Tears of Tess

It was the mind games—my brain made it raw, wonderful.

His eyes glazed with need and he bit my lower lip, dragging soft flesh between his teeth: a warning he’d bite back.

I shuddered as he let me go. I expected him to cut my knickers off, but he paused, turning the scissors on himself.

Arching his neck, he snipped the collar, cutting down the centre of the t-shirt, just like with mine. Once in half, he shrugged it off, letting it join my ruined clothes on the floor.

My world spun and all I could think of was sparrows.

Q glared, daring me to judge him. And judge I did. His entire torso and right side was covered in fluttering birds. The panic in a sparrow’s eyes closed my throat as they flew frantically from brambles, barbwire, and stormy clouds. The clouds roiled on his side, swallowing up unlucky birds, suffocating them to death.

My heart hurt looking at Q’s intricate tattoo. There lurked an evilness, a sadness, reminding me of the mural on the wall of the pedestal room. I wanted to run fingers along perfectly inked feathers. I wanted to lick his nipple where one bird had gotten free, the joy in its eyes blazed with hope.

So much was said by the design, but I didn’t understand it. I looked into his eyes. He held contact for a moment, before looking over my head. His hands curled and he sucked in a breath, outlining perfectly cut stomach muscles.

He vibrated with tension. My heart fluttered like little sparrow wings, and I gave my last sense to Q. My sense of sight. Standing so erect, standoffish, he filled my vision with everything I ever wanted. He owned everything but instincts and heart.

“Tell me. Tell me the story of the birds.”

He clenched his jaw. “It isn’t a story you need to know.”

“But it means so much to you. I see a reoccurring theme, Q… I want to understand.”

His face blackened. “You don’t have the right to call me Q when you’re tied to the bed. I’m your maître. Address me as such.”

Anger at being denied made me argumentative. “I’ll fight you. You’ll have to wrap me up in brambles, same as the sparrows on your chest, if you want to f**k me, maître.”

My taunt worked; he grabbed my chin with hard fingers. “You think you’re so fierce with your threats. My job isn’t to wrap you in shackles, esclave. My job is to unshackle you. And as much as you deny it, I’m doing a damn fine job.”

He ran his nose against mine, murmuring, “So shut the f**k up, stop looking at me like I’m some code to be cracked, and let me do what I f**king want to you.”

Stepping back, he attacked his jeans. Rather than undoing them, he cut them. Sawing through the waist band, slicing down the legs. Each snip revealed hard thighs kissed by little curls, firm quads, and perfect bare feet. “Let’s see how you stick to your threats when I take your body.”

Oh, God. My insides were liquid, heated. Embarrassment at being wet painted my cheeks with red. I couldn’t control my reaction. Q was my master in every sense.

Q stepped from the ruined jeans, closing the small distance between us. I couldn’t look away from his tattoo. I related to it and in a way, I knew what it represented, but the conclusion kept leaping from grabbing distance.

Rolling h*ps into mine, wearing only boxer briefs, Q murmured, “Tell me again you don’t want this, esclave.”

How could I lie when my body screamed the truth? My mind was lust filled, hazy, but I had a part to play. Q wanted me to fight so… I fought.

I leaned forward, snapping my teeth, coming within a hair breadth of his nose. “Go to hell.”

His c**k jumped in his boxer-shorts, scalding me. Out of nowhere, his palm connected with my cheek, sending spasms of heat.

I gasped, glaring with watering eyes. “You f**king hit a woman when she says no? You’re perverted.”

He pursed his lips. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

Taking him up on his offer, I whispered, “You think you’re a monster. You’re not.”

He grabbed my hair, twisting my neck. Agony flared, and I whimpered in real fear. “Would a kind man do this?”

When I didn’t answer, he twisted further until I screamed. “No! Only a monster does that.”

Not pacified, he reached for the scissors, quickly snipping my knickers and his boxers. They fluttered to the floor in pieces. Q weighed the scissors in his hand, before tracing my na**d stomach with the blade. “Would a kind man do this?” With a flick of his wrist, he nicked me. Blood welled in the tiny cut. I shivered, wanting to put my hand over the wound, to hide it, heal it.

Real tears dripped. I was an idiot to think there was something redeemable in this man.

“No, only a monster would do that.” My voice was barely audible.

Q sneered. “Now you know the truth.” He bent and licked the blood off my stomach. His tongue lapped; my core clenched, reacting to the tenderness after inflicting pain. His saliva staunched the bleeding and he straightened, licking his lips.

Everything tightened, my mouth parted, desperate to taste his blood. Tasting him was fair. He cut me—a debt must be paid.

Q narrowed his eyes, our souls screamed at each other, unhindered by human words.

I want to hurt you.

I want to own you.

I want to devour you.

I want to make you mine.

I’m already yours.

Who thought that? Me or him? Whose eyes spoke the truth before we acknowledged it in our minds?

Q reached up, and with a quick slice, nicked below his nipple with the sparrow flying free. A droplet of crimson welled. I watched with crippling need.

Taste. I have to taste.

He stood taller, placing his chest against my mouth. I greedily lapped the droplet, moaning as salty metallic fogged my entire being. Once I cleaned him, he pulled away, murmuring, “Monsters find each other in the dark.”

I couldn’t read his tone, and I didn’t like the implication. Am I a monster? Compared to Brax most definitely, but Q… there were limits he crossed that I never could. Had we found each other in the darkness? I may have black desires, but I loved light, too. I needed tenderness to temper pain and degradation. Was that an option?

Q wrapped a hand around his cock, stroking, looking deep into my eyes. With another hand, he found my centre, easing a finger deep inside.

Even though my body rippled, I never stopped being in character. Q couldn’t know how much I wanted this. I had to fight—I wanted to fight.