None of them speaks; instead, they rush around in a flurry of movement around us.
I walk through the house with her in my arms, berry-stained and bare-faced, smelling like cream and champagne and obedience.
And all I can think is:She did exactly what she was told.
And I will reward her for it.
Her breath stays slow as I carry her through the hallways, past the dimly lit portraits and silent staff, up the broad staircase, and toward the east wing.
The door to my bedroom is already open. The lights dimmed, the fire low, and everything is prepared just the way I like it.
I cross the room and lower her onto the bed. She lands in the center of the mattress, limbs loose, head turned gently toward the pillow. There’s cream still clinging to her cheekbone. Her lashes are damp at the edges.
She looks undone. Fragile.
I sit on the edge of the bed beside her for a moment, just watching.
Then I start to undress her.
Slowly.
First, the cream silk blouse. I undo each button slowly, revealing the soft rise of her chest, the subtle curve of her ribs, and the chain that rests just above the hollow of her delicate throat.
Next, the trousers.
She is such an elegant woman. She dressed for me today. Not for Dale. Forme.
I unfasten the side closure and ease the fabric down her hips, past her thighs, until she’s in nothing but lace, soft gray underwear, delicate as breath.
I don’t take those off. Not yet. I love to see the wet spot that blooms on them when she’s thinking of me, feeling me, craving me.
But tonight I don’t have her dark and twisted thoughts, no. Tonight, I have her complete surrender.
I draw the covers back and slide her beneath them. Her body shifts slightly at the temperature change, but she doesn’t wake. Her lips part with the smallest sigh, and I feel my chest tighten.
She trusted me enough to take the pill. To give herself over. Again.
I strip down to my shirt and slacks, sure to grab the knife I always keep in my waistband. I’ll be needing that.
I slide in beside her, careful not to disturb the way she’s folded into herself. She smells like champagne and berries, and something uniquely Martine —fresh, crisp, sweet with a sharp edge.
Her apple and honey scent calling to me like a warning, for how easily I could lose myself in her.
I rest one hand on her hip under the blanket. Light, protective, and pull her towards me. The smell of whipped cream mixed with her skin is intoxicating, and I lean forward and lick the side of her face.
I press a kiss to her temple, just above her brow, and whisper into the dark.
“You did so well following directions, darling.” I reach down into her panties, wanting to make her cum in them so many goddamn times, she wakes up in the morning sticky and satiated.
I roll her over as her head lolls and pull her back to my front, using my left knee to get in between her legs and spread her wide for me.
Getting it out of the way quickly, I use my knife to reopen the cut between her breasts, wanting to make sure it leaves a scar.
Satisfied that the scab is open, I rub a bit of saliva on my fingertips and press it to her wound. My cock is so fucking hard I can barely breathe, and her bleeding for me is almost too much to bear.
Clicking the knife closed and setting it on the nightstand, I continue with my plan. The one I’ve thought about all day while I was chasing answers.
I wrap my right hand around her throat and slide my left down into her panties, stopping on the way down to admire her beautiful pink nipples. Pinching them a few times until she puffs out some air in her sleepy, drug-induced haze of rest.
