Page 85 of Raven

So, besides learning that he likes A1 sauce but doesn’t like ketchup, that he prefers prime rib to steak, that he doesn’t eat breakfast—note to self, he won’t ever stay for breakfast—or any snacks, I also learn that his answers are always short. Getting him to talk is like pulling teeth. But the more questions I ask, the more amused he looks, glancing between his plate and me as we sit across each other at the kitchen island and eat pot roast with mashed potatoes.

“What happened to your fingers?” I ask.

He puts down his utensils and stares at me.

I shrug. “I figured since we are so bluntly fornicating as per the deal, I might as well be blunt with questions.”

He smiles and takes a slow sip of his drink, then sets it down. “I should’ve kept my mouth shut when I was supposed to.”

The smile doesn’t reach his eyes, but it doesn’t bother me.

Next, I ask him about the ring on his finger.

“A present,” he says, and I wonder who is so important that he wears a simple wire ring at all times.

I ask more questions, most of his answers vague and short. He doesn’t understand why we are eating and talking while we are supposed to—what, fuck for hours? But that’s my plan, to throw Raven off any way I can.

After food, we walk out onto the balcony, and he smokes a cigarette, then muses when he sees the lone potted flower on my balcony.

“Anthurium.”

“You like flowers,” he says. As usual, he doesn’t ask but states things. Maybe that’s why he called me Mayflower while fucking me? Or maybe there’s a meaning behind that word.

“I do,” I say. “They are like people. They have personalities and stories. Except they don’t hurt others.”

He locks eyes with me as we stand by the railing. He—smoking, a drink in his hand. Me—leaning on the railing with my forearms. My dress is so short that the light breeze easily sneaks in between my legs, and that only reminds me of what happened an hour ago and that he is still here.

“Any flower stories?” he asks.

Again, he always veers all attention from him to me.

“There are these flowers I had back home. Amaryllis. Red ones, the hybrids. Legend has it that there was a beautiful maiden who fell in love with a mountain shepherd. He had no interest in women but loved flowers. So, she would sneak into his house by night and pierce her aching heart with a golden arrow. And where the droplets of blood fell on the ground, beautiful flowers bloomed. He fell in love with them and her, and her heart was healed.”

“You like dark stories, Maddy.”

“I like flowers, Raven. What’s the story with Mayflower?”

I turn to look at him, and his blue-steel eyes acquire a hypnotic glint when they lock with mine. A strand of black hair falls onto his brow. He looks achingly handsome.

Slowly, he sets his drink down, then steps behind me and sets his hand on my hip. His other hand pulls my hair back, and his whisper in my ear sends goosebumps through my entire body. “It’s pretty. It prefers shade. And has healing powers.”

I wonder if he knew about my love for flowers all along.

But before I ask him that, his lips touch my skin behind my ear in a soft kiss. His hand on my hip slides lower, below the hem, then up again, under my dress.

I was curious when we made the deal. I never expected to like this arrangement so much.

I push my butt against him, feeling him hard. And he whispers between the kisses, “I want to be in your bed.” His hand slides between my legs. “Every night, Mayflower.” He brushes his fingers against my clit and grunts quietly. I know why—because I’m already wet again. His hand disappears, and I hear the sound of his zipper. “I’m done playing games.”

That sound makes me seep with want. I think he is done being patient, and that’s exactly what I needed.

“I wondered why you waited so long,” I murmur and exhale in pleasure when he enters me from behind.

33

RAVEN

In the two weeks that follow the first evening at Maddy’s, we meet almost every day.

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