Chapter 48: The Bed Of Madness Pt2
He was thrusting harder now.
Vivienne’s breath came in broken gasps, her hair sticking to her damp forehead and cheeks. She wanted to push him off, to scream in his face, to call him every insult under the sun. But her body didn’t listen. Her voice came out in moans instead, her chest heaving with every move he made.
Inside her head she was screaming. "God, he’s going to kill me. This isn’t lovemaking. This is torture. Actual medieval torture. They could put this in history books: ’The Duke of Ravelle and his tragic victim, Vivienne, who was fucked to death before sunset.’"
Her nails dug into her palms, wrists raw under the ropes, but he only leaned down and kissed her wrists, right where the bindings bit into her skin, as if kissing away her pain.
She wanted to spit at him.
Instead, she trembled under him, heat rushing through her like fire.
Her thoughts were spiraling again. "He better not dare come inside me. Not a single drop. I’d rather die than carry his demon child. I’d rather jump off the highest cliff in Ravelle and smash my skull open before I ever raise this lunatic’s baby. God forbid. The world already has one of him, it doesn’t need a sequel."
But out loud, her lips betrayed her. She gasped, she whispered his name like it was sacred. "André... André..."
Her voice made her want to vomit. She sounded like a love-struck wife.
André, of course, looked delighted. His eyes burned into her, full of obsession, full of that maddening calm that drove her insane. He whispered against her mouth, "You’re mine, Vivienne. Only mine. Forever. You’re my goddess. I’ll worship you."
"Goddess?!" her mind screeched. "Worship me? Then untie me, you psycho! Let your goddess stretch her arms. Better yet, why don’t you worship me by drowning yourself in the river? Build me a temple under the water and stay there forever."
But her body, that treacherous, lying body, wrapped her legs around him.
Her eyes went wide. "Oh no. No no no no no. My legs are traitors. They just acted on their own. They wrapped around him like vines. Somebody cut them off. I need new legs. Actually, I need a whole new body. Who’s selling one? I’ll pay with stolen jewelry. Anything."
André slowed down suddenly, pulling back just enough to kiss her again. Her stomach, her chest, her neck. Slow, deliberate, driving her insane.
She moaned. Not because she wanted to. Not because she chose to. It just slipped out of her throat, desperate and broken.
In her head she hissed, "If anyone ever finds out I made noises like this, I swear, I’ll hang myself with his cravat. I’ll write my suicide note with my own blood. ’Here lies Vivienne. Cause of death: humiliation.’"
But he didn’t stop. He took her higher and higher, like he was determined to rip her apart, break her down into nothing.
She was torn. Torn between begging him to stop and begging him to never stop.
Her head screamed: "I hate you. I hate you. I hate you."
Her body clung tighter, moaned louder, bucked against him. Her body was a lying slut, betraying her completely.
And then, without warning, her body broke again, exploding into another orgasm. She cried out, trembling so hard she thought her bones would snap.
And the worst part? She kissed him. She kissed him back too much. So desperate, so hungry, like she was the one obsessed.
She shocked herself. Her own lips betrayed her.
André pulled back slightly, looking down at her like she was the only woman on earth. His voice was soft, tender, maddening. "Say it again, Vivienne. Say you love me."
Her chest heaved. She wanted to spit in his face. She wanted to scream the truth. But the words tumbled out before she could stop them. "I love you."
Her heart screamed in rage. "I LOVE THAT YOUR DEATH WILL BE PAINFUL, YOU FUCKING BASTARD."
But her lips said the opposite, soft, trembling, believable.
Her body shattered again under him, another orgasm tearing through her, leaving her trembling and weak. Tears slid down her cheeks, not from sadness, not from love, but from the sheer, unbearable intensity.
She hated every second of it. She hated that she loved it.
She lay there exhausted, sweaty, her hair a mess, her body trembling like a rag doll. She looked like she had been thrown into battle and left for dead.
André, on the other hand, looked fresh. Fresh, satisfied, glowing. Like he had just finished a morning walk in the garden. Not a single drop of exhaustion. He leaned down and kissed her forehead tenderly, softly, like she was his beloved wife.
She wanted to vomit on his face.
Her last thought before blacking out completely, before the exhaustion dragged her into unconsciousness, was sharp and bitter:
"I will fucking kill him in his sleep. If I survive sunset."
And then her body gave out, darkness pulling her under, while André held her like she was the love of his life.
But he didn’t seem like a lover. Not even close.
André looked down at her limp, sweat-soaked body, her lashes trembling faintly as if even in unconsciousness she was cursing him. He grinned like a lunatic, brushing her messy hair from her face.
"Looks like my little thief fainted from exhaustion," he muttered, his voice dripping with amusement. His eyes glittered with that cruel, tender obsession only he could manage. He kissed her temple lazily, then leaned back against the headboard like a man with all the time in the world.
"That’s too bad, Vivienne," he whispered, his grin widening. "It’s not even sunset yet."
He chuckled low, dark, the sound vibrating through his chest. His hand slid along her hip possessively, not to wake her, just to remind her body it was his.
"I should be offended," he continued softly, almost playfully. "Passing out on me like that, like you’re done. You think you get to rest? No, little liar. No, little thief. You’re mine until the sun drops. And when you wake up..."
His mouth curved into a wicked smile, lips brushing her ear.
"...we’ll fucking start again."