“No, just Bess.” Despite my best efforts, I can’t quite stop my smile from slipping.
“Was it a recent loss?” he asks, his tone suddenly soft.
“Goodness, no. She was a gift for my tenth birthday and gone by the time I was twelve.”
“The downside of love,” he says sagely. “I’m told man’s best friend is never around long enough.”
“No, that’s true. Sometimes no matter what you do.” She was the hardest lesson I had to learn, and I still wake some nights in tears. In the darkness, the weight of guilt weighs so heavy on my chest it can feel hard to breathe.
“So you’ve had a love for floppy things since you were a girl.”
“It would seem so.” What even is this conversation?
I drop my gaze as I find my hand in his, his thumb sliding across the back of my hand. “I’m sorry. I’ve made you sad.”
“No, it’s not you. You frustrate me.” I ignore how his lips quirk briefly. “But memories aren’t always good ones, you know?”
“What can I do?” he asks earnestly.
“Distract me. Tell me something—anything. Tell me what you’re thinking.”
“I’m wondering if you think of me when he goes down on you.”
Every thought in my mind disappears, his words pulsing through me so darkly. Velvet and gold flash once more through my head, a yearning slick and sweet, threatening my knees.
“We haven’t—” I halt at the almost triumphant lift to the corner of his lips. I suddenly feel untethered. I don’t have the wooden frog or my glass to distract me, lost instead to his fathomless eyes. How does he do it? Paint such filth into poetry? Who is that confident, so sure of themselves? With little care of being rebuffed. But I suppose I didn’t exactly beat him off with a broom the last time we met. Far too late, I respond with, “That has nothing to do with you.”
“You asked what I was thinking.” There isn’t an ounce of contrition in that tiny shoulder flick.
“You’re not supposed to tell me! You’re supposed to offer something bland. It’s not like I asked if you think of me when you fasten those cuffs to another woman’s wrist.”
“Every time,” he answers immediately. “I think of you every time.” I shouldn’t feel flattered, should I? “Seeing as we’re being utterly un-English and honest, do you think of me when you touch yourself?”
“Stop. You’re being unfair.” I look away. He plays this game too well.
“What’s unfair is how you invade my sleep, milaya.”
My brow creases at the unfamiliar word.
“What’s unfair,” he continues, “is how you haunt my dreams, darling.”
“You can’t do this. I mean, we could, but you don’t want to. So stop playing with me.” Stepping to the right, I make to move past him, past his tempting eyes and his persuasive words, past the injustice of Sandy knowing him first. My footsteps falter, and I half turn, my gaze dropping to where his fingers curl around my wrist. I expect him to make some quip about how he’d like to play with me because this seems to be how he’s determined to behave when his answer just confuses the hell out of me.
“But what’s more unjust”—his gaze lifts from the manacle of his fingers, rising to my face—“is how you seem content to settle for so much less than you’re worth.”
“You don’t even know Alistair.”
As though summoned at that moment, my gin and tonic arrives in Alistair’s hand.
“Here you go, Izzy.”
Alistair, the date I’d thought was a cute possibility. Was, as in past tense. Niko annoys me, but Alistair doesn’t make me want to smack, kiss, and ride his face all at once. He doesn’t thrill and annoy me in equal measure. But the strange thing is, in settling for less than I’m worth, I don’t think Niko necessarily means Alistair.
“Thank you.” I force a smile as I take the glass.
“And for you,” he says, producing a bottle of beer for Niko quite happily. “There was this or the Estrella. I wasn’t sure which you’d prefer.”
“You didn’t have to do that.” My smile turns brittle. I feel off balance by Niko’s behavior, by his words. The way he’s still looking at me, his cool eyes burning with longing. I might be worth more than what he can offer me, but it doesn’t mean I want it any less.
“It’s no problem,” Alistair answers, causing me a pang of embarrassment for him. If Niko wants to play alpha, it doesn’t mean Alistair has to play along. Surely, he’s not so dense that he doesn’t understand he’s become the errand boy.
Niko raises his bottle in an ironic toast. “It’s so lovely to see you again, Isla.”
“Izzy,” I correct him, adding a little grit to my voice. Niko Vanyin provokes so many feelings in me. And not all of them are pleasant.
“Peanut.”
“It’s a silly story.” Glancing Alistair’s way, I roll my eyes as though bored. Try strangely thrilled.