Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
VICKY
The ground beneath my feet suddenly feels ethereal, as if I’m floating over an endless void. My stomach lurches, and for a split second I’m unsure which way is up. Guests whiz by in a blur as Nicholas leads me through the crowds, a man on a mission.
It’s me. I’m the mission.
I knew he’d want sex, but the way he broached the subject has me bewildered and off balance, as though the Earth suddenly tipped up and we’re all about to fall off into the endless void of space.
I want you. Tell me I can have you.
Nothing had prepared me for hearing those words from Nicholas’s mouth. From the moment he virtually shoulder barged Christian, then hauled me onto the dance floor, everything changed.
Everything.
It’s like he’s transformed into a different man, a clone, a better version of himself. His eyes were so soft, so warm when he propositioned me. So unlike the Nicholas I thought I knew. And his words…
I want you. Tell me I can have you.
Everything south of my belly button clenches at the same time. Maybe sex will be different with Nicholas. God, I hope so. I don’t want to fake my enjoyment, but I will if I have to. Men are pretty dumb when it comes to whether a woman is having an orgasm or not. All you have to do is make the right noises, scratch their back, shove your heels into their arse, and beg them not to stop, then, a few shakes and quivers, and you’re done. They usually come seconds later, and it’s over. That’s the way it was with Matthew.
Once I realized I couldn’t climax, I researched it extensively. It’s a thing, and not at all uncommon. There are women out there who simply can’t do it, not without hours of effort, and who has patience for that? I drew the short straw, that’s all, but I’ve learned to deal with it. A life without orgasms is hardly the end of the world.
Then why does it feel like it is?
“You still with me, Half-pint?”
I startle. We’re on the top floor already, and I don’t even remember walking up the several flights of stairs to get here. Also, Half-pint? A pet name? He’s always stuck to the formal use of Victoria . No one else uses that name, other than him and his family.
“Half-pint?” I screw up my nose. “Why’d you call me that?”
“I mean….” He rakes his gaze over me. The top of my head barely reaches his neck. “It suits you, I think.”
Who is this man? And what have you done with Nicholas De Vil? I’ve always believed, deep in my soul, that he couldn’t abide me. Everything he’s ever done has shown me the depth of his antipathy. Yet since our parents forced us into this arrangement, he’s… well, he’s changing. From the way he took care of me at the hospital when that jerk punched me, to his lust-filled eyes as we took to the dance floor, and the jab of his erection when he stood behind me to cut the cake. I don’t understand it, but there’s a piece of me that’s glad I won’t have to live constantly on edge, trading insults with the man I’m married to. Constant conflict is exhausting.
“Everyone calls me Vicky, and you’ve always used Victoria.”
He opens a door and motions for me to go inside. When I do, he follows, shutting it behind me. We’re in a living room. The overhead lights are off, but several lamps give out a buttery glow to make the room feel cozy, even though it’s enormous.
“That was before. I don’t want to call you what everyone else calls you, and now I think of it, Victoria is something your father probably called you when you were a child right before he spanked your bottom for sassing him.”
“I have never been spanked in my life.” Groundings were always my parents’ punishment of choice. Still are.
One of his eyebrows curves into a perfect arc. “We’ll have to change that.”
The muscles in my midsection flex until it’s almost painful, and a flush of heat blooms in my cheeks. I hadn’t expected any of this. I’m struggling to catch up.
Was he like this with Beth?
An avalanche of guilt threatens to suffocate me. I shouldn’t be here. If Beth was alive, I wouldn’t be here, and the fact she’s gone doesn’t make me feel any better. For the rest of my life I’ll be known as the woman who married her dead sister’s fiancé. No one will give me grace for the arranged nature of the union. They’ll just see me as less than, second choice.
The spot I’ve occupied my entire life.
When I don’t respond to his teasing comment—at least I think he was teasing—he clips me under the chin.
“You still in there?”
My tongue sweeps over my bottom lip, and I swallow. “I’m still here.”
“Good.”
He shrugs out of his morning suit jacket and tosses it over a nearby chair. His tie is next, followed by the unfastening of the top two buttons on his shirt. Rooted to the spot, I watch him move around, so comfortable in his surroundings. Then again why wouldn’t he be? This is his apartment, whereas it’s all new to me.
Thank God I’m not a virgin. My nerves are running haywire as it is.
Come on, Vicky. You’re a strong, sassy woman. Don’t let Nicholas confound you.
“Did you know that when you’re thinking too hard about something, you get this little furrow between your eyebrows?” He smooths the puckered skin with his thumb, following up with a kiss to the same place. “Want to tell me what you were thinking about?”
“Why are you being like this?” I blurt.
He frowns. “Like what?”
“Nice to me.”
“Would you rather I was cruel? Cold? Unfeeling?”
“No. Of course not. But… you’ve always treated me as though I was a stone caught in your shoe that you couldn’t pluck out and grind into the dirt.”
He takes a deep breath, his taut chest rising and falling. Running the back of his hand down my arm, he follows the movement with his eyes, then lifts them to mine. “You’re my wife.”
“Not by choice.”
“True, but that doesn’t mean I don’t take my position as your husband seriously.”
“What does that even mean?”
“It means”—he leans forward and places a kiss on top of my shoulder—“it’s my job to care for you. To protect you. To kill anyone who hurts you.”
His words do funny things to my insides. I’ve always scoffed at those alpha male types who assume the position of protector. I can take care of myself, thank you very much. But I’m not going to lie, it makes me feel… cherished. Important. Like I matter.
“Would you have done the same for Beth?”
He presses his lips together in a thin line, steeped in disapproval as though by asking the question, I’ve called into question his principles.
“I would have done the same for any woman I married.”
Disappointment wells up inside me. Not only am I second best to Beth, but I’m no different to any other woman in the world. For a second there, he made me feel special, but I’m not special.
For Christ’s sake, Vicky. Pull yourself together.
I’m powerless to change the past, but I can forge a different future for myself. Nicholas may never love me the way I’d always hoped the man I married would, but this protective, considerate version of him is more than I’d dared to hope for.
“Turn around.”
The rough cadence of his words jolt me from my thoughts. Without question, I do as he asks, my heart leaping into my throat. I’m not a virgin, but this is still Nicholas, the man I’ve fantasized about sleeping with for years. That is, until he got engaged to Beth, then I severed those thoughts damned fast.
But now… I can let them roam free, even if they do come with a colossal side order of guilt. I pray that when we do find Beth’s murderer, the constant weight sitting on my chest will ease. Perhaps by getting justice for my sister I’ll shed the guilty feelings that I’m somehow betraying her by marrying and sleeping with Nicholas.
I jump when his fingers brush the bare skin of my upper back. A low chuckle vibrates in his chest.
“I never took you for skittish.”
“I’m not, usually.”
His lips brush my ear. “Relax.”
My dress loosens as he works the buttons on the bodice, his movements precise yet unhurried. The beautiful silk gown slips off my shoulders and gathers at my feet revealing ivory lingerie Eloise picked out for me.
It’ll drive him crazy, she’d pronounced when, at her insistence, I’d modeled it for her. He won’t be able to help falling in love with you.
I didn’t put her right, but regret had tasted bitter on my tongue. It still does.
His hands land on my shoulders, and I manage not to jump this time. He eases me around, but his eyes aren’t on my face. They’re roving over my breasts, my stomach, between my legs. His breathing picks up pace, and mine does, too, especially when deft fingers unfasten the remaining buttons on his shirt. A gasp shoots into my throat as he lets it slide to the floor. Intricate swirls of black ink cover his chest and arms. I’ve never seen Nicholas less than fully clothed before. I didn’t know he had tattoos, and lots of them.
“Not what you imagined?”
I swallow. “No.”
“Not quite fitting for my position in society, huh?” He smiles, his fingers going to his belt while he simultaneously kicks off his shoes. I follow his every movement, unable to drag my gaze away. His trousers slide down his legs, and he steps out of them. There are more tattoos on his thighs, and I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s got them on his back, too. His thick erection is easily visible through the black designer boxer shorts. He’s big. Bigger than Matthew, and considerably bigger than Paul from high school. That’s gonna sting.
He removes his socks then takes my hand, leading me through another door to a large bedroom with a huge bed against one wall. “We’ll be more comfortable in here.”
When he lets me go to turn down the covers, I get my first view of his muscular back. Sure enough, he’s tattooed there, too. But it’s a single image of an angel, its wings pluming up over his lats.
“That’s beautiful,” I say.
He pivots. “The angel? Yeah. I got it on my eighteenth birthday.” His eyes cloud over, and he doesn’t look at me as much as through me. I get it. The angel is for Annabel, his murdered sister.
It’s something we have in common. We’ve both lost a sibling we loved deeply. He had it worse. He lost his mother, too. I’ve always known the De Vils’ story, but I’ve never truly thought about it before now. Suddenly, I see him in a different light. He has faults, many of them, and he’s morally and ethically corrupt like his entire family, but the clear love he has for his deceased sister proves how much his family mean to him.
“I’m sorry.”
His lips tip up on one side, and he hitches a shoulder. “It was a long time ago, unlike Elizabeth. Your grief is raw.” He comes to me then, his hands cupping my cheeks, his soul-deep eyes boring into mine. “We will find the culprit. I won’t rest until we do. Elizabeth’s death will not go unpunished.”
Before I can respond, his mouth is on mine: raw, urgent, demanding. The jolt of it makes me gasp, and as my lips part in shock as his tongue thrusts inside. His hands fall to my hips, his hold almost bruising. He steps into me, the hot length of his erection butting against my stomach.
Lust sweeps through my body. I break out into a sweat. Hope surges. Maybe I’m not broken after all. I’ve never felt a hunger like this. I want to crawl inside his skin and never leave.
I barely register that we’re moving until the backs of my knees hit the bed, and I fall onto the mattress. Nicholas follows me, his body covering mine, his arms and legs caging me beneath him. A warm palm skims down my side, the other cupping my right breast through the delicate lace bra. I don’t know what to do with my arms, so I lock them around his neck and burrow my fingers into his hair, the strands softer than I imagined.
A groan rumbles through his chest as I scratch his scalp. I think he likes that. I do it again, and I’m rewarded with another guttural groan.
Yep. He definitely likes that.
Cool air hits my chest. When did he take off my bra? My knickers are gone, too, and my hold-ups.
Oh, no.
No.
No.
It’s happening again. It’s happened every single time I’ve had sex. My mind disconnects, and the messages from my body don’t get through. The lust I felt when he kissed me isn’t there any longer. I’m cold, empty. I try to refocus, to recapture those earlier feelings when my body was on fire and the muscles of my abdomen undulated with pleasure, but there’s only a cavernous void inside me.
Nicholas doesn’t appear to notice, too busy with his head between my breasts, nuzzling me. It’s different for guys. They can stick their penis in a donut hole and get themselves off.
“Take my boxers off,” he murmurs in my ear, his breathy voice jolting me back to the present.
Focus. Breathe. Act. You can do this.
I make a few noises, a groan here, a fake gasp there, but when I push off his boxers with my heels, the gasp that falls out of me is real.
Nicholas De Vil is pierced.
The silver barbell embedded in the crown of his penis glints in the dim light thrown out by two bedside lamps. He must catch my wide-eyed stare because his hands leave my breasts and cup my face.
“It’s okay. It won’t hurt, I promise.”
“I bet it hurt when they put it in,” I mumble.
He chuckles. “Like being caressed by butterfly wings.”
Burying his face in my neck, he kisses me there, then moves south. Down, down, down until his head is between my legs and his tongue is licking at me, and I feel… nothing.
I feel nothing.
It’s true, then. There’s something wrong with me. How can I not writhe on the bed, scissoring my legs as the man I’ve obsessed over for years puts his tongue inside me? Tears fill my eyes, but Nicholas doesn’t see them.
I don’t want him to see them.
After what I presume is the right amount of time, I kick into acting mode. I start to quiver, my moans growing in volume, my pelvis thrusting up to meet his eager mouth. I cry out, his name on my tongue, and ash in my throat.
He kisses his way up my body, pausing to circle his tongue inside my navel, stopping to kiss my breasts, to suck my nipples. Eventually, he’s there, looming over me, his eyes shining, probably silently congratulating himself for being such a man and having his woman come undone.
Except, I’m still very much done.
Trussed up.
Trapped.
Imprisoned in a body that’s broken.
His lips travel to my ear. “Was that good for you?”
It’s a corny line—one I wouldn’t have expected from him—but I answer anyway.
“It was amazing.”
He presses a soft kiss to my forehead, then meets my gaze. “Liar.”