Page 96 of Dirty Game
The words crack something open in my chest, but I'm not ready to examine it. Not yet.
"I should analyze the rest of these manifests," I say, trying to pull away.
"Tomorrow. Tonight, you sleep."
He carries me to his room despite my protests, lays me in his bed with a gentleness that makes my eyes sting. But I can't sleep. My mind races with thoughts of Sienna, of Dante, of the war that's coming.
Hours pass. Varrick works quietly at his laptop beside me, the blue light casting shadows across his scarred chest.
I trace the S.C. with my eyes, wondering what it felt like when she carved it.
Was it passion or possession? Love or violence? Both?
"You're thinking so loud I can hear it," he says without looking away from his screen.
"Did it hurt?"
"Everything with Sienna hurt. That was the point. Pain was our language. We didn't know how to be gentle with each other, didn't know how to exist without drawing blood—literally or figuratively."
"And now?"
"Now I know the difference between intensity and intimacy. Between possession and love. You taught me that."
I sit up, decision made. "I'm ready."
He looks at me then, closes his laptop. "For?"
"Everything. All of you. Before she takes you back."
His face darkens, something dangerous flashing in his eyes. "She will never have me again."
"Prove it."
The word hangs between us, challenge and plea combined. He studies my face for a long moment, then stands, pulls me to my feet.
"You're sure?"
"I need to be yours completely. In every way. Need to know that you've claimed all of me, that there's no part she's had that I haven't given you too."
He kisses me, soft and searching. "You know, there are things we haven't done. Things that might?—"
"I trust you."
"This isn't about trust. This is about you being ready, not trying to compete with a ghost."
"Maybe it's both." I pull my nightgown over my head, stand before him naked and vulnerable. "Maybe I need to stop being afraid of my own body. Maybe I need to know that you want me enough to claim every part of me. Maybe I need to prove to myself that I can give you everything and survive it."
He traces my collarbones with gentle fingers, down between my breasts, over the tattooed coordinates on my ribs. "You have nothing to prove."
"Then teach me. Show me. Make me yours in ways she never was."
Something shifts in his expression—desire winning over restraint. "Turn around."
I do, and feel him move closer, his chest against my back, his arms coming around me. One hand splays across my stomach, holding me steady. The other traces my spine, from the base of my neck down to my lower back.
"There are ways I've wanted you," he says against my ear, his voice rough. "Ways I've imagined claiming you that have nothing to do with her and everything to do with how perfectly you fit against me, how responsive you are, how you trust me even when you're scared."
"Show me."
