The Pawn (Endgame #1)(54)

I blink. It takes me one, two, three seconds to figure out what he means by it and up. It’s embarrassing that I didn’t know there is a too drunk for sex. “Good.”

A rough laugh. “Oh, little virgin. You’re so delicious. Do you know that?”

My cheeks heat, and I turn away. “Not for much longer.”

There’s a soft clink that must be him setting down his glass. A stir of air as he comes close. The faintest brush of the back of his fingers against my cheek. “You’ll always be delicious.”

I meet his gaze. “But not a virgin.”

“No,” he says, considering. “I don’t think you’ll be one for very long. Did you come to make a trade? A favorable exchange?”

“I don’t have anything left to bargain with.” He’s taken my body in every way but this. And he’s taken what I swore never to give him: my mind, my soul. The ball of string that would have shown me the way out. There’s nothing left.

He pulls something from his pocket, examining it. The pale wood gleams in the firelight. A pawn. He must have brought it from downstairs. I remember the shape of it, the smooth surface beneath my fingertips.

“So small,” he says, voice thick. “Why can’t I let you go?”

He must be drunker than he thinks if he’s talking to a piece of carved wood. Unless he means me. “I’m right here.”

His golden gaze focuses on me. “Yes, little virgin. Will you undress for me? Will you open your legs? Let me fuck you until you bleed like a goddamn martyr?”

A tremble begins from deep in my chest, spreading outward to my limbs. “I know you can make it good for me.”

“You don’t want good,” he says as if the word itself is filthy. “You want to be fucked. That’s why you came here. Say it.”

My voice is a whisper. “I came here to be fucked.”

He points to the bed. “Sit.”

I sit on the edge of the bed, realizing only when my feet dangle that it’s so tall. I feel small and helpless, which was probably the point. On edge. Definitely the point.

That’s when I realize what he’s doing. I made the first move. He could have matched me, but that would have been too easy. Instead he moves the game in a different direction, expands the circle of our battle. The Sicilian Defense. It’s what he did with the auction, and it’s what he’s doing now.

He comes to stand in front of me, his large hand toying with the ruffles of my nightgown. “What is this?”

I bite my lip, embarrassed. “My other pajamas have…well, pictures. Unicorns. Rainbows.” I’m not really that childlike, but they were funny. Playful. This nightgown is a pale cream with a small pink bow at the neck. Too modest to seduce anyone, but better than monkeys in sunglasses.

He studies the ruffles as if he’s never seen them before. They may as well be a new move in chess theory for how much they take his concentration—the little flurry of fabric, the inch of thigh underneath. “You hurt me, you know.”

“What?”

“Whenever I think about you, I hurt.” He puts a hand to his chest. “Here.”

For a second I think he might be mocking me, like the men in the auction did. It’s a cold splash of water on arousal that shouldn’t be there. But he looks deadly serious.

And he always tells the truth.

“That’s the moonshine talking,” I say, pressing my knees together.

He draws a line down my legs, where they touch. “This is the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.”

Not my breasts or my ass. It’s the seam of my legs, the line that keeps him out.

He wants a chess game. That’s why he bought me. That’s why he waited to take my virginity. I don’t know whether the other men wanted my body or my soul, but this man—he wants the challenge.

I look away because it’s scarier to play the game. Don’t fight him, oppose him. Make him desperate for more. That’s what Candy told me. I remember the knowing look in her eyes, the challenge. She knew how much harder this would be, to participate instead of fighting. To try to win knowing I’ll most likely lose.

I want to be the martyr, like he said. I need that, because it’s the only way I can hate him. Make me bleed. Make me cry. I’d despise him in pure righteous fury.

It’s the kindness I can’t trust.

His thumb turns my chin to face him. “Little virgin.”

“Gabriel.”

“Spread your legs.”

My heart pounds. “Make me.”

There’s that pawn again. He rubs his finger over it in a way that shouldn’t be sensual but is. Again and again, until the smooth curved head seems like a place on my body. Until every stroke of his thumb makes me clench. “Don’t you want this?” he murmurs.

It would be easy for him to push his hand between my legs, to spread them for me. I couldn’t stop him. I wouldn’t try. He wants me to give in, though. He wants to line up his pieces, prepared to strike. And then he wants me to move my queen into jeopardy, because he asks.

“No.”

He laughs softly, considering the rounded head of the pawn. “Such a small thing. But powerful. Don’t you think?”

His tongue swipes his thumb, which he uses on the pawn again. It glistens with his saliva. Then he does something obscene, something shocking—he puts the curved pawn against his lips. A kiss. The hint of a lick. “Open.”