“I’ll be fine,” she says, her eyes sparking with annoyance.
I smile in return. “I’m right outside.”
Her rosebud mouth turns down. “Isn’t that good to know?”
I let it slide. I’m so happy to have her consent.
Closing the door to give her privacy, I settle down at the bureau in the bedroom so I can hear her in case she changes her mind about needing my help. I summon Benoit and give him the letter to mail with an instruction to bring back a tetanus shot. We have contacts everywhere. I can get anything I want, no matter where I am.
The water in the shower comes on. By the time it turns off, I’ve ordered brunch and made arrangements for tonight. When Zoe steps out dressed in a bathrobe, I point at the loveseat.
She trots over, but falters before she reaches the seat. “Are you going to do it now?”
My grin is diabolic. I know what she means, but I want her to say it. “Do what?”
“You know.” She waves at the bed.
“You mean fuck you?”
Her cheeks turn a deep pink, pretty like a fuchsia rose.
I watch her with my hands folded behind my back, enjoying her shyness. “We don’t need a bed to fuck. We can do it on other furniture, in many different places, and in a variety of positions.” But for our first time, it will be in the bed.
She swallows. “I’m not ready.”
What does she need to be ready? Definitely not clothes. I enjoy playing this game of cat and mouse with her, but I want her relaxed, not stressed. I want her to enjoy it. It’s in both our interest that I put her mind at ease.
“Don’t worry.” I walk closer. “You have time.”
Her shoulders sag. Does she know how openly she shows her relief? “Until when?”
“Tonight.”
Nighttime is when lovers do it, at least the first time. Or so I presume. I’ve never been the romantic type. I’ve never been anyone’s lover. I’ve fucked enough times to have refined the technique of giving a woman pleasure to an art, but I’ve never been with the same woman more than a couple of times. I’m actually looking forward to exploring long-term sex with Zoe, which is why the first time is important. The first time of everything determines how the rest of it will go.
Taking her hand, I pull her down onto the seat. Then I crouch in front of her and brush the robe away to expose her legs. She sits quietly, albeit tensely, as I inspect the bite marks on her legs. I push back the sleeves and turn her wrists this way and that to do the same. Finally, I straighten to drag my fingers through her hair and over her scalp, feeling for bumps. There’s a small one at the back of her head.
“Do you have pain?” I ask.
She shakes her head.
“Are you hungry?”
“Thirsty,” she says.
“I’ll feed you soon.”
I leave her on the loveseat to take the medicine kit from my bag. I never travel without one. It’s a must in our business. Meticulously, I disinfect every mark and scratch on her skin, including the heels of her palms.
The brunch arrives just as I’ve finished. I don’t make her sit at the table but order her to bed and fluff out the pillows behind her back. I serve a savory muffin, bacon, and scrambled eggs onto a plate and let her eat in bed while I pour rose petal tea into a cup to cool.
Benoit returns with the tetanus vaccine as I carry her empty plate away. I first give her an anti-inflammatory pill to drink with her tea, and then I take a hypodermic syringe from the kit.
Her eyes widen when I insert the needle into the vial. “What are you doing?”
“It’s a tetanus shot,” I explain, “for the bites.”
She says nothing as I push the sleeve of the robe up and lock my fingers around her arm. She flinches when I insert the needle into her skin and empty the syringe, but she’s a brave girl. She doesn’t complain.
With my charge taken care of, I’m a lot happier, certainly less miserable than last night. The only thing left is for her to get some rest.
Stroking her soft hair that’s still damp after her shower, I say, “Close your eyes. Sleep. You must be tired.”
She doesn’t argue. Her long lashes flutter over her eyes, and her face muscles go slack as she eases down onto the mattress. With an unusually docile acceptance, she allows me to pet her hair.
Someday, she’ll long for me to touch her like this. There will come a day she won’t have to simply tolerate my touch.
When I’m done with her, she’s going to need it like a drug.
Chapter 9
Zoe
It’s dusk when I wake up. The room is basked in a soft, rose-gold glow. I feel a lot better than this morning. My belly is full, my aches are gone, I’m warm, and I’m fully rested. Then a ball of trepidation tightens my stomach, spoiling my good physical state.
In an hour, it will be dark. Sinful things happen in the dark. Prey is hunted and monsters thrive, but vows must be honored, no matter if dreams are destroyed.
I swing my legs over the bed and look around. Thankfully, I’m alone in the room. Not knowing how much I’ll be granted in the future, I make the most of the privacy by going to the bathroom to use the facilities, but when I open the door, I’m met with shimmering candlelight and the sensual smell of roses. The tub is filled with steaming water, rose petals drifting on top. Candles burn on the vanity, floor, and edge of the bath. Petals are scattered around them. The scene is so pretty I forget to be angry and even to be anxious for a moment, but then I remember who’s set it all up, and my shoulders snap tight with tension again.
I glance back at the room, expecting him to be standing there, gauging my reaction, but I’m still alone. The fragrance and the warm water are too enticing to waste. I lock the door and let the robe slip from my shoulders. Tying my hair in a bun on top of my head, I climb into the tub and lower myself into the water.
It’s heaven. The warmth seeps into my skin, melting the tightness in my muscles. A flute with bubbly, golden liquid stands within my hand’s reach on the windowsill. It’s a beautiful glass with intricate engraving. I bring it to my lips and take a sip. The champagne is dry and yeasty. I’ve had a couple of glasses in my lifetime, at year-end work parties on both occasions, and instantly loved the taste. It’s a luxury I could never afford on my grocery budget.
It takes a bit of playing with the settings before I figure out how to make the bubbles work. A stream of water massages my lower back and another my feet. I lay back—there’s even a bath pillow for my head—and admire the view of the canal and the bridge below. Lights are twinkling on the bridge, and the streetlamps illuminating the cobblestone street look antique, like something straight from a fairytale. Except, this isn’t a fairytale, and I shouldn’t forget it.
As reality wiggles back into my consciousness, wiping away the beauty of the moment, I down the champagne in one go. I no longer want to sip it for enjoyment. I only want to use it to dull my senses.
I do have a little buzz when I get out a long while later and dry myself. My thoughts run ahead to what will follow, but they’re interrupted by what I find when I walk back into the room. The bed has been freshly made with clean linen. A pink dress is arranged at the foot end. It’s the most beautiful creation I’ve seen. Unable to help myself, I step closer.