Chapter Eight: Mirror, Mirror (Pt 1)

The boutique is a shrine to excess: white marble floors, crystal chandeliers, and racks of silk and designers that cost more than my soul. Arthur is in his element, sipping champagne in a luxurious armchair while a flurry of assistants bring him gowns to inspect.

"This one, I think," Arthur says, pointing to a midnight-blue silk dress with a dangerously low back. "And the violet lace. Go on, Zola. Try them on for daddy."

I take the armful of fabric and retreat toward the back of the store. The dressing area is a private hallway lined with heavy, silver-trimmed doors. I step into one, the thick carpet muffling the world outside. The room is lined with mirrors, reflecting every inch of my anxiety.

I start to unzip my own dress, my hands shaking. The silk slips down my shoulders, leaving me in nothing but my panties. I pick up the violet dress, pulling it up to my waist, but it remains unzipped, the lace draping loosely around my hips.

Suddenly, the door clicks.

I spin around, clutching the violet dress to cover my chest. "Arthur? I'm not ready—"

The lock turns with a final, heavy snap. It isn't Arthur.

Ethan is leaning against the door, his eyes dark and dilated as they sweep over my bare shoulders and the marks he left on my skin last night. He looks out of place in this small, delicate, feminine room; too big, too rough, too dangerous.

"What are you doing?" I hiss, my voice trembling. "Arthur is right outside! Don’t you have a shred of shame?"

"He’s distracted by champagne," Ethan murmurs, stepping into the center of the room. He reaches out, his fingers brushing the violet lace I’m holding to cover my breasts. "He has no idea what’s happening behind closed doors. He never does. That’s why he married a cheap prostitute thinking he married a virgin."

"Ethan! Stop!" I snap, my eyes burning. "I didn’t lie to Arthur. He just assumed. I'm sincere about him... I did what I did for money, but not anymore! We’re both part of this family now—why can’t we just focus on our marriages?"

He doesn't reply. He acts.

He rips the dress from my hands, letting it fall to the floor. I stand exposed, the cool air stinging my skin, my nipples hardening instantly under his predatory gaze.

"Turn around," he commands.

"Ethan, please—"

"Turn. Around."

“I don’t want—”

“Turn,” he says firmly, his gaze dark and lethal.

I obey, facing the wall of mirrors. He steps up behind me, his chest inches from my spine.

"Pull the dress up," he whispers. "I want to see the marks I left."

My face burns as I pull the fabric higher, holding the dress bunched at my waist. I am bare, exposed to the mirrors and his predatory gaze. He studies the purple-red brand on my neck, the shadow of his handprints on my thighs, and my breasts reflecting back in the glass.

"You're a masterpiece of sin, Zola," he whispers, his breath hot against my ear.

He reaches out, his hands sliding between my legs. He parts them sudden and sharp, widening my stance so much I almost lose my balance. He uses two fingers to part the center of my vagina, sliding deep into my slick heat.

"Nnnnh..." I close my eyes, biting my lip to hold back the moan.

“You’re always wet and dripping,” Ethan says, smiling wickedly. He traces the curve of my rear with his other hand, and I brace for the usual spank, but instead, he squeezes the flesh so hard I let out a sharp gasp. His palm moves up, rough against my spine, tracing every vertebra.

"My father wants to see you in this. He wants to show you off at the gala." His hand moves to the front, his fingers twisting and pulling at my nipple with a rough, possessive hunger.

“Ahhhh… Ethan!” I scream, the sound echoing off the marble. It’s too loud.

He spins me around, pinning me hard against the freezing mirror. He grabs both of my wrists, anchoring them above my head with one hand.

"Ethan please, he'll hear us," I sob, the sound muffled by his mouth as he crashes his lips against mine.

The kiss is brutal: a desperate struggle for air. I can hear the muffled sound of Arthur’s voice in the distance, talking to a sales associate about "his beautiful young wife." The proximity of discovery is a terrifying aphrodisiac. I find myself arching into Ethan’s hard body, a soft, broken whimper vibrating in my throat. “Mmmph...”

Ethan breaks the kiss, his breathing ragged. He drops his head to my neck, his teeth grazing the old bruise to make a fresh one.

"I could take you right here," he growls. "I could make you scream so loud he’d finally have to face the truth. Would you like to be ruined in front of him?"

"No," I whimper. "Please, don't. I would do whatever you want... save my marriage, Ethan."

"Then don’t you dare give your body to my father. Never. You know me enough to know I don’t share my greedy little prostitute," he says.

He slides his hand back between my legs, finding the dampness he's already created. He begins to finger me with a punishing, rapid pace. 

Squeltch. Squeltch. The sound of his fingers working inside me is slick, wet and heavy, echoing loud against in the small room.

“Oh... ah... Nnn-ah... Ethan….Ethan…please...” I moan, my head thumping back against the mirror.

My resolve is shattering. Every thrust of his fingers makes my hips twitch uncontrollably, seeking more of the friction that’s setting my blood on fire.

Just then, a knock sounds on the dressing room door.

Knock. Knock.

"Zola? Is everything alright in there? It’s been quite a while, sweetheart." Arthur’s voice is inches away.

Ethan doesn't pull away. He stays exactly where he is, his fingers still buried in my heat, thrusting into me roughly as the handle jiggles. 

He smiles, watching my face contort between agony, pleasure, and sheer terror.

"Zola?" Arthur calls again.

Ethan gives me one sharp, deep thrust with his fingers, making my hips jerk and a loud, strangled “Nngghh!” escape my lips.