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“Maxime.” His name is a broken whisper.
Until this moment, I never would’ve clutched this knife of hope in my hands, ready to shred my own heart with the betrayal of my emotions, but he showed me kindness. He put that knife in my hands when he gave me hope. The rest is science. I’ve been open and vulnerable for too long. I’m a receptive reservoir. I’m a romantic. It’s just who I am. I’m desperate for a few crumbs of affection. He wants my body, but I want to mean more.
I want to be more than a whore and a pawn.
It’s the biggest risk I’ve taken, freeing his cock. Straddling him, I press a kiss to the tip. He leans back on his arms, watching me with wary attention. I grip the base in one hand. He’s so hard, so much man. He shudders when I lick the underside, and when I take him to the back of my throat he surrenders. Something inside me gives as he folds his arms under his head in the sand, his guard relaxing. I reward him by sucking him the way he likes, the way he taught me. He groans, lifting his hips a fraction, but he maintains his position of immobility, allowing me to choose.
I do. I choose to move my underwear aside and lower myself over his hard length. With every inch I take him deeper, I let the cold, hurtful blade of hope into my heart. I moan at how completely he fills me, at the bite of pain that comes with the stretch. My fingers clench in the fabric of his shirt, his jacket falling over us like a cloak when I lean forward and slide my body up and down. The pleasure is exquisite. Hard. Dark. I whimper as our groins press together. The angle is just right, adding friction to my clit, but I need to see his face. I need to look into his eyes when I fall, hoping to God there will be just one small spark of warmth for me.
Leaning back, I brace my hands on his thighs and ride him. I hold onto his gaze as release starts winding through my body. His jaw is tight, his gray eyes gleaming. He’s ablaze just as I am, but his flames only go skin deep. Still, I cling to the sharpness in those pools that cut into my soul. If he could only give me a drop, just a little to survive.
I rock faster, my sounds and thoughts already splintering as my climax builds. My cry is desperate. “Maxime, please.”
Satisfaction bleeds into his eyes, sharpening his edges, making him seem crueler as he recognizes his power over me. “Please, what?”
The words spill over my lips, a request that leaves me utterly powerless. “Please, love me.”
He freezes. A shutter falls over his eyes. In a blink, he switches off.
No.
Tears burn at the back of my eyes. “Please,” I whisper, “just a little.”
A vein pulses in his temple. For a moment, we’re stuck in a terrible limbo. It’s a defining moment. It’s the moment I fall for my captor, admitting I want—need—more from him than sex.
Just like that, the show is over. He moves from spectator to orchestrator. Grabbing my upper arms, he flips us around. I’m pinned in the sand by his heavy body and hard cock. The fever in his eyes is new. Cold. Buttons fly as he rips open the bodice of my dress. He flips the cups of my bra down, exposing my breasts. His fingers are punishing on my nipples, twisting and pinching. He pulls out and slams into me as if he’s trying to break me in two.
The breath leaves my lungs with every thrust. Tears leak from the corners of my eyes. I hold onto his shoulders as he pivots his hips with a furious tempo, eradicating any earlier softness. It’s animalistic and carnal. It’s us. I was stupid to think it could ever be different. Stupid to want things I can never have. I should’ve known better, but now it’s too late.
I climax with a raw cry, my body and heart falling apart as he rips his cock from me and comes over my breasts. His breathing is ragged and his expression wild. The birth control is long since effective, but he’s still using a condom. And now, he didn’t come inside me.
Shame surges through me. He humiliated me. On purpose. Another lesson. He’ll never have feelings for me. I can blame it all on him, but I’ve also humiliated myself by opening up to him. The pain is brilliant. It slices me up with cruel, precise cuts. I can’t stand for him to see me like this—something used and discarded. Gripping the shredded fabric of my dress, I cover my breasts.
