“If you insist,” he agrees as he sweeps his eyes all over my face, my body — or whatever he can see of it — without saying anything else.
I narrow my eyes at him. “Well, what is it?”
He lifts his eyes and a hint of a smirk appears on his full lips. “Nice skirt, by the way.”
My fisted hands in my lap unfurl and rub against the fabric at his words.
Another perk of going to St. Mary’s.
It follows you everywhere.
Like a scarlet — or rather mustard — letter.
Meaning even though we get to go out and be free for a few hours, we’re not really.
Because we’re only supposed to wear our school uniform: white blouse, mustard-colored skirt and knee high socks with black Mary Janes.
Unless it’s visitation week and you’re accompanied by a parent or a guardian.
So everyone you come across on your outing knows who you are. They know that you’re from St. Mary’s, the all-girls reform school in the woods.
“Is this what you wanted to talk about?” I ask.
“I especially like the color,” he goes on as if he didn’t hear me, his eyes on my skirt, the little portion of it that’s hanging off the side of the seat. “Mustard, is it?”
I jerk the fabric toward me, hiding it away from his predator eyes. “Of course you think that. You’re deranged.”
He doesn’t mind the insult though. “Actually, I like the whole get up. That ribbon in your hair. Your knee highs. Those schoolgirl flats.”
This time, his eyes travel down to rest on my legs.
And I feel my skin heat up.
So much so that I have to curl my toes inside my flats and jerk my legs away from his eyes as well.
Especially because Wyn is here.
She’s watching our exchange with wide, fascinated eyes, and now I’m regretting letting her stay. So I go to rectify that but he doesn’t let me.
Looking back at my face, he speaks before I can. “I have to admit. I’ve dreamed about this.”
“Dreamed about what?”
“About you,” he almost rasps. “In your St. Mary’s skirt. In fact, I had one yesterday. Would you like to know what it was about?”
“No,” I snap, fisting my skirt, squirming in my seat.
As if I’d ever believe that he dreamed about me.
As if I ever crossed his mind in the last two years.
He’s only saying these things to make me uncomfortable and I’mthisclose to standing up and walking out.
But then he begins to talk and I can’t move.
Because he leans forward and pins me in my place with his heated gaze. “So in my dream, you have this skirt on. It’s short and pleated and so fucking you, all good girl and innocent. It flutters around your thighs every time you move and it drives me so fucking crazy, watching you walk in that thing, watching you smile and look at me with your big blue eyes, that I ask you to dance for me. I ask you to jump and leap and spin on your toes, and you do it. But it’s not enough. I’m fucking greedy. So I tell you to spin faster. And you do that too. You do it so beautifully, so gloriously, like you were made to do this. Like you were put on this earth just to dance for me whenever I want, wherever I want. So I start to feel guilty.”
Don’t ask.
