Confusion makes the brain work harder. Confidence makes it lazy.
“I’m a psychology grad student… But I did do competitive dance up until last year, so you’re partially correct.”
The words come smooth, spoken with confidence almost as exact as Sawyer’s. I can’t see his face, but I listen for a pause, for a sign of scrutiny, like his ears pick up lies as well as his tongue can fling them.
He responds immediately.
“Fuckin’ knew it,” he says, obviously pleased with himself. “I’m surprised about your major, though… I would’ve guessed business.”
I snort. “Why?”
“Because…” He smooths his palm all the way down my arm until he grasps my hand. He draws it from the water to rest on the side of the tub, our fingers intertwined. “My major was business. And you and I have a lot in common. Like…”
My blood cools as Sawyer rubs the pad of his finger over the naked patch of skin where my ring should be. In five years, I’ve only removed it a handful of times, but now it’s just… gone. And he isn’t even hiding the fact that he stole it.
“We have the same favorite book.”
I try to pull my hand from his, but he locks me in place with a tight squeeze. “You don’t know my favorite book.”
“You have a replica of Dickie’s ring.The Talented Mr. Ripleyis at least in your top five.”
My bottom slides along slick porcelain as I sink an inch, my shoulders angling forward. Not enough movement for a normal person to register the discomfort, but Sawyer is so far from normal.
Somehow, I feel even more naked. More seen.
“You recognize it?”
Sawyer kisses the side of my head, his lips spreading with a smile. “I almost didn’t, which would’ve been a damn shame.The Talented Mr. Ripleyis like my bible.”
“Your manifesto, you mean.”
He laughs, three short puffs of air assaulting my scalp. The laugh isn’t mocking or derisive orat me—but genuine. Like we’re sharing a joke.
It’s wrong, and yet, one corner of my lip tugs. When I notice it, I frown.
Over one hundred women, Luna. This man convinced over one hundred women that he was in love with them. He had their brains so warped that when he sold their bodies, they were grateful.
He does not share your favorite book, nor does he find you attractive.
“You’re a smart girl,” he says, lips finding my ear. “I bet you’re at the top of your class.”
“How flattering.”
Long locks tickle my chest as he sweeps the hair off my shoulder. Kisses my neck with electric lips. “Do you think I’m bullshitting?”
“I think you haven’t lived an honest day in your life.”
With a light chuckle, he kisses his way up my ear. The sensation is sharp, unwelcoming, warm—but dulls to nothing as his hand cups my breast.
When I inhale sharply, my chest lifts regrettably deeper into his palm. He lifts the tender flesh, balancing the weight in his hand before squeezing.
My hand flinches to secure his wrist, but halfway there, the belt slashes into my mind. I’m breathless. Pleading. Stilling through orgasm after orgasm.
What if this is a test?
“You aren’t wrong… But you aren’t right either. I can tell a lot about a person by looking at them.”
Tucking my hands beneath my thighs, I hold still. When he drops my breast, I bite my tongue against the jiggle of tissue as it settles back into place.
