I can feel his whole body against mine, his muscles tense, his chest hard. I wrap my arms around him, trace his back as he pulls me against him, lifts me off the ground with the strength of his embrace, our lips still pressed together, tongues exploring one another.
I can feel his cock between us, growing hard again already, and I arch my hips to grind against him. My clit, still sensitive from the orgasm he gave me, aches when I press into him and start to thrust slowly. He groans into my mouth, kissing me deeper, running his hands through my hair, almost gently …
Then he jerks back, breaking the kiss with a gasp of protest that could've come from either one of us, I'm not sure.
He sets me back on my feet and steps away, dusting himself off. We're both breathing hard, our faces flushed, eyes glistening with lust. But when he catches my eye again, I watch him force the wall down between us, the cold, impervious façade back up.
"I will fuck you," he whispers. "The moment you beg me, which will clearly be soon … I'm going to take you."
I lift my chin. Remember where I am. Who I'm with. "Never," I reply, my jaw clenched. All the pleasant sensations of our kiss flood away, replaced by defiant anger. He won't have me, not if I have anything to say about it.
He narrows his eyes. Studies me for a long, silent moment. Then, without another word, he turns and leaves the garden.
I collapse into the chair, still shivering, confused about everything that just happened. What was that? That kiss, and the way he shut down immediately afterward … The mood changing suddenly. His insistence to remind me where I am, that he's in charge. Did that kiss mean something? Or was it just another way to taunt me?
On the ground at my feet is the sketchbook he gave me to draw in, forgotten. I pick it up and flip through the pages. My breath catches in my throat.
He's amazing. Every page is more detailed than the last, all of it almost photorealistic in quality, the sketches accurate down to the tiniest detail.
But it's when I reach the first page that I really pause. Tilt my head, and wonder …
It's a drawing of the woman from the paintings. Lady Lochlan, the cook said. Farrow's mother.
In his drawing she's smiling, but there's still something sad in her eyes. Something distant and afraid.
What happened to her? I can't help but wonder, as I set the notebook aside and set about cleaning up our lunch. As I do, I shake my head.
It doesn't matter. I am not going to give in to this man. He thinks he has me where he wants me, but he has no idea the kind of restraint I'm capable of.
5
Two weeks have passed. Two weeks since I brought Pamona here, made her mine. My property, my slave, my slut. And yet, she hasn't asked me to fuck her yet. No matter what I've done.
I think back to the first week. Every night, I'd seduced her at dinner. Watched her eyes go wide, her mouth part with want. She wants me, that much is clear. But she resists my advances every time. Even if she lets me finger her, she never breaks, never begs for more.
Just last night, I thought she would finally cave. I stumbled in on her in the living room, a finger in her pussy. She didn't stop when I came in. Only caught my eye, defiant, and kept touching herself. I stood across from her and undid my jeans. Pulled out my cock and jerked off right there in front of her. She was practically salivating, watching my cock, and yet, she never made a move. Never asked me for more. When we both came, she just stood up and pulled her skirt down, then walked out of the room as if nothing happened.
Why won't she beg yet?
Why won't she break?
It's been two weeks, and I only have two weeks left until the deadline. I can't afford to wait any longer. I need to escalate this now. I need to break her, completely, until she's willing to make that video. To humiliate her father, ruin his family legacy. And better yet, make it clear to him who brought about his ruin.
A dark thrill of pleasure runs through me, imagining it.
And yet, at the same time, I can't ignore the little voice at the back of my head. The voice asking, How will Pamona feel? How will that video affect her life, her plans?
I shake my head. Lift my eyes to the portraits I'm standing beneath, in the drawing room that we've emptied out, everything except her piano, because none of us could bear to touch that.
I gaze into my mother's eyes, painted in perfect, almost painful detail on the largest portrait in the room. I study her face, her gentle smile, the spark of pleasure in her gaze. I remember her the way she was. Before him.
I need to remember why I am doing this. Pamona is nothing more than a stepping-stone-a path to revenge. She can never be anything more.
I turn to leave the room when something catches my eye. Another painting, one of my mother's less elaborate ones. Just a study of roses, growing on the trellis in the garden. But her brush strokes are long and fanciful, and the style reminds me immediately of Pamona. The way she began to sketch those roses, the way she tilted her head, studying them, catching the light in just the right way …
I shake my head again. I need to stop this.
Or rather, I need to remind myself what it's all for.
I stride upstairs. Pamona's door is open-she's begun doing that, saying that given how often I stop by unannounced, she might as well. But I think she's beginning to relax here. It looks like it, when I peer in the room and find her reading in bed, curled up on her side, dressed in one of the silk shifts I gave her. She looks so casual, so unconcerned.
That needs to change.
My chest clenches at the thought of disturbing her, but that's exactly why I must. "Pamona," I say, and she looks over her shoulder, her eyes brightening for a moment before she remembers herself and erases the smile that started to touch her lips. "Come with me."
This game has gone on long enough.
She must recognize the command in my tone because she sets aside her book without protest and stands. Crosses the room, trails after me as I lead her through the hallway. I take her to one of the locked rooms, just beside the lounge where she stripped for me that first night.
I remember the way she stared me down, her defiant gaze as she pulled that flimsy summer dress off, and I suppress a shiver of lust.
I unlock the door and guide her inside. The room is dark, but I've had the maids prepare it already. Candles dot the corners, the only illumination. Oils are laid out beside them, every scent imaginable. In the center of the room is a broad massage table.
"Do you know how to give a massage, Pamona?" I ask.
She swallows hard. Steps into the room beside me, not meeting my gaze. "I don't."
I close the door behind us. "Well, you've proven to be a quick learner. I'm sure you'll pick this up in no time."
"I don't know … " She glances from me to the table and then back to me.
I smirk. "Don't worry. Even if you fumble, I'll enjoy your touch, my little virgin."
She shivers, and I step closer. Breathe in that familiar scent of hers, intoxicatingly sweet.
"Take off my clothes," I tell her. She reaches for my shirt first. Begins to unbutton it slowly, her hands quivering which makes her struggle with the buttons. I wait patiently, until she manages to finally peel the shirt off. When she goes for my jeans, though, I catch her hands. Guide them to the clasp myself, and move her fingers for her.
"Do I make you nervous?" I ask, squeezing her hands pointedly, as she trembles.
"A little," she admits, not meeting my gaze.
I grin. "Good." I let go of one of her hands, tap her chin gently until she looks up at me. "You're allowed to enjoy the view, you know," I remind her. "I can tell you want to."
She swallows hard, but glances down at my chest all the same. For a moment she lets go of my jean clasp to run her hand along my abs, then up slowly to my pecs.
"See. There's nothing wrong with liking what you see." I smirk.
She flushes, bright red, then, and drops her hand back to my jeans. I feel a sharp pulse in my cock at the sight of her blush. Her hesitant innocence never fails to turn me on. The way I scare her almost as much as I attract her. I cannot get enough of that.
She manages to undo my jeans, and pushes them down, blushing even more at the sight of my stiffening cock. I just grin at her and strip my boxers off myself.
"There are oils on the table. I'll tell you what to do," I reassure her as I climb onto the massage table and lie facedown.
My plan is to break down her nerves about touching me. Even when she does touch me, when she sucked me off in the garden, she was so hesitant, so careful. I need her to get desperate, hungry, in order for this to work. This seemed like the easiest way to relax her around me.
She spills some oil into her hand, and tips it from her palm onto the small of my back. It's warm and I relax against the table, peering over my shoulder at her. "Rub it in, Pamona."