Page 297 of Summer Heat
He didn’t mean it, did he? It’s just some stupid, taunting thing he said to get the right picture. And if he did mean it, it’s not like I have to listen to him. He’s a horrible man.
Except I find myself reaching for the sheet even though it’s a warm night. I’m alone in the house with the doors locked. There’s a man outside watching to make sure no one tampers with the electricity again. My dad is asleep, attached to his hospital bed, unable to walk in on me if he woke up.
When you’re in bed, alone. In the dark. Lock the door if you need to.
Still I pull the sheet over my body. The thin layer of fabric is my shield from the fear, from the shame that burns inside me. I want to pretend I never heard his words, to act like they don’t matter.
No one will walk in on you.
Except if I can’t even touch myself, how can I let some man touch me? If I have never had an orgasm, how can I expect some stranger to give me one? He might not give me pleasure, but it would be even worse if he did. I imagine being helpless in the arms of some cold, distant man.
He would own me. I can’t give someone that power over me, not even for money.
I start by touching my breasts because that feels less scary. They’re warm and firm, my nipples already hard from thinking about this. I close my eyes while my fingers toy with my nipples. They are little zings of pleasure, in my breasts, in my core, but not enough. Not enough to come.
Touch yourself and make yourself feel good. You remember how to do that, don’t you?
I never made myself come, but I remember where I liked to rub my body. My palms run across my stomach, down to my panties. I spread my legs, taking deep breaths. The conditioning runs deep with me. There’s already a faint burn, the long-ago memory of chili juice when I tested it against my sex.
For a horrible moment I hear my father’s voice telling me that I’m dirty, that I’m a disgrace. And I realize that it’s not just about some strange man owning me. My father owns me. All these years he’s kept me from my own body.
So is Gabriel giving it back? Or is he taking the reins?
I imagine his golden eyes watching me, knowing and sure. My inner muscles clench in response. There’s something dangerous about him. It’s not only what he did to my family, not only the harm to my father. There’s a threat inherent in him, like a lion stalking his prey. It’s mesmerizing even while it terrifies me.
There’s an ache, a feeling of tightness whenever I think about him. The dark hair long enough to curl at the ends. The jaw shadowed with stubble. The broad shoulders that suit a man of power. My body responds even if my heart shrinks in fear. It’s sickening, but God, so damned welcome. I’m tired of clenching my hands against my impulses, so tired of being ashamed.
My fingers are clumsy as they roam my sex, remembering where to stroke myself, finding the place where a touch feels too rough. I have to circle around it, and a sort of haze lowers over my mind.
Pleasure laps at my skin like gentle waves against the shore. I could do this forever, my finger slowly moving, my hips nudging up slightly. There’s no urgency. Only peace.
Then that strange man’s voice rises, unbidden, from the shadows of my mind.
I suppose if they had you in their beds, taking the money out on your skin, that might make them feel better. It should scare me, but in this sex-drowsed state, with Gabriel fresh in my mind, something else happens. Desire pulses through my body, a drop of liquid lust tickling my skin on its way down.
It’s not hard to imagine him doing something daring. Would he hurt me?
A man like Gabriel Miller would never be gentle. Even his words are sharp. They cut me, leaving my pride in shards at his feet. His eyes slice to the core of me. What would his hands do? His mouth? His cock?
Pressure builds in my sex, and I circle faster and faster. Harder, abusing the small nub of nerves until my body shudders and shakes, mouth open in a silent scream. Liquid spills over my fingers, dampening the fabric of my panties as my sex pulses for eternity.
In the aftermath my muscles feel stiff. Pulling my wet fingers up makes me blush. I rub them furtively on the sheets as if I’ll get caught with them, shiny and sex smelling in the dark.
“What are you doing to me?” I whisper to the hollow room.
I don’t know whether I’m talking to Gabriel or my father. I might as well be asking the question to myself. How could I climax thinking of Gabriel Miller? How could I come imagining being hurt?
CHAPTER EIGHT
The next morning I wake up to ringing of the doorbell. My heart leaps to my throat as I pull on a pair of jeans over my panties and tank top. In the bright light of day I’m more worried about some overzealous bill collector than a hooded man. Real estate bills with arms and legs, standing as tall as a skyscraper, have invaded my dreams. I’m half expecting us to be evicted for some unknown bill before we even get to the auction.
I open the door to a bright-eyed Harper, who’s holding up two steaming cups of coffee. “Good morning, sleepyhead!”
Embarrassment burns my throat like acid. She would have already seen the overgrown state of the yard. As soon as she comes inside, she’ll see the empty rooms where furniture used to be.
Even knowing she’ll find out the truth, I can’t help my joy at seeing her. I’ve been
desperately alone since I came back from college. One by one all Tanglewood friends abandoned me.
