The Pawn (Endgame #1)(38)

He moves faster, his breath coming ragged. The sound of his need does something inside me, and I feel my inner muscles clench. It’s strange that he can still touch my sex by fucking my mouth.

His roar begins low, almost a rumble. It ends with a sound of ferocity that reverberates through the library. I’m half-drunk on him, my mouth held open for his invasion. I wait for something that must come next—more of that salty flavor.

Instead he pulls back. I only have a moment to register the emptiness of my mouth, the ache in my jaw, before I feel the hot spray on my breasts. He paints my chest, my nipple. One high arc crosses my neck.

Blunt fingers push the come into my skin, rubbing it around. I feel impossibly marked. His. My skin tightens as he moves his seed over it. His, his, his.

His other hand reaches down to my clit, pinching hard. Fire overtakes me, flames licking my skin. I buck against his hand, making incoherent sounds, pleading. It’s too much, too hard. Too good. He doesn’t show any mercy, rubbing my clit with an intensity that wrings me out. My orgasm twists and twists, pulling tighter, until my muscles ache and my mouth is open in a silent scream.





Chapter Nineteen





He carries me upstairs, cradled in his arms like I’m something special. I know that I’m only here because he bid one million dollars. I know that he didn’t come inside me only so that I would remain a virgin. Somehow I still feel safe in his arms, as if the pure force of his will can keep reality at bay. We’re wrapped in something soft and pale, hidden from the world as he draws a bath and helps me inside. When I reach for the soap, he puts my hands on the curved edge of the tub. It’s his square-tipped fingers and calloused palms that cover my body with soap. He cleans every part of me, soothing the abraded skin of my nipples, slipping between the slick folds of my sex. My eyes are only half-open. I’m still lost in that place he sent me when I climaxed, a place of pleasure, of peace.

When he’s done, he helps me step out of the tub. A thick white towel dries me off while I stare at myself in the mirror. How many times have I showered before? How many times have the damp ends of my hair curled against my wet skin? Hundreds, thousands, and yet I look different. Still a virgin—by his definition. Different, though. A woman.

When he places me on the cool lavender sheets, I turn my face into the pillow and close my eyes. I’m expecting him to leave like he did last night.

The bed dips. He comes behind me, his arm slung over my waist, his legs tangling with mine. The heavy down comforter covers us both, and I can’t help the sigh of gratitude.

“Go to sleep,” he says, his voice low.

Something about the way he says it, I know he isn’t going to sleep. So what is he doing here? Holding me? This isn’t part of paid-for sex. It isn’t revenge. Something else has his arm tightening around me, his face pressed into my half-damp hair.

“Thank you,” I whisper.

He stiffens behind me. “Why would you say that?”

“It didn’t hurt.” More than that, it felt amazing. Soul restoring. After months of watching my life crumble around me, he built me back up. If only for a few minutes.

“Christ,” he mutters, his hand clenching and releasing on my arm. “You deserve more than not hurting. Don’t you get that? You deserve more than this.”

I’m not sure I deserved to be sold like cattle, but I didn’t deserve the fancy clothes, the best schools either. Life isn’t about what you deserve, it’s about making the best of what you have. And what I have is a strong, warm man holding me. “Then let me go.”

He laughs softly. “I never claimed to do the right thing.”

Maybe not right. That money would save me, though. Enough to save my father’s house, to pay for his care after this month is over. Maybe enough to send me to college again. Did he think of all that when he spoke his bid aloud? Or had he only been concerned with winning? I’m not sure the distinction even matters, only the result.

I nestle deeper into his arms. “What did your father do? Besides make moonshine?”

“You mean petroleum? I can’t believe you drank that stuff.”

A flush comes to my cheeks as I remember the wild feeling of being drunk. “Was it like one hundred percent alcohol?”

“It was one hundred percent reckless,” he mutters. “You need to keep your defenses up with someone like me. That means staying sober, for starters. Sleeping with a knife under your pillow won’t hurt.”

I remember Candy’s warning. Your mind. Your soul. That’s your leverage.

Of course I hadn’t asked—leverage against what? Maybe she just meant keeping my sanity, my dignity in the face of the auction. That’s what I’d been worried about. Shame. Humiliation. But maybe she meant something worse. Something more treacherous. As if I should be on my guard. As if I’m in danger.

“You put me to bed,” I reminded him. He’d had the perfect chance to hurt me then, when I would have been helpless to fight him, but he hadn’t.

He doesn’t say anything for a moment. “He was a liar. A thief.”

I blink, realizing that he’s telling me something true. Something precious enough that he wouldn’t normally share it. “You hated him.”

“I looked up to him, which was fucking stupid.”