Chapter 68: The Game Of Madness Pt1
It started like a nightmare.
Vivienne found herself on her knees. Her pride was gone, her head screaming, her mouth full, and her hands clutching his thighs for balance. The taste, the heat, the humiliation—it was all too much. She hated him, hated everything about him, yet here she was.
Her head screamed louder than bells in a cathedral: Vivienne, what the hell are you doing. Get up. Get the fuck up. This is low. This is the lowest of the low. You are on your knees with this bastard’s cock in your mouth. You hate him. You swore you’d rather die than bow to him, and look at you now.
Her eyes watered, her chest tightened, but she went on. Because stopping now would be worse. If she stopped, he’d know she was lying. He’d know she had been caught red-handed snooping. He’d know she wasn’t the sweet little maid she pretended to be.
She cursed herself again inside: Bitch, you’ve lost it. This is madness. What happened to your clever schemes, your sharp tongue, your pride? You should spit on him. You should claw his eyes out. You should bite it clean off and laugh while he bleeds. But no—you’re here choking like some desperate whore. Saint Mary forgive me.
André leaned back in his chair, one hand gripping the armrest, the other sinking deep into her hair. His eyes burned down at her with that wild mix of amusement and hunger. He groaned low, his voice unsteady.
"Vivienne," he muttered, almost like a prayer, but it wasn’t holy at all.
Inside, she wanted to gag and scream: Do not say my name like that. Don’t sound like I’m some goddess. I am not your goddess, I am your executioner if God loves me enough. Stop groaning my name, you lunatic. You’re ruining me. My poor throat. I hate you.
But her body betrayed her. She kept going.
André’s grip in her hair tightened, forcing her to take more of him. He groaned again, louder this time, tilting his head back as if she was a drug he could not resist. His breathing turned rough, broken, helpless.
He thought, She’s insane. This woman is completely out of her mind. She’s not doing this out of love. She’s doing it because she’s cornered. She thinks this will save her. She thinks she can trick me. But God—look at her. I cannot stop. She is going to kill me, and I will thank her while she does it.
Vivienne’s mind spiraled faster: He’s going to ruin my throat. I cannot keep this up. I need to stop. Push him away. Push him away now, Vivienne. You’re dying. This is hell. This is worse than hell. What possessed me to think of this? I should have just lied. I should have cried. I should have fainted. But no—I had to go for this. You fool. You cursed fool.
But she didn’t stop. Her lips, her tongue, her humiliation—all of it kept betraying her.
Her nails dug into his thighs as if she could tear him apart while still giving him pleasure. And in that chaos, in that madness, she licked him deeper.
Her head exploded inside: No. No. Did I just lick his balls? Did I? What is wrong with me? Am I possessed? Am I cursed? Who licks their enemy’s balls? Who does this? I hate myself. God, kill me now. Strike me dead. Send lightning. Anything but this.
André groaned again, his voice breaking. "Vivienne." He pulled her closer, forcing her to take him deeper. His hand shook in her hair. His body tensed like a bowstring about to snap.
His thoughts were fire: She’s killing me. She doesn’t even realize it. She thinks she’s in control, but she’s mine. Mine. She can lie, she can steal, she can plot—but in this moment she belongs to me. She is on her knees, and I could live in this madness forever.
Vivienne choked, her eyes burning, her throat aching. She wanted to push him away, to spit, to bite. Instead, her body betrayed her again. She went faster.
Her head screamed: Vivienne, you absolute idiot. Faster? Really? Are you insane? This is your chance. Bite him. End him. But no—you are going faster. You are a disgrace. You are ruined. You are—
André groaned, louder than before, gripping her hair like he’d lose himself without it. His body shook, his breath caught, and finally—he spilled into her mouth.
Vivienne froze.
Her whole body screamed: No. No, no, no. Did that just happen? He came. He actually came in my mouth. Jesus Christ. I hate him. I hate him. I want to vomit. God, why am I not dead yet?
She pulled back quickly, spitting to the floor with disgust. Her face twisted, her lips trembling with fury.
André slumped against the chair, drenched in sweat, his chest rising and falling fast. His hair stuck to his forehead. His lips parted like he had just touched heaven.
He looked down at her. His eyes burned, wild and soft all at once.
"If this is how you want to play," he whispered darkly, "then let us play."
Before she could rise, before she could spit another curse at him, he bent down, seized her face, and kissed her. Aggressively, hungrily, like he needed her more than air.
Vivienne wanted to slap him, to claw at him, to scream. Instead, she kissed him back. Because she was insane too. Because her body betrayed her every single time.
Her mind screamed: Vivienne, you are mad. Completely mad. You want him dead, yet here you are kissing him back. You want to vomit, yet you taste him on your lips and you still kiss him. You are your own enemy. You are doomed.
André lifted her from the floor, his arms strong, his kiss unrelenting. His heart thundered like war drums. His thoughts raged: You are mine, Vivienne Moreau. My little thief. My curse. My salvation. You can lie, you can betray, you can steal every jewel I own—but you will never leave me. You belong here, in my arms, in my madness. Forever.
And Vivienne, breathless, broken between hate and desire, thought only one thing: God help me. I really am insane.