Page 72 of House of Crimson Hearts
“Octavia!”
“Take. Them. Off.”
“Shit,” she says. But she obliges, wiggling under the table as discretely as she can. Then I feel her foot slide between my thighs as she deposits a G-string.
“Happy?”
“I will be when you tell me your name.”
“Never,” she says.
My eyes narrow and I hit one of the buttons.
“Eek,” she squeals and then slaps her hand to her mouth. “Octavia,” she growls.
But this is too much fun not to see it through. I take a sip of blood from the goblet I’ve been served. It’s O negative, and a vintage, I think, 21-day aged.
“We’re going to play a game; I’m going to make you come and you’re not allowed to make a sound. And if you do… you tell me your real name.”
“And if I don’t?”
I shrug. “I don’t like your odds.”
“If. I. Don’t?”
“Then your name can stay secret forever.”
“Deal,” she says and holds out her hand. I shake it and use my elbow to hit one of the buttons. She jumps, knocking the salt over and turns what would have been a moan into a hiccup.
I laugh, loud and delighted. I am definitely going to win this.
The waiter comes to retrieve our plates. I instinctively turn my head so he doesn’t see my eyes, and he sets about gathering up several knives and forks.
I hit one of the remote’s buttons, not having a clue what any of them do. I press it three times in rapid succession. Red jerks back in her chair, her knee kicking up and hitting the underside of the table so hard the water in her glass ripples.
The waiter glances at her but resumes clearing the plates. When he’s holding them all, he turns to us just as I decide to hit three more random buttons.
“Would you like the, er—” he raises an eyebrow at Red, who’s gripping the table so hard her knuckles have gone white.
“Are you okay, miss?” the waiter says.
She presses her lips together so hard they lose colour and manages to nod at him.
“Would you like the dessert menus?”
I glance at Red and gesture an open palm at her to indicate she should answer. Gods forbid I turn and stare at the boy with his hands full, the plates will end up smashed and broken on the floor.
Red’s nostrils flare. She gives me the darkest stare I’ve ever seen and utters a breathy, “Y-yes.”
I stifle a laugh knowing full well that yes was rather too breathy and far too close to a moan for her to win this game.
The boy glances between us and then makes a hasty retreat.
“Ready to tell me your name?”
“Fuck you,” she says, laughing.
“I do hope so.”
