Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 83355 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83355 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
I stare at the table, tracing the grain in the wood. “That’s what people do, right? When they’re having a—” I gesture, helpless, “—thing?”
He huffs a laugh. “Most people who fuck their relatives don’t consult clergy first.”
I flush, prickling all over, but I refuse to look away. “We’re not related.”
He shrugs. “Tell that to your father.”
I want to argue, but instead I drain the rest of the wine. The taste is sharp, cherry and something darker underneath. It makes my lips go numb.
Hunter pours himself a refill, the decanter glugging softly. He doesn’t offer me more.
“I just don’t want to ruin anyone’s life,” I say, finally. “Least of all mine.”
Hunter’s face softens, just a fraction. He laces his fingers together, elbows on the table, and regards me over the little cathedral of his hands. “If you want to stop, then say so, Stella. I’m not holding you hostage.”
The thought is absurd—me, standing up and walking away, as if my own feet would even know where to go. But I pretend to consider it, just so he knows I’m not afraid. I even set my glass down gently, like I’m about to rise.
I don’t.
He watches the performance with the patience of a python. “You’re not quitting.”
“How do you know?”
A slow, small smile. “Because you like this. You like the danger.”
“I do not.”
“Liar,” he says, but there’s no heat in it. “If you hated it, you would have let that little boyfriend fuck you last night and never looked back. But here you are.”
I stare at the flames on the candles, picking out the little movements, the way the light gutters when I exhale too hard. “You’re a narcissist. And an asshole.”
He considers it. “Maybe. But I’m also right.”
There’s a long, charged pause. My chest is tight, my pulse a hard, fluttery thing in my neck.
“I think you like it too much,” I say, barely above a whisper.
He leans in, blue eyes gleaming. “Maybe I do. Maybe I like corrupting you. Maybe I like the way you taste after a night of sin.”
His words send a bolt of heat right through me. I try to mask it by smoothing the napkin over my lap. “You’re disgusting,” I murmur, but I can’t keep the tremor out of my voice.
Hunter lifts his glass. The gesture is almost a salute. “You have no idea how disgusting I can be, sweetheart.”
The silence after is as thick as pudding. I can’t look at him, not with my skin on fire and my stomach a knot of nerves and want. I focus on the candles, the wine, the way my own hands shake just a little as I gather the plates and try to look useful.
I don’t get far. Hunter stands, the chair pushed back with a low scrape, and crosses the distance between us in three measured steps. He towers over me, blocking out the candlelight, a presence so physical it might as well be gravity.
He puts a hand on the back of my chair, leans down so his mouth is at my ear. “When we’re done with this church discussion,” he murmurs, voice low and soft, “I want you on your knees again.”
My pulse spikes. I can’t help it. The memory is too fresh, too raw—the taste of him, the ache in my jaw, the feel of his hands tangled in my hair. I clench my thighs together, willing myself not to react.
I fail.
He sees it, of course. “Look at me,” he says.
I do.
His eyes are dark and bottomless. “Tomorrow, you can confess your sins to the pastor. But tonight, you’re going to worship my cock like a good girl during Lesson Two. Do you understand?”
The words are obscene, but I nod anyway, my face burning. I can’t find my voice, so I just nod again.
He straightens, smooths the collar of his shirt, then gestures for me to stand. I do. My knees are a little weak, and I curse myself for being so obvious.
He collects the dishes—one hand, stacked—and sets them on the buffet. I’m a little stunned by the domesticity of it, the way he moves through the room like it’s his own. Like he belongs here.
He comes back, takes my hand, and leads me out of the dining room.
The house is dark except for the candlelight, the white marble floors glowing in the absence of sun. My bare feet slap quietly as we walk. The place looks different at night, as if the walls have shifted, the proportions gone strange. Every painting in the hall seems to watch us. The air is heavy with the scent of furniture polish and old secrets.
We reach the stairs, and he pauses, waiting for me to catch up. His hand finds the small of my back, guiding me up. I count the steps, each one a countdown. The house is a cathedral of quiet; every sound is amplified, from the faint slap of my bare feet on the hardwood to the slow, deliberate thud of his footsteps behind me.