Chapter 2 #2
“Just goodnight?” she questions, her pulse thrumming beneath my finger like a moth trapped in a glass jar.
“For now. Yes.”
“That’s presumptuous.”
“Just the truth.”
“And if I kiss you, you’ll let me go?”
“I was counting on the fact that once I kissed you, you wouldn’t want to let me go.”
Except that would be unwise, given how the carnal act of sex is almost always intertwined with the need to feed. The two often go hand in hand, and I’m well aware I’m playing with fucking fire here.
“That good, huh?” she asks, rolling her eyes.
“So I’ve been told.”
“Hmm…” She stares at me boldly, not afraid, not even angry, just curious. It’s disarming.
“Well?” I insist, not sure what else I can do at this point, short of throwing her over my shoulder and kidnapping her, that is. Which is becoming more enticing by the minute.
“Fine. Seeing as you asked so nicely. Earlier, you said you felt as though it was bad timing approaching me tonight because of my recent divorce,” she says, finger quoting the air.
“That phrase is a trigger for me. My ex-husband used to tell me it was just bad timing when he fucked other women. He made it sound as though he just slipped and fell into someone else’s vagina.
Like it was no big deal. He also used that exact phrase when he told me he was leaving me moments after my mother just died. ”
“He did that to you?” My blood runs cold, her story reminding me of a person I long to forget.
“Don’t sound so surprised. Men are wankers.”
“Most,” I agree. “But not all.”
“I’ve yet to meet one who can prove me wrong,” she replies.
“Challenge accepted.”
She cocks a brow, unimpressed. “I’m not a challenge.”
Oh, believe me, you are.
“Just now, when I said you were strange, it was a compliment,” I say, not bothering to argue because she’s wrong and I’m right. She is a challenge, one I intend to win over one way or the other.
She scoffs. “A compliment? Hmm, and I’m a supermodel.”
“If I tell you it was a compliment, it was a compliment,” I say, my grip on her jaw tightening just a little, just enough so she knows I’m serious.
“You might want to loosen your grip or lose an eyeball to my heel,” she hisses, her eyes flashing with fury as she lifts her shoes and gives them a shake.
Fuck, this woman. I have to bite down on my lip to stop myself from moaning with lust.
“I’m intrigued by you,” I continue, easing my hold, but not letting go completely, “And I’m never intrigued by anyone. Your strangeness is attractive. That and a number of other rather alluring attributes I don’t think you’ll appreciate me listing right now.”
I expect her to eviscerate me with her words, or at least try to relieve me of an eyeball. Instead, she just nods, accepting my response for what it is and surprising me once again.
“My husband used to call me his strange little duck. When we were first together, it was an expression of endearment. I think he liked that I was different, that I wasn’t interested in his wealth or his title.
He’s a Lord, you know, or at least he was before he married me and was disowned.
Actually, I do wonder whether his family has welcomed him back with open arms now he’s with Lucette and she’s carrying his child.
Apparently, she belongs to the same social class,” Edie muses, going off track.
“Edie, focus,” I command, giving her jaw another gentle squeeze. She slowly comes back from whatever place she just went to. Taking her time, of course. “Why did that term of endearment change into something that hurt you?”
“Because I realised over the years, he stopped liking my differences, and started hating them,” she says with a stoicism that guts me.
I’m not usually so sympathetic, but there’s something about the vulnerability hidden within Edie’s strength that has me wanting to hunt down her husband and rip his throat out for hurting her. I earmark that thought for another day.
“Go on, I say.
“In the beginning, I believe he married me because I was the complete opposite of the women his parents forced him to date before he met me. Those women were well put together, softly spoken and more than willing to be trophy wives and bear his children, foregoing their own desires. But me?” she smiles, shaking her head.
“When we first met, I had opinions I wasn’t afraid of sharing.
I liked to read and study. I never wanted children, not because I don’t like them.
I love them, in fact. But because I wanted the freedom to do what I wanted when I wanted.
I also didn’t dress to impress like this, and for the most part, still don’t,” she says, laughing at herself a little as she waves her hand between us.
“I didn’t wear makeup, never dyed my hair—”
“I like your hair,” I say, fingering the silky strands.
“Thank you.” She clears her throat, then continues.
“I didn’t feel the need to impress anyone.
I went to raves instead of fancy restaurants so I could dance the night away, high off life and not drugs.
I wasn’t perfect. Not my figure, nor my features.
So, I was the strange little duck he once, at the very least, liked, but slowly came to detest. During our fifteen-year marriage, I lost the girl I was, and turned into this person I didn’t recognise just to please him, and it still wasn’t enough. ”