The Pawn (Endgame #1)(48)

When I break the surface, Gabriel has collapsed on top of me. He pants into my hair, muttering, “Jesus. Jesus.”

My hands are fists against the leather, which is slick with our sweat. The smell of sex scents the air, like ocean water and dark spice. We remain molded together like clay, breathing together, coming back to life together.

He pushes up and uses something—a handkerchief?—to wipe his come from my legs. Even when I stand, I can feel the hardening residue of him there. I’m marked.

There’s only a few frantic seconds to pull up my panties and push down my skirt.

Then he’s opening the door.

I emerge like some newborn deer, unsteady on my legs, blinking at the blinding sun after being in the womb. I would have collapsed on that thin magenta carpet except for his hand around my waist, his other under my elbow.

We pass a man, and I duck my head, trying not to meet his eyes.

Until I hear his voice sounding strangely familiar. “Well, Gabriel. Look at you making good use of your purchase.”

I look up to see the gray-haired man who’d had a beautiful blonde on his arm at the auction. Today it’s a different woman, this one with glossy auburn hair. How many different women does he buy? He smiles at me, knowing and cruel. Shame curdles my stomach.

“Evening,” Gabriel says, guiding me past him up the stairs.

The show has already started. They shouldn’t even let us into the theater now. It’s against the rules. But of course this is Gabriel Miller. He owns a box. An usher opens the door and gives a polite smile, as if we aren’t disheveled and panting, smelling of sex as we stumble into the space.

I take my seat as quickly as possible, but there’s no avoiding the stares and whispers. They interrupt the lovely ballroom dance that’s happening onstage. I stare at the whirling people, the oversize decorum as if I have no idea that everyone’s talking about us.

Finally I chance a glance at Gabriel. He’s leaning back in his seat, slouched like a king surveying his subjects. He looks satisfied but still dangerous. A lion in the jungle. Anyone who looks at him like this would know that he just had sex. Maybe not literal sex, but close enough.

But then they’d know that from just looking at me. A little bird in a gilded cage.

Why keep one except to hear her sing?





Chapter Twenty-Six





My hair is still wet.

I’ve only been in bed a few hours. Of course I showered as soon as we got home from the theater, the water scalding, scrubbing the place on my thighs where his come had been. There’s no trace of him, but I can still feel the warm spurts, the throb of intense pleasure that he triggered with his come.

Maybe I wouldn’t feel so dirty if he’d just taken my virginity the first night. Regular sex, right away. Even coming on me, as sharp and intimate as it is, I could have withstood.

It’s the orgasms he forces from my body that feel like a violation.

That’s how I find myself getting out of bed at two a.m., twisting the knob all the way to HOT. I stand under the spray for seconds, minute, hours. There’s no need for soap, not the physical kind. I just need to forget his fingers around my clit, his breath at the back of my neck.

The hot water heater in this massive house lasts a long time, but it eventually gives up on me. Or maybe it just doesn’t want to watch it go down the drain. This isn’t going to help, the cold water says, stinging my skin. I stand there for as long as I can take, until my teeth are chattering and every part of my skin has pebbled.

Eventually I step out of the shower onto the warm tile. God, even the bathroom tile has warmers. Everything in this place is perfectly modulated for the comfort of the master. For the comfort of Gabriel Miller.

I turn off the shower and dry myself off. A strange sound comes from the room. My hair prickles not from cold but from warning. Animal instinct, the opposite of Gabriel’s hands on my sides.

Wrapping the towel tight around me, I peek out the bathroom door.

Nothing.

Maybe I imagined it, just like I imagined the feel of Gabriel’s come on my thighs when it had already been washed off, just like I can still hear the whispers and feel the stares of the entire theater.

Then I hear it again, a knocking sound. Not from the door. From the other side of the room. The window. Pale face. Dark eyes. Someone looking inside my window.

I let out a shriek before recognition can slow my heartbeat. God.

Then I’m across the room, shoving open the window, whispering desperately, “Justin! What are you doing here?”

“I’m getting you out of here,” he says, his voice grim. He looks different than the last time I saw him. He was never fat, but he’d had the rounded cheeks of a boy who had never had to work very hard. Even sailing hadn’t made him lean.

Now he looks more gaunt, his eyes shadowed.

“Through the window? This is crazy.”

His eyes flash. “What’s crazy is putting yourself up for auction.”

His gaze flickers down my body, and I become painfully aware of how little the white towel covers. It hadn’t mattered when I thought I was alone in my room. Now he can see the tops of my breasts and most of my legs.

“Please,” I say, though I don’t know why I’m pleading. For him to leave? For him to understand? He’ll never understand. “I didn’t have a choice.”