“That’s too easy.”
Richard then leaves me to be as he moves to the other side of the room and sits. I struggle to get comfortable with my hands still taped together. I lie on the cold concrete and rest my cut cheek to the ground to help soothe the ache that pulses through the gash. My head weighs heavy in an excruciating headache, and I close my eyes to drown out the cheap fluorescent lighting, but the buzzing from the bulbs keeps me agitated.
Hours pass as I drift in and out, and when the fog from all the high-strung emotions begins to clear, I’m finally able to focus. I run through everything Richard has told me, trying to figure out what the fuck is going on, when I remember his claim.
Guns.
MY MEETINGS HAVE been long, sitting around and listening to several architectural firms make their presentations and going over the bids for the job. This will be another boutique hotel that will cater to wealth, and above all, privacy. Lotus was my first solo venture, and it has proven to be a success in the few months it’s been open. We maintain an exclusive clientele, which the city of Chicago was in desperate need of. It’s full service in every luxury accommodation, selective on who’s approved to book a room, and the London property will be the same.
I ring the house as I head back to the hotel for some much needed sleep. It’s late, and I’m at my end.
It feels strange to have Elizabeth in my home, as if she’s more than just a houseguest. She has me on mental overload. There are times I see her and I want to smash her face against a wall because my anger is too much to contain. And then there are times I look at her and I wish it could be like before with us. In those moments, I want to touch her and inhale her soft scent. I want to feel her, lick her, taste her, fuck her. I want it all, but my heart refuses to get too close to her.
She’s the devil’s angel.
The moment I start crossing lines, I shut down. It’s not even something I consciously realize I’m doing, it just happens. One moment, I want my tongue tasting her sweet mouth, and the next, I want to rip more of her hair out.
Fucking her outside against my house yesterday was a twisted delight I selfishly indulged in. When I saw her from my office window, sitting on the ground, I saw someone so broken that I doubted her malice. In that moment, I let my guard down and got tangled up in the moment. And nothing can deny the solace that consumed me when I sunk my cock inside of her sweet *. Having her snug around me, Jesus, no woman has ever felt as good as her. But her warmth and comfort are merely an illusion. She’s a magician’s ruse that I stupidly fall for repeatedly.
She’s evil and duplicitous, and yet a part of me wants her—a very disturbed part of me. Because no one in their right mind would want anything to do with the widow who injects her poison with self-serving motivations. For some reason, in knowing what a con she is, I don’t want her to leave. A part of me feels sorry for her. I pity her. I’ve never seen a person at a lower point than she is at right now. This has to be her rock bottom because I’d hate to see what would happen if she got any lower.
Her body is branded in self-inflicted abuse. She craves the moment that she can hurt herself. I know Elizabeth is a sick woman who needs help, and the dark part of my soul wants to be the one to offer it. It’s screwed up, because I also want to punish her.
When I told her to strip down last night, my plan was to humiliate her by having her perched on the ground as I had instructed. I left her to grab some rope because I had every intention of punishing her. I was walking around the house with a hard-on just thinking about it. My mind was consumed with visions of her tied up while I slapped her * and tits until they welted up red, picturing my cock shoved down her throat, gagging her, just so I could see tears fall down her rosy cheeks.
Even now that I know about all that she endured as a little girl at the hands of her foster dad, I still wanted to debase her like that. It’s wrong; I know it, which is why I didn’t return to her. I couldn’t allow myself the pleasure that would just solidify the savage I fear I am—the savage she groomed me to be. But I hurt her anyway, and when I went to her room and saw the mortified look on her face, I hated myself in that moment.
There’s no answer when I call, so I hang up and dial my home again.
Nothing.
She’s probably outside.