Tears of Tess
Q rubbed my back, long legs splayed on the shower floor. Through glassy tears, I noticed he still wore shoes. Didn’t he care about anything he owned? Were we all disposable?
I cried harder.
Q grabbed me tighter, murmuring, “You’re mine, esclave. Mine to care for. Mine to fix. I’ll allow you to cry while I wash you, but the moment you’re clean, you’re to stop. Do you understand?”
I blinked through tears, shuddering so badly I couldn’t answer.
“Everything about tonight will be forgotten, and you’ll only have to remember what I do to you. Is that clear?” He shook me. “Answer me, esclave.”
I nodded. There was relief in being ordered to forget and I would obey. After all, Q owned my sense of hearing, I couldn’t refuse. “I understand.”
Nodding sharply, he reached above, to a glass shelf, where an array of crystal bottles rested. Picking one, he dumped a handful of flowery scented shampoo and placed his palms on my head.
The moment his hands massaged, I cracked again. Wracking sobs exploded from my chest and I doubled over with pain. Not from the rape, or Q’s anger, but because of his touch. No one touched me so tenderly. Never had my parents cuddled or offered comfort in their arms. I grew up never knowing how to hug or kiss or love. Brax came along, and with his sweetness, helped heal me. Even with his tender heartedness, he never just held me—never saw the real me or washed or tended.
It had taken being kidnapped, and sold to a man who didn’t want me, to show how much my existence lacked. Q shattered my walls with his uncouth ways. How could I ever go back to a life where my senses lived in limbo? Where no one cared enough to kill for me?
Q stopped washing my hair, gathering me tighter to him. I crushed against his wet, suited chest, inhaling his unique scent.
He let me cry and didn’t reprimand or control. He offered comfort in silence. Lips pressed my forehead, whispering, “Je suis ici,” over and over. I’m here. I’m here.
In his kindness, he broke me into the perfect slave. I didn’t need his anger to become devoted. I needed his softer moments—gentle love was my undoing, not demands or threats. I was pitiful with how I needed compassion, companionship.
Tears turned from depression to release. After twenty years of struggle, I finally belonged.
Water cascaded around us, but Q never stopped rocking, never stopped caring.
Everything I knew about him was wrong. Who was this man who let me break in his arms? Who was this man who cared so much?
Eventually, I cried myself dry, and Q continued washing my hair. I stayed curled in his lap as firm fingers massaged neck, shoulders, and back, working kinks from my body. His hands showed a level of bliss I never experienced. On the floor of the shower, I was his pet. His. Through and through.
After washing my hair, he dropped his hands to soap my br**sts. His touch remained platonic rather than lust-filled and demanding. Once my br**sts were washed, he lathered my arms, throat, and belly.
He lulled me into complacency, blanketing me in newfound happiness. I froze when his breath caught, hands circling my lower belly. The steam from the shower laced with tension, and I knew his thoughts morphed from caring to need.
Pressing his forehead against my cheek, wet hair mingled with mine. “Let me make you forget. Let me give you a new memory, esclave.”
His purr hitched my breathing, and happiness sharpened to need. My body wanted him to replace the agony of Brute. Q wouldn’t hurt me. Not like those men.
I nodded infinitesimally.
Q’s breathing turned harsh, lowering his hand. Agonisingly slowly, he touched my leg, avoiding the lash marks, stroking reverently. Inch by inch, he made his way up my inner thigh, until exploring fingers found my heat.
I jolted as he circled my entrance. More tears erupted, but he kissed them away, adding pressure to his hold, keeping me still. “Écarté pour moi.” Open for me.
His voice commanded and I obeyed, relaxing tense muscles, knees fell open slightly. Q took full advantage.
He inserted one finger, ever so gradually, inside. He made love to me with his finger, but I flinched with pain from the abrasions by Brute.
Q dropped his head, biting my collarbone, making me hiss between my teeth. “Only think of me and what I’m doing. There is intimacy in pain, esclave. Let me make your pain my pleasure.”
I bucked as his finger entered forcefully, pressing against deep bruises, claiming me for himself. I frowned, focusing entirely on his arms around me, his touch inside. He was correct: there was intimacy in pain. I’d never felt so stripped bare, so enchanted by someone as I did in that moment.
Q rocked his palm against my clit, finger feathering inside. I became wet for him, arching in his arms. This was the man who called to me. My master.
He sucked in a raspy breath, pressing his face into my cle**age. Licking the valley of my br**sts, he inserted another finger, pressing deep. My mouth opened wide, and I tried to pull away from the mind-shattering rock.
“You beguile me when you let go, esclave. Let go.”
And like the obedient slave, I obeyed. I mewled and cried, rocking h*ps to meet his finger-thrusts. I moaned as my womb tightened, warmed, loving the intrusion of his touch.
He bit my ear, growling as I let my legs fall open in his lap, surrendering completely. He breathed hard, breath clouding around me with mint and spice.
Without warning, he withdrew and smeared my wetness around my clit, pinching and rubbing. Sparks of need fizzed and popped, making their way down my legs.
He groaned as I writhed in his lap. His own needs raged, making him tremble as he pressed his hard c**k against my hip.
I gasped and pressed back, loving the gift he gave: the gift of sensual power. My letting go turned him on.
He needed me as much as I needed him. The knowledge magnified my lust a thousand fold. With boldness I never knew I had, I captured his wrist, stopping him playing with my clit.
His eyes shot to mine, lips parted and glistening. Never looking away, I guided his fingers back inside, bowing in his arms as I pressed deep. My flesh welcomed and I rode his hand like I always wanted.
It was Q’s turn to snap. With fingers f**king me, he pushed me off his lap and onto the cold slipperiness of tiles. My spine complained, and I found it hard to breathe with hot water cascading into my face, but none of it mattered. It didn’t matter because Q wrenched his fingers from me, fumbling to undo his belt buckle. He’d reached his breaking point.