Page 15 of Trapped

Clearing my throat, I look away. What the fuck? I have never thought of lips like that, regardless whether they belong to a man or a woman.

“Why did you leave the art academy?” He asks, head cocked to the sight.

“Why do you care?” I snarl, glaring back at him. I lift my glued arms and tip my chin up, body warming in a sudden wave of annoyance. “Why did you trap me in this fucked up spiderweb?”

“Because it’s part of the Wicked Chase,” Copper Mask shrugs. He moves up from his knees to lift his hand, skimming my skin, and I can’t help but flinch, ignoring the way he hums satisfyingly at that. His fingers are soft when they touch the delicate skin behind my ear. He moves them surprisingly slow, and that weird feeling is back in my stomach, flopping and coiling and making me feel even more defenseless. My hands reach up again, this time accompanied by my legs, but still the result is the same. Whatever glue he has used for his mindfuckery sure as hell holds me up.

“And I take my cobwebs very seriously. I love spiders.”

“You love—” I grunt in disgust. “Whatever, man.” Another flicker of confusion fills my mind and I squeeze my eyes shut, afraid of the shifting images of the forest. Afraid to catch sight of Copper Mask’s mockery. “You have me. What will you do with me?”

“You tell me,” his reply comes instantly as his splayed fingers keep on tracing slow, gentle circles on my heated skin, making my toes curl.

“Tell you what?”

“Why did you leave the art academy? Why did you come here? Or should I just believe it was destiny?”

“That’s none—”

“Shhh.” His fingers slide down to my mouth, then press into my flesh. I need to fight the sudden urge to part my lips and take them in, tasting their softness. It’s a wild thought, completely out of order, yet I can’t shake it off. It brings another flutter racing through my veins, and to my utter bewilderment I notice that blood is heading south. Am I getting aroused by this guy?

“Don’t fight me, mon papillon. Tell me instead.” His fingers linger, and I squeeze my hands, feeling the thread carve into my skin, needing the sting to keep me from unravelling in front of him.

What the fuck did you give me? I want to ask, but I’d have to open my mouth to do so. I won’t. Won’t give in to this absolutely ridiculous impulse that’s raging inside of me.

Our eyes meet. His are dark, the perfect match to his copper mask, rich and sensual. Cruel in its intentions, just like his fingers as they slide over my lips, making my insides sputter as I keep my jaw clamped shut. He tilts his head, taking his time to roam those glorious eyes over my face where they halt on where his digits connect to my mouth, only to flick back up to meet mine.

“We share some classes together,” he confesses. The words make me flinch.

What the actual fuck? I know this guy? Then why doesn’t his voice sound familiar at all?

As if he can hear my thoughts, he smiles softly. “You are that prickly guy who always sits in the back of the room, a permanent scowl on your delectable face. So grumpy,” he drawls, then puts the tiniest bit of pressure on his fingers and lets them slip through the seam of my lips. My breath hitches when I feel them gliding inside with precise cautiousness and I can’t help but widen my eyes. I can’t believe he did that. I let out an annoyed hum which makes him smile, then clacks his tongue as he shakes his head.

“No, pretty boy, not going to happen. You’re not going to talk to me anyway, so you might as well have your mouth occupied with something else. Now, where was I? Oh yeah, classes. As I said, our paths have crossed before. Mister Montague’s class The Evolution of Financial Institutions Through Time?’” Mind stuttering over his weird reference, my gaze dips and stares at his two digits before they fully disappear between my lips. The movement is making me feel really uncomfortable and a little hot. But when I flick my eyes back up, it’s not Copper Mask I look at. No, I’m staring right back into the past, flipping through the past weeks and right back to Mister Montague’s class.

“I always sit by the window,” he says, taking in my expression with full intent. “Right in the center.” He catches the moment my brain clicks. Oh, fuck. The center of class, those rows by the window… They are reserved for the elite. It still doesn’t tell me exactly who he is, but I’ve got a creepy, sneaky suspicion. What did that guy B say?

Sputtering my thoughts against his digits, I grunt when he lets out an appreciative hum. “My fingers could live inside this warm, wet heat of your mouth, butterfly.” Still he slowly pulls them free, using the tips to crawl over my face like those damned spiders he apparently loves so much. They creep over the corner of my lips, past my chin, over the racing pulse in my neck, to the dip where my collarbone joints. I shiver, then startle when I feel my cock harden further inside my pants.

“You’re friends with Arthur Deveraux,” I clip, wiggling once more on the web. It sounds like an accusation, and a funny one, judging by the way Copper Mask smiles.

“I am. Who else?” The twins and their cousin are not in our year, but I always see them in the canteen. I sometimes catch myself staring, wondering what it would be like to be part of the elite of the elite, then look away real quick, shutting them and my thoughts off.

Zooming back into Mister Montague’s class, I try to remember the faces of the elite. “There’s Paul,” I slowly begin. The guy’s as obnoxious as he’s rich, and a real bully. Copper Mask doesn’t flinch at the name. Not Paul. “Jean-François,” I continue, remembering the blond with the annoyingly high-pitched voice. Copper Mask doesn’t react to the name, so he’s not Jean-François. There are another three or four guys whose names I don’t know, but who definitely don’t sound like this guy, and a group of goons. Kids who will do anything just to stay in their good graces. The thought makes me grimace, the frown freezing on my face when I remember the final guy. Quiet, like me. Always surrounded by a bodyguard, who—

“Putain de merde.” I try to turn over my shoulder, but can’t lean in far enough to catch a glimpse of the bodyguard named Enzo. Now I know why his face seemed familiar. He always hangs around in the back of the classroom.

I can only stare at his face. Behind the fine embroidery, he has the perfect cheekbone structure. A sharp nose, wide, dark eyes. Thick eyelashes and a bushy, dark set of eyebrows that match the colour of his eyes and hair. Copper.

“Arsène?” I squeak.

When his lips tick up, my hands start trembling. I suck in a breath. Arsène de Noailles is one of those enigmas we have in college. He’s from a very rich family, part of the elite, keeps to himself, and is practically always shielded by his bodyguard. He’s right. We share a few classes together, although we have never exchanged words. The few times we have study projects, I work with a few geeks, and the elite work amongst themselves.

Arsène is very handsome. Even I, someone who isn’t into guys, can appreciate his dark and mysterious demeanour.

His fingers touch my collar and open the first two buttons of my college uniform. The touch is so soft, so cautious, so unlike the way he’s got me hanging here. My body shivers, cock trembling beneath my clothes. Leaning in, Arsène is careful enough to stay clear of his own sticky threads as he lowers his head and lets his mouth brush past my ear. “Enchanté,” he muses, making the hair on the back of my neck stand up. “At last we get to properly meet. I hope you’ve been enjoying your candy treats?”

The chocolate boxes.

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