My spine is rigid by the end of his speech and I’m gripping the fork so tightly, I’m shocked the metal doesn’t give. “Are you actually comparing me to a meal?”
“No. I’m telling you how it usually is for me. Now, I like a delicious meal as much as the next person, but no matter how good it is, thinking about it doesn’t keep me up at night. I’m not preoccupied with memories of the beautiful way it was spread out on the plate in front of me, I’m not driven to distraction remembering the smell, trying to recall the taste.”
He pauses, his gaze never leaving mine. It makes my chest feel heavy, and the feeling intensifies with his next words.
“So, when I tell you I haven’t decided yet, Hallie, I don’t mean I haven’t decided whether or not I’ll taste you again. That’s a foregone conclusion—I will, it’s only the ‘how’ and ‘when’ that are up for debate. And I’m only still pondering that because you do keep me up at night. I can’t put another meal on the table and forget about you. I don’t know why that is, but it doesn’t matter. I want you, plain and simple. I want your body in my bed, and I want your company, too—that’s new for me. I’ve always been a sexual person, but once my physical needs are met, I have no further use for my playmates. It’s different with you. I don’t know if it’s because of what I took from you, because it was different from my usual play… I don’t know why. I also don’t care. I want you, so I’ll have you, but regardless of what you want to believe, I’m trying to accomplish that in the least damaging way possible. I don’t enjoy hurting you. Your pain doesn’t please me. I am not cruel. Spoiled, perhaps, but I take very good care of my toys. I’ll take very good care of you, if you’ll let me.”
His words are a lot to take in. My mind is reeling trying to process all of it, trying to reconcile his intentions with my options.
If we’d met some other way, it would be easier to consider that there are options. It doesn’t feel like there should be. The only sane, acceptable thing to do is get away from him and never look back.
The words feel thick on my tongue as I utter them without looking at him. “I don’t need you to take care of me.”
“I know,” he says simply. Then, tempting me with something I had no idea I was interested in, he adds, “But wouldn’t it be nice?”
He’s crazy.
This isn’t a date and there aren’t any options.
If I’m not careful, I’ll get sucked into his crazy way of thinking, and I don’t even understand it. I don’t understand why he feels so compelling when he’s absolutely, utterly insane.
“Let go of convention, Hallie. Give yourself to me.”
Chapter Eleven
Hallie
When I was a girl, my mom warned me that the devil would be beautiful.
She was a religious woman—especially after my father left—and all the Bible stuff freaked me out and made me afraid. I thought the devil would be scary and ugly, a frightening sight to behold. She told me it would be just the opposite. I would feel warm and vibrant in his presence, tempted beyond measure. The devil has to be beautiful and compelling in order to tempt you to stray from the path you know is right.
I think Calvin Cutler might be the devil.
It’s such an absurd thought to have that a faint smile tugs at my lips as I drain my second glass of wine. I shouldn’t have had a second glass, my head is starting to feel fuzzy and I know I can’t afford not to have my wits about me, but with the alcohol coursing through my veins, I feel strangely good.
All my troubles feel so far away. Absurd, since one of them is sitting across from me, polishing off the last of his swordfish.
Swordfish. What a silly word.
My body feels heavier and lighter at the same time. I’m languid, slouching and rudely planting an elbow on the table so I can lean my head on it to hold me up. Why is my head so heavy?
Calvin’s steady voice pierces the wine fog. “Are you feeling all right?”
God, he has a nice voice.
Wait, no.
I hate him. He’s the devil.
Handsome, very handsome, but the devil.
“You’re a bad man,” I tell him, so he can remind me in case I forget again.
“All right,” he says, not even seeming offended.
“I have to remember that.”
“You don’t have to,” he says.
I don’t?
No, wait. I can’t trust what he tells me. He tells me crazy things, like let me take care of you, and I stay up at night thinking about you…