Page 62 of Wicked Games

Fuck me. Literally.

Well, one thing was certain. I was no longer going to be the mouse in this twisted game of cat and mouse we were playing.

It was time I grew claws.

CHAPTER 23

LIZZIE

Ikept my silence during that morning’s daily instruction. As a reward for being so good last night, Richard allowed me to be unrestrained in the siege d’amour chair. Once I was lying naked, he held a small velvet bag over my stomach.

“Today we are going to play a fun little game,” he said with a seductive smile.

My stomach flipped. As I stared back into his dark eyes, I once more wondered, was this love? Infatuation? Obsession? Stockholm syndrome? It was impossible to tell. My feelings were too complicated, too wrapped up both in the emotional and physical to be deciphered. I both loved and hated the man. Craved and reviled his touch. Needed and despised his approval. My mind hated his arrogant dominance over me, while my body yearned for his firm hand and his painful, all-consuming way of fucking.

I wouldn’t call it making love.

I may or may not be in love with this monster of a man but what we did to each other’s bodies was not love. That much was clear. It was obsession. Possession. Torture. But it wasn’t lovemaking.

Richard upended the contents of the velvet bag onto my stomach. I watched as a sparkling rainbow of emeralds, rubies, sapphires, and diamonds cascaded onto my skin.

My mouth opened in wonder at the beautiful sight.

Richard then walked to the place between the stirrups where my legs were spread open.

“Now, the game is you have to keep very still while I taste this beautiful cunt of yours. You will only be allowed to keep the jewels that remain on your stomach. If you move and one drops, I take it back.”

Gasping, I once more felt a surge of conflicted feelings for this complicated man.

The rest of the morning was spent with Richard coaxing wave after intoxicating wave of releases from my body. My bones felt like liquid by the time he allowed me to climb off the chair.

I didn’t earn any of the jewels this time but didn’t care.

I was left alone for the rest of the afternoon. I spent the entire time in the conservatory, hoping that perhaps my chaotic thoughts would crystalize more in the warm sunshine then they had in the cold dark night.

Finally, I had a plan to draw him out, to hopefully get some answers.

Before I could lose my nerve, I marshaled my courage and went to find Richard in his study.

It was a dark somber room and it was always locked no matter if he was inside or not.

I knocked on the heavy, wood-paneled door. “Richard? It’s Elizabeth.”

I could hear several shuffling noises and the opening and closing of a drawer. I immediately became suspicious that he was probably stashing modern things like a laptop and cell phone before someone entered. It made sense. The man was a billionaire with several multinational companies and yet he spent most of his time here with me. He would have to have some covert way to communicate to the outside world. The real world.

After a long pause, I heard a key turn in the lock.

Richard opened the door.

Once more I was struck by his handsome looks. He had a very aristocratic face that just screamed authority. The strong jaw and chiseled cheekbones and dark hooded eyes. There was also his height. At well over six feet tall he towered over me. Turning to the side, I slipped past him into the cool, dimly lit interior of the study. Unlike the other rooms that had large floor-to-ceiling windows to take advantage of the natural light since there was no electricity, this room’s windows were all stained glass in dark plums, amber, and cobalt blue. As if someone wanted to block out both the light and prying eyes but was concerned shuttered curtains day in and day out would look odd.

The ceiling seemed lower than in the other public rooms of the house. There were plain oak panels painted a muted leaf green that complemented the rich, warm tones of the walnut furniture pieces like his desk, a few cabinets, and scattered chairs. There of course was a small fireplace, but also unlike the public rooms, this was more modest with a simple ivory marble mantel. Over it was a typical, nondescript English landscape painting, no doubt by some forgotten master. There was also the obligatory leather wing chair, which currently had a book lying on the seat as if I had interrupted his afternoon reading.

His desk dominated the room. It was massive. Large enough to fit stacks of files as well as a hand-painted globe on a brass stand and several brass hunting dog sculptures in various poses. There were none of the objects you would expect to see on the desk of a modern businessman, like a computer or phone. Candles in sconces and a few on small stands provided the only real light, which gave the study a closed-off, eerily quiet atmosphere.

While sitting at his desk, Richard had taken off his coat and rolled up his shirt cuffs. As he stood before me, he began to roll them back into place as he headed to the small coatrack in the corner to retrieve his jacket.

Of course, I thought with a wry tilt of my lips. No self-respecting Victorian gentleman would appear before a lady in his shirtsleeves. It was both terrifying and amusing how prim and proper the entire household was, everything according to exacting Victorian standards. The servants bowed and curtsied. Richard and I dressed for dinner every evening in our finest. The entire day’s routine observed with clocklike precision from the time the upstairs maids were allowed into the bedrooms to change the linens, to teatime, to the moment the last candle was extinguished and the entire household was expected to retire.

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