Heaven in her Eyes Ch. 01-03

A small keening cry came from her mouth as she stepped into the maelstrom of litter. She felt as if her heart had been shredded as well as her things, reaching down to pick up what was left of a picture of her and her mother, taken the year she'd been murdered. "How could he?" she whispered, holding it to her breast.

"Shanna, you can't be in here," Brandon yelled, trying to urge her back out in the hallway. "I've called the police, they are on their way, but you shouldn't be in here."

He didn't want her to see the mess in the kitchen, the food that had been thrown on the walls, the dishes broken and the small dining room set trashed. He'd checked the bedroom long enough to make sure whoever had done this was long gone, staring at the mess that had been her clothing, now little more than scraps of fabric. It had to have taken hours to so thoroughly destroy her home.

"I should check and see if anything is missing," she said hollowly, looking up at Brandon with eyes that almost seemed bruised.

"There's time for that later, Shanna honey," he said gently, wrapping his arms around her. He rocked her gently, feeling her soft curves against his body. She fit so wonderfully there, resting against him so trustingly.

"My pictures," she said suddenly, pulling away from him. "My albums, in my room," she yelled back, hurrying away from him before he could stop her.

She pushed open the door to her bedroom, what had once been a cheerful room done in white and yellow, now looked as if a tornado had gone through it. She saw her albums, lying on the floor, the pictures strewn about the room, some crumpled, some ripped. Her eyes searched the room, noting every bit of destruction, finally resting upon the bed.

A small whimper escaped her lips, her hands went to her face, as if to cover her eyes. Brandon turned, staring at the bed, his eyes widening.

"Son of a bitch," he breathed.

Chapter Three

The comforter was torn off the mattress, baring flowered cotton sheets that would give any normal guy hay fever. They were brightly colored, the top sheet neatly folded back. On the pillow was a picture, one of Shanna at her own high school graduation. Brandon could see her in her cap and gown, holding up the rolled diploma with a celebratory fist. She looked so young, actually not much older than she looked now, though Brandon knew she was no little girl.

In the center of the picture, almost cutting it in half was a dagger.

Shanna shook her head, her eyes huge, backing away from this last straw in her camel's back. Her arms went around her and she hugged herself tightly, feeling as if she were falling apart, unable to look at anything but the end of that dagger sticking out of the picture of her.

Brandon saw the rest of the scene. He saw the red rose petals, the pale green silk night gown, and especially the white stains that seemed to go across all of it, as if the guy who'd done this had stood on top of the mattress, his legs spread, jerking off to the picture of Shanna.

"Come on, let's get out of here. We're going to want to let the police do what they have to do to find him," he said quietly, walking over to her and rubbing his hand up her arm.

The look she gave him was one of utter defeat, a look that he knew too well, having seen the expression on his own face. It was the look of having that one thing too many thrust upon you and not knowing quite how to deal with it. Slowly, he wrapped his arms around her, his hand going to the back of her head, pressing it against his shoulder.

"It's okay, baby, we'll figure this out," he crooned to her, rocking slightly. At first she was so stiff, it was like holding a wooden board. But then her arms came around him and she grabbed him fiercely, holding on as if he were the only sure thing in her world.

He let her cling, stroking his big hand through the length of her black hair. It felt like softly spun silk against his palm. Her body was warm, her breasts pressing into him, reminding him of those dreams. He felt his body harden, his cock pressing against his zipper and cursed himself silently. She didn't need him coming on to her like some kind of cave man, not now.

Shanna lifted her head, feeling his body tense against hers. He'd been wonderful, holding her, caring about her, his hand in her hair had felt so loving, a feeling she hadn't known much of since her parents deaths. Her pale amber eyes met his, held to his and suddenly she forgot how to breathe.

The expression in that glittering emerald gaze was pure heat. It scorched her with its power, holding her helpless against him. Whatever she'd been about to say was lost, forgotten in the pure wonder of what just those eyes made her feel.

Brandon felt like a man possessed, his head bending slowly, unable to stop himself from finding those lips that he'd dreamed of every night, of kissing them, satiating himself with her taste, her texture. Softer than the beat of a butterfly's wings, he settled his mouth against hers, his lips clinging moistly. He pulled back slightly, his hand coming to her cheek, his eyes meeting hers once more.

What he saw in that amber gaze made him groan, his mouth swooping down to capture hers, sliding seamlessly against hers, his tongue slipping out to caress her lips, coax her into opening her mouth. She let him in, holding onto him as the power of his kiss turned her knees to mush and her brain to oatmeal, making her forget everything but him.

He smelled of soap and some spicy aftershave that sizzled her senses. He tasted of banana and dark rich sin that was better than even the richest of chocolates.

His lips were hot, soft against her even as he kissed her with ever growing fervor.

Brandon spun her around, pressing her against the wall of the bedroom, his hands urgent as they roamed over her soft curves and the deep indentation of her waist, his mouth taking and giving pleasure with almost fanatical ardor. He couldn't seem to get enough of her, couldn't be close enough. He wanted to feel her skin, to taste it with his lips and his tongue. He wanted to sink into her body and make her his, loving her until she couldn't remember anything but him.

His hand tugged at the short white blouse she wore, pulling it from the waistband of her skirt, his fingers sliding under and pressing hotly against the soft skin of her stomach.

She sucked in her breath, her muscles tightening under the pleasure of his fingers as they moved across her skin, touching her in ways her husband or the myriad of other men he'd forced her to pleasure ever had. He touched her as if he wanted her to feel good, wanted to make her experience the same peak he did. It startled her, even as his fingers crept up to her breast, cupping the large mound in his palm. She was pushing away from him, pulling his hand away from her body, turning away from him.

"I...I can't, Brandon. I...I j...just can't," she whispered.

"What?" he groaned, his voice sounding faraway to him, as if he were waking from a dream. He looked down at her, seeing her swollen lips, swollen from his kisses, her eyes that seemed stunned, almost as stunned as he felt. He fought the urging of his body that wanted to demand that he continue, demand that he find out if what was under those business clothes was as beautiful as what he remembered from seeing her in that tiny gold shift at Sebastian's estate.

His hands clenched into fists and he stepped back away from her, doing nothing to hide the lurid proof of his desire for her.

Shanna's eyes dropped to his groin, growing wide as she saw how big a bulge strained there. Her hand came to her lips, trembling against those lush, swollen morsels. Then her golden gaze was meeting the heat in his steamy jade eyes, hers shy and a little afraid, his full of his desire for her.

"I won't lie to you, Shanna. I want you, I have since I saw you in Sebastian's mansion." He ran one shaking hand through the length of his dark hair, scooping it back from his forehead as he let out a long sigh. "But I won't force you, no matter how much my body might want me to. The next move is yours, Shanna."

"N...next move?" she asked, her eyes caught in his gaze like a deer in a car's headlights. She felt something like that deer, caught, held by a force that was so powerful, ready to barrel into her and destroy her.

"If you want me, if you want to be in my bed, Shanna, you'll have to let me know." He turned, staring around the room. "I don't think there's anything you can salvage here to wear," he said.

Shanna heard them then, the police who'd come into the open doorway, standing and staring at the destruction that surrounded the couple. "N...no, I think he's ruined everything," she said, knowing in her heart she meant more than the clothing.

Jackson Clinton had seemed like such a loving, wonderful man, teasing her out of her shyness, helping her to find herself under the overly protective shell her brothers had cocooned her in. He'd been smart, funny, with an engaging wit that he had always seemed ready to turn back on himself. He made it seem as if her failings were his at first, as if he were at fault when she wasn't quite sure, or quick enough to grasp the concept of whatever he was telling her about.

They'd hidden their relationship, for Jackson was in his twenties, in his final year in college when he'd notice the shy girl at a football game. Her brother, Aaron was playing and she was rooting him on when Jackson stepped up next to her.

He'd been like a Greek god with his swarthy good looks and wide shoulders. He'd had all the girls tittering about him, and here he was, talking to her. He was kind, gentle, speaking to her softly, asking questions about her and coaxing her into opening up. By the time halftime was over, Shanna was already head over heels for Jackson Clinton.

When he asked for her phone number, she'd been reluctant to give it, knowing her brothers and how they would screen her calls, refusing to allow her to date a man so much older than her. Instead, he gave her his and set up a time that she could call him.

It had taken every bit of courage she had, but she'd made that call. He'd answered on the first ring, as if he'd been as anxious to hear from her. He made her laugh, he made her blush with his compliments, he made her soar because he said he was falling for her.

She'd been such a fool.

After high school graduation, she'd told her brothers about him. They reacted predictably, Dillon grounding her to the house, Aaron playing the mediator between the two, cautioning her hot tempered brother Dillon. It hadn't helped;

Dillon had met Jackson, at Aaron's urgings and had hated him, telling them both that their relationship was over.

Shanna had been heartbroken. For the first time since their parents died, she argued with Dillon, fighting for her right to have her own life. Stubborn Dillon, she thought now. He always did know what was best even when she'd been too stupid to realize it.

So she'd done the next best thing. She ran away. Jackson had picked her up, they'd driven to a dress store and he'd bought her the wedding dress of her dreams, going next to a Justice of the Peace where they'd spoken their vows in front of the JOP's wife and a friend of Jackson's who'd come with them just for that reason.

The next nine years had been hell. A hell of her own making as far as Jackson was concerned. She should have been more supportive, she should have been willing to do whatever was necessary to help her husband get ahead. He was on the political fast track, one of the youngest Senators in history. She should be willing to do whatever he needed her to do to further his political career. He was going to be President someday. Did she want to be the first lady?

All the while, he would use her body as he wished, not caring how badly he hurt her or how tightly he tied her up. It was up to her to hide the bruises and the rope burns, to explain away the limps and the sprains. He put her on birth control, denying her the large family she'd always dreamed of having, soothing her with little gifts and phrases such as, in the next couple years or as soon as he made it past this plateau.

Her first night with him had been horrible, the beautiful gown ripped from her body, she'd been thrown to the bed. Protesting and pleading, she'd lain under his thrusting body as the veil of her innocence was rudely ripped from her by his savage thrusts. He'd squeezed her breasts as if they were fruit, mauling her skin, slapping her thighs.

When he was done, she laid where he left her, her eyes dead of any kind of emotion. Her legs were still open, his semen slowly oozing, mixed with a pink tinge of her virgin's blood. She'd looked like a broken doll, her make up smeared over her face, what was left of the sexy white lingerie she'd worn under the dress hanging from her body.

He'd sneered at her, laughed at her, and then dressed himself, not bothering to wash the blood from his cock before shoving it into a pair of briefs. He'd left her then, going down to the lounge to find "more pleasing partners," leaving her to finally roll on her side, crying for all her lost dreams.

If she'd been smart, she'd have left him that night, dressed and walked back to her brothers, told them how foolish she'd been and gotten their help. But she couldn't.

She couldn't admit to her mistake, she couldn't face her brothers, not now, not after the things that he'd done to her.

Perhaps Jackson had expected her to, she didn't know. She did know that when he came back to their room the next morning smelling of alcohol and reeking of cheap perfume, he'd been surprised to see her.

They'd started their lives together that morning, going to his parents to announce their marriage. They were cold people who stared at her plain clothing and unsophisticated style and looked down their noses at her. His father had plans for Jackson, had started him towards those plans the day he passed the Bar. Shanna would have to keep up or get left behind.

She'd done her best, keeping the house clean, hosting parties though at first she was tongue tied anytime any one talked to her. People nicknamed her as Jackson's mousy little wife and no one of any consequences, evidenced by his willingness to be seen in public with beautiful women, models and actresses, all having what she didn't. Grace, social aptitude, long legs, these came easily with the women Jackson surrounded himself with.

The first time Jackson had demanded she get down on her knees and give him a blowjob in front of a few of his buddies, she'd been shocked, at first thinking he was kidding. Until he slapped her, knocking her to the floor, then dragging her up by her hair to kneel in front of him. He'd forced her to pleasure him there, laughing as she sobbed around his cock, mortified as he reached out, pulling down her shirt and exposing her breasts to his friends.

"This is why I keep her around," he'd said to his friends. "She can suck a golf ball through a straw."

Shanna would never forget those words or the way those men treated her from then on. She wasn't safe from them anywhere. They'd trap her in corners, their hands wandering where they will, pulling and groping over her shrinking flesh. If Jackson had come upon them, he would laugh, patting his friend upon the back before pulling her away.

They whispered their obscenities, promised to find her sometime when Jackson wasn't around to stop them. She lost weight and couldn't sleep, her eyes growing almost bruised looking. She grew pale and pallid until Jackson sent her to their country home in Virginia to recuperate.

He didn't mourn her loss but she greeted that freedom with open arms. She took long walks, relaxing without Jackson and his friends no longer around to torture her. She read, whatever took her fancy at the time, books on philosophy, on politics, and even some steamy romance novels. She dreamed, dreams of freedom, dreams of family and never having to look over her shoulder.

She blossomed, her cheeks radiating a rosy tone of good health, her body becoming fit and healthy. She could have stayed there forever. Until Jackson sent for her, then her dreams and her fantasies came tumbling down. She so wanted to say no, to refuse to return to that horrid apartment and his horrid friends.

Instead, she packed, returning to her husband's side as he ran for Senator, hosting his parties with a new sense of self that she hadn't had before. She had learned to talk to the people that worked with and for her husband, to play the part of happy campaigning wife. But everyday she grew to dread her life more, from the moment she would hear his footsteps on the steps outside her room until they would pass by, she would hold her breath, praying that tonight he wouldn't be interested in her.

She prayed that he would find her boring if she lay underneath him, suffering his cruel and punishing hands, shrinking from his probing and pinching fingers. She suffered his kisses, hating every moment of his tongue pushing into her mouth, wiggling inside like some kind of thick worm. She found no pleasure in the thrusting of his body, or the burning and tearing that happened when he forced himself into her dry sex. She endured, squeezing her eyes tightly closed and counting the seconds until he would grunt over her, holding on to her shoulders and pulling her tightly against him, shooting his seed inside of her.

There were no soft words, or tender embraces, no romance or heated passionate glances between her and Jackson. There was no love, no comfort or even conversation. She was a prop, one he made use of the best way he could to further himself.

The final straw had come one night after one of his "meetings" at their apartment. Most of the people had left, it was late and Jackson was in his den. She could smell his cigar smoke and hear the clink of glasses, as well as the lowered voices of men behind the doors.

It was her duty to stay, to be available should one of their guests require anything, to be there to show them to the door at the end of every affair that Jackson hosted, be it a gala or just his weekly meetings. She'd taken to sitting on the living room sofa, where she could see the door of his den and know when it would open, giving her plenty of time to be in position to wish the departing guest a pleasant evening and call for their car to be brought around.

That night, Jackson had opened the door, calling her into his study. She'd rose from the sofa, nervous at this change. Smoothing down her skirt, she walked towards her husband, every hair in place, not a run in her stocking, her makeup immaculate.

He'd introduced her to his guests, ever the charming host. Then he had uttered the words that still sent a shiver of horror down her spine. "Our guests would like to see you naked, my dear. Strip for them."

She'd tried to run, willing to deal with any beating, any abuse her husband could dish out. But he was too fast. He'd forced her to strip, then forced her to service those three men, feeling his eyes on her as they had raped her body.

When it was done, when they left her lying in the den, her body bruised and oozing their hideous sperm, she knew she couldn't do it anymore. She couldn't live this life no matter what her family said. She couldn't stay with a man who would whore her out. Even now, the pain of the things they had done sent chills through her, making her feel nauseous, making her feel dirty and unworthy.

So she'd crawled to her room, taking the hottest shower she could stand, scrubbing her body until she felt raw. She'd brushed her teeth, using almost half a bottle of mouth wash, desperately trying to get the taste of them out of her mouth, the feel of them off of her skin and out of her body. She made her plans.

She'd gotten away, sneaking out after he left for work, running away with very little. Some money she'd managed to squirrel away, a few of the cheaper bits of jewelry, the more expensive was kept in a safety deposit box, which she couldn't get to.