Her response comes faster than I expect, the little dots appearing and disappearing twice before her words finally materialize on my screen.
Why?
Because I asked.
A pause.
You need to work on your asking skills.
I smile.
Would you please go up to the pool?
Okay.
I switch to the rooftop camera feed and watch her emerge onto the terrace, her violet hair catching the summer sunlight in a way that makes my chest ache with wanting. She is wearing one of my shirts again, the white cotton hanging to mid-thigh and leaving her legs bare to the warm afternoon air, and the sight of her in my clothes does something primal to the possessive creature that lives inside me.
I text Marta to take the rest of the day off and inform the pool guy he’s not needed today. With that done, I turn my attention back to Persia.
Strip please. Then lay down on the sunning mat beside the water.
The dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.
There are people here.
My jaw tightens with frustration and something darker, something that wants to remind her who she belongs to now.
Do you trust me?
The pause that follows stretches long enough to make my pulse quicken with uncertainty.
Persia.
I don't know.
The honesty of her response hits me harder than I expect, a sharp reminder that trust is not something I can demand or coerce or write into a contract. It has to be earned, and I have done nothing to earn it beyond saving her from one monster by becoming another.
I like your honesty,
I type back, meaning every word.
I like how you touched me last night.
Heat floods through my veins at her admission, and I find myself hardening in my trousers at the memory of her taste on my tongue and the sounds she made when I finally pushed inside her.
Let this be the second instance of our trust building.
There was a first?
You trusted me with your virginity.
Another pause.
Touché. I think I knew you wouldn't hurt me willingly.
I would not. Now do you trust me?
The seconds tick by like hours, each one stretching my patience thinner until her response finally appears.
