As Rosemary Clooney and Vera Ellen come on screen, singing their famous duet, I remember Lita putting her arms around Cat and me, pulling us close against her sides, saying, “Sisters, see, just like you two. You must always help and protect each other. Sisters first, everything else comes after.”
I’m hit with a wave of guilt, knowing that at this moment I’m not putting Cat first, not at all. I’m jeopardizing what fragile protection I’ve managed to barter for her, all so I can spend time with Miles.
Miles, ever perceptive, takes my chin between his thumb and index finger, tilting up my face so he can examine it.
“What’s wrong?” he says. “Were you hoping for Rear Window instead?”
I shake my head, my throat too tight to speak.
No one has ever done anything like this for me, not even Cat. It’s an impossible gift, something that nobody but Miles could have pulled off. The movie is magical. This moment is perfect. And I can’t enjoy it, because I’m afraid what it will cost me later. Or what it will cost Cat.
“You’re afraid,” Miles says.
I nod my head.
I never would have admitted that before. I hate to show weakness.
I can’t lie to Miles, though. It’s pointless. He always sees the truth.
Miles kisses me, softly at first, then harder.
He pulls back to look at me, his face illuminated by the projector’s light, his eyes silver-bright.
“I’m going to get you free of him, Zoe,” he says.
I try to shake my head because that’s impossible, but Miles holds my face steady with both hands.
“I will,” he growls. “I’ll find a way and I’ll do it. Do you believe me?”
I look into his eyes.
I’ve never been so wrong about a person. I thought Miles was indolent and self-centered. I thought he didn’t care about anything but his own amusement.
I couldn’t have been more wrong. He’s the most determined person I’ve ever met. When he says he’ll do this, I believe him. It’s absurd and unimaginable, but I trust him all the same.
“I believe you,” I say.
Miles kisses me again, without reservation this time. He kisses me like he’s already accomplished what he promised. Like he owns me now, fully and completely.
He stops only to pause the movie, switching to music instead.
Often — The Weeknd
Spotify → geni.us/rebel-spotify
Apple Music → geni.us/rebel-apple
The vintage light of the movie screen glows on his skin, glinting in his shining, dark curls. He selects the song he wants without even glancing at the hand-held remote that operates the speaker. Miles does everything the way he dances: with swift, flawless coordination. I’ve never seen him stumble or hesitate.
He’s always three steps ahead of everyone else, including me. I wonder if he can see the future, like the girl in my script. Unlike her, Miles seems to have full power to achieve his goals.
The music is sensual and intent.
Miles looks at me with an expression I’ve come to know well.
The look he gets when he’s decided on his plan. When nothing will stray him from his course.
“Take off your clothes,” he orders.
I swallow hard.
“I . . . I don’t know if we should . . .”
“You trust me?” he says.
“Yes.”
“Then do what I say.”
“I . . . alright.”
“Stand there. In the light.”
I stand in the reflected light of the projector, trembling a little, but not from cold. My skin burns in the heat of Miles’ stare.
“Take your clothes off,” he repeats. “Slowly.”
I start to unbutton my blouse. My fingertips are tingling, so stiff that my hands feel like they belong to someone else. Maybe to Miles . . .
I’m mesmerized by his stare. I feel like it is his hands doing this, as if I’m not acting on my own volition, but purely according to his will.
I go down the buttons one by one, then I open the blouse and let the silky material slide down my arms and drop to the ground.
The beat of the music vibrates under my skin. I find myself swaying in Chay’s high-heeled shoes, my hips moving slightly to the song. I turn around so my back is to Miles, then slowly unzip the skirt, revealing a slice of thong and asscheeks.
I can hear the ancient springs of the sofa creaking as Miles shifts position.
Slowly, I slide the skirt down over my bottom, bending over slightly as it, too, drops down to puddle around my feet. I step clear of the skirt.
“Keep the heels on,” Miles barks.
I look back over my shoulder at him. His eyes gleam in the pale light. He leans back against the cushions, his arms resting along the back of the sofa. He looks like a king surveying his concubine. Far from feeling degraded by this, I get a rush of warmth between my legs.
I turn around again, wearing only a lacy black thong and bra now.
Miles’ eyes roam over my body. I watch him, feeling equally aroused by his admiration of me. Finally my figure is my friend, because it’s securing the attention of someone I actually want. I’ve never felt as sexy as I do in this moment, seeing myself reflected in his eyes.
I reach around behind my back to unclasp my bra. My breasts fall from their hoisted-up position. Just that movement, that bounce, makes my nipples spring to attention, giving me a deep, desperate ache down low in my belly.
I slip off the bra.
“Touch your breasts,” Miles orders.
I slide my palms under my breasts, lifting them and dropping them to experience that exquisite jolt again. I run my fingers over my nipples, pretending it’s Miles touching me. Pinching my nipples as hard as I think he would. Each touch sends sparks through my body.
“Now the underwear,” Miles says.
Without hesitation, I hook my thumbs in the waistband of my thong and pull it down. I’m soaking. My underwear clings to my pussy lips before pulling away. I keep my pussy trimmed but not shaved clean. For a moment I wonder if Miles likes it that way—I never asked him, the times he went down on me. It gives me a twinge of anxiety. But then I see the naked lust in his eyes and all my fears melt away. He wants me exactly like this. I know he does.
Miles unzips his trousers, letting his cock spring free. I’ve touched it through his clothes, and once I slipped my hand down his pants and grasped it in my palm. I knew it was thick and heavy. But I’ve never actually seen it out in the open. I never returned the favor with oral, nervous that I’d do a terrible job.
His cock is bigger than I expected. Quite alarming, actually. It’s harder than ever, standing up straight, rigid and aggressive.
I want to close my mouth around it. I’m so aroused that I’m not scared anymore—I want to try.
Before I can act on that impulse, Miles says, “Touch yourself. Rub that pussy for me.”
I’m blushing, but the embarrassment is distant. All I can see is Miles in front of me, his burning stare and his dark, scowling brows, and his tightened jaw that looks angry, but I know it isn’t anger, it’s focus. Every bit of his consciousness is focused on me.
I reach down to touch my pussy, doing it for him, putting on a show for him. My fingers slide easily over the lips, and over the little bit of my clit poking out in between, swollen and throbbing. I touch myself, not the way that I usually would in bed, but the way that Miles touches me—firmly, confidently. Knowing me better than I know myself.