The Pawn (Endgame 1)

“What are you doing?”

“What I should have done last night. Tasting that…what was it he called you? The ripe peach?”

I take another step back, but there’s a fireplace. The last dying embers. “Now?”

“I think a cherry would have been a better analogy, don’t you?”

Having reached the end of the room, I walk sideways, circling, trying to keep the same distance away. He doesn’t seem perturbed by my retreat. He doesn’t slow at all.

“Wait,” I say because I need to plan for this. I know he didn’t have to give me last night. That was a reprieve I haven’t earned, a night I already owe. I’m in his debt, but that doesn’t mean I’m able to pay. “Just wait.”

He laughs. “Almost twenty-four hours and I haven’t touched you.”

“You want to keep me a virgin,” I say desperately, searching for anything to hold him back. I’m almost to the corner of the room now, on the soft rug with deep orange tones where I did yoga earlier.

“I didn’t say I’d fuck you,” he says, voice dark with promise. “I want to taste you.”

Then it’s too late to run. Too late to beg. He’s standing right in front of me, and my back is to the stairs, wooden step digging into my calf. I can see him, scent him, but even stronger is the otherworldly sense of him, the presence that holds me frozen in front of him, thicker than chains.

“Taste me…where?”

One blunt finger lands on my lips. “I’ll start here.”

Then his lips are on mine, hot and soft and persistent. I’m helpless to his demands, opening to him, a sigh of acceptance drifting from my mouth to his. I know that everything happening here is inevitable, almost fated, but this part doesn’t hurt. It feels almost like pleasure, his tongue swiping across mine, his teeth grasping my lower lip in carnal warning.

His hands cup my face, my neck. My breasts.

“Here,” he says, his voice rougher.

Oh God, my breasts. I scramble back, but the stairs catch my feet. His hands grasp my shirt and yank, revealing me. My bra is pushed out of the way. There’s no ceremony to the way he undresses me. It’s not a striptease, it’s a possession. He palms my breasts, feeling their weight.

“Smaller than they looked,” he says, and I feel the flush creep over my chest.

I want to forget standing on that platform, being watched by so many men, but I know I never will. It’s etched into my brain—the judgment and the lust, the shame and the control. “You bid on me.” I know I sound defensive.

“It’s not a complaint,” he murmurs, pressing my nipple between his thumb and forefinger. “You’re fucking glorious.”

The unexpected compliment makes me blink. Then his mouth is covering my nipple, soothing away the burn, hot and eternal. He flicks me with his tongue, back and forth, back and forth, and I whimper with shock. My hand reaches out to grasp anything—and what I find is the carving of flames, of a hand reaching up out of the depths of hell. I’m burning.

He marks a path of openmouthed kisses over my chest, and I feel conquered. As if he’s mapping every part of my body, owning me. What if he covers every inch? What part will be left for me?

His hot mouth closes around my other nipple, and my eyes fall shut. “Oh God,” I whisper.

“That’s right,” he murmurs against me, the tease of his lips as he speaks unbearable. “Let yourself feel good.”

There’s a though in there—something about sacrifice. About pleasure. Why does he think I wouldn’t let myself feel good? But then arousal arcs from nipples to my sex, and I forget about anything but his body over mine, his rough words promising so much more.

“Elbows on the steps,” he says.

I can obey him without thinking. There’s relief and shame, equal parts.

This position makes my breasts push out. I’m vulnerable like this, made into a living statue for him to touch and lick and suck. For him to bite, clasping my nipple between his teeth with a threatening growl.

“No,” I moan. “Please.”

His demonic laugh floats around me, as wild and effervescent as the moonshine from last night. I’m drunk on whatever he’s doing to me, held captive by his desire.

Then his hand cups between my legs.

He squeezes. “And here.”

I shake my head, because that’s different. Kissing my mouth, my breasts. Those are one thing. What he’s demanding is too intimate, and I fight him. He pulls at my jeans, and I twist away. His legs settle around me, locking my body against the stairs.

My hands clench the front of my jeans. “No, no. Not there.”

“Elbows,” he says. “Steps.”

I cover myself for two breathless moments, shivering in doubt. Except I’m trapped against carved mahogany and muscled flesh. What choice do I have? I move my elbows back to the step behind me, pushing my breasts into his face. My cheeks flush in humiliation.