Fuck. Nobody can read me. Or can she?
“You’re the lawyer.” And then he scorned, “The one with the instincts.”
“I have to hear the client first. I cannot judge before a fair hearing. State your plea and your crime, please.”
How does she change her mood so fast?
“Too many sins and most of the seven capital vices,” he answered quickly without doubt.
“Too general,” she riposted in a calm way, but promptly. “Pray continue.”
I shouldn’t have started this
. “Debauchery, perversion, anger, hate, selfishness, murder, indifference, and detachment. And, of the seven vices: lust, wrath, pride, and envy.” He tried to shock her. “In that order, since December 1999.”
She just raised an eyebrow in disdain. “Innocent or guilty?”
I know exactly what you’re looking for, Alistair Connor. But I’m not game for condemning someone without a cause. I know quite well the rules of this game. Life has taught me well
.
“Of my own sins? Guilty. Of course,” he scoffed.
“Who pressed charges?”
He stood there looking at her cold and analytic face.
She’s still evading. Oh, come on, Conselor Leibowitz, stop this. Condemn me, once and for all
.
“I’m waiting.” She tapped her foot on the rug, aggravated. “Who pressed charges?”
“Me, myself, and I.”
“Me, myself, and I,” she mused, frowning, evaluating his eyes, face and body language searching for something more.
How can you press changes against yourself, Alistair Connor? Because of your own sins?
She turned her back to him and pinched the bridge of her nose.
He’s lying. There’s more to this. What is he hiding? His guilt isn’t caused by something he did. He’s probably guilty by omission
. But she wouldn’t deny him the right of lying, even to himself. Nodding, she inquired further. “Any evidence? Proof?”
A fight. A destroyed car. Blood everywhere. Two dead bodies
. “Photos,” he answered brusquely.
“No documents? Testimonies? Fingerprints?”
“Nothing conclusive.” He stood still as a statue and watched her pace the room.
“Photos can be forged, manipulated,” she mused. “And the jury sees what the lawyer wants them to see.”
“Sorry, no escape. The photos weren’t forged.” His deep voice sounded angry and sad at the same time. “Guilty as charged.”
A piece is missing from this puzzle
. She finished the wine, placing the glass on the other side table and paced some more. “Just photos.” she voiced her thoughts.
Then she whirled around - suddenly, violently - and her dress swirled around her, the Japanese hair stick dropped to the ground and her hair tumbled down.
She left her hair down and concentrated on her actions. “Who or what was in the photos?” A dark look came over her features.
“The scene of the crime. Blood. Dead bodies.”
Dead bodies
. She paled but recovered quickly.
Two can play this game, Lord Me-myself-and-I
. A very sinister smile started to form on her mouth, twisting her lips.
Fuck! The Avenging Angel. The same look she had at Galewick Hall
. He could almost see her growing taller, sprouting wings, and yielding a fiery sword, ready to pierce his black heart guilty of Nathalie’s death.
“Please, think hard before you answer this question. Was my client there? Or had he been there at any moment?”
Was I there?
“No. I don’t think so.”
“Ha! You don’t think so! So, you’re not sure!”
His head dropped a bit, his eyes glazed. The memories of his little blonde angel all battered and bruised flooded his brain. “No, but-”
She raised her hand, stopping him, demanding silence. “This was not a question. It was a conclusion.” His head came up abruptly. “The prosecution has no proof that the defendant was, or had been, at the scene of the crime.”
Indeed. It’s something he didn’t do. Guilt by omission
. The dark smile broadened and her eyes flashed a golden honey color as she counted her conclusions on her fingers, “Firstly, Me-myself-and-I is the one pressing charges. Secondly, Me-myself-and-I is the defendant, who had never been at the scene of the crime. Thirdly, there is no evidence, other than the photos of the crime scene. So I ask you my last question: Is there any proof that my client has ever committed these sins? These unproven sins?”
His eyes widened.
She’s destroyed my case. And she’s enjoying every minute of it
.
“No answer?” She pressed.
Are my sins unprovable? It seems so
. He shook his head, stupefied, and incapable of answering. Her verdict pending over his head as the sword of Damocles.
Are they pardonable? No. Never
.
She stabbed a finger hard on his chest, like a dagger. “Therefore, this lawyer is pleading innocent in the name of Me-myself-and-I,” she glared at him, pinning him under her angry stare, “or rather in
your
name, Alistair Connor.”
How dare she? How dare she absolve me?
The fear that her absolution could destroy the detachment he had achieved so far, erupted in him a need to destroy the woman who had so trustily absolved him. Alistair’s arms encompassed her waist swiftly, hauling her body flush with his. His hand fisted and twirled her hair tightly as his mouth crushed hers.
The unpredicted and violent assault startled Sophia. Her hands gripped his arms to steady herself as his tongue pursued and forcefully demanded an entrance. She allowed it and moaned when he invaded her mouth. He slanted her head with a rough tug on her hair to have better access to her mouth.
Sophia stiffened and gasped at the sharp pain and her hand flew up. Her slender fingers wrapped around his wrist and surprised Alistair, causing him to loosen his hold on her hair. Immediately she relaxed into his embrace.
Breathe. Control yourself. She’s not Heather, Alistair Connor
. He lifted his head to look at her. Her head was pulled back in his grip and her lips were dark red from his kisses. “You don’t like?” he murmured.
“What?” She opened her yellow diamond eyes.
His head bent to the hollow of her neck and he bit her playfully there. “A touch of pain, of violence.”
Here it goes. Slowly, Alistair Connor, slowly
.
Pain, violence?
“I-I don’t know,” she stammered. “I’ve never thought about them as sensual or erotic.”
What the hell? Why am I not answering no?
“It can be,” he whispered, his voice tickling her ear. He suckled her earlobe, sinking his teeth in the soft flesh.
She moaned and his hand on the small of her back pressed her on his body as he ground his erection on her belly.
“See?” His husky voice and accent betrayed his arousal. “Do you want to try?”
“You like that?” Her hands pulled his head up to look at his forest-green eyes. They burned her with pure carnal lust and his grip on her hair tightened. “Pain, violence?” she gasped. “What kind?”
“I’ll be gentle. I promise.” His own words penetrated the fog of rage that had installed in his mind. “Let me show you what I can do to your body,” he murmured, “to your soul.”
Oh
. She could not answer. Dared not.
What now?
She felt paralyzed by fear and dread. And arousal.
How?
“Come on, it’s just role-play,” he coached, quietly. “And you can always stop it.”
“I-” she breathed deep.
I don’t know
.
“Please,” he crooned and vowed, “I won’t hurt you. It’s all about pleasure.” His lips curled. And he bent his head, his nose brushed hers in a gentle caress and he spoke against her lips. “Do you trust me?”
“This is not fair,” she said slowly.
“Not fair?” His face fell and disappointment flashed. “No, I guess it isn’t.” His hands dropped away from her and he stepped back as if he had been slapped.
Of course, it isn’t. You want to hurt the only woman that has absolved you so unhesitatingly. But then, you don’t want absolution, do you? Do you, Alistair Connor?
Sophia observed his face, as an uncommon kaleidoscope of emotions played on it.
He stepped back again.
“Wait!” Her hand shot out to grab his arm, holding him in place. “Wait.” She stared intently into his eyes. “I told you that I trust you. And I do,” she whispered the last few words.
“Are you sure?” He cocked his head
“Yes,” she breathed, “yes, I am.”
He could barely hear her low assent.
“Sophia,” he murmured and closed the distance between them, burying his head in her hair and inhaling deeply. His fingers untied the sash at her waist and nudged the dress off her shoulders, dropping a light kiss on one, then the other. The dress pooled on the floor at her feet.
He lost his voice as he saw her wearing the most sensual black-and-silver lingerie he had ever seen. Thin silky ribbons held her bra in place. Her breasts strained against the lace and the same thin material tied the panties on the sides. The satin hid exactly what he wanted, and the lace showing everything else.
Hot!
His fingers itched to untie the ribbons.
No, I wish to rip them to shreds. Breathe, Alistair, breathe. This is Sophia
.
He lifted her to his chest and she wrapped her legs around his waist, his hard erection probing her through his jeans.
She gasped in his ear, “Alistair.”
“I’m right here,” he whispered back and carried her past her bedroom into her dressing room. He deposited her softly on her feet and shed his cardigan, throwing it on the armchair in the corner.
“Do you have rope?” His demeanor suddenly turned serious, muscles bunched, and his eyes flashed.
Sophia jumped back. “No.”
“Scarves?” His eyes were burning with lust and something more she couldn’t identify.
“Sca-scarves, yes,” she stammered. She spun on her heels and went to a corner of the room, gesturing to a shelf. “Here. Silk scarves.”
“I want three.”
She gave him the first one and he coiled it around his hands, snapping it, testing its softness and strength. “Two more,” he crooned.
She eyed him askance, almost regretting her acceptance. Nonetheless, she picked up two more scarves and handed them to him.
He took her hand without a word. In her bedroom, he put the scarves on the bed and turned to look at her, studying her intently. “Can I put on some music from my phone?”
She picked up his cell phone from the bedside table, and connected it to the Wi-Fi network. She handed it to him and he typed in the name of a song, smiling when he found it. “Pay attention to the piano, the song’s rhythm, the voices, and the lyrics.” He touched the screen and put it on the bedside table next to the pack of condoms. “Forget everything else.”
The beautiful piano notes of “The Lightning Strike” by Snow Patrol flooded the room. He backed her on the wall, cupped the back of her head, and kissed her hard, as he never had before.
A need to brand her as his whipped through him. He closed his eyes and imagined her bound by ropes or cuffs. He became so hard he hurt.
Fuck. She doesn’t know the first thing about this game. Take it slow, Alistair
. Their lips clashed and he bit her lip hard. She moaned.
Yes, Sophia, that’s it
. He backed away from her and started to divest himself of his jeans, boxers, and loafers. He advanced on her naked, sporting the biggest erection of his whole life.
She gasped and her hands faltered on the fastenings of her bra.
He inhaled deeply, controlling the urge to snap the ties of her bra and delicately unfastened the silk strings that held it in place. He looked hungrily at her breasts, palming them. He led her to the bed. He laid her down, in the middle of the bed, reclining on the bedpost to study her, taking his time before sitting on the bed and leaning to kiss her neck and shoulders, his hands roaming over her body, driving her crazy with need. “Let me guide you through this.”
Oh, my! What is he planning to do?
He picked up the first scarf and paused to gaze into her eyes. “Close your eyes.”
Sophia stared at Alistair with a twinge of fear. His whole bearing had changed. She wouldn’t dare speak a word. When his fingers gently touched her face, she almost screamed.
“Don’t be afraid,” he licked her throat with the tip of his tongue. “Can I blindfold you?”
She only nodded. Her already big eyes appeared huge on her face. Her hands started to tremble and she fisted them.
Delicately, he folded the white scarf, “Shut your eyes,” he ordered again, softly, and covered her closed eyes with the scarf tying it on the right side of her head.
Sophia heaved a deep sigh as the darkness enfolded her and she fumbled for his biceps. He held her hands in his and guided them to rest in the bed angled upwards to the bedposts. “I’m going to tie your wrists with the scarves,” he knotted the first scarf around her right wrist and tested the fastening, then did the same to the other wrist.
Sophia’s mouth dried out in anticipation and her breathing shortened.
In the darkness, everything became overwhelming: the feel of the cotton against her back, the silk around her wrists, the fluttering brush of his fingers on her arms and shoulders, the shift of the bed, the music, the lyrics.
“Now, the scarves to the bedposts,” he tied them to the bedposts and pulled her, arms stretched to the point where she couldn’t move.
Oh, hell… Oh, hell!
“Sophia,” his deep and low voice vibrated in his chest like a rumble, almost a primitive sound, that made goose bumps appear across her skin. “You with me?”
“Yes,” she rasped.
“Free your mind.” The mattress dipped between her legs as he settled himself there and she exhaled. “Don’t rationalize.”
She felt his chest and abs as he hovered over her. The touch of his silky skin and hard muscles was all she could feel.
His thumb brushed her mouth and she opened her lips. He pressed it inside and she suckled on it. He breathed in sharply and his other hand fluttered against her throat and down her shoulder, finding a breast.
She moaned, “Oh, please.”
She never thought how arousing being tied and blindfolded could be. She controlled herself, her teeth sunk in her full lip to stop her screaming at every move he made.