“Furiously turned on.” I smiled wryly. “I can’t explain why, because I don’t understand it myself.”
“Try.”
I reached up and brushed the pad of my thumb over her lips. “I see you angry, passionate, ready to fight, and I want all that violence trapped beneath me. You make me want to hold you down, clawing and screaming, your cunt milking my c**k as I pound it into you. Mine. All mine.”
“Gideon.” She set her glass aside and grabbed me, claiming my mouth with a wild hunger I hoped would never abate.
—
“HOW come you never told Chris about what happened with Hugh?”
That unwelcome question came out of the f**king blue. I paused midchew, suddenly finding the bite of pizza in my mouth unappetizing. Dropping what was left of my slice onto the plate in front of me, I grabbed a napkin and wiped my mouth. “Why are we discussing this again?”
Eva frowned at me from where she sat beside me on the floor in between the coffee table and the couch in the living room. “We didn’t talk about it.”
“Didn’t we? In any case, it doesn’t matter. My mother told him.”
Her frown deepened. She reached for the TV remote and lowered the volume, muting the voices of the NYPD detectives on the screen. “I don’t think so.”
I pushed to my feet and grabbed my plate. “She did, Eva.”
“Do you know that for sure?” She followed me into the kitchen.
“Yes.”
“How?”
“They discussed it at the dinner table one night, something I don’t want to do.”
“He acted like he didn’t know.” She braced her hands against the counter as I dropped my leftovers into the trash. “He seemed genuinely confused and horrified.”
“Then he’s as conveniently obtuse as my mother. You shouldn’t be surprised.”
“What if he didn’t know?”
“So what?” I set the plate in the sink, the lingering smell of food making my stomach roil. “What the f**k does it matter now? It’s done, Eva. Done and over with. Let it go.”
“Why are you so mad?”
“Because I was settled in for the night with my wife. Dinner, wine, a little TV, a couple hours making love . . . after a long, rough day.” I left the kitchen. “Forget it. I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Gideon, wait.” She grabbed my arm. “Don’t go to bed pissed. Please. I’m sorry.”
I paused and removed her hand from my arm. “So am I.”
—
“START out slow,” he whispers, his lips near my ear.
I can feel him becoming excited. He reaches around my hip to where I’m stroking my penis. His hand covers mine. His breath is quick and shallow. His erection brushes against my bu**ocks.
My stomach feels sick. I’m sweating. I can’t stay hard, even as my oiled fist slides up and down, guided by his.
“You’re thinking too much,” he tells me. “Concentrate on how good it feels. Look at that woman in front of you. She wants you to f**k her. Imagine how it’d feel to push your c**k into her. Soft. Hot. Wet. And tight.” His grip closes harder over mine. “So tight.”
I look at the centerfold spread over the top of my toilet’s water tank. She’s got dark hair and blue eyes, and her legs are long. They always look like that, the women in the pictures Hugh brings.
He pants in my ear, and the sickness is back. Wrong. There’s something wrong with me. This feels wrong. His eagerness makes me feel dirty. Bad. I’m a bad boy, even Mom says so. She yells it at me when she’s crying, when she’s angry with me about Dad.