I gag, trying to push him away, trying to spit it out, but he’s too strong. He presses his body against mine, pinning me to thechair, and clamps my jaw shut around the liquid, refusing to let me spill a drop.
He holds me there, our mouths fused, the wine trapped between us.
I’m drowning in him.
He strokes my throat with his thumb in a cruel motion.
"Swallow," his body commands.
I can't breathe. My lungs burn for air. The liquid is at the back of my throat, threatening to choke me.
I have no choice.
I convulse, and then I swallow the toxic mixture down. The burn of it slides down my esophagus, carrying the tainted wine straight into my stomach.
Only when he feels my throat work, only when he’s sure I’ve taken it all, does he stop.
But he doesn't pull away.
He releases my jaw, but his mouth stays on mine, and he kisses me.
It’s deep, slow, and devastating. He isn’t kissing me for pleasure; he’s kissing me to prove that he can. He sweeps his tongue through my mouth, tasting the remnants of the wine he forced me to drink, licking the bitterness from my teeth.
It’s a mockery of intimacy.
My head is spinning from the lack of air and the shock of the violation, and yet, traitorously, my body responds to the heat of him.
Finally, he breaks the kiss.
I slump forward, coughing and sputtering, gasping for air. A single drop of red wine escapes my lips and runs down my chin like blood.
"You bastard," I gasp, wiping my mouth with a shaking hand. "You... you poisoned me."
He stands over me, wiping his own mouth with the back of his hand. His eyes are dark, dilated pupils swallowing the blue.
"It’s not poison," he says. "It’s sleep."
He checks his watch.
"It acts fast when dissolved in alcohol. Ten minutes? Maybe twenty before your legs give out."
Panic flares in my chest. I try to stand. The room tilts violently. The alcohol and the shock hit my empty stomach, carrying the drug straight into my blood. The edges of the room begin to swim.
"I need to..." I stumble, gripping the table for support. "I need to go to the bathroom. I need to throw up."
"No," he says, grabbing my arm.
"We have work to do before you nap."
"Work?" I slur. My tongue is thick. Far too thick. "I can't... I need a doctor."
"You don't need a doctor. You need a pen."
He drags me out of the dining room.
My legs are heavy. I stumble, my heels twisting on the floor, dragging as dead weight.
He supports me easily, his arm around my waist.
