Free Vanquished by Hope Tarr Page A

In the lonely stillness, she registered the rhythmic ticking of the bedside clock, which suddenly struck her as loud to the point of earsplitting. She thought about turning up the bedside lamp and reading for a while, or perhaps jotting a note or two in her journal but couldn't summon the self-discipline.
    No, there was only one remedy, as shameful as it was inevitable. Closing her eyes, she slipped a hand beneath the covers and focused on conjuring "him," her fantasy lover. Though admittedly make-pretend and sketchy on details, he was real to her all the same. When she put her mind to it, she could all but feel the weight of him in the bed beside her, the warmth of his breath striking the side of her throat, the soft press of his lips as he trailed heated kisses over her body, a body which he miraculously found to be perfect in every way.
    No matter how hard she'd set her mind to it, though, she could never fathom his face. The one time she'd tried to force it, the blankness assumed Gerald's features as she'd last seen him, bleary-eyed and sneering, which of course ruined everything.
    The only part of him she'd ever been able to see clearly was his hands. Strong hands. Warm hands. Knowing hands, the palms broad but not too broad, the fingers long and sensitive, beautifully shaped. Even the fingertips had been meticulously attended to; the nails were clipped short, dustings of golden hair on the backs. And his knuckles, or rather the image of them stroking her cheek, her throat, the curve of her breast, was all it took to bring the throbbing between her thighs building to crescendo.
    Only when she could bear it no longer, when the restless, budding ache was simply too urgent to ignore, did she give in and find herself with her fingers. But tonight was different, tonight was a first, for it wasn't her own too soft palm kneading her mons or her own too slender digits slipping inside her swollen to bursting sex, but the hands of a flesh-and-blood man.
    Hadrian St. Claire's hands.
    Stifling a cry, Callie fell back against the mattress and came.

    "Hold on, Mum. I'm coming."

    Head pounding from where he'd hit the wall, Harry crawled toward his mother, folded into the dusty corner like a schoolboy's broken paper missile. The floor between them was aglitter with glass, the only remains of his camera's shattered lens. Powdering the planks like new-fallen snow, it looked crystalline. Pure.
    "Don't cry anymore, Mum. I'm here."
    Reaching her, he stuck out a bleeding hand to comfort her, but she shoved him away, the angry red mark on her cheek matching the flash of her eyes. "Wicked ungrateful boy, only look what a muck you've made of things. Couldn't leave well enough alone, could you? Had to stick that bleedin' contraption of yours where it didn't belong."
    "But Mum, he hurt you, he--"
    "No buts." Dropping her voice to a whisper, she said, "One word from him, and I'll lose my place, and then we'll both be out on the streets." She slid her gaze toward the man standing in shadow, watching them from the far side of the room. Watching, always watching.
    "You should mind your mother, boy." Footfalls came toward them, the shiny black shoes stopping within inches of Harry's bleeding fingers. "Get up." Before Harry could move, the man reached down and grabbed him by the back of his collar, jerking him to his feet.
    "Please sir, no. Take me. I'll do anything you fancy. Anything." Mum stumbled to her feet, tugging on the man's coat sleeve.
    Hard fingers bit into the back of Harry's neck. "But I don't fancy you, you slattern. It's him I want."
    Like a scruffed kitten, Harry found himself dragged across the room to the bed, the big brass four-poster where his mum entertained her clients.
    He tried digging in his heels but it was no use. Tossed atop the mattress, he twisted to look back at his mother. "Mum . . . Mummy . . . please."
    She turned her battered face up to the man. "You won't hurt him bad, will you?"
    Hurt him bad, hurt him bad, hurt