I nestle myself closer to him on his lap and feel the hard length of his erection pressing against the underside of my thigh. He’s as turned on as I am. Hurt me and fuck me. That’s what I need from him. That’s exactly it. I fix him with an imploring look. “Please, daddy, I need it.”
He gazes at me for a moment, then he nods slowly. “That’s the look.” His hand moves down, his fingers and thumb caressing under my jawline. They tighten briefly, the pressure firm on the sides of my throat. Something animal flares in his eyes and I feel it all the way down to the ache between my legs. I close my eyes and tip my head back, baring my throat to him, inviting him to do his worst. His fingers travel down to my breast and circle my nipple slowly. Then he pinches. Hard.
“Evie? Look at me. Show me how that feels.”
My head comes forward and I look at him, open-mouthed. He wants to see? I let all the pain and pleasure I feel fill my face and it’s like he’s hypnotized with me. I’ve never seen him look quite so hungry before, not even in his most villainous, lustful roles. It goes on and on, and the pain seems to ground me and I lose myself in the depths of his green eyes.
His chest expands against me with a hard, ragged breath, but then he takes his hand away. I blink to clear my eyes and when I look at him again his expression is pleasant, ordinary.
Swallowing a groan I scream in my mind, What is he waiting for? Is this because I cried, or is it something else? Does he want me to beg? “Frederic...”
He smiles, charming as ever, this polite, handsome man who conceals so well his sadistic side. I sense it simmering beneath the surface, just out of my reach. “Oui, minette?”
“Please, please take me to bed.” I let my need fill my voice. I want him to hear it. You see? I’m not too proud to beg, if that’s what you want. I seem ready to do anything you want. How did you get this power over me, and why does it not frighten me that you have it?
He laughs quietly, amused, but something darker flashes in his eyes. Something exultant. I’m aching with need for him and the sadist in him is enjoying seeing me this way. “Soon. Very soon. I want to make sure you’re happy. There’s no hurry.”
I scowl at him, as I’m sure that’s just an excuse to watch me burn for him. I can feel every minute of our time together ticking away. “Yes, there is. We only have five months together.”
He strokes my hair, watching his fingers smooth down the silken strands. I normally like his petting and cosseting but right now I need something more. “Five very long, lovely months. Stop pouting. Be good for daddy.”
Sighing dramatically I put my head down on his chest, and then feel him vibrate with soft laughter. “Oh, minette, no one has it harder than you, is that it?”
In answer I rub my nose against the V of chest hair just above the top button of his shirt. My reply is petulant. “No. No one.” An insidious though
t steals into my mind. He does want me, doesn’t he? I feel his arms around me, his heart beating slow and solid against my cheek, smell the rich comforting scent of him in my nostrils. Of course he does, he’s just being careful with me. Frederic is good like that. I can trust what he says completely.
My worries slip away and I feel the strength of who he is wind around me, making me feel secure, precious. I never let myself rely on Adam in this way. But then, he wouldn’t have known how to inspire me to be like this with him and I doubt he would have wanted it if he could. He didn’t even like giving me advice about school or work when I asked for it. I don’t know, Evie. If you don’t know what to do how could I possibly know? He didn’t get that I needed someone to talk to about my problems. Someone who knew and understood me.
We sit together for several minutes in sweet silence, Frederic brushing my hair back every now and then to kiss my temple, seeming content to just sit and be together. I can still feel him, thick and rigid beneath my thigh. He won’t take me to bed tonight, but he will soon. And he will talk, and I crave his beautiful, hypnotic voice as much as his touch.
I look up at him, tracing the curve of his lower lip with my forefinger. “One more question. Is there anything else you left out of the conversation the other day that turns you on? Anything else you want to tell me?”
He looks at me steadily for a long moment, and then shakes his head. “No, minette. There’s nothing else to tell you.”
* * *
I can sense there’s something different about him the next morning. He watches me, his face closed and unreadable, but I’ve realized that look means he’s thinking about dark things. Sexual things. It’s the careful, controlled expression he gave me the times I asked him to hurt me and he wasn’t yet sure if I meant it. Well, now he knows I mean it, and I’m just waiting for him to decide when. Now works for me. How about now?
There’s a possessive force behind his morning kiss, the way his arms pull me tight against his chest and his hand sinks between the cleft of my behind. I moan against his mouth, wanting him to stay home with me, just wanting him, but he heads off to the studio with a final lip-searing kiss, leaving me panting in the heavy silence of the living room. It must be soon. Please let it be soon. I stalk through to the bathroom and have a very cold shower, and then head to my laptop.
He returns in the evening just after six and I’m in the kitchen, peeling and chopping vegetables for a salad. I’m wearing the gingham dress, the one he likes, pretending that I’ve forgotten it makes him think of rope and sex. He kisses the side of my neck as he murmurs his hello, and the hands that grip my waist hold me even tighter than he did that morning. You’re mine, his touch seems to say. Understand?
Yes, yes I do. I’m yours. Please, you can have me.
But he releases me and heads off to his room, to shower and change I suppose, and I almost whimper watching his broad back retreating. Thinking desperately of financial news, football fixtures and anything else supremely dull to calm the ache between my legs, I take plates and cutlery and begin to set the table.
The windows are open and there’s a warm breeze drifting in. I can hear finches twittering in the trees outside. I find myself humming and realize it’s the piano music Frederic’s been working on. I turn to move around the table—and nearly jump out of my skin.
There’s a figure standing in the darkened doorway to Frederic’s bedroom, cloaked in black. His eyes pin me with sinister lust and there’s a square of white at his throat. I put my hand to my thundering heart as Frederic steps into the room. He’s wearing his priest’s costume from Notre-Dame, black robes that fall to the ground, accentuating the height of him, the breadth of him. The set of his jaw, the narrowed eyes, speak of fire and brimstone and sinning.
“Hello, my child.” He walks toward me, hands behind his back, watchful. Calculating. My eyes rove over him. There’s something darkly sexy about the black robes and tight collar. “Come sit on my knee and tell me if you’ve been naughty or nice.”
My tongue unsticks itself from the roof of my mouth. “That’s Santa, not priests.”
“Oh yes, I always get them mixed up.” He looks down at me for a few moments. “What do you think, is this working for you? Does my petite ange have a priest kink?”
I make a whimpering sound in the back of my throat and nod. A priest kink and a Frederic kink. He takes a hand from behind his back and holds something up. I have to look at it carefully as I’ve never seen one up close and in person before. It’s a black flogger, the thick handle grasped in his large hand and the two dozen or so long leather strips twisting and unfurling. So he did read my story about Frollo and Esmeralda in the tower and the lavish descriptions of how he whipped her.