Page 24 of Speak of the Devil (New Hope 3)

I offer a wry smile. “Got you in the water, didn’t it?”

The thing about seduction is you can’t be someone’s fantasy and be real at the same time. There’s a time to let her think I’m like her and a time to be more. Bolder. Braver. Freer.

She splashes me, and I can see in the way she moves, in her slack expression, that she’s buzzed. And also, that it’s working in my favor.

“Have you ever been with a woman?” she asks, and maybe it’s the water, or the unexpectedness of finding herself here, doing something so foolish like skinny-dipping when there’s a proper party just up the way with proper women doing mostly proper things but she plays right into my hand, exactly as I’d expected.

“Never,” I say. “But I always meant to.”

We end up back in the cottage. Sopping wet, dripping everywhere, because who needs towels when it’s the best night of your life? We’re out of breath, the rush of tiptoeing up the stairs, our clothes shamefully clutched at our chests, careful to pause at all the right moments like actors in a spy film. There would be hell to pay should we get caught naked. Even if this is an assignment, discretion is key. In all things. Plus, it’s only me who’s naked. Mrs. Louis is halfway there.

“There’s a really nice shower,” I call over my shoulder. “In the master suite.”

As I lock the front door, I let her contemplate what I’m saying. When I turn, she’s looking at me, her eyes wide. She’s shivering. I turn on the heat.

“You’re cold,” I exclaim, tossing her the throw that’s laid over the back of the sofa.

“Thanks,” she says running her fingers through blonde hair that doesn’t quite touch her shoulders. It’s the first time I really see her. Some women don’t age well, but she isn’t one of them. She senses me watching. I can see that she longs to be taken care of. This is how she makes her decision. “Yeah, I think we’d better.”

“Lake water is gross,” I confess, and then we erupt in laughter, the kind only slightly drunk women manage when they know what they are about to do is utterly ridiculous. As for me, I’m completely sober—a trick I learned in training: how to make it look like you’re drinking from a bottle when in reality, you’re just chugging and spitting it back in.

When the laughter has run its course, she turns. “You go first.”

I shake my head. “You’re shivering.”

She runs her hands up and down the length of her arms. Her eyes never leave mine. She wants permission. But that would be a mistake on my part. She has to give it to herself. “It’s fine.”

“I don’t mind sharing,” I say, walking away. The power of suggestion. Most people don’t know what they like until you tell them. Nevertheless, it’s best if I go first. She wants the opportunity to make the first move. She needs to feel in control even if she’s yearning to lose it.

The truth is, it could go either way.

I’m not certain she’ll join me, and I’m contemplating what my move will be if she doesn’t, when I hear the shower door creak open behind me.

We stand there facing each other for several seconds before she practically leaps across the space like a gazelle. She pins me to t

he wall. I plead with her not to stop with my eyes. I show her with my hands.

Thankfully, she doesn’t.

Marcia Louis is either very experienced or very good at pretending.

“Wait…” I take her hand in mine, removing it from my belly, but she wriggles free and resumes, moving in the direction things are headed. She goes lower. I scoot away as she trails down my stomach. “No,” I say, again slowing things down. “This time, you first.”

After my fingers and then my mouth work their magic, I take her by the hand and lead her to the bedroom where the camera is set up.

I plop down on the bed playfully and then I hold one finger up and beckon her forward like a challenge. When she joins me, I lay back and close my eyes. “My turn.”

Afterward, we’re sprawled out on the bed.

To remedy the awkwardness, she lifts her phone from the bedside table. Nobody understands the value of silence anymore.

She holds it up, showing me a picture of a young girl. I don’t know why, but nearly all women do this following a sexual encounter. Sometimes it’s a pet, or a place they’ve visited, always something personal.

My theory is they want the experience to mean something.

They want to be known.

But what if it doesn’t?

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