Stolen Heir: Chapter 15

When I return home from the cemetery, I expect to find the mansion silent and dark.

Instead, as I walk through the main hall, I hear the distant sound of music playing in the east wing.

Nessa is not supposed to have music. She can’t have a phone, a computer, or so much as a radio. Yet I hear the unmistakable sound of piano and cello mingled together, and the light thump of her bare feet on the floor overhead.

Like a hook through a trout’s mouth, it catches me and yanks me up the stairs before I’ve made the conscious decision to move. I follow the line of the sound, not to Nessa’s room, but to the salon where the Baron’s daughter used to exhibit her watercolors.

When I reach the open doorway, I stop and stare.

Nessa is dancing like I’ve never seen her dance before. She’s spinning around and around, the raised foot whipping around the supporting leg, her arms spreading open and then pulling tight toward the body to spin her all the faster.

She looks like a figure skater, like the floor must be made of ice. I’ve never seen someone move so cleanly.

She’s drenched in sweat. Her pale pink bodysuit is so wet that I can see every detail underneath, as if she were completely naked. Her hair is coming loose from its tight bun, damp strands plastered to her face and neck.

Still she goes faster and faster, leaping across the floor, tumbling to the ground, rolling over, and jumping up again.

I realize she’s acting something out—some kind of scene. She looks like she’s running away, looking back over her shoulder. Then she stops, returns to where she started, and dances the same thing over again.

She’s practicing. No, that’s not right—she’s creating something. Refining it.

She’s choreographing a dance.

She stops, starts over again.

This time she’s doing a different part. This time she’s the pursuer, chasing the unseen figure across the stage. It’s supposed to be a duet—but because she’s the only one here, she’s acting out both parts.

I wish I could see what she’s seeing, inside her head.

I’m only catching bits and pieces of it. What I see is emotive, strung with intensity. But it’s just a girl in an empty room. She’s seeing a whole world around her.

It’s mesmerizing. I watch her repeat this piece of the dance again and again, sometimes as the hunter, sometimes as the prey. Sometimes copying exactly what she did before, and sometimes altering it slightly.

Then the record ends, and we’re both jolted back to reality.

Nessa is panting, exhausted.

And I’m standing in the doorway without any idea how much time has passed.

She looks up and sees me. Her body goes stiff and her hand flies up to her mouth.

“Making yourself at home, I see,” I say.

She’s shoved all the furniture to the edge of the room and rolled up the rugs. She looks around guilty at the bare floor.

“I needed space to dance,” she says. Her voice comes out in a croak. Her throat is dry because she’s been dancing so long.

“What is that?” I ask her.

“It’s . . . something I’m making.”

“What?”

“A ballet.”

“I can see that,” I say tersely. “What’s it about?”

“It’s a fairytale,” she whispers.

Of course it is. She’s such a child.

But the dance wasn’t childish. It was captivating.

The turntable is making that empty, repetitive sound that means the tracks have all run out. The needle skips over bare vinyl. I cross the room, lifting the tonearm and flipping the switch so the platter stops spinning.

“Where did you get this?” I ask her.

“I . . . I found it,” she says.

She’s a terrible liar. Klara gave it to her, obviously. They were the only two people at home.

I suspected that Klara was becoming sympathetic to our prisoner. It’s a conundrum that I can’t quite fix. I knew that anybody with a heart would find sweet little Nessa hard to ignore. But I can’t trust any of my men to keep watch over her. She’s too pretty. It’s hard enough to get them to leave Klara alone, even when she wears her hideous uniform. Innocent Nessa in leotards and gym shorts is a temptation too great to resist. I’ve had to bar them all from stepping foot in her room. And even then, I see them watching her everywhere she goes. Especially Jonas.

It makes me want to cut their balls off, every last one of them.

Nessa is my prisoner.

No one touches her but me.

A clear droplet of sweat slides down her face, down the side of her throat, and then down her breastbone, disappearing in the space between her breasts.

My eyes follow it. The translucent material of her bodysuit clings to her small, round breasts. I can see the puckered areola, and the pert little nipples pointing slightly upward. They’re not pink like I guessed—they’re light brown, like the freckles on her cheeks. They’re so sensitive that they stiffen right before my eyes, just from the heat of my gaze.

My eyes roam further down. I can see the lines running down her taught stomach, and the indent of her navel. Then, below that, the delta of her cunt, and even the outline of her pussy lips, as wet with sweat as the rest of her body.

Most of all, I can smell her scent. I smell her soap, her sweat. And even her sweet little pussy, musky and mild.

It makes me fucking ravenous.

My pupils have dilated so far that I can see every last detail of her body—the tiny droplets of sweat above her lip. The flecks of brown in her green eyes. The goosebumps rising on her arms. The muscles trembling in her thighs.

I feel like I’ve been sleeping for a hundred years, and all at once, in this instant, I’m wide awake. My cock is raging inside my pants. It’s harder than I’ve ever felt it—stiff, pulsing, aching to get out.

I want this girl. I want her here, now, immediately.

I want her like I’ve never wanted a woman before. I want to kiss her and fuck her and eat her alive.

She can see it in my face. Her eyes are wide and unblinking. She’s rooted to the spot.

I grab a handful of her sweaty hair, and I tilt her head back, exposing that long, pale throat.

I run my tongue up the side of her neck, licking up her sweat. It’s clear and salty, exploding on my tongue. It’s better than caviar. I swallow it down.

And then I kiss her. Her lips are parched from dancing. I lick those lips, tasting the salty skin, and then I thrust my tongue into her mouth, and I lick every part of that, too—teeth, tongue, palate. I inhale her scent and her taste. I fuck her mouth with my tongue.

For a moment she’s frozen in my arms, tense and tight. Then, shockingly, she responds to me. She’s kissing me back, without skill or style, but with a hunger that almost matches my own.

We’re locked together, my fingers digging into her flesh, her hands gripping the material of my shirt.

How long it goes on, I have no idea.

We break apart, staring at each other, equally confused about what the fuck just happened.

There’s blood on her lip. I can taste it in my mouth. I don’t know if she bit me, or I bit her.

She touches her lip and looks at the bright spot of blood on her fingertip.

Then she turns and runs, sprinting out of the room like I’m snapping at her heels.

I’m not following her. I’m too stunned to do it.

I kissed her. Why the fuck did I kiss her?

I had no intention of kissing Nessa, or touching her at all.

Of all the evil things I’ve done in my life, and they are countless, I’ve never forced myself on a woman. It’s the one thing I won’t do.

So why did I kiss her?

She’s beautiful. But there are thousands of beautiful women in the world.

She’s innocent. But I fucking hate innocence.

She’s talented. But what good is dancing, in a world full of killers and thieves?

I pull out my phone, compelled to check in on her, as I’ve been doing more and more often.

I access the camera in her bedroom. There’s only the one, pointed at the bed. I don’t watch her in the toilet or the shower. I’m not that depraved.

Sure enough, she’s laying on the bed, face down. But she’s not sobbing, as I expect her to be.

Oh, no. What she’s doing is completely different.

She has her hand between her thighs and she’s touching herself. She’s stroking that sweet little pussy with her fingers, while grinding her hips into the bed. She’s still wearing her bodysuit. I can see the round muscles of her buttocks flexing with every roll of her hips.

Jesus Christ. My heart is racing, and I can’t take my eyes off the screen. The image is black and white, but totally clear.

I watch as she pulls a pillow between her legs and sits upright, grinding on the pillow instead of her hand. She clenches it between her thighs, grasping handfuls of the sheet, riding the pillow as if it were a man underneath of her.

Without even realizing it, I’ve taken my cock out of my pants. I’m gripping it in one hand, the phone in the other. My eyes are locked on the screen. I couldn’t look away if my life depended on it.

I watch Nessa ride the pillow, every muscle rigid down the length of her slim body—shoulders, chest, ass, thighs, all clenching as hard as they can. Her head is thrown back and her eyes are closed. Even in black and white, I can see the flush on her cheeks.

Her mouth opens as she starts to cum. I see the long, silent cry.

I explode into my hand at the same time. Shot after shot of cum, timed to the motion of Nessa’s hips. I didn’t even have to stroke myself.

My knees buckle under me. I squeeze my cock hard, trying not to groan. The orgasm is wrenching. It drains the life out of me.

Still I’m staring at the screen, at Nessa’s delicate features, her slender frame. She’s finally relaxing, falling face down on the bed once more.

I can’t take my eyes off her. Every line of her body is burned into my retinas, from the strands of sweat-soaked hair, to the bird-like shoulder blades, to the long lines of her legs.

I can’t look away.