What My Flowers Said Ch. 17

He pulled my hands to my sides and let go, eyeing me wolfishly up and down. A cool perspiration beaded up on my temples.

"Your ankle," he breathed, "It's feeling better, I imagine?"

I nodded, unable to speak. The sheer shock still had my knees shaking.

"And your jacket," he glowered, tugging a few frayed threads on my shoulder, "I see it's still ripped."

I flushed scarlet, still quivering, and shrugged.

"No time," I kept my eyes down, "...I've been working hard for you, Mr. Caine."

He nodded, letting it pass.

I don't know what I expected—for him to be furious. Confused, maybe? Anything but unmoved by my presence. His face gave nothing away. His eyes were sharp, impenetrable. But through the downy little hairs on my arms, and along the nape of my neck, I felt a prickly electricity charging in the air between us. I stayed perfectly still, afraid if I moved away, if I broke the balance, the static discharge might incinerate us.

"So here you are..." he leered, "With me. In my study. You've made it this far with your little plan," He ran a rough hand across his jaw, "What now, Miss Foster?"

"I—I'm sorry?" My voice quavered.

"What is it you want?" He took a half-step back, letting me breathe, "Why are you here, Penny?"

I shook my head, trying to clear it.

"I just..." I murmured, "The other day. You never answered my question."

"Your question?" He cocked his head.

"I asked you first," my heart pounded, "What is it you wanted from me?"

He raised his lip, "Your piece, Penny."

"You have it," I nodded coolly to the canvas, leaning along the bookshelves, "And now?"

He held up his hand, silencing me, and stepped over to unravel the ropes, and strip away the drop cloth. It stood bare between us. Naked, unbound. I felt my heart crawl up in my throat. For all my agonized hours, all my toil and trouble, somehow I hadn't quite accounted for the gravity of that moment.

I didn't want to care what he thought of it. But I knew. I knew if I he wasn't satisfied, it would shatter me. It wouldn't be here, wouldn't even exist, my toes curled tight inside my sneakers, if he hadn't ripped it out of me. And here we were, just one week later. I'd done it. I'd followed his demands like a holy writ. Just one week... I bit. It felt like half of a lifetime.

I waited, teetering on pins and needles. At last, he spoke.

"Yes," he turned, "It's perfect... Penny Foster."

I breathed a deep, searing sigh of relief. I hadn't even realized I was holding my breath.

"You... you really approve?" I murmured.

"I do," he nodded, stepping nearer, "But now," he scowled, "you should go."

My fists clenched. My knuckles went white. Bastard. I swallowed, is this really it? Is this how it ends?

I watched him move between me and the door, predacious; his icy eyes flashing.

"You should go," he said it again, closing the space between us, "because you've fulfilled the terms of our agreement. Because you and I have nothing more to say to each other. And because right now, it's only with a great deal of difficulty," his voice curved off into a growl, "that I'm keeping my hands from your throat."

My face went white. My lip began trembling.

"Go," his breath blew cool across my face.

Time stopped. Everything stood still. Did he? Did he really just say that? My heart rattled in unruly torsades de pointes. I met his gaze as best I could. He didn't blink. He didn't speak. He only stared, and bared his teeth.

God. He's serious, isn't he?

I backed up blindly against his desk, almost knocking a lamp to the floor. He caught it quickly, without breaking his gaze.

"You know I've noticed a few things about you, Miss Foster," he stepped aside slightly, offering me a clear path to the door, "For one, your survival instincts are awful."

I bit deep into my lip. I knew what he was doing. He was daring me to make a break for it. Daring me to run. I breathed through my teeth, barely audible.

"...And two?"

"Two," he sneered, "you are very, very bad at doing as you're told," He leveled his gaze, hovering just over my shoulder, "I won't tell you again," his words burned and bristled, "Now, go."

As I'm told? I glowered at him, though my fingers were quivering like reeds. And even as my nerves caught fire, I knew what I needed to do.

"Le chapelle notre-dame-de-bon-secours," my breath rattled, "Two by three and a half meters. Six centimeters deep. Linen canvas. Red underpainting. One week..." I recited, breathless, but verbatim, "I listen, Mr. Caine, when I choose to listen."

His lupine eyes flashed, "Is that right?"

He snapped his fingers, and Rupestrian fled from the room. He loomed closer and closer, trapping me between him and his chair.

"Sit down," he snarled softly.

I really don't know if I had any choice. My legs were shaking, my knees knocked. I fell back into his seat.

"Now stand," his voice cut sharp across me.

Do what? My brow furrowed, but like a limp marionette plucked up by the tethers, I rose to my feet again. He stood above me, burying me beneath his shadow.

"Close your eyes, Penny."

I did. My lids fell shut. My breath stopped. He was so near, I could feel him—feel his lips hovering, just barely, over mine.

"Now," he whispered, "Tell me no."

My blood ran cold. Still, I stayed silent.

"I said—" his voice grew fierce, "Tell me no."

I cringed, terrified, as his fist crashed hard against the desk. I heard a porcelain teacup topple over and shatter. Still I kept my eyes shut. Still, I stayed silent. I breathed a shrill gasp as he forced his hand through the rip in the shoulder, and tore the sleeve clear down to my elbow. He grasped my bare arm, pulling me in.

"Are you afraid, Miss Foster?" His thumb plied my scar.

Yes. Yes, I am. But there was no God-damned way in hell I would tell him. I wouldn't give him the satisfaction. I shook my head, too scared to open my eyes, too afraid to see the brimstone smoldering in his.

"I'm not," my breath failed, and I wriggled my shoulders free from the coat. "Now... what do you want with me," I asked again, trembling, "Mr. Caine?"

For a split second, I wasn't at all sure what had happened. I really thought perhaps he'd attacked me. His kiss... It was vicious, even cruel. I couldn't escape it. I couldn't move, couldn't breathe. And there, right there, thrust up against the sheer, shaking heat of him, I felt myself catch fire, and melt. My body went slack, surrendering. I gave up, gave in. I gave myself over. And just as suddenly as it started, he stopped.

He tore away, snatching a fistful of my hair. I shrieked, but held me still. He held me facing him, my lips quivering, my throat arched in a tight and tormented curve.

"What I want, Penny," his lips grazed over the edge of my ear, "has been the same since the moment we met. You missed your chance to say 'no'," he snarled, "Scream now, if you like. It won't stop me."

I gasped as he sank his teeth sank into my ear, just deep enough to sting.

"But listen," he growled, "because I will only tell you this once." He drew his fingertips across my cheek, and turned me, once more, to my painting, "Say red, and it ends," he nodded, "Everything. Immediately. Do I make myself clear?"

At first, I didn't answer. At first, I honestly didn't understand. Roses are red, my mind swirled. Color of claret. Cardinal. The color of blood. Hot coals and rust. Briar rose. Rose red. Are you dreaming now, Penny? I shivered. Have you been asleep the whole time?

"I said, do I make myself clear, Penny Foster?" His voice was so dire, so dark—it ripped clear through me, and nailed my senses back to my body.

Against his grip, I struggled to nod.

"...Yes. Yes, sir."

He let go, stroking my cheek with the back of his hand. A tingling glow gathered up on my face, and dove deep down to my chest, spreading out til it singed my toes, and the trembling tips of my fingers. His next kiss was soft, almost solemn. There was a sort of mourning in the way his eyes fell closed; in how his lips lingered there, mirroring mine. It was a kiss of something ending. A 'farewell' kind of kiss. A kiss of death. I couldn't understand where it came from. But it was lovely, and lonely, and strangely sad. For a moment, it almost made me tear up.

But then his eyes opened. And so did mine.

He lunged at me, teeth bared, taking the air from my lungs. His hold was tight and raptorial, more a constriction than embrace. In one devastating motion he whirled us away from the desk, down across the leather daybed, pinning my wrists over my head.

I might have screamed, or tried to, but my lips were stifled by his kiss. I might have struggled, or tried to, but I could already feel his poison spreading through me; withering me each I time I tasted him, each time I breathed in the deadly anodyne of his scent. And with my arms still pinioned, he let me breathe a soft gasp as his hand slipped loose the buttons of my blouse, descending, until the sharp wool of his jacket grazed my naked belly.

God. Oh, God no.

With a little skin exposed, my Catholic conscience made her invidious cameo. What the hell are you doing? He leered, hoisting me up to unlock my brassiere. This isn't a goddamn dream. It's real. And it's dangerous. He is dangerous... You know that, don't you? I held my breath, shaking and arcuate as his hand slipped under the tiny strap tethering the two cups of my bra. Is this what you wanted, Penny? I shuddered. Do you have no shame?

He killed me. Killed me, and killed my conscience with a kiss. And I fell. Did Icarus fall? Did he drown? He let me drop back on the soft, smooth leather, my chest stripped bare, blushing fiercely, my bra still dangling from his hand.

Yes. Yes, there's the shame. Like a freshly fallen Eve, I tried to hide from him, but he held my arms still. It was torture, really—him hovering above me, fully dressed in his tailored grey suit, his blue eyes cold enough to bite. I didn't think I could stand one more second of it. Every pore of my skin was on fire. Until at last he leaned in, laying his hands across my chest.

"Oh, yes..." he growled, "These breasts. They're perfect, Penny."

He kneaded them softly. His eyes fell closed. Ohhhhh God...

My nerves, my panic, and my guilt all imploded. My eyelids dropped. And I felt my hips rise to find him. Through the charcoal wool of his slacks, I could feel his hardness swelling. I arched higher, writhing against the tip of him.

"No," he scolded, pressing me down, "Not yet, Penny. I want you to suffer."

Christ, his voice. Like the long, low draw of a cello. I whimpered as he ran the length of his fingers over my chest. What had awakened in me a week ago as a dull and mysterious throb was blossoming now; bursting into a scorching, scarlet ache. I wanted him. Needed him. I needed to feel him inside me. I sighed, nearly splitting my teeth in two as his tongue lashed over my nipples. I did my best to keep still. But my hips... they were quaking.

"Good girl," he soothed, forcing my thighs wide apart, "Now open those lovely, green eyes for me, Penny." He kissed each of my lids, sliding his palm down below my navel. I held my breath as he unfastened my jeans, "Go on. I want to see them for this."

I did. I opened them wide, and watched his red tongue slide ravenously across his lip, as he sank his hand between my legs.

"Oh. Very good..." he groaned, "So soft. So wet."

He fanned out his glistening fingers, just far enough for me to see them, and incinerate.

"Tell me," he growled, "How long have you wanted this, Miss Foster?"

I didn't answer. I couldn't. It was too humiliating, trying to talk with my pants literally around my ankles. And the way he was stroking me with his thumb and forefinger—it blurred my thoughts in and out of focus, like sliding the dial of a dying radio. All I could do was moan a little louder, and thrust myself a little bit higher.

"Now when I ask you a question," he slapped my vulva sharply, and I cried out, "I need you to answer. Understood?"

Christ! Did he just—did he just hit me? Did he hit me there? Like a brass bell, my body was ringing. The waves rippled all the way down to my feet. I don't know if it was painful or not. But it was shocking, and it was intense. Without pause, he resumed his licentious stroking.

He asked me again, "How long?"

"I..."

He dropped low, kissing my clitoris, and my words fell apart.

"Go on," he let the low, dulcet vibrations of his voice reverberate against me.

My toes clenched tight. It was all I could do to keep from squealing.

"I—I don't k-know," I gasped.

He tormented me a moment longer, and rose up off the daybed, his wolfish eyes like ice. I tried again to shield myself. I felt cold now, and somehow more vulnerable without him close by.

"I know." He shrugged off his jacket and ripped loose his tie, "I know precisely how long I've wanted to fuck you, Penny." He plucked away my flats, lingering just long enough to lay a kiss on my still-swollen ankle. He smirked, "From the very first. Right when I saw you. Down on your knees. Your finger bleeding," he tore my jeans away, "I wanted to drag you by your hair into that alley. Split open that little dress you were wearing. I wanted to fuck you until you forgot your own name."

I stared up at him, trembling, my arms splayed like the Venus pudica. His words were terrible. Terrifying. But the terrible truth is, they turned me on. A lot... To hear him say aloud all the lewd and lecherous things he'd been thinking. To hear how he wanted me, in such filthy and degrading detail. I didn't understand why, but not once in my life had I felt so completely and painfully aroused.

I bit my tongue til it almost bled. His shirt was unbuttoned, hanging loose over his chest. I watched, wetting my lips as it fell away, and let my eyes tread over his toned abdominals, the swell of his chest, and those broad, knee-weakening shoulders. I mean, really... My brow creased deeply. Really. He is way, way too much for you... I squirmed shyly, feeling so much more nude, more naked, than I did even a half-moment ago. Nudes to heaven. Naked to hell. He's too much. I shook my head, searching for some telltale crack in the marble. Some little flaw to prove he was human. It's not possible, Penny. It's not real.

"Why..?" I breathed, my hands clutching tighter, "Why didn't you, Dmitri?"

He smirked, snapping my panties over my ankles, and closed his hand over my mouth.

"You speak," he snarled softly, "when I tell you to. Understood?"

My eyes were wide as two full moons. My lungs were no longer working. W-what? What is this? His clasp cut my breath off cold. What the hell is he doing to you, Penny? I nodded fast, too frightened to defy him. He slapped me again, twice this time across my chest.

"I said, do you understand me, Penny Foster?"

"Yes..." my voice was muffled, and the disgrace alone made my skin catch fire, "yes, sir."

He nodded deeply, flashing a devilish grin, "Good girl."

He let go, and I watched him drop my panties atop the pile, like a little silken snowcap for the Sinai of my shame. He swooped down again, his bare chest just grazing the tips of my nipples.

"Now listen..." he kissed my lips.

I did. He blew cool air across my breasts, and neck. He slid his hand again between my thighs. Like before, the ache swelled up inside me. Like before, my thoughts turned to dust. He ran his teeth along my throat, and I breathed a long, pleading sigh as he slipped two long, firm fingers inside of me.

"You will not come, Penny, until I tell you. Is that clear?"

I moaned as his fingers glided deeper, and his thumb plied the swollen bud of my clitoris.

"Is that clear?" he growled, coiling his hand around my neck.

"Y-yes..." I whimpered, breathless, "Clear, sir."

He groaned again, "...Good, good girl."

His pace sped and slowed in subtle increments. He kept his hand at my throat, holding me down. He kissed my eyelids, my lips, my nipples. There were no words in my brain, not even images at that point. But there were colors. Colors refracting the fearful, incinerating swirl inside me—colors of desire, desideratum, and need.

My whole lower half moved on its own, straining itself against to him; straining to release that awful, wrenching, heartbreaking ache. I struggled frenetically to hold it in. I didn't dare open up my eyes. The mere sight of him, I knew, would've ended me. I squeezed my eyelids. I curled my toes until they cramped. I labored, slavishly, keeping my teetering flesh in check.

"Don't come," he commanded.

My thighs quivered. Gently, he bit down on my nipple and tugged at it with his teeth. I gasped, but not in pain—the feeling was sharp, startling, wretchedly erotic. I felt myself slipping.

"Don't come," he growled again.

But at the sound of his voice, my body abandoned me. It curved itself toward him, like a bowstring drawn taut on his two fingers, and snapped flat. I came fiercely, violently; my hips pulsating in rapid, undulant waves. A sound swelled up inside me—some anguished shriek, echoing off the inner walls of my chest. I parted my lips, prepared to deliver it. But the sound went dead as he tightened his hold on my throat, and his other hand, still glistening, clasped down against my lips.

"What did I say, Penny?" He snarled softly, "What did I tell you?"

God... I couldn't answer him, and not just because he was choking me. My climax left my body like a hot cathartic. When it went, it took everything with it—words and numbers; maybe even some memories. Right then, had he asked me, I might not even have remembered my name. I was a ragdoll beneath him. Brittle as a moth's wing—and, I think, less lovely. Barely human. Barely conscious.

He shook his head, playing angry, but there was a wry and satisfied smile on his lips. I watched him rise up as from beneath clear water—the dimensions all askew, sounds muffled, the motions broken and dizzying—and I made not the slightest struggle as he turned me over, dropping my knees to the cool, hard floor.

My eyes fluttered. I felt weak. I felt broken. But I could tell by his touch, he wasn't through with me. I was still his—still at his mercy. And softly, somewhere behind me, I heard the 'clink' of his belt unbuckling, like a bell on some faraway hillside. Yes. I settled my cheek against the leather, tempering myself to receive him. Yes... My eyes shut. Use me. Baise-moi, Mâitre. Je suis tienne. I knew what was coming. I was ready.

But once again, I was wrong. My head snapped back as he grasped my hair, drawing me to a tight and excruciating arc. I whimpered, and he let his lips bristle against my ear.

"I'm going to fuck you, Penny Foster. And I'm going to punish you," his breath blew cool across my skin. "Punishment, because you came without my permission," He slipped closer. I could feel the heat of him, his rigid member, throbbing there between my thighs, "And I'm going to fuck you," he growled, "because I've been hard as stone for seven days—ever since I found you there on the floor." He drew a low, jagged breath between his teeth, "Nod for me when you're ready."