Page 29 of The Fire Went Wild

I wonder what she’s doing now.

I roll over, letting the panties drop onto my pillow, and stare at my door, which I left hanging open like an invitation. Not that Charlotte can accept it; I chained her to the bed again. But I still let myself indulge in the fantasy that she’d escape somehow and go wandering in the halls while I tortured my cock on her behalf.

There’s no sign of her, though. She’s not even making any noise.

I ease myself off the bed and clean up my spilled cum, then pull my jeans back on. I sit on the edge of the bed, elbows pressed into my knees, hair hanging into my face from having worked its way out of my ponytail.

She’s sosupple. So warm. There’s a pink tint to her skin that drives me wild, and the lights in the dining room brought it out. All through dinner, throughout our conversation about Edie, I kept admiring it, the blood pumping just below her skin.

I want to see it again. Just a peek.

My breathing’s ragged as I go out into the hall. Some of that’s from coming, but some of it’s from the anticipation of seeing her again. Of not knowing how she’ll react when I step into her room. I know she’s not exactly thrilled to be here, trapped in my house, but what choice do I have? I can’t risk her going to the police and having them come out here and discovering my workshop and my offerings. I’d have to die again. I hate dying.

Worse would be if she led the cops to Sawyer and Edie. Or, gods forbid, Ambrose.

This is the best course of action, really. Keeping her locked up.

I stop outside her door and listen. It’s quiet in there. I knock softly.

No answer.

She’s either asleep or she’s ignoring me. Either way, I’m the one with the key to the lock.

I pull out the chain with the keys and unlock the door, then put it back on, tucking it into my shirt so she can’t see. Then I press the door open.

It’s dark. The lights are all turned off. Of course, I’m a Hunter, and I can see in the dark, more or less, and I do see her, spread out on her back on the bed.

She’s asleep—no wonder I didn’t hear anything. I move closer to her, grateful that my bare feet barely make a whisper on the hardwood floor. I do switch on the little yellow-shaded lamp in the corner, just because I want to see her in the light. Her rosy skin. Her shining hair. The gentle rise and fall of her breasts.

My living girl.

No. I push the thought aside. She’s notmine. I’m just keeping her here until I know what to do with her.

But gods—wouldn’t that be something?

I stop at the foot of her bed and stare down at her. She hasn’t stirred to my presence at all, and I think she must be knocked out from all that wine she drank and the weed smoke I blew into her lungs.

Thatmemory snags on me, and I run my tongue over my lips as if I might be able to taste her. I can’t, though. Which isn’t so surprising, since I didn’t taste her when we sort of kissed.

I could taste her now, though.

The idea flushes through my thoughts, and I curl my fingers up into fists. Although I just came, my cock stiffens a little.

Because Icouldtaste her. She’s knocked out, her legs spread across the top of the bedsheet, her dress hiked up to reveal her thick, tanned thighs. It would probably be my only chance to taste her, honestly. She only let me press my lips to hers because she wanted the weed. This way, I can have my taste without disappointing her with my fumbling.

I’m used to dead girls. To their stillness. And this is close. With the wine and the weed, I don’t think she’ll wake up?—

I wonder if I can make her come, though. If she’ll feel the pleasure of my mouth in her dreams.

I lick my lips again, a dull ache throbbing in the back of my jaw. A cigarette craving, except I’m not craving cigarettes.

Very slowly, very carefully, I ease myself onto the bed. When the mattress sinks beneath my weight, I freeze, eyes on Charlotte, waiting for her to wake up. She doesn’t even move, just continues her slow, steady breathing, her eyes flickering behind her lids.

She’s dreaming. Well, I’m going to make her dream about me.

I lean forward, running my hand up her smooth leg until I reach her dress. Then I push that up, too, my breath caught in my lungs as I reveal more of her thighs. Inch by inch. Centimeter by centimeter. An agonizing strip tease.

Charlotte mumbles something and squirms a little on the bed. I freeze, watching her. But she’s not awake.

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