He stilled behind her. “Does it matter?”
“I’m not sure,” she admitted, uncertain why she suddenly felt curious about his past. “It shouldn’t, I suppose.”
“You don’t need to worry about whether I’m comparing you to anyone else.” He resumed his ticklish nuzzling.
She didn’t believe that. It was impossible for her to even consider it might be the truth. She could only imagine what sort of gorgeous women he had taken to bed.
“I’ve never done this with any woman before.” Swift kissed her cheek. “You’re the first and only woman to ever sleep in bed with me.”
Confused, she rolled over to face him. The fake lights behind the strange curtains that covered the fake windows cast the glow of sunrise around the room. She studied Swift’s handsome face, searching his blue eyes, and asked, “How is that possible?’
“How is what possible?” Swift’s hand slid down her arm to her waist and then lower to her bottom. He palmed her bare butt, and she felt a quiver of excitement.
“That you never slept with a woman?”
He used his grip on her bottom to tug her even closer. “There’s not much sleeping happening during sex.”
“Yes, but after?”
“After what?” He caressed her bottom, and she wondered if she would ever get used to being touched like this.
“After the sex,” she clarified.
“After the sex, I showered and left.”
“Why?”
“I only paid for an hour or two.”
Suddenly, all those exciting feelings fled. She yanked back from Swift’s descending mouth. “Paid?”
His expression turned cautious. “Yes.”
“You used prostitutes?” Her stomach pitched at the idea of Swift giving money to some woman who had no other way to support herself than selling her body. “You bought women?”
“It’s not like that here, Alys.”
She untangled herself from his arms and climbed out of the bed. “It’s like that everywhere.”
“Poppies are respected. They provide a service to unmated men.”
“Poppies?” She stood at the edge of the bed, staring down at him.
“Property of Prison. POP.”
Her stomach dropped. “You paid to use prisoners?”
“No, they’re not prisoners. They were born in prison to incarcerated women. That means they’re stateless and....” He stopped talking, probably because he could see how disgusted she was.
“Your people take women born in prisons and force them into prostitution because they don’t have papers?” She couldn’t believe this was the conversation she was having the morning after giving herself to Swift. “What is wrong with you?”
In a frustrated huff, Swift threw back the covers and got out of bed. He stood on the other side, as naked as she was, and scowled. “There’s nothing wrong with me! You shouldn’t judge things you don’t understand.”
“I don’t want to understand these things! It’s disgusting and wrong and you should be ashamed for taking advantage of those women!” As soon as the angry, loud words left her mouth, Alys retreated four quick steps. She gulped and dropped her gaze. Years of never raising her voice and always deferring to her father and other men told her how this was going to end.
Even though she couldn’t see him with her gaze glued to the floor, she could hear his bare feet on the floor. She tried to make herself small. Naked and shivering, she felt incredibly exposed and vulnerable. Please let it be quick.
“Alys, look at me,” Swift commanded. When she resisted, he ordered, “Now.”
She lifted her gaze and met his stony expression. She couldn’t tell what he was feeling, and it terrified her. He took a step toward her, and she fought every self-preservation instinct that urged her to run. Swift was taller and stronger than her father. If he took a strap to her, he would easily break her skin and add another layer of scars to her already marked body.
Her hands trembled at her sides, and she squeezed them into fists. Swift moved closer, but she couldn’t look at his face. She dropped her gaze to his chest. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed his arm lifting, and she tensed, stiffening her jaw in preparation for a strike.
But it never came.
Instead, Swift cupped her cheek. Gently, he commanded, “Look at me.”
Unable to refuse him, she lifted her gaze to his. His expression remained indecipherable, but the tender stroke of his thumb along her chin soothed her raw nerves.
“You can yell and insult me all day and night, Alys. I’m a grown man, and I can handle it.”
“I’m sorry, sir. I shouldn’t have—”
“You should have,” he insisted. “You were right to say it.” He let his hand fall to her shoulder. “I have certain views about things that won’t align with yours, and I’m sure you’ll have views that won’t align with mine. We’re from two different cultures, and we’re going to have problems like this crop up from time to time.”
“But—” She stopped herself.
“But?” When she didn’t immediately answer, he prompted, “Tell me, Alys.”
“But prostitutes? How is that acceptable in any culture?”
“We don’t consider poppies to be prostitutes the way you would. They’re women who choose to exchange their company for compensation.”
“That’s playing games with word meanings,” she argued.
“I suppose, but the meaning to us is different and it matters.”
“Are they...?” Alys didn’t want to ask, but she had to know. “How old are they?”
“The poppies? The minimum age for entering a contract is twenty-three.”
“Well, that’s something, I suppose. They’re usually very young and very poor back home.”
His eyebrows lifted. “You know prostitutes?”
“Not exactly,” she said. “The last two times I visited Aunt Jimmie in Batt’s Ferry, she took me to a home she supports. They offer housing and work and maternity care to young women who are in trouble.”
“In trouble?”
“Pregnant,” she clarified. “They were all so young. Younger than my sister.”
“How old is your sister?”
“Eighteen. Barely,” she added. “But these girls were fourteen and fifteen. A few were older, closer to my age, but overall, they were young.” She swallowed and tried to shake the awful memories of those girls. “I understand you have different ideas about these things, but I will never change my mind on this. Prostitution hurts women.”
Swift exhaled slowly. She searched his eyes, trying to figure out what he was thinking. Finally, he said, “Yes, I can see that. I believe that my experiences with poppies was consensual in every way and the compensation for their time was fair.”
“I’m sure you do.”
He winced. “But I can see how that distinction doesn’t matter to you. So—what do we do now?’
Her brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”
“This is obviously a hard line for you.”
“Yes.”