“But I’m eighteen now. I love you. I’ve always loved you.”
She doesn’t know me. I don’t know me. I don’t recognize the man I became tonight, and I could revert into that fiend at any moment. One kiss could be all it takes to push me over the edge. I could hurt her.
“It’s not possible,” I say through clenched teeth. “We can’t.”
Lolita smooths her hands up my chest, and nestles closer in my lap. Her plump behind rubs deliciously against my thighs and thickening cock.
“You don’t have to tell me who you are,” she whispers. “I’ll never ask you to remove that mask. Only love me, and I’ll be happy.”
I imagine how it might be. She could give herself to the Black Fox, body and soul, and I could take what I want, over and over every night. I can have her, but never her love.
It’s true. I really am cursed.
Carefully, I get to my feet, my hands on Lolita’s waist to steady her.
“I wish it could be so, mi dulce.” I take her hand and press a kiss to her palm, looking into her luminous eyes. “I really wish it could.”
I disappear swiftly into the darkness. Away from temptation, and the brief hours of happiness I might have known with her.
“My name’s Lolita!” she calls after me, her voice fading in the air like a sad cry.
I open my eyes to the morning sun, and a huge smile breaks over my face. He’s back. He’s here.
I stretch luxuriously in the sheets, and then turn my face to the balcony door. I left the curtains ajar and sunlight is streaming in through the gap. He could be living in the town, or somewhere close by. I could pass him on the streets. I’ll find him, and convince him we can be together. I know we can.
So that’s what it feels like to have a man’s arms around you. To feel his strength and smell his masculine scent. To want to give yourself to him, and know that he’s the only one for you for the rest of your life. That he says he can’t love me back or be with me has only made me more determined.
The Black Fox deserves to be happy, and I’m the woman to make it so.
My eyes land on the clock on my bedside table and I see it’s nearly eight o’clock. Though I want to lie in bed all morning and daydream about my Black Fox, I sigh and sit up. Mama likes a proper breakfast to be served and for everyone in the house to be neatly dressed and sit together. No robes or oversized nightshirts and bare legs at her breakfast table. Not that I’m likely to go wandering around in my underwear with a man like Zacarias in the house.
After I’ve splashed cold water on my face, I pull on some jeans and a white T-shirt, tucking it in, and put my hair up into a ponytail. With some sandals on my feet and a pair of small gold hoops in my ears, I should look presentable enough for her.
Mama and Zacarias are already at the breakfast table when I enter the dining room. Mama doesn’t look up from reading her tablet, and I feel rather than see Zacarias’ eyes track me across the room. Though I keep my face averted, I feel it flood with color.
Say you’re sorry. Say, I’m sorry daddy.
A shudder passes down my spine. To make myself feel better, I imagine what the Black Fox would do to him for being such a pervert. Stand on his throat, perhaps. Tickle his balls with the end of his sword.
I make myself quash my smile as I sit down. The table is set with white linen, porcelain, silver and plates of ornately cut fruit. I reach for the gleaming coffee pot, but Zacarias gets there first and pours me a steaming cupful. I look in the other direction and don’t say t
hank you. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice that Zacarias puts the coffee pot down and his hand remains clenched around the handle. He can be as annoyed as he likes. I’m ignoring him from now on.
Mama’s long, manicured nails clack softly against the glass screen of her tablet. Finally, she looks up me.
“There’s a ball in Madrid tomorrow night. We’re all going.”
“Good morning to you, too,” I mutter under my breath as I lift my coffee cup to my lips. A ball. I don’t want to go to a ball, I want to get out of here and go to university.
“Be civil to your mother, Lolita,” Zacarias snaps.
I glance at Zacarias and find him regarding me sternly, without a trace of the predatory gleam I saw in his eyes last night. I suppose he daren’t demand I call him daddy or try to choke me in front of Mama.
“Gracias, but I don’t want to go to a ball,” I tell her. It will be a boring, stuffy affair. Mama loves official events and important people. I’ve sat though dozens of dinners with foreign dignitaries, businessmen in toupées and wives who make small talk about their beauty treatments.