“You know,” I say. “It says a lot that a girl would lie about something like that just to keep from having to have sex with you.”
“You’re not a virgin, either, are you?” he asks.
I try to gauge his expression, his tone, to see how he feels about that. I don’t see disappointment in him, but there’s definitely an edge of jealousy in his voice. He does want me, despite his best efforts to pretend otherwise. The thought sends a tremor of triumph through me. I want to be wanted just like anyone else, even if it’s by a man I don’t want in return. I could lie to him, but I think of how important my hymen is to men and decide it will only make him want me more.
“I’m a virgin,” I say.
“Prove it.”
We stare at each other for a long moment. “How?” I ask, a challenge in my voice.
“I heard you talking on the beach on our wedding night,” King says, prowling forward. “Voices carry across water. You should know that, having a house on the beach.”
I scurry off the far side of the bed and find myself backed into a corner. Damn it. I dart forward, trying to get around the bed, but he’s too fast. He grabs my wrist and backs me against the window. My heart is racing like a scared rabbit in my chest as I look up into his deep, dark eyes.
“You wanted me to hear, didn’t you?” he asks. “You love testing me, but you don’t know who you’re fucking with,piccola.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Just like you wanted me to know where to find you tonight.” A little smirk forms on his full lips, and my heart skips a beat altogether. “You said I didn’thave towait up. You didn’t tell me not to. You wanted me to wait up, to sit here wondering and worrying, didn’t you? Admit it. You wanted me to come find you.”
“No,” I say, scowling. “Why would I want some asshole to come ruin my fun?”
“Because you get away with everything, but you don’t actually want to,” he says. “You want someone to stop you. You want someone to care enough to save you from yourself.”
“Don’t try to psychoanalyze me,” I snap. “You don’t know anything about me.”
“I think I do,” he says. “Did you want me to hear you on our wedding night, too, Eliza?”
“Hear me doing what?” I ask, genuinely confused this time.
“I think you did,” he purrs, stroking my hair behind my ear with his free hand. “Is that why you said those things? Or was it because that’s what you like? You want me to rough you up and fuck you dry?”
My heart flips. I realize then what’s he’s talking about, that he mistakenly thought those words were mine. All this time, he’s thought I said those things about how you can fake being a virgin. Shame burns through me, that my husband thinks I’m a slut.
“That wasn’t me,” I say, my voice coming out breathier than I want. It’s just that he’s so close to me, his body almost touching mine. And even though I was just all over some stranger in the club, this is different. This is my husband. I’ve never been so close to him, and my body trembles at his nearness. He’s standing so close I can feel the heat of his body crackling across my skin, can smell his scent, something spicy and salty at once that makes my mouth water. I feel electric, combustible, like I’m gasoline and he’s a match hovering just out of reach.
I want to know what happens when the match is dropped.
“That was my friend Lizzie,” I whisper, gripping the windowsill behind me.
He hasn’t spoken, hasn’t moved, but his eyes are drinking me in, caressing me until I ache for just a whisper of his skin against mine.
“Prove it,” he says again, his gaze heated. His fingertips brush the bare skin of my outer thigh, and a tremor goes through me. I bite my lip to keep from gasping, and his hungry eyes follow the movement, locking on my mouth.
I can’t move. I feel like an animal, frozen with fear. My pulse races for a different reason when his fingers move up, slowly trailing across my skin and sending goosebumps blooming over my body. His gaze never leaving my face, he hooks a finger into the hem of my little dress. I shudder again, my own grip tightening on the windowsill. He adds a second finger, working it under the tight fabric. A shaky breath escapes me. My whole body is tight with anticipation as he slips another finger into the hem. When he tugs slightly at the stretchy fabric, my eyes drop closed, my nails pressing into the paint on the sill.
King draws a labored breath and drags my dress up with one slow, sure move. His hands fall to my narrow hips, and I suck in a breath, my eyes flying open at the sensation of his rough, hot hands on my bare skin. He thumbs the straps of my bikini underwear, swallowing hard enough that I can hear it in the silence between us. Nothing moves except his thumbs, toying with me as they move up and down over the thin straps.
“Show me,” he murmurs.
“No.”
After a pause, everything happens at once. His chest moves forward, pinning me against the window. His knee presses between my thighs, pushing me back so my thighs bite into the sill right below my ass. And he slides a hand straight down the front of my underwear.
I cry out in shock, my hands flying to grip his shoulders as my toes struggle to stay on the floor. King’s head drops forward next to mine, so his hot breath fills the space between my shoulder and my neck, and his hand begins to move, gently massaging my mound. My fingers dig into his shoulders as I struggle in silence at the strange sensation of someone else’s hand on me for the first time.
“Don’t hurt me,” I gasp out, although right now, it’s doing anything but hurting. To my utter humiliation, I feel a tingling heat building between my thighs as his fingers keep moving against me in slow, gentle strokes. I go still, willing myself not to feel it, not to respond.