Overture - Skye Warren Page 0,13
she wants to have sex with someone who works for me? How will I keep from killing him? Where will I bury the body?
Then an even worse thought occurs to me. “You haven’t already had sex, have you?”
She looks stricken. “No, sir.”
I’m screwing this up. I don’t know what normal families do, what a healthy, supportive conversation about sex would look like, but it probably isn’t this. “I wouldn’t be angry if the answer were yes, Samantha. It’s your body. You get to make the decisions.”
Of course I don’t mention that if a man under my command took advantage of her, I would have some very inventive ways to teach him a lesson. Never mind that I’ve recently become obsessed with taking advantage of her myself. I haven’t touched her—and that can’t change. I can’t kiss her or lick her or… bite her. God, I want to bite her.
Her uncertain expression makes her look so young. “I’m the one who should be apologizing. Doing that in the middle of the day… saying your name… thinking about you when I do that.”
Hell. I have to stand and turn away from her to hide the massive, throbbing boner in my slacks. “You can do all those things. I just need to make sure you understand safe sex.”
She makes a face. “Why?”
Because there will be plenty of boys who want to fuck her on her goddamn global tour, where she’ll be both a celebrity and completely inexperienced. “Because you’re going to walk out of this house in three months, and you need to know what’s out there.”
Something passes through her eyes—maybe grief. “I see.”
“So,” I say, my voice businesslike. “Sex.”
“I know about condoms.”
She knows about condoms. “You do?”
“The oldest known use of condoms dates back fifteen thousand years ago, on a cave painting in France.”
Surprise comes out as a racking cough. “Where did you learn that?”
“A history book.”
I stare at her, shocked that someone so incredibly intelligent, an actual genius by multiple measures, is this clueless about sex. It’s my fault, of course. I’m the leader in this house. It was my job to make sure she knew about her body. About protection. “Here’s what you need to know about condoms. They’re absolutely mandatory. If you decide to have sex with someone—and it is your decision—you have to use a condom. Say it back to me, Samantha. I need to know you understand.”
“Condoms are mandatory,” she says obediently.
That’s good, but it’s not enough. How could it possibly be enough? How could it convey to her how many assholes were out there, waiting for the chance to take advantage of her?
Is this how fathers feel when they send their daughters into the world?
I’m not her father. Not even close. I can’t imagine Ambassador Brooks having this conversation with his daughter, even if he had lived to have the chance. He wasn’t exactly a concerned father. His daughter had been a little secretary in his house, given orders and expected to follow them.
Are you treating her any better, North?
“Samantha.”
She blinks up at me, so damn trusting. I want her to look at me that way with my cock in her mouth, with her eyes watering. “Yes, sir?”
“Call me Liam.”
A little cough that’s the closest she comes to telling me no. “Is there anything else?”
Damned if this little violin prodigy doesn’t know how to dismiss a hardened, experienced soldier. She sits there so fucking prim and so heartbreakingly pretty I don’t know how to handle it. Maybe she is ready to go out into the world, to experience sex, to discover how much better a climax can be when given by someone else’s hand, but I’m not ready for it. Not even close.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The Japanese word “karaoke” comes from a phrase meaning “empty orchestra.”
SAMANTHA
Four years old. Saint Petersburg. The teacher suggested that I be placed in the music program so that it would be easier for me to acclimate to the school. Daddy signed the paper because it wouldn’t cost anything. The school provided an ancient basswood violin with a hard plastic case. A wrinkled instruction booklet showed how to place your fingers and introductory sheet music. I stayed up night after night working my fingers until they were raw.
That began my love affair with the violin.
Even when I’m not playing, the music lives inside me.
I’m still warm between my legs, my body ready for something that’s never happened except in my imagination. I’ve made love with music a thousand times, but never with a man.