Master A poured himself another bourbon and slammed it down. His brittle hatred moved like glass shards in his limbs as he forced himself to remain calm.
Mr. Prest didn’t care. His full attention fell to me again, inching closer, pressing his knee against mine.
I sucked in a breath as his head tilted toward my ear, his heady incense and spice aftershave whipping up my nose like a forest fire. It blazed through my lungs and over my tongue, making me inhale and taste him all at once.
“Tell me, Pimlico, do you like being touched gently or are you used to much rougher handling?” His palm splayed over my thigh, gripping hard enough for me to flinch.
Permanent bruises flared. I held my breath, willing pain receptors to quiet and numbness to take over. I’d enlisted that trick multiple times.
Mr. Prest was cruel and harsh and dominant. But beneath that darkness, he couldn’t fully erase the strangeness lurking deep inside him. I didn’t know if it was a bad strange or good, but he was different from Master A.
That oddity called to me.
Master A flung himself back into the couch, eyeing us with disdain. “I don’t know why you’re bothering. She doesn’t talk. Hit her, hurt her, whisper, or woo her—it’s all the fucking same.”
Mr. Prest brushed his nose against my earlobe, murmuring so Master A couldn’t hear. “You might not use your voice, silent one, but you speak all the same.” The tip of his tongue ran over the highly sensitive flesh from my ear to the start of my jaw. “Want to know what you’ve told me already?” His hand trailed higher up my leg, creeping to the place where I’d been hurt the most.
I’d gone my teenage years with an occasional fumble from an eager boy who’d earned my interest to get close enough to touch. And then, I’d entered womanhood with a brutal rape that’d forever tarnished sex. Everything about men and women coupling was sick and filthy and wrong.
No part of me, under any circumstance, wanted to be touched there. Not by Mr. Prest, not by Master A, and certainly not by any of his dastardly friends.
I hated him for taking liberties. I didn’t want my skin to be alive. I didn’t want my senses to be alive.
I wanted to be numb.
Aloof.
And the audacity of Mr. Prest to make me notice things again, for my heart to beat and my taste buds to fire—it wasn’t fair.
But at least, my body was as repulsed by him as any other man.
I didn’t feel a quickening in my belly. My pussy didn’t clench; my blood didn’t heat. My spirit might hold on, refusing to break, but Master A had broken my body.
Sex was revolting.
Sex was sickening.
Sex was not something I would ever grow to love.
I was sure of it.
It didn’t stop Mr. Prest from brushing his fingertip between my legs. His voice stayed heavy and low. “I’m used to silence, silent one. But you’re not very good at hiding your thoughts from your eyes.” Pulling away, he brushed my chin with his knuckles. “Want me to prove it? I know that you hate me touching you, and you can’t stop the loathing inside you.”
His eyes flickered to Master A as his head bowed close again. He gave the impression that we whispered secrets to each other. “He doesn’t see you like I do. He doesn’t hear you like I do.”
Master A shot upright, clearly ready for this meeting to be over. “I think we’ve covered the finer details. The rest can be done when you drop the contract off for final signature.”
Mr. Prest understood the underlying message.
Leave.
Leaning away from me, he grinned. “Want your slave back so soon?” He patted my leg, antagonising him. “I don’t think you understand the concept of sharing, Alrik.”
I bristled.
I’m not some toy to borrow.
I wasn’t a novelty or tatty doll to play with on a whim then dismember when boredom replaced fascination.
I was in two minds. Mr. Prest had kept my heart catapulting like some renegade siege with his gentle touches and soft commands. I feared him more than I feared Master A. I wanted him gone. Immediately. But a large part of me wanted to continue being petted because it’d been so long since anyone had. I wanted him to free me.
However, I never got what I wanted.
Master A inched closer, glowering at Mr. Prest’s hand on my thigh. “Do you like his touch better than mine, Pim?” His voice was a hazardous rumble. “I’d advise you say you prefer me over this stranger.”
He stared.
I stared.
No reply.
He didn’t deserve to know, even if I did want to speak. I would never prefer him. I wanted to bury his ashes and get every dog in the neighbourhood to piss on his grave. In that respect, yes, I vastly preferred Mr. Prest’s touch, even if he stole rather than requested.