13. Luna #2
A kiss of heat touches my face, but I don’t let myself read into what that means. As if I should care what Sawyer thinks of me.
“You know your eyes look red in the sunlight?” he asks.
“Yes. I think that’s the unsettling part.”
“I don’t know that I’ve ever come across an albino before.”
My lips draw tight as I let the statement hang in the air. An albino. As if I’m a different species—an exotic creature even the man with hundreds of victims hasn’t hunted.
How special I am to be so rare.
“I think you’re gorgeous,” he goes on, his thumb trailing my collar bone. “Even when your eyes turn red.”
Even when your eyes turn red.
My chest shakes with the bitterest of laughs and masks the heat that climbs to my ear. Like there’s a silly little girl deep inside of me that perks with his approval—blinded by the way Sawyer cringed at the look of me earlier today.
It’s cruel, what he’s doing.
“Is that why you chose me? Because I’m gorgeous?” I ask, with too much derision.
It’s not that I hate pretty people. I just … dislike them.
Including him.
Especially him.
“I’m not the one who chose you.” His lips brush the shell of my ear. “But if I’d seen you, and it were up to me… I don’t think I could’ve resisted.”
I close my eyes. Swallow. Shudder when he kisses my earlobe, yet another patch of flesh I never considered erotic.
“You’re a liar.”
“And you’re insecure,” he shoots right back. Fast, too fast. Like it was already on his mind.
A sharp laugh pops from my mouth. “I’m a realist.”
“Said every pessimist ever.”
Batting his hand off my shoulders, I scoot forward. A stupid impulse, but one I don’t correct.
Sawyer just laughs—humored and cruel. It’s worse than if he’d punished me.
My breath pauses halfway to my lungs, my bruised throat throbbing on cue. A reminder that no … this is not the dark side of Sawyer. There are worse things than his laugh.
“Come here,” he says, voice light with amusement as he clamps the nape of my neck and guides me back. I settle against his chest and rewind time—put my back against a pole, a belt around my neck. Just to remind myself that this man is not safe.
“I can see why men find you intimidating.” His fingers and thumb pinch until they reach my spine. They pulse downward to a knot I had no idea existed. Tension releases that I try to command back—spine straightening, resisting the urge to slouch against him.
“You have the body of an athlete, and your posture is nearly perfect. You’re very poised… I’m going to say you’re a professional dancer… Ballet?”
I turn my head halfway and pause—smile, in spite of myself, at his attempt to read me. Futile but cute.
“No.”
“Gymnast?” he guesses again.
“No.”
His palms glide down my back to my waist. He rubs my hips while my breaths come quicker. “But you do something physical, right? I know for certain you don’t have an office job.”
“How could you know for certain?”
“Because I’m good at this.”
My lungs pause at the confidence in his voice, and though I suspect he’s arrogant, I don’t question that he’s right most of the time. I think it’s how he fools people. He sees who they are, what they want, and how to give it to them.
I want to be disgusted by Sawyer. I feel obligated to be disgusted by Sawyer.
But his brain is a piece of art worthy of study, and I can’t help but respect him on some fundamental level.
Can’t help but feel a light trace of familiarity, like I’m playing chess against myself. Or an upgraded version of my mind.
“Am I wrong?” he asks me.
No. He isn’t.
But when I open my mouth, a lie is perched on the edge of my tongue. An impulse to tell him he’s wrong just to hurt his confidence, throw him off his game… A mistake that could be disastrous.
Confusion makes the brain work harder. Confidence makes it lazy.
“I’m a psychology grad student… But I did do competitive dance up until last year, so you’re partially correct.”
The words come smooth, spoken with confidence almost as exact as Sawyer’s. I can’t see his face, but I listen for a pause, for a sign of scrutiny, like his ears pick up lies as well as his tongue can fling them.
He responds immediately.
“Fuckin’ knew it,” he says, obviously pleased with himself. “I’m surprised about your major, though… I would’ve guessed business.”
I snort. “Why?”
“Because…” He smooths his palm all the way down my arm until he grasps my hand. He draws it from the water to rest on the side of the tub, our fingers intertwined. “My major was business. And you and I have a lot in common. Like…”
My blood cools as Sawyer rubs the pad of his finger over the naked patch of skin where my ring should be. In five years, I’ve only removed it a handful of times, but now it’s just… gone. And he isn’t even hiding the fact that he stole it.
“We have the same favorite book.”
I try to pull my hand from his, but he locks me in place with a tight squeeze. “You don’t know my favorite book.”
“You have a replica of Dickie’s ring. The Talented Mr. Ripley is at least in your top five.”
My bottom slides along slick porcelain as I sink an inch, my shoulders angling forward. Not enough movement for a normal person to register the discomfort, but Sawyer is so far from normal.
Somehow, I feel even more naked. More seen.
“You recognize it?”
Sawyer kisses the side of my head, his lips spreading with a smile. “I almost didn’t, which would’ve been a damn shame. The Talented Mr. Ripley is like my bible.”
“Your manifesto, you mean.”
He laughs, three short puffs of air assaulting my scalp. The laugh isn’t mocking or derisive or at me—but genuine. Like we’re sharing a joke.
It’s wrong, and yet, one corner of my lip tugs. When I notice it, I frown.
Over one hundred women, Luna. This man convinced over one hundred women that he was in love with them. He had their brains so warped that when he sold their bodies, they were grateful.
He does not share your favorite book, nor does he find you attractive.
“You’re a smart girl,” he says, lips finding my ear. “I bet you’re at the top of your class.”
“How flattering.”
Long locks tickle my chest as he sweeps the hair off my shoulder. Kisses my neck with electric lips. “Do you think I’m bullshitting?”
“I think you haven’t lived an honest day in your life.”
With a light chuckle, he kisses his way up my ear. The sensation is sharp, unwelcoming, warm—but dulls to nothing as his hand cups my breast.
When I inhale sharply, my chest lifts regrettably deeper into his palm. He lifts the tender flesh, balancing the weight in his hand before squeezing.
My hand flinches to secure his wrist, but halfway there, the belt slashes into my mind. I’m breathless. Pleading. Stilling through orgasm after orgasm.
What if this is a test?
“You aren’t wrong… But you aren’t right either. I can tell a lot about a person by looking at them.”
Tucking my hands beneath my thighs, I hold still. When he drops my breast, I bite my tongue against the jiggle of tissue as it settles back into place.
I think it’s over. That I passed.
But then the heels of his palms grind along the slopes of my breasts, massaging me into complacency. It’s assaulting, intruding, but after a minute…
“What can you tell about me?” I ask to end the agonizing silence. The weight of my voice betrays me even if he couldn’t feel my body relax.
“How much do you think I can tell?”
“Not a single thing.”
I hear him smile—however impossible. “Oh yeah?”
I almost laugh. Because yes.
But…
The room grows quiet. A bead of water slips from the faucet, drawing out a slow quarter second before the sharp plop echoes off the walls, ripples disrupting the smooth surface of the bath. I tense at the sound and watch the faucet as if fearing another drop instead of the man behind me.
He knew my ring was from a book. He guessed that we’re alike; and maybe that was an attempt at flattery or weakening my defenses, but … what if it was the same recognition I sense? What if he sees more than I know?
Sun Tzu said in The Art of War that if you know the enemy and know yourself, you need not fear the result of a hundred battles.
The mission is simple.
Learn Sawyer.
Do not let Sawyer learn me.
He plants a soft kiss to my shoulder before ending the silence. “Do you want to bet on it?”
“A bet?”
“Mmhmm.” His hands retreat from my breasts and lower into the water—a momentary reprieve that’s cut short by sudden contact at my hips.
His thumbs trace the top creases of my thighs, dipping close to my center but not quite there.
Enough to throw me off balance, make my heart race, make me stupid. Stupid enough to play his game.
“How about this,” Sawyer says. “If I don’t get close, I get out and go to bed. You’re free to finish your bath in peace.”
I squirm, my eyes pointed down at the murky water where his hands hide. In the low lighting, I see little of what he’s doing but feel everything. Every back and forth glide, every curly hair smoothed by his touch, every creep toward my labia. “And if you do?”
“If I do, then we get out together and you come to bed with me.”
To bed with him…
“And what happens if I don’t want to bet anything?”
Without warning, Sawyer nips my earlobe, whooshing air through my teeth. I sit up straight, clench my legs, and accidentally shift against his growing erection. An erection he doesn’t try to hide, doesn’t explain, doesn’t even pretend to be ashamed of.
“Then we get out and go get some sleep. When we wake up, I’ll take you to the training room, and I won’t touch you again unless you ask.”
“As if I don’t know you not touching me is worse.”
He smiles against my ear. “I think you enjoyed me not touching you. I bet if I felt between your legs, you’d still be slick.”
My skin burns with a flush so deep, I feel it in my cheekbones. Sawyer waits a few seconds, letting my sizzling flesh heat the chilled water. He can’t see my face, but I know he feels my embarrassment, my unease. And he loves it.