Pieces of Autumn (16 page)

As if I ever could.

"I let something happen, then," he said, speaking slowly, absently. "I lost control."

Was I supposed to respond? What could I possibly say?

Yeah, no, it's totally fine that you locked me in your basement without food or water and didn't speak to me for days, because you blame me for the fact that you get off on causing pain and fear. Totally fine. Already forgotten.

"I don't expect your forgiveness," he said. "I know I can't ask for it. But I just want you to know, it won't happen again."

Finally, I opened my eyes. Tate was looking down at the water, running his fingers through it absently. Dangerously close to touching my skin, but not quite.
 

"Which part?" I asked him.

He looked up at my face, his expression slightly stunned, but otherwise unreadable.

"Be careful," he said. "Be very, very careful what you ask for."

What the hell are you doing?

One rational corner of my brain was having a complete meltdown, but I couldn't stop myself. This was the way. I knew it was. I'd never reach the real Tate without breaking through the facade of the monster, and the monster only came out when he smelled sex.

I was so close to a breakthrough. I could feel it.
 

I smiled, leaning my head back. "I'm not asking for anything. I was just curious what you meant, exactly."

His eyes darkened. "You know how I feel about questions."

My heart pounded. Somehow, after everything, I'd actually fucking forgotten.

"That's not fair," I said, feeling bold. Maybe because, no matter how serious he was trying to be, he couldn't stop glancing at my breasts floating in the water. "How was I supposed to know that was off-limits? I just wanted clarification."

Tate shook his head, hands coming to rest on the edge of the tub. "You've seen it enough times, pet. You know what happens when that part of me wakes up. It doesn't come alone. There's violence and anger and pain. They can't be separated. I'm sorry to disappoint, but you can't make love to your white knight. He'll destroy you."

His words were bitter, and deeply felt. He really believed it. Maybe he was right.

I lifted my head up, willing him to look at my eyes. But he wouldn't.

"I don't want to make love," I said.

His Adam's apple bobbed up and down, heavily.

"Stop," he warned, finally looking up at me. I could see the beginnings of that lust, that hunger, in his eyes. "I'm trying very, very hard not to give in to everything I want to do to you. You have no idea how hard."
 

I smiled.

"Don't," he warned, lifting one hand in a firm gesture.
 

"I mean it," I said. "Is there anything about me that makes you think I want something gentle?"

His eyes flickered. "Why now?" he asked, his voice slightly hoarse. "You suddenly want me, because I saved you once? Because I cared for you? Consider that a payment for past debts."

"This isn't about debts," I said. "Or forgiveness, or guilt, or anything else. This is about me wanting you." I was being shockingly honest with him, with myself, and I didn't know if it was the remnants of my fever, or something he'd dosed me with for the pain. I didn't care. "All of you. Including the parts that frighten me."

With a soft growl, he lunged forward, grabbing me by the back of the neck and pulling me into a bruising kiss. I melted. My body rose to meet him so quickly that water splashed out of the sides of the tub, soaking him and the floor.

A moment later, he stood abruptly, eyes blazing.

"You're fucking depraved," he whispered, staring at me. "Have you always been a whore for pain?"

The words went through me like a barb. Our eyes locked in a silent battle of wills; with the bathwater dripping off of him, the obscene outline of his cock under his pants was impossible to ignore. His fists clenched at his sides. Why did this always have to be a fight?
 

Fuck me, or don't. Make up your damn mind.

There was so much ruthlessness, so much recklessness, inside of him. But there was something else that kept it in check. Some remnant of the man he used to be, before Stoker corrupted him. I wanted both of them. I wanted his cruelty and his tenderness.

God damn it, his inner conflict was contagious.

He stepped back, looking at me like I'd burned him. And maybe I had, without realizing it.

Don't fall into his trap. He wants you to feel guilty for existing. He's the fucked-up one, not you.

But even in my own head, the words had no bite. I was consumed by the need to connect with him, to know every secret, every lie he'd ever been told, everything poisonous and twisted inside. I wasn't afraid. Or at least, the fear was eclipsed by something else. I was more afraid to stay in the dark, never knowing the real Tate.

"Stand up," he commanded, suddenly advancing on me, pulling impatiently at his zipper. My heart leapt, throat tightening as he drew close.
 

I managed to haul myself to my feet, leaning on the edges of the tub. As I stood there, water still sluicing from my body, Tate pulled himself free from his pants.

Oh, God.

I stared. How could I
not
stare? I'd felt it pressing against my body enough times that I ought to have been able to imagine it, but all my fantasies fell short. The fever in me grew a thousand times hotter as I watched him stroke the whole length of it, slowly - when I finally dragged my eyes back to his face, there was no hint of playfulness or teasing. He was like a man possessed, practically snarling at me, increasing his pace as his eyes roved across my naked body.
 

It was all happening so abruptly I hardly had time to react, to breathe, to remember my own name. Why I was here. Why the hell I didn't jump out of the tub, scream, run away, leave this house and never come back. Why the hell I
wanted
this.

It wasn't enough, not nearly enough. I was watching him unravel, but I wanted him to do it inside me. I wanted our bodies pressed together on the cold hard floor, no, my back against the mirror, no - across from it, spread wide open so I could
see
him violate my body so perfectly. I wanted the reflection of his fingers spreading my cunt lips apart, burned into my mind's eye forever. His cock splitting me open. His teeth sinking into my shoulder, claiming me.

I didn't want this. Stroking himself angrily, staring me down like I'd wounded him. I was just watching, wanting to touch but knowing it was unwelcome. And for once, I wasn't going to defy him.
 

I felt desperately alone.

What
did
I want, really? What did I want from this man who was incapable of normal human feelings, without a generous helping of total insanity? He seemed to think I wanted to soften him, to find the man inside and teach him to love. And maybe he wasn't entirely wrong. Maybe he knew my motives better than I knew myself. It was true that I wanted to access whatever was locked deep inside. I wanted to know him.

There was an undeniable tenderness to the way I imagined our bodies rocking together, sometimes, undulating softly like lovers. But in my head, his arms would always encircle me possessively. His teeth would scrape skin, his voice would rumble and growl soft reminders of who I belonged to. It might be gentle, but it wasn't soft. He was still claiming me.
 

Of course, I also wanted it rough.

I wanted to discover new things, things I'd never known I wanted, needed, until he insisted that I do them. I wanted to see my own secret desires reflected in his eyes. I wanted that twisted sense of belonging. The utterly perverse joy of knowing I wasn't really alone in the world.

He'd never said a word to me about it, but I pictured myself in a collar, or shackled to his bed, bowing and scraping and asking for permission to do anything at all.

That's not what you want. That's insane. No sane person wants that.

Tate's movements grew quicker, his instincts beginning to take over. I watched, captivated, as he neared his climax and fierceness of his bearing started to falter.
 

This might not be the way I wanted it. It might not be on my terms. But I was still going to see his moment of weakness, and that, at least, was worth a moment of triumph.

It wasn't what
he
wanted, either. That was the most maddening part about it. This display of dominance was a pale imitation of how he wanted to touch me, fuck me, ruin me. He'd made that abundantly clear already.
 

Feeling a wave of frustration rise inside me, I drew my shoulders back, letting my breasts stand proudly on display for him. I could have touched them, could have done something to put on a show, but I refused to play along. Not until he gave me what I wanted. What we both wanted.

Was I supposed to be impressed that he held himself back? An honorable man wouldn't have done any of the things he did. Not that there were any honorable men left, these days. But why bother with this veneer of morality? He'd already ravaged me with his eyes, with his hands. What difference did it make? Why did he care?

His eyes were distant, starting to fall closed. I braced myself as he pitched forward, hand resting on my shoulder with surprising gentleness. The first jet of his come hit me on the chin, and then my chest and stomach were coated with the last few unsteady jerks. I quivered all over.
 

For the first time, I felt truly
used
, like he'd treated me as the piece of property he'd always claimed I was. It wasn't the act. It was the way he looked at me. His emptiness in his eyes. It was like he'd forcibly detached himself from the situation, doing something mechanical and purely physical to slake his lust without the possibility of making a connection. Letting me see any part of himself that he didn't want me to see.

I hated it.

He put himself back together, hastily, and left. I stood there for a long time in the silence, nothing but the gentle sloshing of the water to keep me company. I finally sank back down into the tepid water, needing to feel clean, but at the same time not wanting to erase the physical proof that something had happened between us.

In so many ways, he was a phantom. I had nothing but the memory of times we'd touched, times I'd felt like I mattered. When our bodies were close together, he couldn't hide it. His heat for me stood out in stark opposition to the cold, cruel mask he tried to wear.
 

Sitting there alone, in the silent bathroom, I refused to cry.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Awake

Things returned, more or less, to normal.

Neither one of us acknowledged what had happened in the bathroom. From the look of disgust on Tate's face when he retreated, I had a feeling he'd enjoyed it about as much as I had. If I really thought about it, I loved the idea of him marking me so intimately. But that wasn't how it felt. It felt like he was trying to exorcise me. Get me out of his system.

I began to wonder if he'd ever touch me again.

A few days later, I woke up to a new package outside my door. Tate had barely said three words to me together, barking out orders from adjacent rooms and avoiding me as much as possible. I told myself I didn't mind. There was always something that needed tending to, and he'd unlocked more of the doors so that I could clean the rest of the house. Most of them were empty and uninteresting, with more locked drawers and painted-over windows. But at least I could see the sunlight.

The new package was a surprise. I couldn't imagine what he'd want to buy for me, now that we had roughly the same level of intimacy as a reclusive billionaire and his maid. I untied it curiously, trying to temper my expectations.

Six bras, six pairs of panties. Plain white cotton. Comfortable, and not unfashionable, but completely utilitarian.

I understood the message loud and clear. And while I should have been grateful, all I felt was frustration.

The very act of me walking around his house without underwear, with my bare breasts pressed against the fabric of my dresses, was a reminder of his sexual dominance. I felt it every moment, even when I wasn't consciously thinking about it. I had grown used to it. Even though it was unspoken, I'd still considered it to be a condition of my stay. And until now, it had been.

But with this gift, he was telling me loud and clear that our...
whatever
it was...was over. He was cutting me off from the Viper. For my own good, naturally.

I sighed, sitting down heavily on the edge of the bed.
 

This is good. You'll be able to clear your head. Get out from under his influence. You're out of control, Autumn. You're letting your libido run away with your rational mind. That's not good. You really think there would have been a happy ending for you two?

I crossed my arms stubbornly, hating the voice of reason in the back of my head. It wasn't about happy endings. He made me feel incredible, and I wanted more.
 

Somehow, even though his lust awakened his cruelty, I could tell it was just a part of the picture. A half of a whole. Captivating Tate's body was also the secret to unlocking his soul - whatever was left of it. The little pieces left over, that he was so afraid of losing.

I tucked the contents of the package away in the back of a drawer, and didn't look at them again.

Tate had his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, a series of implements and ingredients laid out in front of him. He was massaging some kind of dry rub into a beef roast, and just looking at it made my mouth water. He leaned forward, putting his weight into it, the heels of his hands pressing into the meat. His one disobedient lock of hair fell loose, dropping down over his eye.
 

He was completely absorbed in his work, but I noticed his shoulders tense slightly when he heard my footsteps. A moment later, he glanced up at me, then quickly back down to the food.

I sat down at the table and watched him, silently, for a moment. Something about watching him cook was soothing, almost mesmerizing. After a while, I realized it was strange for me to be idle while he worked.