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“Who?”
“Reginald Bishop. I’m not like him.”
I try to follow.
“Say my name,” he says like he did last time.
I shake my head but when his fingers move off their mark, I find myself pushing into his hand.
“Say it. Say it when you come.”
Not say it and I’ll make you come. Say it when you come.
I swallow hard. I want this.
He draws me to him, kisses me. I don’t kiss back. I can’t. But I don’t fight the kiss, either. I don’t bite. Because I want to come. I want to come this time.
“I…” I start to say against his mouth, and he just swallows the sound, swallows the words. I don’t even know what they were.
“My name, Isabelle. Say it.”
My dress must be soaked. Everyone will see. Will know. But right now, I don’t care. All I can feel is him, his fingers touching me, on me, inside me, rubbing me and when I can’t take anymore, I lean my head into the crook of his neck and I’m panting, breathing in the scent of him.
“Say it,” he says again, voice hoarse.
I turn my head, press my open mouth to the skin of his neck and taste him, salt and man. When I do, I feel him shudder. But the instant it happens, his hand is in my hair again, tugging me off.
But his fingers keep doing their work, knowing exactly how to touch me. A moment later, I give myself over to it, to the sensation of his hands on me, to the warmth of him, the smell of him. And when I come, I drop my head back and do as he wants. I say his name. I’m not sure he hears it. It’s just a breath. Just the quietest whisper. Because I’ve never felt this way before. Never felt like I would come undone when my own fingers play over my clit.
“Again. Say it again.” His mouth is on my throat, hot and wet.
“Jericho.” I blink, seeing him in a blur of sensation, my body jerking against his hand, fingers digging into his shoulders, the smell of incense all around us. Him all around me.
And as I float back to reality, I remember where we are. Kneeling on the chapel floor.
I remember who I’m with. A man who hates me.
But when I look at him, it’s not that hate I see in his eyes. It’s something else. Something dark and dangerous. An inferno in the depths of those strange, cunning eyes.
He pulls his hand from me slowly, releases his grip on my hair and cups my cheek. His fingers are damp. With his thumb he wipes my face and I think he’s wiping away the stain of a tear.
“Tomorrow,” he says as he pulls me to stand, my legs wobbling, my knees not quite working. “Tomorrow you’ll wear my mark. Tomorrow your blood will stain my sheets. And then you’ll be mine. For better or worse. Until death do us part.”
22
Isabelle
For better or worse. Until death do us part.
The strange words circle my brain.
Jericho drapes his jacket over my shoulders and hurries me out of the chapel, out of the compound. No one sees me, at least not the state of my dress, although I catch a glimpse of Julia before we’re out of the courtyard. Before he puts me into the car that’s idling along the curb, Dex in the driver’s seat. He doesn’t look at me as we drive back to his house. His face is stone. That folder on his lap.
In the rush of it all and maybe in his distracted state, my clutch doesn’t catch his eye. I half expect him to search me, but he doesn’t. He sits silent instead. I find myself hugging his jacket closer, trying not to look at him. Is he thinking about what just happened? It’s cool in the car, the air-conditioning on high. At least I tell myself it’s the air-conditioning that’s got me shivering.
When we get into the house, I can hear people talking, their voices lowered. It’s his brother and mother. They’re standing by the unlit fireplace in the living room. Jericho stops when he sees them, so I stop too. And they quiet, their eyes on us.
“Go to your room,” he says and walks away, leaving me standing in the foyer and disappearing down another corridor. They both watch as he disappears before turning their gazes on me.
