18. Dominoes
Chapter 18
Dominoes
Winnie
Two days.
Two days that I’ve been held captive in this…this luxury prison.
Two days of pampering and panicking, fighting to flee and failing miserably.
Two days of playing mental reels of the worst-case scenario for what I’m going to have to face at the auction.
And then what?
Christophe is cold, hard—in so many ways—and acts like he doesn’t care, but I felt something after that dinner when he held me tight against him.
I felt more when he caught me trying to escape.
I mean, I felt a lot of things: power rolling off of him, muscles twitching where my fingers skated over him. And his cock. I couldn’t help but to feel that pressed against my stomach. With all the things he said to me—the threats, or maybe promises—of what his uncle will do if he wins me, my focus was firmly on Christophe. What he could do to me. With me.
Instead of falling into those what-ifs and losing myself in delicious fantasies of Christophe, I got to spend yesterday with the man whose head I tried to bash in. That was freaking awkward as shit. And when I asked to see Tru, if she could come to my room and hang out with me, Garrick just poured me another whiskey and steered the conversation far, far away from her.
Thinking back, he was obviously there to distract me. Or maybe it was punishment for letting me get one over on him, if you can call the broken vase and lump on his head that.
All I know is I had a super chill day when it should have been anything but.
Then, as soon as I was alone behind the locked door to my suite, I crawled between my sheets, shoved my hand between my legs, and tried to make myself come. Tried .
Maybe it was because of how drunk I was, maybe because now that I’ve been ruined by Christophe’s touch, mine pales in comparison—I don’t know—but a failed orgasm in my time of need did me in. And now, nursing a serious hangover after a restless night, I’m on edge.
Self-induced releases are nothing like the magic Christophe is capable of.
I ache.
I throb between my legs.
I’ve done nothing but pace and fret and try, try, try to relieve the tension buzzing through me.
There’s literally nothing I can do in this lush prison to alleviate this…this…misery.
Every step highlights the need in my core.
Every thought spirals pain through my head.
The door opens, startling me, pulling me from the lascivious thoughts of just exactly where I want to trail my tongue across my captor, tasting him. And where I want to beg for his tongue to glide across me.
I whip my head around to find Garrick, looking considerably less hungover than I feel, stepping into my room once again. My room. When the hell did these become my rooms? When did I stop dreaming of how to escape this house? My plotting and planning have turned from fleeing Christophe’s clutches to crawling closer and losing myself to him—in him.
“Excuse me, Miss L’Ourson, Mr. Robicheaux has requested your presence in his office.” The butler’s smile is tight, his hands clutched in front of him as though it’s taking considerable effort to keep from wringing them. He looks nervous, or maybe unhappy, shifting his gaze around the room, never quite meeting mine.
“Am I in trouble again?” I don’t bother trying to keep the sass from my voice. I’m wound tight and there’s only so much I can keep locked down at one time.
His eyes wrinkle and a small smile pulls at the corner of his mouth. “Not that I know of, miss. But he did request I escort you to him right away.” He takes a step toward the door and pulls it open.
I glance down at the leggings and wrap shirt I threw on when I dragged myself out of bed. My hair is up in a messy bun and I’m not wearing a stitch of makeup. Why my appearance concerns me, I’d rather not spend too much time or effort examining. I don’t need to face that kind of introspection today. Or ever, maybe.
“Do I need to ‘dress’ for this meeting?” I air-quote the shit out of that, joining Garrick as he chuckles and shakes his head.
“Not at all.” He sweeps his free hand toward the hallway, indicating I should go ahead of him. “You look perfect just the way you are.” He’s so sweet. Wrong in his assessment, but absolutely the sweetest.
When all is said and done—when I’m long gone after this stupid skin auction—I might actually miss him.
We walk side-by-side to Christophe’s office. Garrick allows me to enter first and then softly grasps my elbow, halting my progress. “It has been a pleasure, Miss L’Ourson. I wish you”—his eyes cloud and he clears his throat—“I wish you all the best.” The last bit comes with a harsh glare toward Christophe. It seems as though Garrick is less than thrilled with his boss.
I throw my arms around the kind man, comforted when his hand rests on the center of my back and he pulls me close. He’s been nothing but kind to me. Almost fatherly in the time I’ve spent under this roof, other than the part where he’s delivered me to Christophe time and time again but maybe bashing him over the head balances those transgressions out.
I step into the office, images of the last time we were in here together crashing through my mind. My heart stutters in my chest and desire swirls in my core, tightening my belly. A laugh bubbles up from there and gets stuck in my throat.
Christophe is beautiful. He’s powerful and electric. But he is not the same boy I fell for all those years ago. He’s selling my body to the highest bidder to—what?—impress his uncle? Stay in that vile man’s good graces?
Even knowing that, I can’t shake this overwhelming desire I have for him. I hate the fact that I want him.
What I want doesn’t matter.
What my body is begging for is inconsequential.
And my heart? That stupid muscle can fuck right off, because who in their right mind would have any room in their heart for someone who can treat them so callously, hurt them so easily? How can it beat for him as he tosses it aside without a care? Tosses it aside and stomps on it. Shreds it.
He always has and from the way things are going, he always will.
Christophe might want to fuck me, but he has never had a problem walking away from me and I don’t see any hints of that changing. Certainly not now.
Not when he’s so focused on the money my parents owed him.
Not when he reminds me of how much my virginity will sell for, while he’s got his hand in my pants strumming me until I’m quivering like a newborn woodland animal trying to stand for the first time.
He takes me in from head to toe. His gaze caresses me, the heat in his eyes burning me as he lingers on my hips and thighs, my chest and neck, my mouth. His silence is complete and if I’m honest, completely unnerving.
I shift under his perusal.
“You uncomfortable with this, honeybee? The way I look at you?”
I still. “No.”
A dark chuckle rumbles from deep in his chest. “No? The blush painting your creamy skin says something very different.” He circles me slowly, pausing behind me before stepping back in front of me, arms crossed, chin tilted down. Eyes dark.
I clear the nerves from my throat. “Why am I here?” I wish I had taken a moment to clear my throat a second time, given myself a pep-talk, because that question doesn’t come out with near enough confidence.
“It’s time,” he says.
“For?”
Another low laugh. “Time to get you ready for your big night on stage.”
My brows pinch together. “But the auction is next week. You said?—”
“And now it’s tonight.” He reaches out, running his thumb along my bottom lip.
I’m tempted to wrap my lips around the tip and pull it into my mouth, suck on it, twirl my tongue around it—lure him in and then sink my teeth in and bite the fucker.
“After your stunts earlier this week, I think it’s best for me to supervise your preparations.”
“You’re shitting me,” I say, wide-eyed. Why am I shocked? Why does the loss of yet another illusion of control surprise me?
At the tug of his lips into a sardonic grin, my shoulders deflate. Not just my shoulders…every last bit of me. I have nothing left in me to fight him. I’m exhausted.
“Okay.” I roll my lips between my teeth and nod, lifting my gaze to meet his. “Okay. Is someone meeting me in my room?”
He stares at me for so long, I wonder if he’s going to bother responding.
“How much time do I have to get ready?” I ask as I walk toward the open door of the office.
I mumble “excuse me” to the huge man blocking the way. The man who looks at Tru with softness, such tenderness, stares at me like I’m nothing more than a commodity.
Christophe huffs a laugh behind me drawing the man’s attention from me. “Teague, you brought everything?”
“Yeah, boss.” He moves into the room, herding me back with every step.
I have no choice but to get out of Teague’s way or get run over by him and I’m not about to let that happen. I may not have much—even my dignity is dwindling by the minute—but I will do whatever I can to not stumble and fall on my ass. Again.
Christophe’s goon stalks across the room and deposits a small black carry-on case next to a chair set in front of a massive mirror propped in the corner. He hangs a garment bag from the mirror’s frame, and retreats to the door.
“Anything else, boss?”
Christophe dismisses him with a chin lift adding, “Do what you need and be ready to leave when we’re through in here.”
Aside from a grunt, there’s no response, just the near-silent click of the door closing me in here with Christophe.
“What is this?” I glance at the case and garment bag.
“Shit, you need to get yourself ready.” Christophe settles into a club chair, stacking his ankle on the opposite knee.
I huff out a laugh, hands propped on my hips. “You had your dude pack up the stuff from my room and bring it down here?”
“I did.”
He can’t mean for me to get ready here—in his office.
“What if he forgot something?”
“Everything is there,” he says, focused on his phone.
“And—what?—you’re just going to sit there and watch?”
He lifts his gaze, spearing me with it.
I wish he’d go back to staring at his phone.
I wish he’d let me go back to my room.
I wish he’d just let me go.
“You need to be supervised.” He repeats his earlier statement but slower, enunciating each word like I don’t understand them.
I’m not an idiot; I understand the words, just not the implication behind them.
I cross my arms over my chest and narrow my eyes at him.
It doesn’t take long for tension to swirl thick between us.
The way Christophe arches his brow at me, his lush bottom lip pinched between his forefinger and thumb, doesn’t help to dissipate that tension, and I shift, rubbing my thighs together to try and alleviate desire pooling in my core.
I don’t want to be turned on. I want to be pissed. I want to scream and yell and rage. I want to slap that smug, sensual, beautiful look off his sexy face.
Tears sting my eyes, threatening to spill over and slide down my face. But I don’t want to show him anything—no frustration, no emotion, nothing. I blink rapidly, gnawing on the inside of my lip. Anything to stall and try to compose myself.
After a shaky exhale I ask, “Are there requirements? Anything I need to pay particular attention to?”
I know I screwed up by not even trying at dinner the other night, but I’m not the girliest of girls. I do okay with makeup, but as a rule, I keep things simple. I’ve never wanted to draw attention to myself.
Christophe tilts his head, assessing me. His gaze darts to the garment bag and his lips twitch as if he’s not willing to allow a smile to breach his hard exterior. He slides his tongue along his bottom lip and pulls it between his teeth. The look is carnal. Predatory. Shit hot.
“You’ve taken marketing courses, make your product as irresistible as you can. After all, you have a debt to cover.”
How does he know what I’ve studied in school? I didn’t tell him, did I?
We haven’t talked about much beyond what I owe him and how he expects me to pay. But he knows things. Christophe seems to know things about me that aren’t as simple as common knowledge.
I expect him to know stuff about my parents; they were the ones who worked for him. But me? That doesn’t make sense.
He indicates the makeshift vanity area with a nod. “Best get to it. You’ve only got this one opportunity to shine. Once that pretty little cherry’s been popped, you won’t be nearly as valuable.”
His words leave me speechless, once again on the verge of tears.
“You can’t stay in this little corner of the woods waiting for opportunity to come to you. You have to put yourself together and go grab what you need by the balls.”
I swallow the lump in my throat and sink into the chair.
He’s right.
I have to put on my armor and prepare to shine.