Page 74 of Dirty Game
She’s shivering, even though I can feel the heat pouring off her.
I prop myself on one elbow and watch her.
She’s in the place between panic and peace. Body limp but wired, her mind scrambling. I know that place.
I spent my youth there, on the wrong side of every closed door, learning to slow my breathing and wait for the danger to pass. She’s not waiting for danger.
She’s waiting to see what I do.
I trace the length of her spine with my fingertip, watching the micro-tremors chase my touch down to the small of her back.
She doesn’t flinch.
She moves further back, grinding her ass on me.
“You’re still here.” Her voice is small.
She only says it because she’s surprised.
I smirk and reach for the pack of cigarettes on the bedside table. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
She tugs the sheets higher, a hand covering her mouth as if she just said something obscene. “I thought… I assumed?—”
“You assume a lot, Rosalynn.” I light the cigarette and exhale over her shoulder, fogging the air between us. “You thought I’d use you and vanish.”
The back of her neck turns red, right to the hairline.
I watch the color spread as she flips over to face me.
She’s soft, in every way, except where it matters.
That’s where she’s steel—hidden, burnished, almost invisible until you cut yourself on her.
“I don’t—” She stops, searching for a way to backpedal. “I didn’t mean?—”
I trace patterns on her back, feeling each vertebrae, memorizing the dips and ridges.
“Regrets?” I ask because I know she has them.
She bites her lip, teeth denting the pink until it almost bleeds. “I didn’t know it could be…” She stops, eyes wet. “That you would…”
I wait, patiently.
I can out-silence anyone.
She shakes her head, presses her face to my chest, and lets herself be held.
She’s asleep in minutes, all tension bled from her muscles, her body slack and vulnerable in my arms.
I lie awake, counting the seconds until dawn, wondering which version of her I’ll meet in the morning.
I bet she’ll run.
But I’ve been wrong before.
The only thing I can’t plan for is her.
She’s gone before I wake. Sheets cold, the outline of her head still pushed into the pillow.
