Page 34 of Heartless Game

She was here. Asleep. Helpless. In my arms.

And there was no one to stop me butme.

On that realization, I slipped my hand between her thighs, gently swiping my thumb on the boxer briefs of mine she was wearing.

And grunted in pleased shock.

Wet.

She was dreaming of me.

And I was going to make her have an even better dream.

Sliding my fingers under the elastic, I began to play. She was mostly hairless, with just a small triangle of short curls. The idea that she waxed for anyone else made my heart roar with frustration. But it didn’t matter. She was here now, with me, and wouldn’t be touching or touched by anyone else as long as she was mine. I stroked my fingers up and down her slit, gathering some of her wetness before focusing my middle and index finger on her clit, hiding under its hood. Slowly, carefully, gently—maybe even tenderly—I started tracing small, light circles around it, barely rubbing. I was rewarded by more wetness as her arousal grew.

I was rewarded more when she moaned my name again.

Fuck.

All I wanted to do was slip my cock inside her pussy, but I’d meant it when I’d told her she had to earn it. And while I could excuse myself for touching her, I wasn’t sure I could rationalize full on fucking her while she was asleep. Instead, I appeased myself by playing, drawing more circles, patterns, even tracing my name on her pussy as she moaned and shifted in my arms.

That’s right, little snoop. You come forme. Andonlyme. Whenever I want you to.

I sped up my circles, following her breathing patterns and movements, this time not so lost in her cunt that I couldn’t pay attention to what she liked and didn’t like. She was perfect this way, vulnerable, open, unaware and unable to fight me. And when her thighs tightened and she inhaled, somehow still asleep but close to coming, I stuffed two of my fingers inside her while playing her clit with my thumb, and oh fucking god, the way she squeezed them so tight when she orgasmed.

It made me do something I hadn’t done since I was a teenager: come in my sweatpants.

Some-fucking-how, doing nothing but playing with her pussy was the hottest sex I’d had in years. Maybe the hottest sex I’d ever had.

Yeah, I wasn’t fucking turning Tovah Lewis over to my father to be killed. Not when she was such a perfect little plaything. Not when she was the only bit of light in the darkness.

This was the moment where I should’ve unlocked the handcuffs, gone to the bathroom and cleaned myself up. Maybe even slept in another room to get distance from her and this uncomfortable feeling in my chest, like something had been cracked open and was leaking out. I couldn’t risk feeling about her this way, about feeling anything about her at all. Not when I knew that she wasn’t for me, long-term. No one was. I’d learned that the hard way as a young boy when my mother was killed right in front of my eyes.

So yeah, I should’ve gotten the hell out of that bed, washed away the reminder of what Tovah did to my body, and put a wall between us, literally and figuratively.

Instead, I rearranged Tovah so she was curled into the nook below my arm, her head resting on my chest, and closed my eyes, reveling in a feeling that would never, ever last. And swiftly fell asleep, and slept better than I had since my mother was killed.

14

Tovah

Iwoke up, groaning. My underwear was embarrassingly wet, my shoulder hurt, my back ached, and my wrist stung.

But at least the weight of the metal handcuff was gone.

Was I free? Had Isaac changed his mind?

And why did that thought make my stomach drop like a lead weight?

Stretching, I sat up. Isaac stood at the edge of the bed, holding a steaming mug of what I assumed was coffee. I didn’t drink coffee, even though like any good journalist, I subsisted on caffeine (in the form of chai lattes), chocolate peanut butter cups, and determination—and not much else. Isaac probably didn’t care. Or the drink was for him.

Except he leaned over, holding out the mug. The delicious scent of cinnamon, ginger, cardamom, and cloves teased my nostrils.

How did he know that was my drink of choice?

“Here,” he said, passing it to me. After a moment of hesitation, I took it, lifting it to my nose and sniffing.

“Did you poison it?” I asked suspiciously.

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