Page 342 of Summer Heat
He laughs, leaving the door open as he strides back into the room. That’s when I realize that he’s drunk. There’s a bottle on the table by his fireplace. I recognize the fading ink, the clear liquid. Moonshine.
I follow him inside and shut the door behind us.
He lifts a half-empty glass in mock salute. “Want some?”
“Maybe it’s best if one of us stays sober.”
His throat moves as he takes a large swallow. “I’m not that drunk. Not too drunk to get it up, if that’s what you came here for.”
I blink. It takes me one, two, three seconds to figure out what he means by it and up. It’s embarrassing that I didn’t know there is a too drunk for sex. “Good.”
A rough laugh. “Oh, little virgin. You’re so delicious. Do you know that?”
My cheeks heat, and I turn away. “Not for much longer.”
There’s a soft clink that must be him setting down his glass. A stir of air as he comes close. The faintest brush of the back of his fingers against my cheek. “You’ll always be delicious.”
I meet his gaze. “But not a virgin.”
“No,” he says, considering. “I don’t think you’ll be one for very long. Did you come to make a trade? A favorable exchange?”
“I don’t have anything left to bargain with.” He’s taken my body in every way but this. And he’s taken what I swore never to give him: my mind, my soul. The ball of string that would have shown me the way out. There’s nothing left.
He pulls something from his pocket, examining it. The pale wood gleams in the firelight. A pawn. He must have brought it from downstairs. I remember the shape of it, the smooth surface beneath my fingertips.
“So small,” he says, voice thick. “Why can’t I let you go?”
He must be drunker than he thinks if he’s talking to a piece of carved wood. Unless he means me. “I’m right here.”
His golden gaze focuses on me. “Yes, little virgin. Will you undress for me? Will you open your legs? Let me fuck you until you bleed like a goddamn martyr?”
A tremble begins from deep in my chest, spreading outward to my limbs. “I know you can make it good for me.”
“You don’t want good,” he says as if the word itself is filthy. “You want to be fucked. That’s why you came here. Say it.”
My voice is a whisper. “I came here to be fucked.”
He points to the bed. “Sit.”
I sit on the edge of the bed, realizing only when my feet dangle that it’s so tall. I feel small and helpless, which was probably the point. On edge. Definitely the point.
That’s when I realize what he’s doing. I made the first move. He could have matched me, but that would have been too easy. Instead he moves the game in a different direction, expands the circle of our battle. The Sicilian Defense. It’s what he did with the auction, and it’s what he’s doing now.
He comes to stand in front of me, his large hand toying with the ruffles of my nightgown. “What is this?”
I bite my lip, embarrassed. “My other pajamas have…well, pictures. Unicorns. Rainbows.” I’m not really that childlike, but they were funny. Playful. This nightgown is a pale cream with a small pink bow at the neck. Too modest to seduce anyone, but better than monkeys in sunglasses.
He studies the ruffles as if he’s never seen them before. They may as well be a new move in chess theory for how much they take his concentration—the little flurry of fabric, the inch of thigh underneath. “You hurt me, you know.”
“What?”
“Whenever I think about you, I hurt.” He puts a hand to his chest. “Here.”
For a second I think he might be mocking me, like the men in the auction did. It’s a cold splash of water on arousal that shouldn’t be there. But he looks deadly serious.
And he always tells the truth.
“That’s the moonshine talking,” I say, pressing my knees together.
