Evening had fallen.
Ivana had spent the whole day avoiding Kacy.
Even after her talk with Lilian in the garden, she couldn't face him. She used Edna as a shield, staying outside, refusing to step back into the office.
That office held too many memories.
Rough.
Maddening.
The way he'd fucked her senseless after his Paris business trip was still vivid, made worse when he caught her reading an erotic novel aloud to Edna.
The memory made her thighs clench even now.
That day she'd been so sore.
Deliciously wrecked.
Kacy, ever the attentive husband in his dark way, had handed her Naproxen to ease the ache.
Then he'd massaged her body, slow, firm hands working out every knot, every bruise he'd left.
She'd skipped dinner on purpose. No way she'd risk seeing him, touching him, breathing the same air.
Edna, her food obsessed best friend, whined like a child. "I'm starving, Ivy!" She pouted, dramatic as ever.
Ivana just pulled her close, petting her hair, cuddling her on the bench swing, while cursing silently.
So fucking childish.
Just a few more hours, she told herself. He'll leave with his friends soon. Then I'm safe.
She was wrong.
Night came.
Edna finally gave up, mumbling complaints about missing food, wailing like a baby as she left.
Kacy's childhood friends left.
Lilian left.
But Kacy didn't.
He went inside the house.
Ivana peeked from the garden shadows after walking Edna out.
Her heart dropped.
She was trapped. No escape now. She was fucking dead.
In his hands.
She could already feel it, he'd break her tonight.
In every twisted way possible.
And God help her, part of her craved it.
If he was a psycho, then she was just as deranged.
A psychotic bitch who got wet at the thought of his anger, his control, his ruin.
She took a shaky breath. Forced her legs to move. Left the garden. Tiptoed into the house.
She stopped dead in the center of the living room.
Her eyes drifted to the dining area near the kitchen.
Not Madam Ina standing there, thank God, because Ina would lecture her for skipping meals, and Ivana could handle that. No. It was worse.
It was Kacy.
Her husband. Her beautiful, dangerous husband.
He'd pulled out one of the chairs.
Turned it sideways so he faced the table like a throne. Legs sprawled wide.
Owning the space.
Owning everything.
Because he did own the mansion. Owned her.
On the table, a tray with a transparent cover. Inside, perfectly arranged like a queen's meal, sliced seared filet mignon steak over creamy fettuccine Alfredo, rich Parmesan sauce clinging to every strand.
Gold rimmed ceramic plate. Knife, fork, spoon lined up neatly.
A folded napkin.
A glass of deep red wine.
Beside it a small chocolate lava cake under its own clear dome, warm, dark, promising a molten center.
His eyes locked on her.
That sensual glint. That slow, intoxicating smirk curling his lips like smoke and fire.
Heat flooded her body. Butterflies exploded in her stomach. Shivers raced down her spine.
Her mouth opened and closed, once, twice, lost count.
She couldn't look away.
From him.
From the food.
She knew what came next. He'd make her eat. Force her if he had to. Feed her every bite while he watched her fall apart.
"Come here, little moonlight."
His voice, soft, hot, calm, dangerous, dripping seduction, curled inside her head like a command she couldn't fight.
Her feet moved on their own. Hypnotized. She walked to him. Stopped three meters away. Safe distance. Or so she thought.
He stared, lazy, bored, predatory.
Then his hand shot out. Grabbed her hard.
She collided into his chest. Face pressed to his shirt. Hands slamming onto his thighs, one on each leg. Bent over him. Gasping. Her gold necklace dangled, the tiny rose pendant grazed his chest.
He held her there. Close. Trapped.
And she burned.
She gasped, the sound raw and needy.
Her head lifted slowly too slowly and her forehead collided with his. He didn't flinch. Instead, a lazy satisfaction settled over his features.
His left hand shot up, fingers twisting brutally into her hair at the nape, yanking her head back hard.
A soft, broken moan slipped from her lips.
She tried to pull away, but he held tighter.
Her emerald eyes locked onto his those endless blue depths calm as a still sea, yet promising storms that could drown her.
Her mouth opened and closed, desperate for air, lips glistening, swollen from earlier bites she hadn't even registered.
He dragged her forward by the hair until their faces were inches apart.
Deliberately, torturously, he leaned in until his breath ghosted over her pink, trembling lips.
"Are you scared, Ivy?"
She opened her mouth to answer.
His index finger pressed firmly against her parted lips silencing her, sealing them shut. He left it there, heavy, possessive.
"No need to talk, pretty. Your eyes scream louder than words ever could."
His voice dropped lower, velvet wrapped around steel.
"I shouldn't have to chase answers, should I? Hmm? Why are you avoiding me?"
Her eyes flew wide.
Fuck.
The question she'd dreaded. The one she had no safe answer for.
She jerked, trying to pull her mouth free of his finger. He fisted her hair harder pain blooming sharp and sweet down her scalp.
A tearful, pleading moan tore from her throat.
He smirked, dark and delighted, drinking in the sound.
Then he pushed his finger deeper.
Past her lips. Over her tongue. Straight to the back of her throat.
She gagged instantly eyes rolling back, throat convulsing around the intrusion.
Drool spilled from the corners of her mouth, slick trails running down her chin, dripping onto her chest, soaking the thin black satin of her gown.
Her cheeks burned crimson.
Through the haze of choking pleasure, his whisper slithered into her ear soft, hot, lethal.
"Open wider, baby. Part those pretty lips for me, little moonlight."
She didn't dare disobey.
The threat hummed beneath every syllable.
Her jaw dropped wider.
He yanked her hair again harder. Fresh tears spilled; more broken, needy moans poured out.
He released her hair only to shove her down.
Her body folded forward onto his lap. He captured both her wrists, crossed them in front of her, then wrapped his arm around her waist binding her arms tight against her own stomach in a cruel, intimate hold.
The grip was unrelenting pleasure pain shooting through her shoulders, her ribs, her core.
She was a trembling, drooling, moaning wreck.
Then he fucked her mouth with his finger.
Hard.
Fast.
Ruthless.
In and out maddening rhythm that made her throat burn, her eyes water, her cunt clench emptily.
Drool poured freely now, drenching her chin, her neck, the front of her gown until the satin clung transparently to her breasts, nipples peaked and visible.
After what felt like forever, he pulled his finger free with a wet pop.
She gasped harsh, ragged breaths shaking her whole body.
He didn't let her recover.
The same slick finger traced down her bare back slow, deliberate following the line of her spine from neck to waist.
She shuddered violently, caught between terror, lust, and aching need. Her face flushed deeper, pink bleeding into scarlet.
His hand slid around to her belly, cupping the gentle swell.
He leaned down, pressing his forehead to her stomach.
Dark hair spilled across her skin like ink.
His breath was hot through the thin fabric.
"My fucking rose,"
he murmured, voice dripping honey and poison.
"Blush harder for me. Let our little snowdrop feel how wet and desperate you are for Daddy right now."
She gasped fresh heat flooding between her thighs, soaking her panties.
Her whole body flushed scarlet.
He kissed her belly soft, reverent, obscene then dragged his mouth up to her ear.
Teeth grazed her earlobe.
Sucked hard.
He pulled back just enough to reach the base of her throat.
Released her bound arms.
His lips brushed her skin as he whispered, low and throaty:
"Run, little moonlight. Run."
A beat of silence.
"If I catch you…"
His voice turned darker, edged with hunger.
"I'll break you in ways you'd never imagine."
Excitement and fear collided in her chest.
She scrambled off his lap stumbling, desperate then bolted.
He watched her flee, eyes tracking the frantic sway of her hips, the way the wet satin clung to her ass, the direction she was heading.
Fuck. Not the attic Little moonlight
Wrong fucking way.
A slow, predatory smirk curled his lips.
"Wrong choice, little moonlight," he whispered to the empty room.
A soft, sensual laugh rolled from his throat dark, promising.
He rose from the chair with lethal grace.
Then he followed.
Slow at first.
Then faster.
The sound of his footsteps echoed behind her steady, inevitable.
Like a devil hunting his favorite sinner.
Or a predator who already knew exactly where his prey would hide.
Cat and mouse.
Except in this game, the mouse wanted to be caught.
And the cat intended to devour her whole.