I don’t give her time to make a decision. Lifting her in my arms, I take her place in the chair, keeping her firmly in my hold. I don’t know if it’s because she’s only just woken up or because the week in the cell has changed her, but her old tenseness, the spark of rebellion I once read in her eyes, dissolves the moment I touch her. She relaxes in my arms, and though a shiver travels down her back, it doesn’t seem to be from fear. She wriggles just a bit, and between that and the blush in her cheeks, I get the feeling I know exactly what is going on.
Something about the memory of that stapler in my arm makes me want to take my time.
I’d like her to beg for it.
With one hand, I begin to stroke her, up and down her back, in a repetitive, soothing motion. The other slides under the hem of her dress. I bite down on a grin when she arches toward me, her body silently pleading for my touch. But I have no intention of taking anything from her yet. It’s much more enjoyable to watch her squirm.
Instead, my palm avoids her panties, coming to settle over her lower stomach. I allow it to rest there for a while before beginning to stroke her, my fingers kneading into her flesh. Her twitching body tells me my touch is driving her frantic, and I close my eyes for a moment, reveling in that knowledge. She’s mine, and she’s beginning to accept it.
I bury my face in her curls. She’s clean now, the scent of shampoo mingling with the natural fragrance of her skin. My fingers leave her back to stroke her hair and then to flick at her white earlobe.
Her whimper makes me smile. She’s so reactive. Despite my earlier resolution, I feel the urge to mark her. Imprisoning her lobe between my teeth, I tug. The whimper turns into a sharp intake of breath. She wriggles, trying to escape my hold, but I merely bite down, just hard enough to make her uncomfortable. Then I suck at it to ease the burn.
“What are you doing?” she whispers.
I don’t answer right away, instead directing my attention to her creamy white neck. Far too smooth and white. I bite the juncture between her neck and shoulder, deep enough to leave a mark, but not deep enough to break skin. She moves away but my hand digs into her stomach as the other one imprisons her hair in a fist. Trapped in my grasp, she pants hard as I direct my attention to the rest of her neck, leaving a pattern of red that contrasts starkly with her pale skin.
“Are you… are you going to have sex with me?” she blurts out, and I grin again at the sound of her squeaky voice. She talks like a person who isn’t used to talking. Like every word is some great effort. There’s no need for her to speak anyway, I can read those two wide eyes of hers like an open book.
“Do you want me to?” I tease, just like I did the first time she asked the question.
This time, she doesn’t answer. She merely looks at me, and I can see the struggle going on in her violet eyes.
One week is all it took to get her this far. Another week, and she’ll be putty in my hands.
Or maybe not. She’s surprised me before.
Chuckling, I land another kiss on the tip of her nose, then stand up and plop her back down in her seat. I leave the room, closing the door just as her surprised, confused gasp reaches my ears.
Maybe sheisready, after all. Maybe I could have her right now.
No. I can still sense the struggle in her, the confusion. I’ll give her more time. I’ll make her beg.
Anyway, there’s a lot of satisfaction in the wait. The predator, stalking its prey. By the time I make my move, she’ll have no choice but to give in.
9
Seraphina
“Careful, sweetie! Look where you’re going!”
I cry out, fear and thrill tangling in my throat as the beat-up blue bicycle barrels down the hill, the pedals spinning out of control.
Mama had promised me a bicycle for three years, but never managed it before. I’ve spent years falling asleep to dreams of a pretty pink bicycle with a white, flowery basket, and streamers tied to the handles.
On my ninth birthday, it happened at last. I woke up to a battered blue bike, about three sizes too big, its paint so badly chipped it looks more grey than blue.
“I did the best I could,” says Mama defensively, as she notes my deflated gaze.
It’s one thing to not get a bicycle. That would have kept my bicycle dreams intact. But this ugly blue bicycle forces me to accept that the pink, flowery one is forever out of reach.
Still, it’s mine. My one belonging, apart from the two books I own: a Peter Pan storybook and an encyclopedia of animals.
“The brakes! Use the brakes!”
But I don’t want to. There’s something so thrilling about losing all control. I close my eyes, letting the air stream through my hair, and suddenly, I’m toppling over onto the stretch of grass that borders the street.
Tears spill down my cheeks as Mama runs over. I’m not hurt, not really. Well, my knees are skinned, and I’m covered in bruises, but that’s nothing new. I’ve been beaten a lot worse by the Beast and never shed a tear. I don’t understand my reaction right now.
