Raising my glass, I echo her words. “Let the game begin.” I take a sip, relishing the taste. “You’ll play white, and white always moves first.”
The game begins with her moving a pawn forward two spaces—the most common opening move. I respond with calculated restraint, advancing my own pawn just one square.
Her brow furrows as she studies the board, clearly trying to remember the rules I’ve just explained. After a moment’s consideration, she moves her knight out.
I purposefully hold back, playing well below the level I’m capable of. I make basic moves, leaving obvious openings that she doesn’t yet recognize.
The flush of pleasure that crosses her face when she captures one of my pawns is worth the minor sacrifice. Her confidencegrows with each move, her body language shifting from tense anxiety to cautious engagement.
The fire crackles and spits as we play, casting dancing shadows across the board and her face. I find myself more interested in reading her expressions than the positions on the board.
The way her eyes narrow when she’s thinking. How she unconsciously touches her bottom lip with her index finger when contemplating a move. The slight parting of her lips when she realizes she’s made a mistake.
But it’s more than that. There’s something in her determination, the way she studies the board with complete focus despite having no real chance of winning. The way she refuses to give up even when the odds are insurmountable.
“Knight to e5,” I suggest when she hesitates over her next move. Our fingers brush as I show her where to place the piece, and I feel her pulse jump beneath my touch.
I could end this game in very few moves. Instead, I draw it out, prolonging our time together. Each piece I take is another excuse to lean into her space.
“Check,” I say, moving my bishop into position. She’s getting better, already recognizing some basic defenses. She’s a quick study.
“Like this?” she asks, moving her king away from danger. Our eyes meet across the board, and something electric passes between us.
“Just like that,” I confirm, my voice low and husky.
As we play, I notice the way her eyes linger on my hands, my throat, the muscles of my chest when I lean forward to move a piece. Each glance sends a pulse of satisfaction through me. She’s not immune to me, despite her fear, despite her situation.
“Your move, Alina,” I remind her when she’s been staring at the board too long.
She looks up, catching me watching her, and the blush returns in full force. “I’m thinking,” she defends.
“Take your time.” I lean back, deliberately stretching to give her a better view. “We have all night.”
The words hang between us, loaded with meaning she clearly understands. Her breath catches, her pupils dilating slightly before she forces her attention back to the game.
Fuck, the things I could do to her. Every time she blushes for no reason at all, I wonder how she’d react if I gave her one. Would she rise to the challenge? Or would she run away and hide in her room?
The fact I don’t know is half the allure. But fuck, what I wouldn’t give to feel her body pressed against me, and see if she’s as responsive everywhere as she is to the slightest brush of my fingers over hers.
“Checkmate,” I say quietly as I slide my knight into position.
I watch her reaction, the slight slump of her shoulders as she realizes there’s no escape for her king. No escape for her.
“That’s it?” she asks, studying the board with a frown. “I’m trapped?”
“Completely.” I lean back, allowing myself to fully observe her.
The defeat shows in the slump of her shoulders, but when she looks up, there’s a determination in her eyes that surprises me.
“That was… educational,” she says, trying to keep her voice light despite the tension thrumming between us. “So, you win. Three questions with complete honesty.”
Taking a moment, I ponder the questions I could ask her. But I don’t want any of the stuff you can find online in two seconds flat. I want to know the stuff that require a conversation to find out. The info that isn’t in the folder compiled about this collateral.
“My first question,” I say, watching her brace herself like she’s expecting a physical blow rather than words. “What are your three biggest dreams in life?”
It’s not what she was expecting. That much is clear from the way her shoulders relax slightly, though wariness still shadows her eyes. I’m not sure what kind of monster she thinks I am, what kinds of questions she was preparing herself to answer, but her relief is palpable.
She shifts on her seat, the blanket still wrapped tightly around her lower half. “My dreams?” she repeats, as if the concept is foreign to her.
