13 #2
“It’s not polite,” the Warden hisses, “to explore without being invited to do so. If you wanted a tour, you needed only ask.”
My nails scrabble at his arm, but it doesn’t give. Despite the chokehold, I can breathe just fine as long as I don’t struggle. But he’s too close. His presence is too intoxicating. I need to keep my wits about me, and I can’t do that with his heart beating calmly against my back.
“Let me go,” I snap. “I was trying to find the bathroom, you psychopath.”
He clicks his tongue. “Lying embarrasses us both. What were you really doing, little sinner?”
The question holds a note of warning. I attempt to rotate in his grasp, but he holds me in place, not seeming to exude any effort.
I could fight. I could direct an elbow to his ribs, loosening his hold just long enough to slip out of it.
Instead, though, I tilt my head back. The pale spill of his hair is visible in my periphery.
The skin of his neck is warm against my cheek.
He stiffens ever so slightly as I relax into him.
“I was snooping,” I say on an exhale. “Obviously.”
His chest shifts, and it takes me a moment to realize he’s laughing. I hear it in his voice as he tilts his head to mine. “Is that so?”
“Yes.”
“And did you find anything of interest?”
I make my voice hard. “No. You’re not nearly as interesting as you think you are.”
He hums thoughtfully. “On the contrary, you seem to find me very interesting. Why else would you want to know more?”
“Call it self-preservation.” I hate how breathless I sound.
“You’re quite the paradox, little sinner. See, I have no doubt of your ability to stay alive—and yet here you are.”
His free hand slips down to my stomach. Heat pools at my core, but at the same time I want to break free from his grasp and hit him in the face. My emotions don’t follow any linear, logical path when it comes to the Warden. I hate him. I want him. Both are irreconcilable facts.
“You’re not as terrifying as you think you are either,” I say coolly, but my voice turns uneven as he splays his fingers across my abdomen.
“Not interesting or terrifying?” he whispers. His tongue clicks somewhere by my ear. “Next you’re going to say you don’t find me appealing.”
“As long as I don’t need to break it to you gently.”
“You know, your body doesn’t lie half as well as your pretty mouth.”
I squirm against him. “It’s not my body’s fault. This is what you do. You make people want you.”
The Warden takes me by the shoulders, spinning me around so that we’re abruptly face-to-face.
“Look at me,” he orders, and I do, locking my defiant gaze with his pale-blue one.
“I don’t know how many times I have to tell you: I have not made you feel anything.
It’s not my fault you’re incapable of accepting that you want me of your own volition. ”
“I don’t,” I bite back.
“Do you think I can’t feel you pressing your thighs together?” He trails a finger over the curve of my left cheekbone. “Do you think I haven’t noticed the flush beneath your skin?”
Fury is metallic in the back of my throat. “I can’t help it if my body thinks we have unfinished business. Sure, I found you appealing at first, but that was before I knew your personality was part of the deal.”
My barb doesn’t land the way I intended.
He snorts, a sly curl of his lips chasing the anger away.
He maneuvers me back into our original position, holding my body upright against his, and this time I feel the hardness of him against my lower back.
The sound that rumbles deep in my throat is completely unintentional.
“Is that what you’re calling our first encounter?” he asks, the words slightly muffled, and I realize his mouth is pressed against my hair. “Unfinished business?”
“It seemed apt.”
“If I finish things, then, you’ll be able to move on? You’ll stop accusing me of manipulation?”
My body slackens as his hand slides down to my waistband. I’m practically panting, desperate for his touch. Desperate for any touch. I can’t think straight, so I merely nod in response.
The Warden grabs my chin. “No. Use your words, Talin.”
Hearing my name startles me into complying. Distantly I know this is a terrible idea, that attempting to get someone out of your system never works, but shouldn’t I at least be able to say I tried? “I—yes.”
“Ask nicely.”
“Please,” I snarl.
His chuckle is dark amusement, and then he slides his hand past my waistband.
I inhale sharply, arching against him. He tightens his grip on my chin, parting me gently with two fingers as he traces a third up my center.
I can tell by the ease with which he strokes me that I was already wet.
My breath catches as I try to press more firmly into his touch, but he holds me still.
It takes my addled brain a moment to realize what he’s doing—his teasing caresses bring me closer and closer to the edge, only for him to immediately back off again.
“Is this”—a broken gasp punctuates my question—“some kind of punishment?”
His voice is perfectly calm. “Do you have a guilty conscience?”
There are stars behind my eyes. I’m rolling my hips, desperate for release, but he continues to hold me like a handler restraining an animal.
The torture is equal parts wonderful and horrible.
A quiet keening sound builds in my chest, and he presses his forearm more firmly against my throat, quieting me.
“If you can be silent,” he says, teeth grazing my ear, “I’ll let you finish. Do you think you can do that?”
I can’t focus on his words. All of my attention, every single one of my nerve endings, seems to have pooled at the apex of my thighs.
“Answer me,” he demands, drawing his fingers away.
The idea of him stopping now is, quite literally, cruel and unusual punishment. I almost can’t believe he would dare threaten it.
“Yes,” I rasp, forgetting the question. “I mean, no. I don’t—”
His tongue trails a featherlight path up the column of my neck. “Can you”—he presses his lips to the space below my ear—“be silent?”
“Yes!” It comes out on a whimper. “Yes, I’ll be—”
Before I can form a coherent sentence, he pushes the pad of his thumb against my clit, pressing and rubbing in tiny, rapid circles.
I clamp my lips shut and snap my head back, a groan escaping as the world fractures around me.
He’s the only thing holding me upright, and even then, I’m falling.
I don’t know which way is up. I’m completely incognizant of everything but the tremors that ripple through me until, finally, my equilibrium restores itself.
The Warden withdraws with a smooth laugh, letting me slide to the floor as he takes a step back. I crumple against the wood, chest heaving like I’ve just run for miles. My face is hot. My self-hatred peaks to an all-time high.
Because I know, even without looking around, that he’s gone.