Chapter Seven
Over the weeks since my father came home from the hospital, I’ve fallen into a routine. I check my father’s vitals in the morning and change his bedding, which he mostly sleeps through. Then at midday I come and bring him lunch. That’s the best chance I have to catch him awake. He can only handle liquids—warm soup and cold pudding. Sometimes he can stomach a few bites.
At school my major was classical studies with a focus on ancient mythology. It was fascinating for me, but far more suited for the wife of a senator than someone who had to measure medicine and administer shots.
By the time I fall onto my mattress every night, my muscles are sore. My body is tired, but my mind remains stubbornly awake—running over every weekly chess game of my childhood, every hour of the trial, every excruciating second of the breakup with Justin.
Since I met Gabriel yesterday, I have something new to obsess about.
After dressing in panties and a cami, my usual sleep clothes, I glance outside the window. A gleaming black SUV sits on the curb in plain sight. My heart lurches. What if someone’s come back? Except the car isn’t hidden at all. And when I squint, I can make out the silhouette of a man inside.
Damon Scott must have sent him.
He’s going to want to protect his investment.
I close my eyes and take a deep breath.
From across the room my phone blinks a green light at me. A voicemail. I reach for it with shaking fingers, not sure whether I want to hear from Damon. He couldn’t have set up the auction that quickly, could he? I press the phone to my ear.
My blood goes cold for a different reason as I hear Landon Moore’s voice.
“My dear Avery. I understand that you were shocked by my proposal. I realize now that you need time to process the change. I was surprised to discover that you had grown into such a beautiful young woman. I confess that I had considered our union before these unfortunate events, but I feared that you would never see me as more than your dear Uncle Landon. I can be patient during this difficult time and trust that you’ll make the right decision.”
My dinner threatens to come up, and I toss the phone across the bare wood floors. It’s harder to bear his patience because I don’t know if I’m making the right choice. I can’t bring myself to accept him, to bind myself to him for life, even though that might make things easier for me.
I also can’t bring myself to give up this house, the only remnant of my mother.
What would she tell me to do if she were here?
How would my life have been different if she were alive? I would have had someone to teach me about my body. About sex. I would have had someone to explain how my period works instead of the school nurse. I would have had someone to tell me about sex instead of chili juice on my fingers.
Touch yourself.
Gabriel’s words come back to me in a sensual rush, my heart pounding.
He didn’t mean it, did he? It’s just some stupid, taunting thing he said to get the right picture. And if he did mean it, it’s not like I have to listen to him. He’s a horrible man.
Except I find myself reaching for the sheet even though it’s a warm night. I’m alone in the house with the doors locked. There’s a man outside watching to make sure no one tampers with the electricity again. My dad is asleep, attached to his hospital bed, unable to walk in on me if he woke up.
When you’re in bed, alone. In the dark. Lock the door if you need to.
Still I pull the sheet over my body. The thin layer of fabric is my shield from the fear, from the shame that burns inside me. I want to pretend I never heard his words, to act like they don’t matter.
No one will walk in on you.
Except if I can’t even touch myself, how can I let some man touch me? If I have never had an orgasm, how can I expect some stranger to give me one? He might not give me pleasure, but it would be even worse if he did. I imagine being helpless in the arms of some cold, distant man.
He would own me. I can’t give someone that power over me, not even for money.
I start by touching my breasts because that feels less scary. They’re warm and firm, my nipples already hard from thinking about this. I close my eyes while my fingers toy with my nipples. They are little zings of pleasure, in my breasts, in my core, but not enough. Not enough to come.
Touch yourself and make yourself feel good. You remember how to do that, don’t you?
I never made myself come, but I remember where I liked to rub my body. My palms run across my stomach, down to my panties. I spread my legs, taking deep breaths. The conditioning runs deep with me. There’s already a faint burn, the long-ago memory of chili juice when I tested it against my sex.
For a horrible moment I hear my father’s voice telling me that I’m dirty, that I’m a disgrace. And I realize that it’s not just about some strange man owning me. My father owns me. All these years he’s kept me from my own body.
So is Gabriel giving it back? Or is he taking the reins?
I imagine his golden eyes watching me, knowing and sure. My inner muscles clench in response. There’s something dangerous about him. It’s not only what he did to my family, not only the harm to my father. There’s a threat inherent in him, like a lion stalking his prey. It’s mesmerizing even while it terrifies me.
There’s an ache, a feeling of tightness whenever I think about him. The dark hair long enough to curl at the ends. The jaw shadowed with stubble. The broad shoulders that suit a man of power. My body responds even if my heart shrinks in fear. It’s sickening, but God, so damned welcome. I’m tired of clenching my hands against my impulses, so tired of being ashamed.
My fingers are clumsy as they roam my sex, remembering where to stroke myself, finding the place where a touch feels too rough. I have to circle around it, and a sort of haze lowers over my mind.
Pleasure laps at my skin like gentle waves against the shore. I could do this forever, my finger slowly moving, my hips nudging up slightly. There’s no urgency. Only peace.
Then that strange man’s voice rises, unbidden, from the shadows of my mind.
I suppose if they had you in their beds, taking the money out on your skin, that might make them feel better. It should scare me, but in this sex-drowsed state, with Gabriel fresh in my mind, something else happens. Desire pulses through my body, a drop of liquid lust tickling my skin on its way down.
It’s not hard to imagine him doing something daring. Would he hurt me?
A man like Gabriel Miller would never be gentle. Even his words are sharp. They cut me, leaving my pride in shards at his feet. His eyes slice to the core of me. What would his hands do? His mouth? His cock?
Pressure builds in my sex, and I circle faster and faster. Harder, abusing the small nub of nerves until my body shudders and shakes, mouth open in a silent scream. Liquid spills over my fingers, dampening the fabric of my panties as my sex pulses for eternity.
In the aftermath my muscles feel stiff. Pulling my wet fingers up makes me blush. I rub them furtively on the sheets as if I’ll get caught with them, shiny and sex smelling in the dark.
“What are you doing to me?” I whisper to the hollow room.
I don’t know whether I’m talking to Gabriel or my father. I might as well be asking the question to myself. How could I climax thinking of Gabriel Miller? How could I come imagining being hurt?