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He doesn’t crack that expected devilish grin. The grin that slays ladies, and sets panties to cinders.
“I’ve seen it done a handful of times.”
My lips twist into a scowl. “I’ll bet.”
“I don’t want to talk about other women with you.”
I grump. “You started it.”
That devilish grin makes its appearance as he leans in to slide the brush back onto the counter. But he doesn’t pull away. In fact, he plants his big paws on the countertop on either side of my body, bracketing me in with his body at my back. He’s so close, I can feel the heat of him. It scorches.
When his grin stretches and his eyes connect with mine in the mirror, I feel a tug in my core.
Damn him.
“Is my wife jealous?”
I sputter, “Absolutely not.”
His grin only widens as he appraises me. It goes on so long, his gaze drinking in all of me, that I feel those prickly sensations again. Only this time, they aren’t called to the surface by the bristles of a brush—but rather, the rake of coffee-colored eyes.
“You really are so beautiful, Ruby.”
I don’t say thank you this time, though his compliment has my insides melting, willing my stubborn body to melt into his. His words feel intimate, like a touch. A caress.
I’m not ready for that.
I dip my head, casting my eyes downward, attempting to hide from him. He doesn’t let me.
With one hand, he palms my belly, pulling me back against the hard mass of him. I gasp, my eyes flying to his in the mirror as he watches me, assesses me. Then his big paw begins travelling up the length of my torso. Breaths spill choppily into the silence as he pushes his hand between the valley of the breasts, that have always been too big for my frame—and a source of high anxiety throughout my life—and up the column of my throat. He doesn’t stop until he’s cradling my face, the rough pad of his thumb moving over the swell of my bottom lip.
“Come. I’m ready to taste my wife.” His words spark a new kind of fear, and, to my shame and horror, a new eruption of hot heat in my core.
I should fight him. I should kick, and scream, and run.
But I don’t do any of that.
I simply follow him when he takes my hand and guides me from the room.
Maybe I’m tired. Maybe I just know there’s no point, and I’ve never been a fighter. Maybe I’ve given up clinging to a virtue that’s gotten me nowhere, in a desperation to honor my faith to a God who oversees cruelty, rewarding it with riches, while the innocent suffer. Maybe I’m just done.
I don’t know.
All I know is, as I follow him, I don’t feel the expected wash of doom.
When he pulls back the covers and urges me between the cream-colored sheets, I don’t feel dirty.
When he rounds the bed, and I watch as he shucks his pants, leaving the briefs he wears on before sliding into the bed with me—I just feel…
I feel as though I am his.
And it doesn’t feel wrong.
Eleven
Kirill
Her breaths are unsteady as she lays in the bed beside me. With the lamplight off, there’s nothing but the spilled light of a full moon to ignite her pale flesh, splattered with lovely freckles. Against the white of the pillows, her hair is a shocking spill of ruby red. I can’t even see the black of my shirt, she has the blanket pulled up so high. The fabric is tucked under her chin. I suspect, if she weren’t so afraid of being trapped in my presence, she’d have dipped her head under the blanket, too. Like a child trying not to be eaten by the monster under her bed.
