Cruel Water (The Dirty Heroes Collection Book 11) Page 4

  “Do you live close by?” She nods.

  “Do you have family?” She nods.

  “Have you run away from home?” She hesitates. Her mouth pinches to one side as she considers her answer. A moment later, she nods her head but it was clearly more complicated than a straight answer.

  “Why have you come here?” Nice one, Winston, you idiot. That’s hardly a yes or no question. She points to the door and then my jacket.

  “You came for Eric? Do you know him?” Winston’s tone is pitched with surprise. I don’t blame him. She nods again and my jaw nearly hits the floor.

  “How? How do you know him?” Winston sounds genuinely confused, and it’s only a fraction of what I feel.

  Yes, answer him, how do you know me? It can’t have been you that saved me, can it? Maybe the voice I heard that night was all in my head.

  I find I’m holding my breath waiting for her to mime the events of the accident, some elaborate and dramatic reenactment, which would confirm I am not going mad, that I did see what I saw, and that she is the one.

  She shrugs and continues to guzzle down the food. I’m deflated and a little pissed.

  “Well, I’m afraid Master Eric doesn’t want to play.” Winston’s sarcastic comment and derisive tone is lost on her. She blinks several times, long lashes sweep her pale cheekbones, and she tilts her head to one side. Winston sighs. “You can’t stay here.” He clarifies. She drops the lump of bread in the soup and her hands fly to her panic stricken face. This time it’s not only her head shaking, her whole body trembles. She stares at Winston, and I can see from his straightened shoulders and his troubled brow that he’s extremely uncomfortable at her obvious distress. “I’m sorry, Miss. I will get you some fresh clothes, but then you’ll have to leave.” He explains. She holds up three fingers, I’m not sure what she’s trying to say.

  “Three what, my dear, you need to say three things?” he asks and she shakes her head. “You need to get three things from him?” Again no. “You need to stay three days?” She claps her hands, her smile brighter than a burst of sunshine breaking over the horizon. “You need to stay here for three days and then what? You’ll leave?” Her smile vanishes and her eyes glaze. She sucks in a long breath and straightens herself in the chair. Turmoil flits across her face. She blinks, bites her lip and forces a pained and tragic smile when she nods.

  “I can ask again for you, but I know Eric, and I would not hold your breath,” Winston offers, resigned at her misplaced optimism. She takes his hand and presses the back of it to her cheek, swaying slightly with girlish glee. He picks up the tray, and she grabs the bottle of wine and glass before he is out of reach, grinning like the cat that got the cream. “I’ll ask.” Winston mutters and walks from the room cloaked with a solemn air of inevitability. I never change my mind, ever.

  I don’t bother to follow Winston as he leaves the study. I use the zoom on the camera located high in the corner of the room to close in on my guest. With shaky hands, she pours another glass of wine and stands, looking around the room as if seeing it for the first time. Her impossibly large eyes, full of wonder and curiosity, seem to sparkle as pain slices across her soft facial features when she walks. Just as before, after the initial bite, she seems to embrace the sensation like an old and welcome friend. Sliding her bare feet on the smooth flagstones, she glides across the room. Letting my jacket fall from her shoulders, her white gold hair, now dry, sways with every sensual step, and I can’t help get the feeling she knows I’m watching. She owns the room. The vast space diminishes to nothing, and all I can see is her.

  She touches everything with keen interest, every object, every picture, even the rug, which she drops to her knees to inspect more closely. Wine spills from the glass, and when she dips her nose to the floor and licks the puddle of red liquid clean off the floor, I’m both grossed out and turned on with the sublime act of submission. If only I had told her to do that. Fuck, my cock swells, and I shuffle back to rest my back on the head board, unzip my fly, and ease my straining erection free and into my waiting hand. She places the glass on the floor and jumps to her feet. Her mouth drops open with a silent cry. Biting her lip, she closes her eyes. Her nipples tighten with the rush of obvious pleasure. She squeezes her breasts, and I do the same to my cock. I moan with the sweet agony of this new sensation assaulting my senses.

  Sexual desire surges through my veins, ignited by the sight unfolding before me. My grip tightens, and I firmly stroke my length, absorbed by this woman in my study. Her effect on me is intoxicating. I can’t look away, and I can only pray that Winston gets sidetracked, because I need this.

  She wanders over to the antique maple pedestal desk with ox blood leather inlay, seemingly mesmerized by the single flame dancing in the ornate silver candlestick holder. She perches her bottom on the edge of the desk. Pulling her legs up, she slides over to the center, picking up the candlestick and stretching her legs out in front of her in one seamless and extremely sensual movement that has my balls aching for release already. She wiggles her toes playfully before lying fully back, stretching herself taut with a slight arc to her spine. Fuck!

  This is not the first time I’ve watched a beautiful woman from afar. It’s not the first time I’ve had a naked woman spread out like this. It isn’t even the first time I’ve watched without their knowledge. This is the first time, however, I’m hard as fucking nails because of it. Blood surges, swelling the tip of my cock to a painful deep purple color, and I have to admit I don’t think I’ve ever been this turned on. My mouth goes dry watching her lift the candle high and tip the flame toward her navel. The wax drips easily, flowing like milk from the ivory candle. Her back arches when the first drop hits her skin.

  My own cock weeps with arousal at the beautiful sight. I sweep my thumb over the crown and slick the pre-cum over and down my shaft making my strokes a little easier. She splatters a pattern over her abdomen, down to her public bone and back up to her heaving breasts. She must be in agony. That isn’t a safety candle, and as far as I know, she doesn’t have a protective layer of oil coating her skin. She writhes, and her eyes glaze, her breath shallow and panting. One hand reaches between her legs, and I curse that I didn’t see fit to install cameras from the other end of the study. Still it’s pretty obvious that she has sunk at least one finger inside herself. Her greedy hips begin to rotate and she grinds against the heel of her hand like she’s possessed. My own hand is ferociously jerking my cock, a mix of anger and raw animal desire coursing through me. I pump my fist in time with her eager hips. Her body is covered in white streaks of drying wax. The image is stunning, marred only by the wish that it was my come making those marks.

  I have the volume on full, desperate to hear her cries, hear her scream in obvious ecstasy. Frantic breaths and hips bucking hard on to the desktop are the only audible sounds, that and my own moans and grunts of erotic frustration. I want to make her moan, I want to make her writhe. Fuck it. I want to make her scream my fucking name.

  My balls tighten, the fire at the very base of my spine seizes me all of a sudden, intense and uncontrollable. At that critical moment, I look at the screen. She has her head thrown back, her eyes wide open, and she’s staring directly at the camera, as if staring right at me, I explode. My climax streams across the bed in thick white ribbons. I can’t look away from the screen, she’s taut, her body arched and frozen. Her hand is locked between her thighs as she squeezes the last of her own release from her body. The candle is broken in two in her hand, the flame extinguished at some point in the throes of her orgasm.

  Tension leaves her body in a loud slump of bones and flesh hitting the desk and she lets out a heavy breath. She rolls onto her stomach and unashamedly peers up through long lashes and white golden hair that has fallen over her face. Her cheeks are flushed the perfect dusky pink, and her lips look so swollen they really need to be kissed. I shake myself, disgusted with the thought.

  What the fuck, Eric? You don’t kiss.

 
; There’s a knock on the door below, and it takes a moment to remember Winston was on his way to ask me something he already knows the answer to. I wipe my hand on my trousers. Get up from the bed and strip. My head is a mess. What the hell just happened? Honestly, I can’t figure it out. Who the fuck is she? What has she done to me? I’m drifting on an ocean of the unknown. Drawn to this siren like a sailor to the rocks. I know I should send her away. But part of me wants to test her, wants to see if she’s real. She said she came for me. Well, I guess its time for her to prove it.

  I jog down the stairs and grab my robe from the back of the door before I open it. Winston is holding one of my t-shirts and a pair of my jogging bottoms, neatly folded, with one of my waterproof jackets over the crook of his arm.

  “Is it all right to give the lady these clothes of yours? There really isn’t anything in the castle suitable,” he asks flatly.

  “Yes, that’s fine and give her some money too. Five hundred. You think that’s enough?” I pick my wallet from the top of the writing desk, take a fistful of notes and hand them to Winston.

  “I think she just wants to stay, sir. I don’t believe she wants your money.” Distaste curls his lips and my temper bristles with the inference.

  “I didn’t say she wants my money. I asked if you thought five hundred is enough to help her out.”

  “Yes, sir. I am sure that will be plenty.” He takes the money between his thumb and finger as if it’s somehow infected. “Will there be anything else?”

  “No.” My jaw grinds with tension.

  “Very good, sir.” He hesitates and I can see the weight of the next words weigh heavy on him. Still, not heavy enough that he keeps his opinion to himself. “Are sure you want to do this?”

  “It’s not a question of want, Winston. I need to do this.” He raises his sardonic brow but nods curtly before he turns away and walks back down the corridor.

  “Well, good night then. Sleep well,” he mutters.

  “I heard that tone, Winston.” There are so few people in my life for this very reason. They couldn’t possibly understand.

  “Good,” he says, and I slam the door.

  Fuck him. What does he know anyway?

  6

  Dropping my head on the door, the painful thud does nothing to knock some sense in to me. What am I doing? I’ve had my first ever hard-on induced by an actual person, and I’m sending her away. Couldn’t I just be normal for one fucking minute and—oh, I don’t know—just fuck her, like any other red blooded Neanderthal.

  Because you’re not normal and you need her pain, her true pain, and you know, despite what you’ve seen so far, that that doesn’t exist. Stop fooling yourself and just go back to porn.

  I bang my head one more time to punctuate my conclusion.

  I make my way back up to my bedroom, filled with self-loathing and regret. The former I am more than familiar dealing with; the latter is new, and frankly, I’m getting pretty fucking sick of these new feelings. By the time I reach the top of the stairs, I can see Winston is back in the study with his back turned to my guest. She’s still naked, her body streaked with red burn marks and traces of wax, which crumble and fall to the floor with every shaky breath she’s taking. She stares at the pile of clothes on the floor, her eyes filled with unshed tears.

  “I’m sorry, Miss, but you have to leave. Put these clothes on. I’d call a taxi for you, but no one will come out this time of night. I’m afraid I don’t drive, and well, Eric… I’m sorry.” He jolts when her hand slips into his, she’s nigh on downed by the excess material of my clothes, looking so small, fragile and lost, I feel the first prick of a blade of regret puncture my chest.

  “I have to do this.” The words rattle, hollow and trite.

  She tugs his arm and leads him to the door. An understanding smile barely making her lips curl; nevertheless, it’s there, and Winston seems to appreciate it.

  “Here. He wanted you to have this.” Winston passes her the notes. She takes them, screws them in her hand, and as she walks through the door Winston holds open, she drops them in the bin. A silly test. Still, I exhale the breath I was holding all the same. I follow them down the corridor. Winston can’t seem to help himself being the congenial guide, explaining how old the castle is, dropping names of prominent battles fought, and highlighting some of the rare pieces salvaged and preserved for posterity. The woman smiles and nods, right up to the point he opens the front door and she steps outside.

  “I am very sorry, Miss.” He bends down to take his house shoes off and hands them to her. “I’m afraid there really isn’t anything suitable for your dainty feet, but these will offer some protection against the cobblestones.” She takes the shoes and, to his surprise, leans up and kisses his cheek. He mutters something I can’t hear. I scroll the clip back and slow the film, catching the shape of his lips and words more clearly. I don’t think I’ve ever heard him say a cross word, and now I’m a motherfucker all of a sudden. Maybe not so sudden, and in fairness, looking at this sorry sight descending the front steps, I have to agree with his accurate assessment. Besides, I’ve been called worse.

  The spotlight cutting a slither in the darkness and splashing light across the courtyard vanishes when Winston closes the door. It takes a moment to adjust my eyes to the dark. Slowly the image becomes more visible, as the lit rooms dotted around the castle illuminate the courtyard. The woman passes my car, carrying Winston’s shoes in one hand, walking barefoot across the flint cobblestones, smiling with every painful step until she reaches the center of the square. There is a brilliant flash of light and a crack of thunder so loud it shakes the glass in the windows. A sudden torrent of rain falls from the sky, instantly drenching the woman. Each drop falling so hard it kicks high off the ground with the rebound.

  She starts to peel out of her clothes. She dropped the coat to the floor as soon as she stood still. The t-shirt is dark and heavy with water clinging to her curves and it sticks to her as she lifts it over her face. The sweat pants are sliding off her hips as it is, a little extra weight from the rain means she only has to shake a little and they pool on the ground. She steps free of them, and instead of standing on the material to protect her feet from what must be sharp flint and the chill of the ground, she kicks them away from her. Dropping her head back, she looks up to the sky, welcoming the icy rain with open arms.

  What the hell?

  I drop the remote control and walk over to the window. The ledge is wide enough to sit comfortably, and I do just that, sit and stare at the incredible sight below. Beauty and pain in all its stunning glory. I’m speechless and unbelievably turned on. She shivers, and even from here, I can see the telltale prickles of gooseflesh. Her nipples look impossibly hard, and her skin glows, slick with the wintry rain. She’s must be freezing, even numb with the inevitable cold. She’s going to be suffering every second of such exposure to these extreme elements. Not to mention the constant pain tearing through her from her feet upward. How long can she endure this before she catches pneumonia? How long am I going to let her suffer? Forever. This is her choice, not mine, and the pleasure etched on her face would indicate she’s in no hurry to change her mind.

  Her eyes are closed, facing the downpour for endless minutes. I’m transfixed. She shudders, sweeps her head forward and then arches back. Her long hair, soaked, sprays droplets of water in a shower around her. She slicks it back, smoothing it with both hands, out of her face. Her eyes are still closed. She opens her mouth and sticks her tongue out, catching raindrops like they were nectar. She licks her lips and drops her chin. Drawing in a deep breath, I find I mirror her breathing until I feel the tension of it in my lungs. Then, she looks up, and I feel like I’ve been hit with a cannon. I gasp for another breath. Her eyes bore into me as if there is no distance. I see her, and I fucking know she sees me. I feel the connection on an elemental level, an understanding, a truth.

  She’s doing this for me.

  Part of me is relieved; part is fucking terri
fied, and part of me wants to run downstairs and end her suffering, but that’s not how this works. I want her suffering, and she wants to give it to me. I open the window.

  “Dance for me.” I call down. My order causes her to swallow slowly. She glances around at the uneven ground and then back at me. My cock is already twitching, and when she sucks in her bottom lip, desire making her breath come faster in little pants, I am rock-fucking-hard in my hand.

  She pitches up on her toes and leaps forward, sweeping her arms around her body like a flame. Her breasts bounce with every undulation as she curves and contorts her body every which way. She dances across the courtyard, spinning, twirling, arching and flying gracefully to the sound of the thunderstorm raging above her. Her movements are enthralling, captivating and spellbinding all at once. When she folds to the floor with her final movement, I’m breathless. The blood pouring from her feet is washed away by the torrential rainfall. She gasps for air, her chest heaving and her body wracked with exhaustion.

  “Again.” I demand flatly. Without hesitation, she rises like a phantom. Her arms stretch above her as if in prayer, her lithe body an apparition of perfection. Her muscles taut and trembling with exertion, she once more performs what has to be a routine devised by angels to please the gods. She dances and dances, again and again and again. Each time she collapses, I resist the urge to go to her. Each time harder than the last. The hours pass and realization dawns on me, just as the day is about to break. The faint warm glow on the horizon threatens to shatter the darkness cloaking us both. As much as she has suffered, I have been with her, watching, keeping my focus only on her. This was a test. She didn’t break; she blossomed. And I finally understand. She won’t ever stop. Not until I tell her to.