His hand goes lower and lower, not caring that the silk of my dress may rip. When he reaches the apex of my thighs, I can’t help but spread my legs as Lawrence sinks a finger inside me. He watches me as he slowly adds another finger. I want to close my eyes but I can’t—I won’t. I want to see everything he’s doing to me. Memorize it. Engrave it, so when I look back to this moment, I won’t feel a trace of pain or sorrow or regret.
Lawrence withdraws his hand. He brings his fingers to his mouth, tasting me. Then he lowers his hand once more, entering me with three fingers this time, his saliva and my body’s reaction to him lubricating his touch. My breath shortens as my pulse accelerates. I grip the edge of the table for balance and bite my lip to stop myself from moaning. I won’t give him the pleasure of knowing what he does to me. He begins to pull them in and out, pumping savagely into me, making my head swirl in pleasure laced with pain. Or is it the other way around?
The sweet and pungent smell of sex fills the air. I can hear the wetness gathering in my * as he enters me with his punishing fingers, with his unforgiving, divine strokes. I feel him all the way to my core, carving his name in the marrow of my bones.
His thumb starts to rub my clit as he fucks me with his hand, hooking his fingers inside of me, hitting my G-spot deliciously. There’s a fiery, hot blush spreading on the cheeks of the girl staring back at me; her eyes hazy with lust, his ablaze. His breathing accelerates and I ache with unfulfilled passion as he continues to finger fuck me to oblivion. My vision blurs. My body burns. I’m drowning. I’m flying. Everything sings. Everything explodes. And just like that, I come undone. I unravel. And it’s fucking ecstasy.
When I’m lucid, I watch him withdraw his hand from my body. He raises it and traces my lips with his wet fingers.
“Open your mouth,” he orders.
I ignore his demand and he forces his fingers past my lips, making me taste myself on him. Once he removes them from my mouth, he fists my hair in his hand, pulling my head back and making me look up at him. Hovering over me, he hisses angrily, “Taste what my fucking money can buy.” Then, he leans down and presses his lips hard against mine.
With the kiss coming to an end, he lets me go and walks toward the door. Lawrence turns to look at me one last time. He looks composed and so fucking aloof. “I’ll wait for you downstairs.” He pauses. “You look beautiful in that dress.”
“You like it?” I smile sweetly at him, feeling so cheap. “But I guess you should. It’s something else your money bought.” When he walks out of the room, I reach for the lipstick and finish applying the rouge on my lips.
Don’t feel.
What did you expect? He’s just another man.
The masquerade party is at the home of Alan Vanderhall, a family friend of Lawrence’s. Located in Greenwich, the majestic estate is something you only see in movies. The house manages to leave me open-mouthed, even though it is smaller than Lawrence’s mansion on Long Island. Where the hell are all these rich people coming from?
The road is illuminated with Japanese paper lanterns and the trees are wrapped in twinkling lights. It’s a beautiful sight to behold.
By the time we make it inside the house, I think that I must be dreaming a bright, colorful, and rich dream. As Lawrence removes my coat and hands it to the butler, I glance around the main hall, my eyes landing on crystal chandeliers shining like small constellations of stars, hundreds, no, thousands of flowers overflowing every nook and corner in the house, and an ocean of people hidden behind masks. There’s some sort of magic flowing through the halls of the house that makes my heart beat with excitement.
Lawrence is wearing a full mask depicting a Chinese Dragon. It’s a work of art with its colorful and intricate design. It puts my half mask of a black swan to shame, but then again, I doubt the existence of a man or woman who could obscure Lawrence’s magnificence.
The crowd seems to stop talking as they turn toward the entrance to take a better look at us. I can barely hear the orchestra playing its music above the mad beating of my heart. I half expect him to walk away from me like Walker did at the Met when he places his hand on my lower back, firmly and possessively.
Looking up in surprise, I find Lawrence already staring at me with those deep green, inscrutable eyes of his. “Come,” he orders. But when I hesitate, he adds more gently, “You don’t have anything to be afraid of. You’re with me. I won’t let you go.”
“I’m not scared,” I lie, lifting my chin. I can tell that he doesn’t believe me, and I hate the fact that he can see through my lies so easily.
His hand curves around my hip. “Come on, then. Show them what you’re made of.”
We stare at each other for a moment that seems to last an eternity. Giving in to his entreaty, I begin to walk with confidence. Regardless of his feelings toward me and what happened back at the townhouse, I’m sure of one thing: Lawrence means what he said. He won’t let me go, and the thought makes me feel safe.