Kingmakers, Year Two

13. Zoe

13

ZOE

M iles and I have been seeing each other regularly since that day in the library.

It’s difficult because we can’t be seen alone together. Even when we’re in a group with Leo and Anna, Ares, Hedeon, Chay, Ozzy, and Cat, I have to be careful not to sit by Miles too often, not to stare at him too obviously. And especially not to touch him, no matter how badly I might want to do it.

Sometimes one dark curl will fall down over his eye and the temptation to brush it back off his face is almost irresistible. When his hand is only inches from mine at the dining hall table, I want so badly to feel his warm fingers wrapped around mine. It’s a physical ache, a craving stronger than any I’ve experienced for food or sleep .

Then when we’re finally alone and I can give into it, his touch on my skin is far beyond pleasure—it’s all the way to necessity. I have to have it. The more I get, the more I want.

We haven’t had sex. We both know that would be crossing a serious line. My marriage contract states that I will arrive at my wedding night a virgin, and I don’t think the Princes will be lenient on that point. So we dance around it, kissing and touching each other, with Miles often repeating what he did to me in the library, sometimes three or four times over until my whole body thrums like a music note, until even the air against my skin feels as orgasmic as his tongue between my legs.

It’s not just physical—the more we sneak away together, the more addicted to his company I become.

I don’t know what I imagined dating would be like, having never done it before. I suppose I thought it was sex, or formal conversations over dinner. I never imagined it could be fun and playful, like being with Cat or Chay and Anna, but even better, because the laughter and conversation is strung through with this bright thread of attraction, with a rabid interest in each other that’s intoxicating, that makes time melt away like sugar in water.

Sometimes we meet up with Leo and Anna to play music and dance around together like we’re forming our own tiny nightclub .

Sometimes I show Miles the project I like to work on in my spare time, the thing that I’ve never shown anybody before, not even Cat.

It’s a story. Only it’s written like a play, with dialogue. There’s long descriptive passages, too. It’s about a girl who sees the future, but can’t seem to change the outcome of events, no matter how hard she tries.

I was embarrassed to show him. I only did because he asked me straight out, saying, “What’s that thing you’re always writing?”

“What do you mean?” I said, honestly not thinking about the story. I wouldn’t have thought that Miles had noticed me working on it.

“In that green notebook,” Miles said. “I know it isn’t schoolwork, because you’re never looking at your textbooks and you always hunch over it like it’s secret.”

My face went hot, realizing what he was talking about. There was no denying it when I was blushing so hard.

I showed him the story, saying, “It’s silly, I just work on it to blow off steam. I don’t even know what it is.”

Miles read through twenty pages, focused and unsmiling, until I couldn’t stand the suspense and I snatched it back out of his hands .

“That’s enough,” I said. “Like I told you, it’s silly.”

“It’s not silly,” Miles said, fixing me with his clear gray eyes. “It’s fascinating. You’re talented, Zoe.”

I shook my head, not able to keep looking at him. “It’s nothing. Not even a proper story.”

“It’s not a story,” Miles said. “It’s a script.”

“Like a movie script?” I laughed. “Something has to become a movie before it can be a script.”

“That’s backwards.” Miles smiled at me.

“I mean . . . there has to be some intention for it to be a movie.”

“It should be a movie,” Miles said. “I’d watch it.”

“You’re just flattering me.”

“No I’m not.” He was serious again, taking the notebook back from me, wanting to read more. “I know when something’s good and when it’s not. I wouldn’t lie to you.”

His compliment meant more to me than any I’d received before. I believed Miles when he said he wouldn’t lie. I believed that he was a good judge.

He’s smart. So fucking smart. I hadn’t realized it before. I’d only ever seen bits and pieces of Miles, never when he was engage d in his actual interests. I’d only seen the Miles who was bored by his classes, or slacking off in the Quartum Bellum . When he actually cares about something, he’s got incredible focus.

Now he’s turning that focus on me, and it’s almost frightening. I’ve discovered this completely different person who intimidates me.

He tells me all about his side businesses.

His distribution network for contraband is shockingly complex. It’s not as easy as bribing the fishermen and the shoremen to smuggle things in on the supply ships. He’s got an entire interlocking web of barter, including contacts in Dubrovnik, Tirana, and Bari, who source the items and handle payment to the hundred-odd people involved.

“How do you keep track of all this?” I demand.

“Honestly, I don’t know,” Miles says. “It’s the way my brain works. I can see the system as a whole, with all the little junction points. Each of those points is one person, each with a problem and a solution. When you interconnect them all perfectly, the system feeds itself.”

What I find fascinating about Miles’ methods is how powerful it makes him. Without threats or violence or an army of followers, Miles is one of the most influential people on the island . Everyone knows him. Everyone owes him favors. Nobody wants to fuck with him because they’d risk access to the things that only he can supply.

Everyone except Rocco, of course.

He’s the one person uninterested in what Miles has to offer. What Rocco wants, Miles refuses to give him.

The skirmishes of Rocco, Wade Dyer, Jasper Webb, and Dax Volker, versus Miles and Ozzy, are ongoing and escalating. Hardly a day goes by without some kind of altercation. It frightens me because it feels like it’s building to something worse. Eventually these fights will burst the bounds of what can be hidden from the teachers, and then there will be consequences of an entirely different sort.

That’s not the only conflict we’re dealing with.

Leo and his cousin Dean are still on bad terms.

There was a short armistice at the beginning of the school year. I thought maybe Dean realized he had gone too far trying to drown Leo. I even thought he might feel some sense of gratitude that Leo hadn’t told the school authorities.

If Dean felt any obligation in that regard, it melted away as soon as he had to watch Anna and Leo openly dating.

He’s fallen into a darker mood by the week, and he’s been lashing out at everyone around him. His little clique of friend s, including Bram Van Der Berg and Valon Hoxha, have become almost as feared as Rocco and his friends. They’re vicious without reason. They bully anyone they dislike. Since that mostly includes anybody friendly to Leo, it’s brought Dean and Leo into near-constant conflict.

This afternoon we’re in Combat class in the Armory. It’s mostly Heirs and Enforcers, but Matteo Ragusa is here too.

The trouble starts when Dean deliberately pairs up with Matteo for sparring, ordering Matteo’s friend Paulie White to partner with Bram instead.

“Sorry,” Paulie mouths to Matteo, too scared to refuse.

Matteo faces off against Dean, his wrapped fists awkward on the end of his skinny arms. He’s hunched and already flinching, knowing that Dean has no intention of taking it easy on him.

Dean stalks him with an easy grace that would be beautiful if it weren’t so cruel. It has always struck me how alike Dean and Anna look, both pale and fair with the finesse of a dancer. Dean is what Anna would be if she were born male, stripped of all her kindness and humor.

Anna might be thinking the same thing. She watches Dean uneasily, forgetting that she and I are supposed to be sparring.

Dean toys with Matteo, throwing light feints in his direction, making Matteo stumble over his own feet trying to get away from h im. Then, without warning, Dean sweeps Matteo’s leg out from under him, grabbing Matteo’s arm on the way down and wrenching it viciously up behind his back until Matteo shrieks.

Dean lets go of him, but Matteo is cradling his arm, tears standing out in his eyes. His round face is bright pink, and I can tell he’s embarrassed as much as hurt, trying not to succumb to the pain.

It doesn’t satisfy Dean in the slightest.

“Get up,” he barks at Matteo. “Let’s go again.”

“No!” Leo snaps, striding across the mats. “Leave him alone.”

“Here comes the Doberman to protect his little puppy,” Dean sneers. “Do you wipe his ass for him too, Leo?”

“He’s here to learn how to fight,” Leo says. “Not to be your punching bag.”

“He isn’t, though,” Dean hisses. “He hasn’t learned a fucking thing. Look at him. He’s just as pathetic as he was on the first day of school.”

“He’s doing fine,” Leo says, grabbing Matteo’s good arm and helping him back to his feet.

“We’re not finished,” Dean snaps at Matteo, eyes narrowed. “We’ve got two more rounds. ”

“I’ll spar you then,” Leo says, glaring right back at him.

“Wish I could,” Dean sneers. “But we sparred yesterday. Professor Howell says we need to go through all the partners.”

“I’ll do it, then,” Ares says.

Ares was paired up with Leo and had thus far been watching the confrontation silently. His low voice cuts across Dean in a way that makes everyone fall silent.

Dean smirks, unintimidated by Ares’ size.

“Even better,” he says.

They face off against each other, Dean bouncing lightly on his feet, and Ares standing still with the mats deeply indented under his weight. Dean is a little shorter than Ares, but we all know how fast he is, and how savage. He was a bare-knuckle boxer in Moscow, fighting in the abandoned subway tunnels beneath the city. According to him, he never lost a fight. When he and Leo come to blows, as they have on several occasions, it’s inevitably messy and bloody, with no clear victor.

Ares is no pacifist—he got in a brawl with Bram and Valon last year. But he doesn’t like to fight, and even in Combat class he’s careful and restrained, never losing his temper.

Dean clearly views this as another opportunity to stick it to Leo by beating the shit out of one of his friends. He circles Ares with obvious intent to injure .

He goes in hard, raining down a relentless onslaught of punches almost too fast for my eye to follow. Ares keeps his fists up, but the hail of blows hits him hard in the ribs, the shoulders, and the side of his head. He blocks the worst of it, though I’m sure it still hurts.

Most of the other students have stopped sparring so they can watch. Even Professor Howell shifts position around the edge of the mat, his whistle raised to his lips to stop the fight if necessary, but his dark eyes fixed on the boys with watchful interest.

Unsatisfied by his initial onslaught, Dean attacks even harder, swinging his fist like hammers directly at Ares’ head. He lands one hard blow under Ares’ eye. Ares responds with a right-cross that knocks Dean backward on his heels. I can see the surprise in Dean’s face, and the new level of caution as he circles around, trying to catch Ares off balance.

Dean hits Ares in the body again and again, each thud loud and distinct in the near-silent gym. Ares’ jaw is tight, his face stiff. With each blow that strikes him, the patches of color on Ares’ cheeks get darker and darker. I get the strangest feeling that he’s allowing Dean to hit him. But every time Dean obliges, something builds inside of Ares. Something very like fury.

Dean attacks his head again, buffeting Ares with punches that are both fast and hard, coming at him in a flurry from all direct ions. It’s relentless, furious, far beyond the level of aggression we’re supposed to show in sparring.

Professor Howell doesn’t stop them. He wants to see how Ares will respond, just as much as the rest of us.

At last it works—Ares snaps. With a howl of anger, he lashes back at Dean with full force. He swings his punches with all his mass behind them, and all the benefit of his long reach. He knocks Dean’s fists aside, hitting him in the nose and jaw.

Far from calming Ares, the landed blows only enrage him further. He’s totally lost control, roaring like an animal as he hits Dean again and again and again with both fists.

Dean fires back, clipping Ares in the lower lip.

Ares hits him back just as fast, a punch so hard that Dean actually staggers and falls to one knee, something I’ve never seen before.

Face flushed, eyes wild, Ares cocks his fist again, ready to twist Dean’s head around with a finishing blow.

The cold silver whistle slices through the air between them, warning Ares to stop.

Ares drops his fists, chest heaving with heavy breaths. He reminds me of Hercules, driven mad for a moment, shaking his head as he comes back to himself. He looks shocked and a little horrified. Scared, too—scared at how he lost control .

Dean jumps back to his feet, eyeing Ares with a calculating expression. Far from being upset at the surprising turn of the fight, he seems oddly pleased as he spits a mouthful of blood on the ground.

Leo goes over to Ares and claps his hand on his shoulder, making Ares jump.

“Hey. You okay?” Leo asks.

“Yeah. I’m fine,” Ares says.

His expression has almost returned to normal. But I can see his hands trembling beneath their wrapping.

“What the fuck was that?” Anna murmurs to me.

“You know Dean,” I say to her. “He gets under everybody’s skin.”

“That he does,” Anna agrees. She’s still looking at Ares, frowning.

I understand what she’s thinking.

I noticed the same thing.

For a minute, Ares didn’t look like himself. He was a completely different person .

Christmas rolls around. I always like this time of year at school, because the dining hall is decorated with fresh fir boughs, and the professors take a break from their usual curriculum to teach us lessons that might actually be considered fun.

Professor Lyons shows us how to make LSD candy, which she then invites us to sample. As leery as I am to accept any kind of food from the most famous poisoner of the modern era, I slip two pieces in my pocket thinking that I might work up the courage to try it eventually.

Professor Holland turns out all the lights in his classroom and acts as the Narrator so we can play the party game Mafia, telling us that it’s a useful illustration of intention and deception. Since the professor has been sipping out of a pocket flask all afternoon, I’m not sure he actually believes it will teach us anything, but we all enjoy the game regardless.

Not all the students are happy to be trapped at school when they’d rather be at home with their families. This is peak time for homesickness, especially amongst the Freshmen who aren’t used to being so isolated.

Luckily for me, the only family I care to see is right here at school with me. Cat and I spend hours together making Christmas cards for our friends .

Cat’s cards are, of course, infinitely prettier than mine. She paints landscapes of Kingmakers: the cathedral, the Octagon Tower, the view from the Solar, and so forth.

I choose simple and achievable motifs like a snowflake or a sprig of mistletoe. Since mine are easier, I finish before she does, and spend the rest of the time working on my story, or my “script” as I’ve begun to think of it, despite how pretentious that sounds.

It’s extremely pleasant to scribble away while listening to the swish of Cat’s paintbrush and the music playing on Anna’s speaker. We snack on paper-wrapped oranges brought up from the dining hall, and hand-made caramels bought in the village.

We’re working in Chay and Anna’s room because it’s larger than mine. Cat and I could barely fit in my bedroom at the same time, and there definitely wouldn’t be space for art supplies.

When I hear a knock on the door, I assume it’s Chay or Anna coming back from class. Instead, I find Miles standing there, looking spruce in a perfectly-fitted white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to show his tanned forearms. Miles always looks tan, even when we haven’t had sunshine in weeks. His face is freshly-shaven, revealing the little cleft in his chin and the square lines of his jaw. His dark curls are damp .

“What are you doing here?” I say, trying not to smile too hard.

Miles takes a quick glance into the room to check who’s present before replying. He’s always careful in that way, which I know is more for my benefit than his.

“I need to see you tonight,” he says. “I have a surprise for you.”

“I don’t like surprises,” I tell him.

“You will when it comes from me,” he says, showing that crooked smile that has an irresistible effect on me.

A ball of warmth expands inside my chest. It gets bigger and bigger every moment that Miles stands in front of me. Despite what I said about surprises, I’m excited to spend a few hours in his company.

“Nine o’clock,” Miles tells me. “I’ll meet you behind the Solar.”

“I’ll be there,” I say.

“See you, Cat,” Miles calls over my shoulder.

Cat lifts her paint-spattered hand in a wave.

Miles casts a quick glance down the hallway, then kisses me so swiftly that I barely have time to feel his mouth before he’s gone. My lips burn all the same, for a long time after.

I wish I had something to give Miles for Christmas. The only person who could sell me a good gift would be Miles himself, and I barely have any money. My father has never given Cat or me a generous allowance.

I did make Miles a leather bracelet. Cat showed me how to do it. It isn’t as professional as it would have been if Cat made it, but I was determined to do the work myself, and I think it turned out nicely.

Miles has a distinct sense of style, so I’m hoping he’ll like it, or at least not feel obligated to wear it if he doesn’t.

I wrap the bracelet in colored paper and write Miles a note in the mistletoe card.

Then I spend a long time getting dressed, wondering what the surprise might be.

What I told Miles was true—I’ve never liked surprises. But that’s because they’ve usually been unpleasant. I already know him well enough to assume that I might actually enjoy his plans for the evening. In fact, I probably will. I just have to let go of that need to be prepared, that desperate desire for control that I’ve always felt, despite never actually having any meaningful control in my own life.

When your life is a slow-motion car crash, you try to compensate by controlling stupid, insignificant things. For me it was grades. In Barcelona I wasn’t permitted to choose my schedule or my friends, but I could at least get a perfect score on tests. It earned me praise from my teachers, and even occasionally from my father.

I tried to be perfect to please him, and to placate Daniela. It never worked.

I always dressed neatly, shoes polished, hair brushed. I kept my room spotless, clothes organized by color, books lined up flawlessly on the shelf with all the spines at precisely the same depth. I was always on time. I never smoked or swore.

Pointless actions become crucial, even compulsive.

Actually, I see a little of this in Dean Yenin. I see how he lines up his notebooks and pencils on his desk. How his clothes and person are always scrubbed clean. How he washes his hands again and again after Marksmanship or Chemistry classes.

It’s plaster over cracks. I see it and recognize it. I don’t know what his damage is, but I see how he tries to right his universe, desperately and ineffectually. I’d feel sorry for him if he wasn’t such an asshole.

Even my first year at Kingmakers, I tried so hard to follow the rules.

And for what? Did I believe, deep down, that my father would take pity on me and set me free from Rocco?

I know he won’t .

Enter Miles Griffin. He’s not just a rule-breaker, he’s a rule-smasher. He subverts every order, dances around barriers as if they’re not even there.

I should be horrified by him.

Instead, I feel like a caveman who just saw a campfire for the very first time.

Miles takes the forbidden and uses it to his advantage—wields it as a tool.

I admire him. And god, how I envy him.

I wait behind the Solar for Miles, dressed in a skirt and heels borrowed from Chay, a blouse borrowed from Anna, and my own academy jacket overtop. It’s chilly tonight—still and windless, with a hard, frosty bite to the air. The grass is crisp and sparkling under my feet.

I’m not the only one who dressed up and snuck out tonight. I’m pretty sure Chay has been seeing Ozzy on the sly since Halloween. She won’t admit to them dating, but on the two occasions I saw her sneaking back to the dorms with obvious JBF hair, she admitted that they’d hooked up again and it was the best sex of her life .

“He’s so fucking kinky,” she groaned, trying to comb the knots of her hair. “He does things to me I’ve never even heard of before.”

“So you like him?” I said.

“Well . . .” She shrugged. “He’s sweet and funny. Smart, too. I just picture myself with more of a Henry Cavill type.”

Chay’s certainly beautiful enough to snag anyone she wants. But I feel bad for Ozzy all the same, because in other respects—humor, cleverness, persistence—he’d be a great match for Chay.

He’s not unattractive—just unique. Call him an Adam Driver or a Benedict Cumberbatch, if not a Cavill.

Attraction is a funny thing. I always thought Miles was good-looking. But with each day that passes, everyone else seems to fade away, and he becomes the standard of perfection. I don’t like blue eyes anymore, or brown. I only want eyes that look foggy in the morning and silver in the moonlight. I only want 6’2 with a crooked smile and a wicked laugh.

I hug my arms around my body, bouncing on my toes to keep warm.

I wore the skirt because I wanted to dress up, but if Miles plans to go for a walk outside the grounds, or sit somewhere outdoors, I’m going to freeze .

I don’t have long to wait. Miles arrives directly before nine, jogging over the crunching frost. He looks effortlessly stylish in a way that’s rare for a man. Men don’t often seem to understand the fit and drape of clothing, the best ways to highlight their most attractive features. Miles’ pullover and his sage-green trousers cling to his body in all the right places, over his chest and shoulders and the bulge of his thighs.

“Come on,” he says to me, making a move to take my hand, and then remembering that he shouldn’t do that while we’re still outside where someone might see us.

“Where are we going?” I ask.

“This way,” he says, his smile gleaming in the starlight.

He takes me west across campus, past the old wine cellar that leads down to the Undercroft, past the infirmary, the library, and the Rookery. I know, from Miles showing me, that he’s got a satellite hidden in the roof of the Rookery, giving him full access to the internet whenever he likes. For a moment I think he’s going to take me back up the steps of that tower, until he pulls me into the cathedral instead.

I almost expect Anna to be waiting for us inside. She’s the one who comes here most often—it’s her favorite place to practice ballet.

Instead, the cavernous space is empty and echoing, the faint starlight filtering down in colored patterns from the stained-glass windows, and the tiled floor rippled in places from tree roots pushing up from underneath. A pomegranate tree has sprouted in the chancel, and vines encircle the support pillars.

There’s no religion at Kingmakers. The cathedral has been intentionally permitted to fall into ruin. It’s the only part of the school where the roof isn’t patched or the windows repaired after winter storms. It’s a deliberate rejection of one of the many systems of authority to which mafia families will not bow.

Even the other students shun this place. Anna is one of the few who finds the cathedral soothing instead of off-putting.

There’s little to entertain anyone inside these walls. The cathedral is cold and dark, unheated and without any electricity.

I’m not sure why Miles brought me here. Until I see that he’s dragged in the green velvet couch from the stables, the one that reposed in the Chancellor’s office until its ignominious retirement to the pile of discarded furniture, files, and boxes heaped up at the far end of the stables.

The velvet couch isn’t the only addition. Miles has brought blankets, drinks, snacks, and a piece of machinery I don’t recognize—squat and rectangular, it sits on a pile of crates.

“I had a hell of a time finding one of these that would run on battery power,” Miles says .

“What is it?” I ask.

“Take a seat and I’ll show you,” he says, gesturing toward the green sofa.

I sit down, impressed to see that Miles has even fixed the issue of the missing sofa leg, propping the couch up on a wooden block so it no longer wobbles.

Miles hands me a bowl of popcorn. The popcorn is fresh and crisp, doused in real melted butter and sea salt.

I laugh. “Where do you get these things? How did you pop this?”

“The kitchen staff love me,” Miles says. “Nobody enjoys drugs more than line cooks.”

Miles fiddles with the little machine, twisting the dials on the side. It whirs into life, shooting a brilliant beam of light across the open space. The opposite wall illuminates, the space where the altar would have been transforming into a wide, bright movie screen.

I gasp as the Paramount Pictures mountain flashes across the screen. The opening credits announce that we are about to behold “VistaVision” for the very first time. Even before Irving Berlin’s iconic score begins, I already know the film is White Christmas .

“Miles!” I cry. “I can’t believe you! ”

He drops down on the sofa next to me, draping his arm around my shoulders. He pulls a blanket over our laps, saying, “I’ve got Milk Duds, too. They were a bitch to find, but I wanted you to have to the full theater experience.”

The opening sequence begins with Bing Crosby and Danny Kaye in their war uniforms. The last time I watched this movie was at my Abuelita’s house. Instead of popcorn and the dusty smell of the cathedral, the old-timey music recalls the scent of Lita’s perfume, the orange blossoms in her garden, and the sugar-crusted pesti?os she would fry in her ancient cast-iron skillet.

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.

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 scr ipt. 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…”

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 ey es 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, b ut the way that Miles touches me—firmly, confidently. Knowing me better than I know myself.

He watches every movement, his hand stroking his cock in tandem. His cock looks enormous even compared to Miles’s large hand.

“Taste how sweet you are,” he says.

I lift my fingers to my lips.

He’s right—the taste is mild and slightly sweet. He wasn’t lying when he said how much he loved it.

“Now come here…”

I walk over to him, unsteady on my heels because my whole body feels warm and loose, my joints made of rubber.

I drop down on my knees in front of Miles, sliding between his legs. I want to see that cock up close. I want to touch it.

I take it from Miles’ hands, running my fingers lightly up the shaft. The skin is smooth and silky, the flesh beneath throbbing hot. When I touch the head, his whole cock twitches like it has a mind of its own.

I run my tongue from base to tip, just like I did with my fingers. It jolts even harder this time. His flesh is like hot tea, the warmest it could be without burning my tongue .

I close my mouth over the head, and his cock fills the space perfectly, like the two were meant for each other. The head lays heavy on my tongue, filling the arch at the roof of my mouth. Saliva floods in, so I can slide my lips a few inches up and down the shaft.

“That’s right. Just like that, get it nice and wet,” Miles instructs me.

My technique is awkward, the rhythm jerky. Miles takes my head between his hands and directs me, using his hips to thrust into my mouth. He thrusts a little too far and the head of his cock hits the back of my throat. I gag and pull back.

“You okay?” he says.

I nod, swiping the back of my hand across my cheek where tears run down.

Weirdly, I like the feeling of gagging. I like how big his cock is, I like the challenge of trying to fit it in my mouth.

I try again. This time I’m catching the rhythm, figuring out how to dance my tongue across the underside of his cock while I slide my lips up and down the shaft.

Miles groans with pleasure, his head tilted back against the edge of the sofa. The sound is highly gratifying. It makes me want to do this all night long .

Miles has other ideas.

“Climb on,” he orders, taking my wrist and pulling me to my feet.

He pushes his trousers the rest of the way down, kicking them off. His cock stands upright again, impossibly erect. I straddle his lap, balanced up on my knees on the sofa, wondering how in the fuck this is going to work.

“Lower yourself down,” he says. “Go as slow as you need to.”

He positions the head of his cock at my entrance. It’s burning hot, wet with my saliva, but so big that I feel like I’m about to impale myself on a baseball bat.

Miles grips my hips between his hands, helping to steady me.

He kisses me. Then he tilts his head to the side and takes my breast in his mouth. He suckles on my breast, rolling the nipple across his tongue.

My wetness melts down on the head of his cock, helping it slide inside of me. Bit by bit, Miles lowers me down.

I keep waiting for a popping or tearing sensation, but it never comes. I slide down and down what feels like a foot of cock, yet somehow I keep stretching to accommodate it. The feeling isn’t painful—quite the opposite. It’s intensely satisfying. Everything I ever wanted .

At last my ass is all the way down to his thighs, and he’s all the way inside me. I feel full in a way that’s indescribable. I feel whole and complete.

Miles lets go of my breast to kiss me again, his tongue as deep inside my mouth as his cock is deep in my belly.

His mouth has a new, erotic taste, our arousal as palpable a flavor as vanilla or honey. I want to eat his tongue and his lips. I want to consume him whole.

Miles grips my hips and starts to rock me against him. I hadn’t realized we weren’t even moving yet. This new friction is so intense that my mouth breaks away from his because I can’t concentrate on anything except the feeling of his cock sliding a few inches in and out of me. My clit grinds against his body. The combination of sensations, inside and out, is the best thing since peanut butter and jelly. Something so good and so right that all other metaphors pale by comparison.

The feeling inside me is scary intense. It’s so powerful that I know I can’t control it. I’m afraid I’m going to wet myself, or cry, or something even more embarrassing.

“Miles!” I gasp. “I can’t stop!”

“I don’t want you to stop…in fact, I’m telling you not to.”

His powerful hands grip me all the harder, and he rubs me against his body like he’s paper and I’m an eraser. Waves of pleasure radiate out of my navel, thick and hot. The climax builds and builds, each stroke more pleasurable than the one before. It’s getting too strong, becoming too much. I’m frightened, and yet I couldn’t stop if I wanted to. I might be on top, but Miles controls this. And Miles doesn’t stop for anything.

“Oh . . . oh . . . OH MY GOD!” I scream, as the orgasm rips through me.

It’s an explosion. A detonation. A Krakatoa blast.

It’s so intense that I think I might actually have injured myself. There’s no way my ovaries survived that.

Miles just chuckles, his laugh as deep and warm as his voice. I collapse against him, feeling the rumble in his chest vibrating against mine.

“You like that, baby girl?” he says.

The climax hasn’t dampened my arousal whatsoever. Miles ordering me around, Miles calling me baby, is still an intense turn-on.

“What do you want now?” I whisper in his ear.

“You really want to know?”

“Yes,” I say, licking my lips. “Tell me how to please you.”

“Stay right where you are, and ride that cock f or me.”

Bracing myself with my hands on his shoulders, I roll my hips, sliding up and down on his cock. It’s awkward at first, but soon I get the rhythm of it. I’m still sensitive and swollen, almost painfully so. As I keep moving and grinding on him, pleasure overtakes the pain, and it feels better and better by the minute.

“You trust me?” Miles says.

“Yes,” I nod.

Miles reaches up with his big hands and closes them around my throat. He does it gently, applying only light, even pressure. Even so, my head begins to swim.

“Keep riding,” he orders.

The power Miles has over me is heady and terrifying. He literally holds my life in his hands. I know that if he wanted to cut off my air, there’s nothing I could do to stop him.

My blood thunders harder than ever, concentrating in my pussy while my head floats high and light.

The harder I ride him, the more intense the sensation becomes. Miles’ eyes are locked on mine, his powerful hands squeezing around my throat, applying just the right amount of pressure to put me entirely under his control. I’m dizzy and hot, and I can’t stop, I’m bucking my hips, feeling that intense warmth and pressure in my belly again, that feeling like I’m going to erupt. Nothing on this earth can stop it .

I cum again, even harder than before. My brain soars and I’m delirious, bright flashes of color popping in front of my eyes. Miles lets out a roar that I can barely hear in the midst of my own ecstasy. His cock twitches and pulses, slamming deep inside of me, forcing out one last burst of pleasure for him and for me.

When I come back down to earth, I can’t see or speak. I take huge gasps of air, the oxygen tasting like pure, cool mountain air in my lungs.

“What . . . the hell . . .” I moan.

“Did you like that?” Miles asks.

“It was unbelievable.”

Miles seizes me and kisses me, biting my lips.

“You’re mine,” he growls. “All mine.”

“I only want to be yours,” I sob. “Don’t let him take me.”

“I promised you,” Miles says. “I don’t make promises easily. And I never break them after.”

He crushes me against his body, holding me so tight that I know for certain he’ll never let me go.

I touch my throat with my fingertips. I expect it to feel swollen or sore, bruised even, but it’s completely fine. Even in the fever pitch of his arousal, Miles never lost control. He was careful not to hurt me, not even to leave a mark.

I stay on his lap a long time, curled up against him, listening to his heart racing against my ear. Eventually its beating slows, becoming a steady metronome instead.

Hours have passed. It’s late at night.

Still, we stay together.

When Miles finally shifts, I feel a stab of disappointment.

It eases when he says, “I don’t want to take you back yet. Let’s stay a while longer.”

“Yes, please,” I agree.

Miles picks up the remote again, switching the music to something slower and more romantic. He pulls me up off the sofa and then into his warm embrace. We sway together, naked but not cold, wanting every inch of our skin to touch.

“This song’s from a movie, too,” he says. “Do you know it?”

I shake my hea d.

“I’ll play it for you next time.”

I look up into his face.

“How many next times will there be?”

“Infinite,” he says.