Unmasked: The Complete Series: Second Edition Page 7

  He removes his hand from between my thighs and steps back. “What do you want to try?”

  “I have this fantasy and I was hoping you could help make it happen.” I step forward and grab the dangling drawstrings from his hood. “I want you to pretend…to take me by force.”

  He doesn’t speak or move while I count off the seconds in my head. Finally, at one hundred twenty-two seconds, he speaks.

  “How long have you fantasized about this?”

  “Since I began touching myself. I… It’s stupid. We don’t have to do it.”

  I lay my hands flat against his solid chest, staring at the dark fabric of his hooded sweater. He presses his fingers against the bottom of my chin to tilt my face up.

  “I don’t want to frighten you. I want to please you.” He kisses the corner of my mouth, and I close my eyes, trying to remind myself to focus on my objective. “Would this fantasy bring you pleasure?”

  I open my eyes and gaze into the darkness where his eyes would be. “I’ve been pleasing myself to this fantasy for years. Is that not normal?”

  He chuckles softly. “There is no normal in the privacy of one’s bedroom. What pleases you pleases me, ma chérie.” His arm wraps around my waist and pulls me flush against him so I can feel his erection growing against my belly. “But we need some ground rules. If you are not enjoying yourself, you must say something. A code word.”

  “How about…freesia?”

  I can practically feel him grinning beneath that hood. “Okay, and if you want me to stop immediately, you have to say ‘freesia.’ Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  I coil my arms around his broad shoulders, and he lifts me gently so I can wrap my legs around him. He kisses me slowly, and I can feel myself growing slicker with every passing moment. He presses my back against the wall, and I moan into his mouth as he grinds his solid erection against my clit.

  I pull my head back and smile. “I trust you.”

  He moves his hips slowly, crushing me with the force of his manhood. “You shouldn’t trust me.”

  He thrusts harder and I cry out. “Ow.”

  “Does that hurt?”

  “Yes.”

  “How about this?”

  He reaches up and pinches my nipple, hard. I let out a screeching yelp. He claps his hand over my mouth, and I continue to cry as he sets my feet down on the carpet and shoves his other hand between my legs. He rams his fingers inside me and the sound of my muffled cries seems to spur him on.

  “Do you want to be fucked?”

  “No!” My reply is smothered by his hand.

  “What do you say?” he growls.

  “No. Please. Please don’t do this.”

  He’s silent for a moment, and I begin to worry he’s going to back out. Then he slowly slides his fingers out of my pussy and begins to massage my clit. Softly at first, then roughly.

  “Ow.”

  My knees begin to buckle and he presses his chest against mine to keep me propped up. “Don’t fucking move,” he whispers in my ear. “Or I’ll kill you.”

  My stomach roils at the tone in his voice. “Please don’t kill me.”

  “Shut the fuck up!” I try to push him away, and he removes his finger from my clit so he can grab both my wrists and pin them against the wall. “I said don’t fucking move.”

  I stare in the dark hole of his face, my chest heaving as I pretend to struggle for freedom. He leans in and kisses my neck and I whimper. No. This is not part of the fantasy. I want to tell him to stop, but I can’t form the words.

  He licks his way up my neck and to my ear, and he kisses my ear so tenderly I could cry. Stop, I want to shout at him. Please stop this torture.

  He moves to my mouth and kisses me the way I’ve only ever dreamed of being kissed. I can’t breathe for the longing that’s building inside me. His tongue strokes mine so lovingly and his lips are so soft and firm all at once. I have to stop this.

  I lift my leg and knee him in his groin. He bumps his forehead against mine as he curses in French.

  “Merde!”

  I race into the living room, and he chases after me. He catches up to me in the kitchen as I’m reaching for the knife drawer. He grabs my hair, yanking me backward.

  “Help!” I cry out and he covers my mouth again as he bends me over the counter and forces my cheek against the cold tile.

  “Shut the fuck up!”

  It’s a low, snarl. An animalistic and primitive warning. A tone so cold and threatening it makes me long for the beautiful voice that’s haunted my dreams for the past week.

  His fingers woven through a large chunk of my hair, he tightens his grip as he pushes my face harder into the countertop. With his other hand, he undoes his belt and pants, then he forces his way inside me.

  I whimper with pleasure, then I remember this is supposed to hurt. “Ow.”

  He thrusts into me and my belly slams against the sharp corner of the countertop. I cry out again, but the pain is real this time as the counter digs into my stabbing scar. Again he pounds me harder, and harder, one fist clutching my hair, the other covering my mouth. How is he supposed to hear me say freesia or rose?

  A real tear rolls down my temple and onto the tile and, without knowing, he rubs my cheek against it while driving my healing wound into the edge of the countertop. Repeatedly and desperately I cry out, but his hand muffles my howls.

  “I’m moving my hand, but you are not to say a fucking word. Understand me?”

  I nod my head and he slowly removes his hand as he drives into me. I sob through gritted teeth, and he uses the hand he just removed from my mouth to reach forward and stroke my clit. He’s determined to make me come.

  “Oh, please. Please stop.”

  “Shut up.”

  He buries his cock so deep inside me, I fear he’s going to pierce my vital organs. All the while, he caresses my clit until I turn to jelly beneath him.

  “Freesia. Freesia!” I whisper before he can come inside me.

  He eases me off the counter and my legs are so weak. It makes it easy for me to pretend to collapse onto my knees on the kitchen floor. He wraps his thick arm around my waist and lifts me off the floor. Then he turns me around and cradles my face in his hands.

  “Did I hurt you?”

  A small surge of emotion bites at my throat and stings at the corners of my eyes as I think of everything I’ve learned the past two days. I swallow the sadness and look up. I want to push that stupid hood off his head and tell him I’ve already seen him. But I can’t.

  “No. It felt good…to be taken.”

  He wraps his arms around my shoulders and, sliding my arms around his waist, I bury my face in the front of his sweatshirt. Then I allow myself a few more tears. A moment passes and he loosens his hold on me so he can tilt my face up to look at him.

  “I’m going to make love to you properly now.”

  Make love? I almost say the words aloud, but I stop myself just in time.

  Love.

  Ha.

  I lick my lips then I stand on my tiptoes so I can press my lips to his. I brush my lips against his mouth without kissing him. He nuzzles his nose against mine, and I feel the longing in the pit of my belly. That desire I’ve tried to deny myself since his last visit.

  I slide my tongue into his mouth, and it pleases me when I hear him groan softly. I clutch the front of his sweater and pull him down so I don’t have to stand on my tiptoes. He takes that as a cue to squat down a little and wrap his arms around my thighs. Then he lifts me off the floor and carries me to the bedroom.

  I can hear his belt buckle clinking, dangling from his pants as he lays me down on the bed. This is okay. I can do this the normal way. We can call it making love. But this time, I’m going to be in control.

  I sit up and swing my legs over the side of the bed. Then I reach for his pants so I can pull them down.

  “What are you doing?” he asks softly.

  “I want to taste it.”

&
nbsp; His jeans fall to the floor and I grab his hips to push him back a little. Then I kneel on the carpet before him.

  I bite my lip nervously as I stare at the shadowy outline of his penis. I stick my tongue out and slowly lean forward until it makes contact with the head. It’s a little wet and slippery. It tastes like me, but a little saltier.

  I pull it out of my mouth and reach up to touch the tip. I swipe my finger over the small slit, then rub my fingertips together. I smile as I slide my hand between my legs and use the stickiness to rub my clit.

  I moan and he takes that as his cue. He threads his fingers into the hair on the back of my head, then he pushes the tip of his cock into my mouth. I try to do what all those women’s magazines say to do, and I cover my teeth with my lips. It seems to work as he slowly builds the pace of his thrusts.

  I continue to fondle myself as he works his way a bit farther into my mouth with each stroke. I’m about to come when he pulls his cock out of my mouth and steps back. He kneels before me and grabs my hand to pull it out from between my legs.

  “Stand up.”

  I stand and he grabs my waist to force me to sit on the edge of the bed. He spreads my legs and rests each leg on either of his shoulders. Then he kisses my clit as if it were my mouth.

  “Oh, my.”

  I can’t see him, but the soft sucking and humming noises he makes gives me a strong impression that he is enjoying himself. A lot. And, oh yes, so am I. So. Am. I.

  He thrusts his tongue into my vagina, and I let out a fragmented whimper. I grab the top of the black hood on his head, desperate to push it back, but he pushes my hand away.

  “I want to see you,” I breathe.

  He licks his way back up to my clit and begins sucking on it gently, the way I was sucking on his cock. Up and down. Then he flicks it softly and I want to crawl away from him. It feels so good it’s almost painful. He closes his lips around my clit, his tongue fluttering over it as he sucks gently. I thrust my hips upward, but he maintains his position as he brings me to climax.

  He licks me softly, as if he’s licking my wounds, until my body finally ceases spasming. Standing up, he kicks his shoes and pants aside.

  “Take it off, please,” I beg.

  He knows I’m referring to his hood, but he doesn’t oblige my request. He bends over me, wraps his arm around the small of my back, and scoots me further up the bed so he can position himself between my legs. Once he’s lying on top of me, I wrap my legs around his hips and he leans down to whisper in my ear.

  “Come with me this weekend to an event. A masquerade ball. A benefit for a fallen comrade. After the ball, I will show you my face.”

  A sharp pain twists inside my chest. This is not what I wanted. Then a small voice sounds inside my mind and a new plan begins to form.

  “Yes.”

  “You’ll come?” he asks, unable to hide his surprise.

  “Yes. I can wear a mask, too, can’t I?”

  He slides his cock into me and I gasp. He plants a soft kiss on the tip of my nose as he rocks his hips back and forth.

  “Of course, ma chérie. Anything you want.”

  He kisses me tenderly as he pierces me slowly and steadily, the heat and weight of his body making me feel so intoxicated, I actually begin to wonder if I’m losing my mind and this isn’t really happening.

  “Shh.” He kisses my temple and I can feel moisture on his lips. “Don’t cry, chérie. I’m here… I’m here, and I’m not going to hurt you.”

  That’s when I realize I’m crying again. Whimpering softly as he moves in and out of me, kissing me, soothing me. As always, he is at once my enemy and my protector.

  Chapter Ten

  The ritual of applying my makeup to be seen in the light is much more drawn out than the application I use for nighttime activities. But if I’m going to be seen by a roomful of police officers and detectives, a simple Venetian mask is not enough of a disguise.

  I’m actually quite excited about going out in public in a new costume. After all, according to Daimon, I am a woman now. And women love shopping for clothes and playing dress-up.

  Daimon offered to buy my dress and shoes if I didn’t feel comfortable shopping in public, but I settled for letting him pick out my mask. I ordered my dress and shoes online and had them overnighted to me. I have to maintain a small shred of control over this public outing.

  I use my industrial makeup when I go out in the light. The kind of face spackle used by Hollywood makeup artists. It’s sticky and uncomfortable, which is another reason why I haven’t been out in the daylight in years—except to investigate Detective Rousseau. Nevertheless, this makeup packs so much punch, you need a lot of experience to apply it properly. Which is why I have to apply it in the full light of day.

  I yank the cord dangling below the window in the bathroom to raise the blinds. The room is flooded with light and my stomach clenches as I prepare myself to turn around and meet my reflection for the third time this week.

  I slowly turn my feet and take a deep breath, then I look up into the mirror. I’m naked because I’ll have to apply the makeup all over my body. My hair is completely dry so the makeup on my neck and left shoulder doesn’t run when I apply it. My natural auburn color always appeared drab to me.

  I once asked my mother if I could dye all my hair auburn to hide the white streak. My mother responded by asking me why I would want to dye my hair the color of dried blood streaks.

  Running my fingers through my hair, I admire the new, more vibrant auburn hiding the white streak of hair. Then my gaze falls to my face, and I grind my teeth against the memories. The children in kindergarten who called me a demon. My mother’s ridicule when I asked if she could take me to see the Christmas tree in the mall.

  I used to stand in front of the mirror and drag my nails over the pale blotches of skin, as if they were a separate entity to blame for my misery. It wasn’t until I was ten years old that my father explained to me what a chimera is: a person with two sets of DNA. That was when I realized I’m not just someone with a pigment discoloration of my skin, hair, and eyes. I am two persons in one body. I am a demon.

  I apply my makeup slowly and methodically over all my skin from the top of my forehead and down to the tips of the fingers on my left hand. Then I put one brown contact on my left eye. When I’m done, I stand before the mirror and I realize this is the first time I have ever looked normal. Not a speck of discoloration showing. A warm sensation grows inside my belly and spreads through me as I think of my father. He would love to see me like this.

  I look at the portable digital clock I set on the bathroom counter and see I have twenty minutes before Daimon arrives to pick me up at 8:30 p.m. I hastily put away my makeup and tools, then I rush into the bedroom to get dressed.

  The dress I chose is simple and elegant with just a touch of mystique. A white strapless gown with a full skirt covered in a shimmering organza. The skirt stops about six inches above the ankle and the blood-red sash ties in a neat bow over my lower back. My silver, peep-toe pumps complete the outfit so I look very innocent and Dorothy-ish. Only, unlike Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz, I don’t want to go home. There’s nothing left for me there.

  The knock on the door gets my blood pumping. Rushing into the bathroom, I take one last look at myself through the light of the outside street lamps. I close the blinds and stride confidently to the door. I unlock the deadbolt and take a deep breath. Then I open the door wide.

  He looks like a dark angel sent to deliver me to a hell where all my darkest desires will come true. I swallow hard as I take in the tuxedo, tailored to fit his broad shoulders, the sharp haircut, and the silver and black mask that covers his face from the middle of his forehead down to the tip of his nose. Even with the mask on, I can see he is much more handsome than I gave him credit for when watching him from a distance.

  But it’s his lips that are so absolutely inviting. Perfectly symmetrical, with the bottom lip just a bit fuller than the top lip. Th
e left corner of his mouth turns upward in a cunning half-smile that triggers a pulsing ache between my legs.

  His gaze wanders over my face, completely ignoring my body. “You are the most beautiful creature I have ever seen.”

  I clench my jaw against the angry retort I’d like to spit at him. He thinks I’m beautiful because I dyed my hair and I’m wearing a pound of makeup. I swallow my bitterness and remind myself that if everything goes according to plan tonight, my days of hiding will finally be over.

  “You look pretty mouthwatering yourself.”

  He shakes his head at my obvious attempt to deflect the attention away from me. He steps forward and lays his hand on my waist, where I was stabbed almost four weeks ago. Then he plants a soft, sensual kiss on the corner of my mouth.

  “I hope you’re ready to mingle with the worst this city has to offer.”

  I close the door as he enters the apartment, then I turn around slowly. “The worst this city has to offer? Is that how you refer to your comrades at the police station?”

  I can’t see him in the dark with this contact over my left eye. It’s not made for people with above average eyesight. But I can hear him as he steps toward me.

  “Alex, there are some things you need to know about me. I’m not a good man. I wasn’t always a detective.”

  “I don’t want to know.”

  “I want you to know.”

  “Then you can tell me after the ball.” I reach up to touch his face and my fingers bump against the mask he’s wearing. “I just spent four hours getting myself ready to leave the house. This is not something I would have ever done before I met you. You’ve changed me.”

  I lean forward and place a lingering kiss on his lips. He steps backward, and I think he just pulled something out from behind his back. Reaching forward, I find another mask in his hand. I feel around a bit and realize it’s secured with a ribbon.

  I hold the mask over my face and turn around so he can tie it in place over the back of my head. He wraps his arms around my waist, and I close my eyes as he pulls me into him. He nuzzles his face into the back of my hair.