Chapter 13
THIRTEEN
Hours later, a sound jolts me out of sleep. It’s the soft scrape of metal against wood. My eyes snap open in the darkness, my heart already racing before my brain catches up.
He’s here again.
The masked man stands in my doorway, his silhouette cutting through the moonlight. Cold sweat breaks out across my brow and goosebumps prickle across my skin. My breath hitches in my throat like I’ve swallowed broken glass. He fills the entire space with his bulky frame, looking inhumanly large.
I lie still, expecting this to be like before. Him standing there, watching me sleep, getting his kicks from scaring me half to death. As usual, my muscles tense, ready to wait out another staring contest until he disappears back into the shadows.
But something’s off.
Then a memory hits me like a kick in the gut.
I waved back.
Panic grips me by the throat and squeezes hard. The air thins, and the tips of my fingers go numb.
I hadn’t been thinking straight. Not after that bullshit with Mr. Rochester. When the masked man waved at me, I responded. Gave him permission. Said yes to his sick game.
Is he here to collect?
When he steps forward, my pulse explodes. The masked maniac actually enters my room, snapping me out of my dream. Floorboards creak under his weight, the sound making my skin tingle with a confusing mix of anticipation and terror.
This isn’t like before. This time, he’s not my imagination. This time, he’s real and coming for me.
He advances toward me again, and my body flinches.
Shit. What the hell have I done?
His shoulders widen, and his broad chest rises and falls in the semi-darkness, filling the room with his excited breaths. My heart slams against my ribs so hard that I groan. The sound fills my ears like thunder, setting every nerve ending alight.
I waved back. That was pretty much an invitation.
Hands scrambling for the sheets, I bunch them up to my chest like a shield.
I want to squeeze my eyes shut, to will him away, but I keep snatching glimpses of that mask.
Black fabric stretches tight over his face, obscuring his features.
I can’t even see his eyes. Can’t tell if it’s Rochester behind there, the groundskeeper, the chauffeur, or some psycho who swam over from the mainland to gut me like a fish.
He moves forward, each step a nail in my coffin. Maybe this is punishment for killing the cop, for escaping my pedo husband and his spawn, for thinking I could outrun Gil and his mobsters.
The masked man stops at the foot of my four-poster, staring down at me like I’m prey. I freeze, my body going rigid. Silence stretches between us like a wire about to snap, and my skin breaks out in a cold sweat. My chest heaves with shallow breaths that only scrape the top of my lungs.
With an almighty groan, he slams his hips into the footboard, making the bed shudder with the force of his thrust. Every instinct screams at me to run.
But where the fuck will I go? Out the balcony?
Off the cliff? Into that creepy forest? He’ll catch me the moment I so much as twitch.
This room is a cage, and his huge body is blocking my only safe exit.
“Who are you?” The words slip out in a whisper.
No answer. Just those hips grinding on the wood.
“Mr. Rochester?” My voice cracks.
Still nothing.
My throat convulses. My bed creaks from the force of his thrusts. His silence is worse than any threat. At least if he spoke, I’d know what kind of monster I’m dealing with. This is like being hunted by a ghost.
Something dark rises up through my fear. The same part of me that didn’t hesitate when my husband’s hands were around my throat. When I reached for that iron candlestick holder and taught him I wasn’t taking any more of his abuse. The part that knows how to survive in a world full of predators.
If he plans on hurting me, I won’t go out as a helpless victim.
I lower the sheet, revealing the gaping front of my nightgown.
Its fabric is so sheer it might as well be nothing.
A cold draft blows across my front, making my nipples stand on end.
His hip movements falter for a heartbeat, and the air reverberates with his deep moan.
I’ve never heard anything so animalistic.
Breath quickening, I clench my teeth, ready my fists. This maniac needs to know I’m not a terrified little girl.
“What are you waiting for?” I say, meeting his masked gaze. “Get it over with.”
He lunges.
The movement is so sudden that my heart jumps into my throat. Gasping, I scramble toward the headboard, just as he rips off the edge of my bedsheet, exposing my thighs. Instinctively, I curl into myself, but he’s faster.
His huge, gloved hand wraps around my ankle like a leather manacle.
“What are you—”
He drags me toward the footboard. I fall backward, my head hitting the pillow, my lips parting with a silent scream.
Then he brings my foot to his face.
What. The. Actual. Fuck?
Head tilting, he studies my sole like it’s some kind of artifact. His hot breath fans against my arch through the gap in the mask, making my toes curl. The pulse between my thighs quickens with anticipation of what he’ll do next. Then his tongue flickers out, and he gives my skin a quick lick.
I flinch, but a second hand wraps around my ankle, holding my foot in place. My lungs freeze as he takes a second taste, dragging his tongue along my sole from heel to toe.
The sensation shoots straight up my leg and settles in my pussy. My hips jerk back but his grip tightens, inescapable as a steel trap.
“What are you doing?” I whisper without any force. Even in this befuddled state, I sound too breathy, too excited.
Ignoring me, he runs his mouth over the ball of my foot, his tongue painting wet trails across my skin. Then he takes my big toe between his lips and sucks.
The heat of his mouth sends a burst of sensation that makes me gasp.
It’s a bolt of unexpected pleasure. I writhe on my back, squeezing my thighs together as he sucks my toe like a popsicle.
His deep, pleasured groans hit me in every sensitive spot.
I jerk my hips, trying to get a little friction, but he releases my toe with a soft pop.
Just as I think he’s about to lick a trail up my calf, he moves to the next toe.
And to the next. Like each one has a different flavor.
My clit throbs. The pulse between my legs roars back to life. My pussy clenches around nothing, and I can feel myself getting wet.
This is so fucked up. I should be screaming for Mrs. Fairfax. I should be kicking him in the face. Instead, I lie limp on the mattress, like he’s already got his mouth between my legs.
His breathing becomes heavier. More ragged. He releases the final toe and presses kisses along the inside of my ankle, his tongue dragging across my skin like he’s tasting something sacred. Each touch sends sparks racing up my leg, and each lick makes my pussy quiver.
I sink back against the pillows, my chest rising and falling with quick, shallow breaths. My hands grip the mattress so hard I’m in danger of yanking out the springs.
The rhythm he sets is tongue, breath, suck, stroke. Like I’m an instrument he’s playing and my moans are the music. Between each cycle, he murmurs something against my skin. Words I can’t understand, but they sound desperate. Worshipful. Like I’m the goddess of feet.
My hips continue shifting, chasing non-existent friction. My nipples ache under the thin nightgown, and moisture drips into my ass cheeks. I never knew feet could be so sensitive. Like nerve endings wired straight to my clit.
He moves onto the other foot, his tongue swirling around my big toe. A fresh surge of pleasure spreads up my thighs, the sensation making my back arch off the bed.
“Oh fuck,” I grind out, the words tearing from my throat.
He slams his hips against the footboard, rocking the four-poster with those powerful thrusts.
He takes my toe deeper into his mouth, and I swear I can feel his teeth.
The slight pressure sends another jolt straight to my core.
All traces of terror give way to urgent need.
Need for those strong hands to push open my thighs.
Need for that tongue to ravish my pussy.
I drop my free leg open wider in invitation.
I don’t care if this is the chauffeur, the groundskeeper, or even Mr. Rochester.
Not under the strain of this desperate desire.
But when he doesn’t take the bait, I cry out, exasperated, and he releases another deep, guttural moan.
The sound vibrates against my foot, loud enough to wake Mrs. Fairfax. But I’m too far gone to care.
He drags his mouth down my arch again, his tongue following the curve like he’s memorizing every inch. His grip on my ankle tightens, possessive and sure.
“Please,” I say with a choked gasp. “Please, I need more.”
I raise my hips, offering up my pussy. Hoping he’ll understand my plea. Hoping he’ll put his tongue where I really need it.
But he doesn’t move higher. Just brings my foot back to his mouth and starts the worship all over again.
Suddenly, his entire body goes rigid against the bed frame. His breathing turns ragged, desperate. He moans again, longer this time, before I realize what’s happening.
He’s coming. From worshipping my feet. From boning my bed frame while he sucks my toes like they’re the most erotic thing he’s ever tasted.
My pussy throbs, empty and aching. Why would he hump a piece of wood when he has me?
His body shudders, then goes still. For several seconds, we both just stare at each other, our frantic breaths in sync. Then he lowers my foot to the mattress, like he’s placing it on an altar.
Straightening, he backs away from the bed and walks to the door. Then he disappears into the hallway without a single word.
I’m left sprawled on the mattress, thighs still parted, nightgown rucked up around my hips. My foot tingles with remnants of his mouth and my pussy aches with unfulfilled need.
What the hell just happened?
I press my legs together, hating the wetness, hating myself for being so aroused.
He’ll return tomorrow night. I have no doubt. And I don’t even know if I’ll be able to tell him to stop.