Horribly, since he’s now pinching my clit. I press my lips together, fighting back a moan. But his fingers are relentless and skillful, playing me until I’m panting, whimpering. “Oh my God!”
“That’s right,” he whispers. “It doesn’t have to hurt. All you have to do is give in.”
I can’t give in. Giving in means living in the Labyrinth, losing, dying here. It means letting go of the string that’s my only way out. Maybe the chili juice did mess me up. The masturbation. Waiting until marriage. But since the auction it’s been Gabriel Miller messing with my mind, making me want things I shouldn’t. “Please.”
“I ought to spank you for this, for fighting me.”
“I’m not fighting,” I say, my jaw tight. Of course he’s right. I’m fighting him, but not with punches or kicks. I’m fighting to maintain hold of my sanity.
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you? A spanking? I could bruise you for days. Then you could paint me as the big bad wolf.” I hear a zipper from behind, but his hand on my clit doesn’t pause. “I’ll just have to make you come instead.”
A chime sounds from far away, signaling that intermission is almost over.
“We have to go,” I gasp out, pushing to get up.
He doesn’t even have to hold me down. It’s only his fingers on my clit that keep me pinned to that sofa. It’s merciless, the way he circles them. Not too hard, not painful. He knows that wouldn’t work. Instead he’s patient, endlessly patient, while my body winds tighter and tighter. All my muscles clench, bearing down on the arm of the sofa, rocking against his hand. I want this despite myself, and his low baritone laugh tells me that’s the point.
I feel something else, a rocking motion in time with my own. His hand, I realize. He’s jerking himself off. At the same time that he circles my clit, the same tempo. It will be like this when he’s inside me.
Even then I can’t come, my body tearing itself apart. It hurts like this, and I’d rather come just to finish it. My muscles are spasming, mouth open on a helpless, silent scream.
“Come, little virgin,” he says, his voice choked.
There’s a splash of something hot on the backs of my thighs. His come.
The orgasm overtakes me like a tidal wave, turning me upside down, filling my nose with saltwater, making everything dark blue and blurred. I tumble with no idea which way the surface is, my lungs burning with the need to breathe.
When I break the surface, Gabriel has collapsed on top of me. He pants into my hair, muttering, “Jesus. Jesus.”
My hands are fists against the leather, which is slick with our sweat. The smell of sex scents the air, like ocean water and dark spice. We remain molded together like clay, breathing together, coming back to life together.
He pushes up and uses something—a handkerchief?—to wipe his come from my legs. Even when I stand, I can feel the hardening residue of him there. I’m marked.
There’s only a few frantic seconds to pull up my panties and push down my skirt.
Then he’s opening the door.
I emerge like some newborn deer, unsteady on my legs, blinking at the blinding sun after being in the womb. I would have collapsed on that thin magenta carpet except for his hand around my waist, his other under my elbow.
We pass a man, and I duck my head, trying not to meet his eyes.
Until I hear his voice sounding strangely familiar. “Well, Gabriel. Look at you making good use of your purchase.”
I look up to see the gray-haired man who’d had a beautiful blonde on his arm at the auction. Today it’s a different woman, this one with glossy auburn hair. How many different women does he buy? He smiles at me, knowing and cruel. Shame curdles my stomach.
“Evening,” Gabriel says, guiding me past him up the stairs.
The show has already started. They shouldn’t even let us into the theater now. It’s against the rules. But of course this is Gabriel Miller. He owns a box. An usher opens the door and gives a polite smile, as if we aren’t disheveled and panting, smelling of sex as we stumble into the space.
I take my seat as quickly as possible, but there’s no avoiding the stares and whispers. They interrupt the lovely ballroom dance that’s happening onstage. I stare at the whirling people, the oversize decorum as if I have no idea that everyone’s talking about us.
Finally I chance a glance at Gabriel. He’s leaning back in his seat, slouched like a king surveying his subjects. He looks satisfied but still dangerous. A lion in the jungle. Anyone who looks at him like this would know that he just had sex. Maybe not literal sex, but close enough.
But then they’d know that from just looking at me. A little bird in a gilded cage.