Page 9 of Into Pitch

I shrug one shoulder. “Because I’ve already lived in rooms where everything watched me. Mirrors aren’t going to be the thing that scares me.”

That earns me another step closer, his head cocked to the side. Almost birdlike in nature and true to the mask that conceals his identity a fair shade better than my own does. He’s close enough now that I can smell him. The clean beneath the black fabric and the cologne that reminds me most of the dark amber I had come across on occasion from guys entering the bar.

“Then what does?” he hums, curious now.

That seems like the most honest probe he’s made since we started this strange tangle of smoke and mirrors.

I meet his gaze through the lenses of his mask, my pulse strangely steady. “You’re not going to get the answer you want by asking that.”

“And what answer do you think I want?”

“The one I’m not willing to give to you. I’m quite okay with keeping it.” I retort.

Silence drops hard and sudden and I sit a little straighter as he studies me, my eyes never leaving his beneath the mask as he lifts one gloved hand. It’s done slowly, as if he’s approaching a skittish creature. Not one he cares to hurt, but one he’s curious to find if it’ll bite.

I don’t flinch when his fingers reach for my face. Instead of closing the distance for him, I let them hover just short of my cheek, the heat of him there without contact.

“What if I take it?” he asks, tone darker.

My body reacts before my mind does. My hand shoots up, my fingers wrapping tight around leather and bone, stopping him inches from my skin.

The room goes very still and I suck in a breath of anticipation.

Every mirror holds the same image; my hand on his wrist, his frozen mid-motion, the line between us sharp and undeniable.

For a heartbeat, I wonder if I’ve misjudged this.

Then a deep chuckle rolls out from beneath the mask, and I swallow at the unmistakable pleasure in the tone.

His other hand lashes forward and I yelp as it closes around my throat, my reaction immediate as I shoot up into his grip to get to my feet, our bodies knocking close. I narrowly duck my face to keep his mask from taking out my damn eye and still beneath the pressure he now holds.

He doesn’t completely close the pressure on my throat to still my air, but he doesn’t release me. I don’t bother releasing his other wrist either, not that it’s my immediate concern. His thumb strokes down my pulse and I swallow as his voice comes to me through the mask again.

“Why did you come to Pitch tonight, little fox?”

I would scoff at that nickname if he didn’t have me by the literal throat.

“Is this like the seat question?” I rasp.

“It’s not and it is, I suppose.” He murmurs and his thumb presses in on my pulse.

“Boredom,” I whisper when the wrist I hold slowly lowers. My fingers shift to keep hold of his wrist as it slides to my waist, holding me trapped against him completely.

“You can do better than that.” He growls low and I stumble when he pushes me back a step. Christ, he’s strong. My feet forcing to give ground as he guides me until my back collides with the cool of one of the mirrors. Thoroughly trapped as he presses his thumb into my throat again, this time there is real pressure.

“Shit, okay—I know. That’s why I’m here.” I croak and his thumb releases just enough to not be constant.

“Is that so?” I can hear the frown in his voice. His body shifts forward and I jerk slightly as his knee slides between my thighs. Those red flags I ignored? Well, they are now neon fucking signs telling me to behave because something is seriously off about the situation I’ve found myself in.

“Yes,” I whisper. “Because boredom and comfort are how I rot. And I don’t want to rot, I want to feel.”

There is a long silence and his body melts forward, my breath stutters at the way he seems to wrap around me. His hand slides higher and his head ducks, the mask slipping against my cheek in a way that sends a shiver down my spine. It also does something else but I’m choosing to ignore that for now, because that truly would be my one way ticket into insanity.

When in Vegas—rather when inside the funny farm in my instance.

“What did you want to feel, little fox?” he murmurs, his thigh pressing up.

I gasp, sharp tingles of anticipation striking through my core as he makes contact. The leather of my skirt rides up my thighs as my eyes attempt to turn down. Our bodies are too close though and all I get is more view of him with a side dose of reality on how fucking tall he is. He’s got to have a foot on top of me.