman who killed my sister.

How vulnerable she is, sleeping in her little bed, does something to my heart that it shouldn't. I used her roughly, but she still let me tuck the covers around her and kiss her cheek. I’d expected a bitch—cold, tough, and ruthless. I didn’t prepare for Ophelia’s quiet intelligence.

I shouldn’t keep praising her, but I can’t seem to resist it. I’m fascinated by the pink spots that rise in her cheeks when I do and how she looks away, afraid I’ll realize she likes it. It’s adorable and splitting my heart in two. It’s so hard to reconcile this Ophelia with the vicious one from my teenage memories. Even when she tries to be tough, it doesn’t suit her.

She can act the Calder princess all she likes, but it’s paper thin, and underneath, she’s fragile .

Fragile and mine.

She’s kicked the blanket off in her sleep, and I can’t help tucking her back in as I creep out of the room. In the silent apartment, the ticking clock on my life is all I can hear.

Ten days.

240 hours.

14,400 minutes

And…I pause as my brain locks in the numbers…

864,000 seconds.

Item one on my agenda, preparing Ophelia for the ceremony, is an abject failure so far. I won’t have time to get to it again today. But item two, making sure she understands that no one is going to help her, will be getting a workout later.

“Sebastian?”

I jump. How long have I been standing here? Long enough for Ophelia to wake up and wonder where the hell I am, clearly. Through the window, the sunset over the forest is incredible.

Sunsets always hurt. Maggie loved to paint, and the more color she could add, the better. I used to tease her about her paintings and tell her they looked like a rainbow threw up. Six months before she died, one of her sunset paintings won first prize at the school art fair.

She rubbed her victory in my face every chance she got, annoying the hell out of me until I threatened to throw the damn thing in the fire.

I kept the huge canvass on my wall for years until I couldn't stand to look at it anymore.

I lean my head on my fist and take a long, slow breath. I’m the wrong person for this, and it’s becoming more obvious with every passing second. Instead of planning, I'm zoned out, staring at a fucking sunset. I try not to think about the mammoth task that lies ahead and walk to the bedroom .

Ophelia has the blanket wrapped around her but not clutched tight like she did this morning. She’s becoming less and less worried about me seeing her body—one small win on my part, I suppose. Her hair is still messy from sleep, and her eyes are wide and confused. Maybe it’s my imagination, but she seems to relax a little when I come in.

“Oh. There you are. It was so quiet. I thought…”

To my great satisfaction, her voice still rasps a bit. It’s an electric shock to the new savage side of myself, and part of me longs to grab her hair and use her mouth all over again. I can. She’s mine.

No. She needs some kindness, too, if only because I don’t want her to run screaming from me at the ceremony.

“You thought I’d left you all alone? I wouldn’t do that, beautiful.”

I fetch the key to her shackle, unlock it, and massage the skin where it lay. She tenses but doesn’t pull back. Nor does she resist when I peel the blanket off her and study her naked body. I could watch the way her hair falls over her breasts for a long, long time. Again, I picture her as a sea goddess stretched out on a rock. Absolutely stunning.

I hold out my hand. “Time to get up, pet. You've got a busy evening ahead.”

She blinks at me, a wary crease forming between her brows, and I can’t blame her one single bit for being suspicious. She takes my hand, though, and gets to her feet. Quiet and compliant. It’s nice, but I don’t trust it. I’m sure she’s scheming, looking forward to getting out of the apartment for the evening. But I’ll enjoy it while I have it.

As soon as she stands, her gaze locks onto the flaming sky. I lead her to the window and wrap my arm around her waist, tucking her against me. She fits perfectly, and I can’t help breathing in the scent of her hair. A hint of fruity shampoo and, underneath it, her.

The sun is just falling below the tree line, and it paints the sky every shade of red. “Maggie loved to paint. Sunsets, especially.”

I don’t know why I say it. The colors forced the words out, I suppose. Ophelia stiffens but doesn’t back away from the topic. “I remember. She won the art contest. She was very talented.”

It’s my turn to stiffen as a familiar wash of anger, so old it’s almost drained of meaning, cleanses the softness from my thoughts. “You remember. Why do you remember? You treated her like shit.”

She turns to me, and the deep sorrow etched into her face can't be real. Can it? It has to be an act. A way to win me over.

“I hated myself for years. My dad told me I needed to get over it, but how was I supposed to? I was jealous of Maggie. She got to do so much that I wanted to but wasn't allowed. It was that fucking stupid. I lashed out at her from spite, and she…”

Tears fill her eyes, and she turns away. “I know you won't believe me, but I'd give anything to change it. I'm sorry.”

My body short circuits, pulled in two directions at once. The part I've lived with since I was sixteen, the grief that never really lessens, wants to shove Ophelia away. But her eyes are stormy pools, and I'm sucked into them. My arm is still locked around her waist, and I don't know if I'm holding her captive or giving her comfort.

Comfort. What the fuck am I doing? I let her go, step back, and take a second—just a second—to get myself together.

Then I force a cold smile to touch my lips. “You’re in luck, then. Because you get to spend the rest of your life on your knees, making it up to me. ”

I turn away before the flash of pain across her beautiful face can weaken me any more than I already am. “Get showered. We don’t want to keep everyone waiting.”