Trigger warnings: a sex scene with an unhealthy power dynamic, mild violence/abuse.
*****
He hated bottoming. He hated just sitting there while she rode him. A tool, that's what he was—a plaything on standby.
Luckily the Madame didn't care much for foreplay, and neither did he. She sauntered off to her bedroom to "get ready," leaving him alone to do the same. At least she gave him that privacy, though it was more for her sake than his. When she came back, she was wet and he was hard and they could get it the hell over with.
Eliott was naked as the day he was born, but Madame Bourcier never took off her chemise. It pissed him off. She lifted the cumbersome skirt, eyes hooded in coy mystique, even though he'd gotten a glimpse of what was underneath a thousand times.
Now a thousand and one, he thought as she straddled him. She lowered herself onto him. He slid his hands up her thighs to guide her in circular, clockwork motions.
She always chose to fuck him on an armless chair, and he'd wondered more than once if she had bought it just for the occasion. How many others had been in his position? How enthusiastic were they about it? Did they enjoy it? Or was it a chore to check off a to-do list?
He had to hand it to her, though—it was a comfy ass chair.
She gripped his hair and she began her assault on his mouth, her teeth tugging on his lips, moving her hips in circles. He moved his head to accommodate her, but, internally, he groaned in irritation—he swore, she used industrial strength lipstick. His mouth, neck, chest, and anything else she laid her eyes on were going to be stained pink. Again. Where did she get it from? Wherever it was, he'd find it and burn the damn place to the ground.
She broke away, glowering. He must've stopped guiding her—not that she needed him to. Even now she continued to rotate her hips. She was a good multitasker.
"Not terribly vocal today, are we?" Her talon-like nails dug into his head slightly.
"Sorry." He curled and uncurled his toes. "Was just trying to remember the last time I took a bath."
Her icy glare pierced him and she clenched his hair hard enough that he grimaced a bit. Shit. Maybe he needed to tone down the sass.
"I was joking," he said as she rose off him. "I took a bath this morning."
She looked away in mute fury, straightening her chemise. Then she backhanded him so hard he fell out of the chair. It clattered to the floor beside him.
"Fuck!" he hissed, clapping a hand to his stinging face. Madame Bourcier leaned down and snared his jaw, nails digging in so hard he felt every beat of his pulse.
"You think I don't see you." A muscle clenched in her jaw. "You think I don't see your discontent. You think I'm an idiot."
Eliott swallowed hard, frozen to the spot. Black spots fluttered in front of him. She dug her fingers in further as his heartbeat quickened, and he knew she could feel it when her lip twitched viciously.
"Perhaps I was an idiot to take you in so graciously. We are too similar, you and I." She clenched harder. White dots burst in front of him and he winced. "But I've been in this business for years. I've lived and breathed opium longer than you've been alive. And you are gutter filth from Devil's Acre. You are in far, far over your head."
She released him and he loosed a breath, but the ache of her nails jammed in his jaw remained. It would leave bruises, but they would blend in with the others.
He never told her he grew up in Devil's Acre.
What else did she know? Who else did she know?
"Get out of my sight." Her voice was venom.
Slowly, as if his limbs had rusted, he rose to his feet. She stared him down, a vein throbbing in her temple, as he dressed himself. Then she snappishly ordered a servant-guard to see him out.
As he stepped into the hallway, Madame Bourcier said over the threshold, "I would advise you to stop talking to that Shaw girl. I believe she is a poor influence on your attitude."
He didn't dare look back; he fixed his gaze on the sleek, dark wood flooring. Madame Bourcier's gaze scorched the back of his neck.
Breathe.
Finally, the door slammed.
He straightened his collar, then combed his hair with his fingers. He hoped Tawni wouldn't be too worried, or that he was as pale as he felt, or that the marks that burned on his face and jaw like brands were too obvious.
As the servant-guard guided him out, Eliott popped his neck, forced his shoulders to relax, and raised his chin.
That old bitch was going to die.
