Twisted Together

Tess was my complete circle. She was my home. My refuge. My best friend and partner. We’d found each other not just for this lifetime but forever.

My beast purred. My monster stretched.

I’ve been tamed.

And I f**king loved it.

I came.

Fucking came in rhythmic pulses. Splashing Tess with everything I had to give.

Wave after wave of thick, painful release shot from my balls. It ricocheted down my legs to my toes, building intensity before crashing from my body into my wife.

My wife.

I came hard and deep into the woman I’d married.

The woman I’d claimed.

The woman who would always be mine.

Epilogue

The crown to my throne.

YOU ARE MY HOME

I’d never been prouder.

Q. My master, husband, protector, and friend strode across the stage to shake hands with the prime minster of France. With a cool, professional smile, Q accepted the scroll, concentrating on whatever the prime minster said in his ear.

Holy hell, he’s handsome.

Suzette squeezed my hand. “I always hoped he’d be recognised for everything he’s done. Everything he’s kept hidden.”

I bowed my head toward hers, mixing my blonde with her mahogany. “I doubt he wants this much spotlight, though.”

Every time we went out in public, my instincts were on high alert. I’d learned to trust them—speaking my mind if I wanted more security, or asking Franco to do an extra background check on an association.

I would never let anyone take Q away from me again. I’d meant my vows and spent every day upholding them.

Suzette laughed. Franco poked her side, pointing at the stage where Q disengaged from the prime minister, heading toward the podium and microphone. “Pay attention.” His voice was harsh, but he winked. “That’s our boss up there.”

Your boss. My master.

I shifted in my seat, happily remembering just who my master was thanks to the ache between my legs.

Suzette sighed, her lips playing with a grin. I didn’t know what was going on with them—if anything—but whatever it was, they kept it a well-hidden secret.

Frederick and Angelique caught my eye across the aisle, giving me a warm smile. I returned the greeting, mentally reminding myself to check on the menu with Mrs. Sucre for their bi-weekly visit.

My eyes returned to the stage where Q stood tall and proud. No bruises marked his face anymore. His legs were a crisscross of silver scars from Lynx, the bullet-hole in his thigh healed to match the one in his bicep, and all check-ups on his heart were clear.

He’d been lucky.

I’d been lucky.

The honeymoon in Seychelles came back. The sun. The moonlight swims. The sex. God, the sex. Tame, soft, and slow. Angry, abusive, and fast. Q had evolved into a lover who read me so well. Giving me pain when I wanted it. Giving me pleasure when I needed it.

Q cleared his throat, scanning the crowd. His pale eyes latched onto mine. His lips curled into an affectionate smile before disappearing into aloof businessman.

My heart beat heavily with love. He looked distinguished and delectable in a graphite suit and sea-green shirt. He’d forgone a tie in favour of revealing a small piece of tanned skin—the exact place I kissed last night while he slid inside me.

The click of camera lenses sounded like a lightning storm behind me, illumination flashing like tiny fireflies. The hive of reporter’s voices itched across my skin. I still hadn’t warmed to being in the public eye—but they came with the package now.

Everyone wanted a piece of Q…and me. And he’d finally agreed to let them in.

I’d taken my place completely beside him—becoming the face of Feathers of Hope officially three months ago. The invitations to events, fundraisers, and interviews never ceased. I feared we’d drown in an avalanche of attention.

This ceremony was a small gathering—only twenty or so members of parliament, and people who’d had direct contact with Q in his endeavours—such as the doctors who’d been with him from the start, therapists, and police chiefs.

The next part was for the world.

That part scared me. Our private existence was about to be gossip and tabloids. We would lose all anonymity. Q would be thrust into more fame than he already had from Moineau Holdings, and the unauthorized stories written about him coming to find me.

The cameras flashed harder as Q held out his hand, beckoning to me.

“What is he doing?” I murmured, slinking further into my chair. Today was about him, not me. I would never get used to being in the spotlight. I’d gone from a small town Australian girl to a married billionairess, who stood beside her husband by day and submitted to her monstrous master by night.

My brand had been on magazines around the world—the woman who scarred herself for love. I was proud to show Q’s mark—it was the other intimate ones I didn’t want them to see. The bite marks on my inner thighs. The wax burns on my br**sts. Even though life swept us swiftly with its current, Q still found time to tie me in Shibari and broaden my horizons on what my body could feel.

Franco laughed. “You didn’t expect him to open up his life to complete strangers without having back-up did you?” He grabbed my elbow, forcing me to stand. “Go on. Be his back-up. He doesn’t need me this time.”

Franco’s injuries had healed well. His thumb was in the process of undergoing regular surgery to equip his brain receptors to accept the trial robotic. He’d be one of the first in the world to have one—top of the line—a thousand times better than a real digit.

I fought his hold. “Wait. He doesn’t want me. I can’t wave a gun at anyone and tell them to back off. You go do it.”

Franco chuckled. “Words are needed here, Tess. Not bullets. Now go.” He shoved me, stumbling into the aisle.

Damn egotistical ass. I’d have him fired.

Suzette giggled. “I don’t think the prime minster would appreciate bullets.” Her eyes flickered to Q, whose face had darkened with growing annoyance. “You better get up there before he loses it.”

Holy hell. I wasn’t ready for this.

Tucking a curl behind my ear, I second guessed my outfit—worrying I’d come across as a young idiotic woman who had no right to be on Q’s arm. My hair was a messy tangle of curls—Q hadn’t exactly left them sleek and blow-dried fresh after getting carried away in the limo.

We’d been married for six months and our need for each other grew more insane rather than depleting. Who knew how many household items could be used in play? Who knew how much love my heart could contain when he adored me so sweetly? Who knew how many different tears I could shed when he let himself free?