Page 35 of After Our Kiss

Cringing at the idea of being left behind—and at what being forced to leave meant—I stretched out on my back on the bed. I'd stopped trying to fight him at every turn. I needed my energy for when the right moment came.

We were going to play another game... would it cause me pain, or pleasure, and which was really worse?Pain,I thought suddenly. I'd begun craving the expert way he could turn me on.

He didn't strap me to the bed—that was new. “Look up at the mirror.”

I'd wondered, years ago, what the ceiling mirror was intended for. Facile had rarely interacted with me during my stay. He'd brought me small amounts of food and drink, hardly talking to me, sometimes not even turning the light on. If not for Conway—and Lonnie, briefly—I'd have spent my 187 days in near solitude.

“Can you see yourself?” he asked.

“Of course, it's all I can really see.”

“Describe yourself to me.”

“I—what?”

“Tell me what you look like.”

Unsure about his demand, I considered myself in the mirror. I was wearing a thin pair of sweat pants, the same gray as the long sleeved shirt. Neither fit me very well—a size too big, probably bought in haste. “My hair's a rat's nest,” I said, chuckling wryly. “I need a shower.”

“What else?”

“I don't know, what do you want me to say?”

“Just look and tell me.”

His instructions confused me enough that I became frustrated. “I look like a fucking mess, Conway. Circles under my eyes... exhausted... I look awful.”

“Take off your shirt.”

His words boomed in my eardrums. Looking over, I judged the seriousness in his face. Why had I hoped he was joking? “If I say no, what happens?”

“I'll take it off for you.”

We'd been down that road before. Chewing my lip, I stared back at the mirror. “You've never seen me—all the way like that.” I'd managed to cover my chest every time while changing, and when he'd pulled my dress off, I'd been on my stomach.

“In the van,” he whispered.

Right. He saw down my dress then.I'd forgotten entirely.

His voice was quiet, but danger lurked under the surface. “Take it off. Then the rest.”

I gave myself a mental count down. Then I hooked my fingers under my sweater and peeled it upwards. Setting it on the mattress beside my head, I lifted my hips, gripped the sweat pants, and pulled them off. I was naked except for my panties.

Conway was silent. I held still, hands at my sides, waiting for him to dosomething.

Firm hands pressed onto my thighs. Instantly I jolted, half-sitting up. “Shh,” he said, shaking his head at me. “Lie down, eyes closed. Now.”

Reluctantly I did so.What's he planning? What's he thinking?

Tracing my stomach, Conway explored my softness with languid fascination. I sensed it through him; a wonderment in our contact. It was the first time we'd touched skin to skin in a way that wasn't a fight.

Did Conway find my curves attractive, or was he wishing I was the half-starved teen he'd originally known?Why do you care?I asked myself angrily.His preferences don't matter. None of what he likes matters here.Believing that was a challenge.

He came up against the elastic band of my underwear. Exploring it from one end to the next, he gently spread my thighs. “Open for me,” he whispered.

I did.

Running his touch down the inside of my legs, he moved around the openings of my panties. The contrast between cotton and skin made everything more sensitive. He laid one palm flat on top of my pussy.

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