Page 14 of Mating Theory
Chapter Seven
Sutton
Knotted wood and worn-smooth leather. This place is my sanctuary.
The shiny fake satin of her mini skirt looks out of place. Her heels wobble in the thick pile of the carpet. Part of me expects her to sit on the couch, as if I’m going to interview her before fucking her silly. Or maybe she’ll drape herself across the kitchen countertops—a sexual offering. She does neither. Instead she crosses to the metal sculpture mounted across the back wall. A wild horse gallops, its hooves flying, its mane proud in the wind. She runs her hand along the curve of its breast. “It’s beautiful.”
Christ. Horses. With her lithe body and world-weary eyes, she looks all grown up. Then she gets excited about horses, and she could be twelve years old again. It’s a strange dichotomy, one I shouldn’t find alluring. Even as my brain works out the ethical implications, my blood beats with a low, primal beat. Mine. She’s mine. And nothing, not even my own personal morality, will keep her from me.
“Where did you get this?”
I don’t have to answer. An art gallery. Walmart. It doesn’t matter where I got it. She’s a prostitute. Get on your knees. That’s what I should tell her. “I made it.”
Her eyes widen. “You did?”
“It’s nothing. A blowtorch and some scrap metal.”
“What are you talking about? It’s beautiful. I can feel the wind.” She traces the curve of his breast with her fingertip. I can almost feel the caress across my pecs.
Her hand keeps moving, onto the mane.
“They look like flames,” she says.
“Some say the world will end in fire.” It’s a foolish, maudlin thing to say, made even more ridiculous by the fact that she won’t understand. She’ll think I’m a crazy prepper or something, counting down until doomsday.
She glances back at me without missing a beat. “Some say in ice.”
Surprise roots me to the ground. “From what I’ve tasted of desire, I hold with those who favor fire.”
“But if it had to perish twice,” she says, reciting the poem in a melodic voice. It’s a siren song. “I think I know enough of hate, to say that for destruction ice, is also great, and would suffice.”
“You like Robert Frost.”
“I like poetry.” She touches the tip of the mane.
I open my mouth, because the edges are rough there. They’re not polished smooth, not made to be touched. Her breath sucks in. It’s a quiet sound, but I feel it in my bones, that prick of pain. She pulls her hand back. I’m across the room in a few seconds, turning her palm in mine. A small drop of blood forms on her forefinger.
“Hell.”
“It doesn’t hurt,” she whispers.
I should run her hand under water. Probably get Neosporin and a Band-Aid. And then drive her back to the street corner, because what the fuck am I doing here? Instead I dip my head and suck her finger into my mouth, licking away the salt-metal drop. Her eyes are dark pools that reflect the metal horse. When I let go of her, I expect her to back away. To cower in the corner, like I’m some kind of vampire. That’s what I am, in a way. Drinking down her youth and life force. She drops to her knees, slow and graceful, keeping her gaze on mine.
This isn’t the place for it. I should take her into the bedroom, at least. Dark windows watch from every angle, miles of ranchland a witness to what I’m about to do. My cock feels hard as iron in my slacks. She’s probably not even wet beneath that cheap black fabric. I want her too bad to care. I could reach down and finger her until she came, slick and swollen. I could whisper a few dirty words to make her damp.
Instead I put my hand on her head, stroking gently, feeling the shape of her, the impenetrable strength of her. I sift her hair through my hands. It’s a pale straw color, but it doesn’t feel like straw. It feels soft and pliant. Like her.
“You gonna take me in your mouth, sweet thing?” My accent comes out thicker when I’m aroused. It’s thick as goddamn molasses right now.
She nods slowly. “If that’s what you like.”
“There’s no man alive who wouldn’t want that pretty mouth.”
A blush darkens her cheeks. “Should I—?”
She doesn’t finish the question. Her hands go to my belt. She fumbles with the hammered gold clasp and the soft leather. Next she works on the button. The zipper, which curves over the bulge of my erection. She goes slower there, as if careful she might hurt me. I’m hard enough to pound steel. Her gentle hands won’t do a bit of harm. Except those featherlight touches make me grit my teeth. When she tugs at the elastic, so soft, I almost come in my pants. With a grunt of impatience, I push down my briefs. My cock falls heavy against her hand. The back of her fingers feels cool against the iron brand of me. She whimpers in surprise. Or maybe fear.
