Page 64 of Cruel Pleasures
I set the bowl of spice down on the table and use the tiny straw to inhale a dose… or two.
My nostrils and nasal passage tingle the second the fine-milled copper powder shoots up the straw. I close my eyes and let the instantaneous high crawl over me.
The sensations hit my body before they capture my mind.
Within seconds, I’m warm. I’m somehow wobbling in my heels while standing still. My pulse jolts lightning fast in my veins. It becomes a sound pounding in my ears.
The irritation I’d been feeling melts away. Any curiosity I had about why I’m alone and no one’s around vanishes.
My cheeks ache, I smile so wide. I stare wide-eyed as suddenly I’m enamored with the white walls surrounding me—they go from feeling so far away to stretching toward me, closing in ’til I’m spinning in a circle in search of an escape.
I’m so distracted that I don’t even realize I’m no longer alone.
I spin several more times only to knock into someone sturdier. He’s immovable, hardly affected by how my body collides with his. Staggering half a step back, I squint at him, my increasingly murky brain trying to place him.
Figure out if I’ve seen him before.
He’s at least six feet tall, with shoulders that are broad and sculpted. He’s in all black with a smooth leather mask that keeps half of his face a mystery.
“Who… who’re you?” I mumble. My blinks long and slow. “An-and where did you… how did you…?”
The man’s lips press tight, his jaw tense. “Are you here to play?”
“Uh… the invitation I was given…” I fish around inside my wristlet to find the little black card as if it’ll give me the clarity I need.
“Yes or no.”
“I… I guess. I mean, yes. Depending on what it is.”
“There is no depends,” he snaps. “There are only two options. Yes. Or. No.”
Each word he punctuates with a hard pause. A tic sets off in the muscles of his jaw, like he’s barely restraining himself from admonishing me.
Punishing me.
My pulse beats faster at the possibility.
“Yes,” I answer hesitantly. “Yes, I want to play.”
He takes a wide step back, folding his arms across his chest, and he surveys me. An open appraisal from head to toe as if determining whether I’m worthy enough to. If I meet his standards.
My high from the spice drags the moment on, making it last an eternity.
His eyes are like obsidian stones as they rake over me. Body part by body part in agonizingly slow and judgmental fashion.
My breasts. My stomach. My thighs. My perfectly manicured and painted toes peeking out from the strappy heels I wear.
If he likes what he sees, he gives no indication. Not a clench of his jaw or flicker of lust in his dark gaze.
“Put down the bowl.”
I glance down and realize I’m still holding the spice bowl. This prompts a silly giggle out of me.
He’s unamused. He waits ’til I’ve wobbled over to the table and set down the bowl and straw, then issues his next command.
“Come here.”
Intrinsically, I do as I’m told. Rare when I’m sober.
