The moment I finished, the guard grabbed my tattooed wrist, carting me downstairs.
Chapter 13
*Finch*
I bit my lip as we descended the stairs and entered an entirely new room. It reeked of sex and money and power. Quintessentially Q, his signature scent of lust and darkness permeated the air.
Crimson booths surrounded a tiny pedestal, round and high—for a priceless figurine or statue. Leather straps with cuffs dangled from the ceiling in the centre. Heavy drapery blocked large windows, and thick black carpeting silenced any noise.
The room was a decadent tomb.
The guard let me go, only for me to be caught by Q. Where the hell did he come from? I’d never get used to how silently he moved.
My skin singed beneath his touch; arcs of animalistic hunger scattered across my body. Q sucked in a breath. I wasn’t the only one this crazy need affected. I cursed my body for responding. I needed some serious counselling. I shouldn’t grow wet when a man who lived to make my life hell touched me. I shouldn’t have mixed emotions of hatred and need. I should just hate.
He jerked me against his chest, never looking away. “Esclave...” He ran his nose along my cheek, dipping to neck and collarbone. Hot breath increased heart flurries to a million a second. I wanted to run fingers through his hair, to press h*ps against his—but I swallowed the diabolical urges. That wasn’t what I really wanted to do. I want to slit his throat so I can run home to Brax.
Sharp teeth nipped my throat, stealing my balance.
It’d been a week since his last touch, but it might’ve been a minute or a millennium and I would’ve exploded the same. I hated him. He turned everything against me and it hurt, so much.
Walking me backward, lips on my neck and hands on my waist, he steadied us when I connected with the pedestal and tripped. Taking my hand, he helped me perch on the platform. He gazed up, face at chest height, lust glowing in lime coloured eyes.
Unexpectedly, he wrapped arms around me, dragging my br**sts against his face. Keeping me prisoner, he licked through the holes of the dress, sending wet trails scorching.
“Stop,” I whimpered, cursing my trembling stomach and melting core.
To my surprise, he obeyed and stepped up, joining me on the podium. With a slight smile, he reached above and caught the leather cuffs.
I couldn’t look away as he pulled my right arm up and wrapped the leather cuff around my wrist. The buckles tightened and I sucked in a breath. It reminded too much of Mexico, the tattoo, inspection, injection. My fear consumed, and I jerked away. My shoulder bellowed as I tried to get free. I shoved Q in panic, tugging at the cuff, fingers fumbling to undo the buckle.
Q laughed softly, rubbing his lower lip with a thumb. “I’ll let you in on a secret, esclave. This is a first for me, too.” His hand dropped, cupping his erection through his trousers. “And it turns me the f**k on, watching you struggle.”
Two things I wanted most in the world: for Q to die a miserable death, and for him to f**k me. Being restrained highlighted all my stupid fantasies; I couldn’t stop the building moisture. Wetness coated inner thighs as Q gathered me closer.
“Fuck, tu me donne des envies primal.” Fuck, you make me hot. His voice throbbed, making me ache, yearn.
My heart broke a little more. He owned my sense of hearing, as well as my sense of smell. I couldn’t ignore the baritone of seduction, or the overwhelming need to obey.
Q pushed my left arm up and secured it. Lungs stuck together when he stepped back, leaving me shackled with arms in the air. My ribcage rose and fell with panicked breathing, igniting pain. “You can’t do this.”
He cocked his head. “I just did.”
“You know what I mean.” Swallowing back fear, I added brazenly, “You don’t want to do this. Something in you doesn’t want to abuse me. I can sense it.”
He froze, nostrils flaring. We stood, silently glaring, before he fisted my hair. “You don’t know anything, esclave. I want this. I’ve wanted this for too damn long, and you’re wrong that it hurts.” Chest strained in his immaculate suit as he leaned in, kissing the shell of my ear. He whispered, “I’m not afraid of hurting you. I’m afraid of how far I’m willing to go.”
If not restrained, I would’ve collapsed.
“Maître, vos invités sont arrivés,” Suzette said. The guests are here.
My eyes flew frantically to her, begging for help. She stood in the doorway with a mix of emotions flickering. The one I read the clearest was want. Her tongue darted between her lips, dropping her gaze.
Q waved toward the corner of the room. “Pull the rope, Suzette.”
Her gaze popped wide, and the need in her face dispelled, leaving shock in its place. “You sure, maître?”
He growled in warning and she jumped to obey. Wrapping tiny hands around a thick red cord, she pulled with one swoop.
I screamed as my shoulders wrenched upright and body weight transferred from feet to wrists. My tiptoes pointed, still on the pedestal, but only barely. I’d become shackled well and truly by gravity.
Q stepped off the podium, inspecting me. My br**sts stuck out proudly with arms above my ears, the mosaic dress exposing all parts. “Leave us,” he demanded, not looking at Suzette.
I couldn’t breathe.
Suzette left the room quickly, and all hope of getting away went with her. Q stood below, looking up. Slowly, he inserted a middle finger into his mouth and sucked. Eyes flashed with so much darkness I would never see the night again and not think of him. His tongue licked with intoxicating grace.
My lips parted, mesmerized. Somehow, focusing on him helped dispel panic, a reminder Q might be bad, but he definitely wasn’t the worst.
It was almost a relief when he grabbed my hip, holding me steady. Fingers bit into flesh. Slowly, he poked a finger through the fabric of the dress and found the dampness on my thigh.
Eyes shot to mine. “You continue to surprise me. I didn’t need to lick my finger after all.”
Cheeks pinked as he feathered up my leg and stroked my entrance. His finger slipped into wetness, and a groan rumbled in his chest. He pulled me closer and, like a pendulum, I went—his to move where he wanted. Pressing his face into my chest, his finger thrust inside, making my knees buckle. I swung slightly in the bindings.
His hand left my hip, wrapping around my lower back, securing tightly. “Ah, esclave. You continue to lie. Your body tells the truth.”
I wanted to curse. I had no control, but he was a maestro and like an unwilling instrument, I came to life.
“Q, it seems you’ve started without us,” a masculine voice oozed. Followed by another, “It looks as if he couldn’t restrain himself. Look at that delectable morsel.”
Chagrin painted my cheeks red. Four men stood, watching greedily as Q finger f**ked me. He stroked hard, quick, wrist rubbing against inner thighs as I tried to squeeze my legs together to stop him. He wasn’t gentle, and I couldn’t focus on his touch and the men at the same time.
Heavy eyes closed on their own accord as Q hooked his finger, stimulating my g-spot. I jumped as pressure inside built to a crescendo. Oh, God. I couldn’t come. Not like this. Not with men watching, hearing, wanting.
As my inner muscles clenched greedily around his finger, Q pulled away, leaving me panting and red cheeked. I swayed in the restraints, scrambling on tiptoe not to spin.
Q backed away, facing me. As he walked, he brought his finger to his mouth and sucked. Sucked the glistening wetness lingering there, sucked my taste, my very essence.
I wanted to weep.
My body pulsed, throbbed, and I resisted the urge to scissor my thighs, to try and find relief. I wouldn’t add to the smug look in his eyes. He knew I hurt, and he’d leave me that way. Fucking French bastard.
Reaching the four men, he shook their hands. They exchanged pleasantries in English, never taking eyes off me. I became the centrepiece. The object to gawk over, but not acknowledge.
“I didn’t know you’d taken up the family business, Q,” one man said, rubbing his greying moustache while eye-f**king me.
I expected Q to laugh, to mingle with the men I thought were his mercurial friends, but I jumped when he stabbed a finger in the man’s chest. “Don’t you f**king say that. It’s completely different.”
The man froze; a battle of testosterone took place between them, before he averted his gaze, shrugging. “Whatever you say.”
Another man, this one in expensive jeans and black shirt, looked about Q’s age. His face reminded me of a 1920’s movie star. Hair swept back and oiled, skin so smooth it looked like porcelain. “Q… ” he started, gawking at me with fear in his eyes.
Fear? My terror ratcheted up a notch. Why did he fear me? My mind ran wild with nightmares of what Q would do—hurt me, make me wish I were dead.
Q rolled his neck, slinging an arm over the man’s shoulders. They walked away from the other men, Q talking urgently in his ear. I couldn’t hear a word, but Q kept flicking hard-edged glances at me, while 1920’s man nodded as if Q had a valid argument. Finally, fear disappeared from his eyes, regarding me with keen interest.
Q jerked his head once in acknowledgement as the man patted him on the back; he returned to deal with the other guests.
1920’s Guy watched Q go, before stepping closer.
My breaths came faster as he stopped below, looking up with sapphire eyes. With a steady hand, he touched my thigh, adding pressure so I wobbled in the cuffs. “So, you’re the one to finally break him.”
He walked around, running fingers along my ass and other thigh as he did a full circle. When he stood in front again, he reached for a nipple and tugged.
I twitched, lashing out with a foot. I swung precariously as the man laughed. He grabbed my waist, helping me balance on my toes again. I frowned. What the hell was going on?
1920’s Man cocked his head, nodding. “I can see why.” With the cryptic comment, he strode back to the group.
Ten minutes passed as egotistical words filled the tomb. Every syllable shimmered over my flesh, especially Q’s deep tone. I dreaded the future.
How could I stop my body reacting to his voice and smell? Two senses he owned… leaving me with four: sight, touch, taste, instinct. One thing I swore, he’d never own my instincts—never own something so powerful.
Suzette, along with two other maids in frilly black and white uniforms, entered the room and placed platters of scrumptious looking food on the side board. Most of it was finger food—crackers with salmon and crème fraîche, stuffed olives, prawns wrapped in prosciutto, and a fondant fountain with a waterfall of silky chocolate.
My stomach panged, looking at the sweet delicacies to dip in the chocolate: pineapple, strawberries, marshmallows, the list went on. I hadn’t had anything sugary since I arrived at Q’s tortuous mansion. Suzette wouldn’t let me.
The staff ate bland, and frankly, rather depressing food, considering we were in the heart of a country that prided itself on cheeses, breads, and wine.
The men stopped talking and helped themselves to the buffet. Once they’d filled plates, they sat in one of the crimson booths by my feet.