Page 67 of Dirty Game
"What if I don't want you to regret it?"
He was across the room and out the door before I finished the sentence, leaving me alone with the cooling coffee and the ache between my thighs that had become my constant companion.
Now it's the third day, and my body has become a stranger to me.
Every nerve ending feels exposed.
My skin feels too tight, like I might split apart at the seams.
My breasts ache, nipples hardening at nothing—the brush of fabric, a cool breeze, the mere thought of his hands.
Between my legs, there's a constant pulse, a neediness that grows worse every time I see him.
This morning, I watched him doing pull-ups in the makeshift gym, muscles rippling under his scarred skin, counting under his breath in that controlled way of his.
A bead of sweat tracked down his spine, following the valley of muscle, and I had to bite my lip to keep from making a sound.
When he dropped from the bar and caught me staring, his eyes went dark, dangerous.
"Rosalynn." My name was a warning.
"I'm just watching."
"You're playing with fire."
"Maybe I want to burn."
He'd stalked past me, close enough that I could smell him—sweat and soap and something uniquely Varrick—but careful not to touch.
I heard his shower turn on moments later, heard him curse through the wall, and wondered if he was doing what I'd done every night for three days—trying to ease the ache alone, his hand a poor substitute for what we both wanted.
Sexual frustration, I realize, sitting on the back porch with my coffee growing cold.
That's what this is.
But understanding the term and understanding what to do about it are different things.
Maria finds me there, staring at nothing, my whole body wound tight as a spring.
"You look ready to crawl out of your skin," she observes, settling beside me with her own coffee.
"I don't know what's wrong with me."
She laughs, but not unkindly. "Girl, I could feel the tension between you two from the kitchen. That man's been watching you like a starving wolf for three days, and you've been watching him right back."
Heat floods my face. "I don't... I've never... I don't understand what I'm feeling."
"Desire," she says simply. "Want. Need. Your body knows what it wants even if your mind hasn't caught up."
"But what do I do about it?" The question comes out desperate. "I feel like I'm burning from the inside. Like, my skin is too sensitive. Like if he doesn't touch me soon, I mightactuallydie."
Maria studies me for a long moment. "You've never been with a man."
It's not a question, but I nod anyway.
"And from what I've gathered about your family..." She doesn't finish, but she doesn't need to.
She's seen the scars. She knows enough.
