23. Zoe
Chapter Twenty-Three
ZOE
M y heartbeat is blaring in my ears as I wet my lips, chew the insides of my mouth, and stare at Ettore illuminated by the sunlight streaming in through the window.
It’s the first time I’ve seen him under bright enough lights, and it so happens to be the sun—my favorite shade of light on someone.
“Tomorrow then,” I drop my eyes, doing a backflip in my head at the thrilling news of Valerie coming around so we can get her the deal with her sponsor. We can collaborate. More than that, I can show her my sketches of Ettore’s suits, and she can make observations.
These observations I would hold dear to my heart.
“I’m setting up a room for you,” Ettore gently folds the file in his hand into three folds, “You need a place to sew,” he flips his eyes around my materials scattered on the floor.
“Why, does it disturb you?” I fidget, remembering my father, who hated the sight of my materials so much that I got hit for it. He might be dead, but the shadow of him still hovers. It is why I decided to hide under the staircase.
His eyes turn sharp, “You need a comfortable place to sew.”
“But do I bother you?” My voice dips, nervousness crawling under my skin as he keeps his dark gaze on me, scrutinizing me under his microscopic, stern stare.
As with everything about him, the intensity of his gaze makes me tremble.
“Do you not want a more comfortable place to sew?” He is still scanning me, and like some heat-lasered censor, I burn under his gaze for different reasons mixed with my nervousness.
Ettore is breathtaking, and every day, I realize how much oxygen he siphons when he is in a room.
He could be mad at me, and I would be trembling with fear, but there is this other part of me coming alive, wanting him to take that anger and unleash it in deep thrusts inside of me.
I don’t know what that makes me. Sick. Twisted. Messed up. Or all of the above.
“I do,” I stutter and drop to my knees to continue with my work, shrouding the many things I would like right now. “Thank you for your thoughtfulness,” I add quickly, remembering my manners.
“Good.” He is giving me too much and I feel like I will never be able to pay him back. It’s scary. It feels like being thrown into a prison. One you cannot touch or see, but you can feel the bars closing in on you with every good deed handed to you.
“Thank you,” I nod, pull out a pin from the container, and start sewing the sleeve cutouts together. “Thank you,” I breathe, a gazillion thoughts racing through my mind. Why me? Of every girl that day in that club, why did he pick me?
Is this the part where the universe mocks me again with something good only to toss me back into a sea of sharks?
“Are you alright, Zoe?” He crouches behind me, and oh, dear heavens, please. I hadn’t noticed how hard I was gripping the pin until now.
“I’m alright,” I turn rickety and slip the pin into the fabric, distracted. The pin digs into the tip of my middle finger as it pushes out through the fabric, and I seethe, grinding my teeth at the sharp sting of pain shooting through me.
I instantly pull it out, impulsively flinging the fabric and the pin away from me. Blood seeps out of the spot, too much of it, dropping on the other fabric on the floor and my cream sweater.
“What did you…” Ettore motions toward me, and I crawl away from fear he is about to hit me and punish me for being messy.
“I’m sorry, Master,” I crawl farther under the stairs and bunch, clipping my bleeding finger to my chest, waiting for the first punch to slam me.
He will hit me. I’m such a clumsy slave.
My heart bangs against my chest, my blood rushes to my ears, making me lightheaded as I wait for his fist. Tears well up in my eyes.
No punch comes. Instead, a silence that is quickly soiled by heavy breathing from both him and me. I keep my eyes down as he glides towards me, my teeth clattering in my mouth from fear.
I do not want to see the other side of him.
I do not want to be responsible for letting the beast out. But it might be too late.
“Zoe,” his voice is gravelly and ice steel, “Look at me,” he croons, and I hold my shaky head afloat to stare at him because it’s a command and I dare not disobey my master’s command.
“Come here,” he crooks his index finger, beckoning. I’m shocked at how snappily I crawl over to him like a lost child finally finding a way back home. “Let me see,” he points at my hand.
It takes me a minute to understand that he is asking me to give him my hand. Confused by his demand, I give it to him, not missing the stain of crimson on my sweater and the ironized scent of blood making me sick and restless.
He takes my hand in his and my body burns like it’s too close to the sun. I agree. I’m sick. I’m messed up. I’m twisted.
He strokes the back of my hand with his thumb, then takes my bleeding finger between his fingers and takes it to his mouth.
I whimper at his warm mouth. A surge of incomparable heat shoots through my core. I close my eyes, a moan slipping past my lips as I shift closer to him.
It’s obscene.
The lines on his forehead, the fluttering of his lids, and the puckering of his mouth as he sucks on my finger.
He slows his sucking, leaving my finger hanging on his lip, “Be careful next time?”
“S… Sure,” I drop my hand and hug it to my chest, feeling the throbbing tingles on the finger that had just been in his mouth. “Thanks.” I drop my eyes to the floor, confusing thoughts weaving in my head.
“I will…” He swings his eyes to my materials. “I will leave you to it.” He clears his throat. He is about to stand, but I lounge quickly, pulling him by a small pinch of his slacks.
I’m shaking so hard my bones hurt. The courage it’s taking to do this feels like the same kind of energy it would take to power the entire world.
“No. Stay, please.” I whisper to myself but it’s loud enough for him to hear me. I just want his company for a few more seconds, and I will be good. “Please.” I gulp loudly.
He moves and I flinch, shrinking in fear at the thought of him kicking me in the ribcage for my audacity.
“You have to stop,” I jump as he growls. “Stop it, Zoe.” His voice turns soft and then he settles, this time putting his knee on the floor while crouching. “I will never hit you, ever,” he drawls it like it’s an oath, and I believe him, but I do not have any hold against these things. I do not know how to control my emotions when they go haywire.
“I know,” I nod, letting go of his slacks. I crane my head and hold his gaze.
“Do you need me to ask them to get you anything?” The concern in his dark eyes contradicts everything I have thought of him as a man, “Water, soda, or anything at all?”
“No…” I shake my head.
“You want nothing?” He dips his head, and I drop my eyes from the sultriness of his. “You want something,” he croons, “Ask.”
It’s a command.
“You won’t give it to me,” mine is a shaky whisper.
“Ask, Zoe,” his voice is a body thrumming coo.
“I… I want…” You. But instead of letting the word slip out with the sentence, I sit forward and press my lips against his.
I draw back and drop my head.
“I’m sorry,” I scamper on all fours, drawing back, and bowing my head. “I’m sorry.”
He groans, and then, with one of his hands gripping the side of my neck and the other burrowing into my hair, he jerks my head up.
“Don’t bloody do that around me,” he spits the words out.
“I’m sorry.”
It’s going to take me a while but even then, I might never be able to change certain things. A leopard cannot lose its stripes. Zoe cannot lose her scars.
“I told you we can’t fuck anymore,” he breathes the raspy words on my lips, “I can’t have you that way, Zoe,” he is onto a different thing from what he is saying as he swipes his tongue across my cheek and suckles when he gets to my cheekbone. “I can’t have you the way I truly want to,” his grip on my hair gets tighter and I take it that he is referring to something else entirely.
He breathes me while the hand holding my neck tightens and drops down into my sweater to pull one of my breasts out.
My fear mixes with arousal and I’m like a ticking euphoric bomb.
“But I can give you something,” he twirls my hard nipple between his index finger and thumb.
“Open your legs, Zoe,” he croaks into my ear, and the fire in his breath sizzles through the funnel to my brain, frying it. “Take your fingers to your pussy and fuck yourself for me,” he licks down my face like I’m the best dessert ever made, making a vibrating sound that prickles my skin with arousal and swells my pussy.
I do as told. I sit better, planting my feet on the floor, and spreading my legs apart so one of his legs is between mine. I take my fingers under my skirt and clip my clit between them, then start to swirl.
His wish is my command. He doesn’t have to force it.
The feeling of being watched by him is electrifying I feel like I will split open. Like my skin will break apart or I will disintegrate. He pinches my nipple, slams his mouth against mine to swallow the whimpering moan that gushes out of me, then stabs his tongue down my throat, kissing me like I am all there is.
My pussy clenches as my orgasm whirls too quickly from the intensity of it all. His strong scent, his mouth ravaging mine, his fingers playing with my breast, the sharp pain from his grip on my hair, his groans reverberating in my stomach, my body exploding because he is just too much.
I pinch my clit and break apart, my orgasm slamming through me. I writhe—shaky gasps and the shuddering, wanton straddling of my fingers until I clamber back to stillness.
He slows the kiss, lets go of my hair, groans, and stands. His erection solid, shifted to one side of his slacks. He burns me up with his hooded gaze as I stay exposed and still burning for him if he would have me.
He backs away and skews towards the stairs. Taking long strides, he disappears out of sight.
I can’t have you the way I truly want to.
That makes two of us, Master Ettore.