Torture to Her Soul
Page 46
Huh.
That's a strike.
I'm so wrapped up in that fact, caught up in riddling out the mystery, that I don't realize anyone addressed me until the hand presses against my chest. My eyes dart to it, seeing the bright red polish on the unnaturally long nails, before following the arm to the body of someone who shouldn't be touching me.
I meet Melody's eyes.
"Looking good, Naz," she says playfully, the soft blue twinkling with amusement. "I haven't seen you out of a suit before. I like it."
I look back down, staring at her intrusive hand until she removes it. Finally. "It's nice to see you again, Miss Carmichael."
She blushes at my tone like she thinks I'm flirting, but I'm just trying to keep from upsetting Karissa's friend. I smile so I won't scowl, offering kind words so I won't offend. As much as I despise deception, I know how to play the game when I have to.
And much to my dismay, I have to play it often.
I know their type. They smile too easily, welcome too warmly, their words as fake as the moans they make when they let their little boyfriends play around between their thighs. They come from well-to-do families and never want for anything. They don't know what it's like to feel pain. They don't know what it's like to struggle. They don't know what it's like to wake up one day and realize everything you thought you knew about life was a fucking lie.
They don't know, but I do, and Karissa does, too.
She's too good for them.
Despite being out of her element, Karissa seems relaxed, like she belongs with these people, and maybe she thinks she does… maybe she wants to… but I know better.
She's fought through life and managed to survive.
She hasn't had anything handed to her.
Paul and the other boys vacate the table quickly to start grilling. Karissa scoops up one of their seats while Melody sits beside her, the two falling into easy conversation. I listen for a moment before zoning out, switching my attention back to Paul. They're fumbling with charcoal, scattering heaps of it around inside the grill, before Paul pulls a small lighter from his pocket and flicks it, igniting the tiny flame.
He holds it straight up to one of the dry coals, expecting it to take off without any accelerant.
Despite myself, I laugh, loud enough that Karissa's voice temporarily wavers, but she doesn't stop to question me. I don't know shit about grilling, but starting fires? Piece of cake. It's just as much an art as it is a science, and it's clear, watching them, they don't have a resourceful bone anywhere in their bodies.
I let them fuck around for a minute, listening to them argue about how to go about it, the two others berating Paul for buying the wrong charcoal, for forgetting lighter fluid, for not knowing how to do anything. They're close to getting into a full-blown fistfight when I sigh exasperatedly, interrupting them before they throw any punches.
I don't say a word, merely slipping between the bickering boys and glancing around at their supplies, not finding much to work with, but it's enough to do the trick. A few napkins and a spray from a can of PAM grilling spray are all I need. I arrange the napkins so they're evenly distributed before turning to Paul.
He's gaping at me.
"Lighter?" I hold my hand out and he slips it in my palm with no question. I quickly flick it, lighting the edges of the napkins, ignoring the feel of the flame as it laps at my fingers. I stare at the paper as it ignites before turning away and tossing the lighter back to him. "You're welcome."
He doesn't thank me.
The idiot just gapes some more.
I stroll back over toward Karissa. She's watching me, her conversation with Melody forgotten as the girl moves on to talking to her other friends. I stall right in front of Karissa as she leans back against the picnic table, facing the water. You can see the Manhattan skyline clearly from here, the bustle of the city right across the river. Her eyes scan me before she tilts her head back. She arches an eyebrow as I stare down at her.
"You're good at that," she says.
"Good at what?"
"What you just did."
I briefly glance over at the grill. The flames flicker, burning away at the coals so intensely that the boys took a few steps away from it.
I turn back to Karissa, offering a slight shrug. "We all have our talents."
She's quiet, her eyes narrowing suspiciously as she studies my face, like she's trying to riddle something out from my expression, but I keep it blank. After a moment she leans forward, craning her neck more to look up at me. "Playing with fire," she says, her voice barely a whisper. "It's your specialty, right?"
My brow furrows.
"I heard you say that once," she says. "You were on the phone in the den."
She swallows thickly, like what she just said makes her nervous. My eyes are drawn to the contours of her neck. It's a beautiful thing, watching her throat muscles flex. It reminds me of how it felt that time she sucked my cock, the heat that engulfed me, the tingles, the tickles, when I felt myself slide down her slick throat.
As much as I loved it, I couldn't tolerate it for long. Fucking her is one thing—I own her, body and soul, when I'm inside of her, claiming every inch of her as my own. But when she took me in her mouth, when she peeked up at me from between my legs, the honesty in her eyes was too much to take.
That was when she owned me.
I'm scum, compared to this woman.
I should be the one on my knees.
That's a strike.
I'm so wrapped up in that fact, caught up in riddling out the mystery, that I don't realize anyone addressed me until the hand presses against my chest. My eyes dart to it, seeing the bright red polish on the unnaturally long nails, before following the arm to the body of someone who shouldn't be touching me.
I meet Melody's eyes.
"Looking good, Naz," she says playfully, the soft blue twinkling with amusement. "I haven't seen you out of a suit before. I like it."
I look back down, staring at her intrusive hand until she removes it. Finally. "It's nice to see you again, Miss Carmichael."
She blushes at my tone like she thinks I'm flirting, but I'm just trying to keep from upsetting Karissa's friend. I smile so I won't scowl, offering kind words so I won't offend. As much as I despise deception, I know how to play the game when I have to.
And much to my dismay, I have to play it often.
I know their type. They smile too easily, welcome too warmly, their words as fake as the moans they make when they let their little boyfriends play around between their thighs. They come from well-to-do families and never want for anything. They don't know what it's like to feel pain. They don't know what it's like to struggle. They don't know what it's like to wake up one day and realize everything you thought you knew about life was a fucking lie.
They don't know, but I do, and Karissa does, too.
She's too good for them.
Despite being out of her element, Karissa seems relaxed, like she belongs with these people, and maybe she thinks she does… maybe she wants to… but I know better.
She's fought through life and managed to survive.
She hasn't had anything handed to her.
Paul and the other boys vacate the table quickly to start grilling. Karissa scoops up one of their seats while Melody sits beside her, the two falling into easy conversation. I listen for a moment before zoning out, switching my attention back to Paul. They're fumbling with charcoal, scattering heaps of it around inside the grill, before Paul pulls a small lighter from his pocket and flicks it, igniting the tiny flame.
He holds it straight up to one of the dry coals, expecting it to take off without any accelerant.
Despite myself, I laugh, loud enough that Karissa's voice temporarily wavers, but she doesn't stop to question me. I don't know shit about grilling, but starting fires? Piece of cake. It's just as much an art as it is a science, and it's clear, watching them, they don't have a resourceful bone anywhere in their bodies.
I let them fuck around for a minute, listening to them argue about how to go about it, the two others berating Paul for buying the wrong charcoal, for forgetting lighter fluid, for not knowing how to do anything. They're close to getting into a full-blown fistfight when I sigh exasperatedly, interrupting them before they throw any punches.
I don't say a word, merely slipping between the bickering boys and glancing around at their supplies, not finding much to work with, but it's enough to do the trick. A few napkins and a spray from a can of PAM grilling spray are all I need. I arrange the napkins so they're evenly distributed before turning to Paul.
He's gaping at me.
"Lighter?" I hold my hand out and he slips it in my palm with no question. I quickly flick it, lighting the edges of the napkins, ignoring the feel of the flame as it laps at my fingers. I stare at the paper as it ignites before turning away and tossing the lighter back to him. "You're welcome."
He doesn't thank me.
The idiot just gapes some more.
I stroll back over toward Karissa. She's watching me, her conversation with Melody forgotten as the girl moves on to talking to her other friends. I stall right in front of Karissa as she leans back against the picnic table, facing the water. You can see the Manhattan skyline clearly from here, the bustle of the city right across the river. Her eyes scan me before she tilts her head back. She arches an eyebrow as I stare down at her.
"You're good at that," she says.
"Good at what?"
"What you just did."
I briefly glance over at the grill. The flames flicker, burning away at the coals so intensely that the boys took a few steps away from it.
I turn back to Karissa, offering a slight shrug. "We all have our talents."
She's quiet, her eyes narrowing suspiciously as she studies my face, like she's trying to riddle something out from my expression, but I keep it blank. After a moment she leans forward, craning her neck more to look up at me. "Playing with fire," she says, her voice barely a whisper. "It's your specialty, right?"
My brow furrows.
"I heard you say that once," she says. "You were on the phone in the den."
She swallows thickly, like what she just said makes her nervous. My eyes are drawn to the contours of her neck. It's a beautiful thing, watching her throat muscles flex. It reminds me of how it felt that time she sucked my cock, the heat that engulfed me, the tingles, the tickles, when I felt myself slide down her slick throat.
As much as I loved it, I couldn't tolerate it for long. Fucking her is one thing—I own her, body and soul, when I'm inside of her, claiming every inch of her as my own. But when she took me in her mouth, when she peeked up at me from between my legs, the honesty in her eyes was too much to take.
That was when she owned me.
I'm scum, compared to this woman.
I should be the one on my knees.
