Page 5 of The Viper's Wife

He could be Italian.

It’s hard to tell with his hair so short.

I hold myself very still, a prickle of fear running down my spine.

He drops his cigarette into a ceramic ashtray on the tablebehind me and leans forward to slip the scarf over the back of my neck.

My dislike at being touched wars with my need for release. I sit stiffly until he’s done, his icy fingers making me shiver as he pulls my short hair out from under the scarf, his thumb brushing my jawline.

He stands, considering me for a moment. “You can keep that.”

I want to tell him I have my own scarves, that I don’t need his, even if the scent of spice and cigarettes is making me salivate.

But I haven’t made up my mind whether his bad-boy look is a performance or a warning, so instead, I’m silent.

We’re locked in our strange little standoff for a moment longer, and then his interest fades. He looks away. He steps toward the door.

I release an exhale. I was wrong. He’s not a danger. He doesn’t know who I am.

I stand and catch his elbow, squeezing around his thick coat to the firm muscles there. “Wait.”

Fuck.I know I’m going to sound desperate, but I kind of am.

I nod toward the other door to the guest bedroom, my cheeks burning.

Now that my imagination’s settled, and he’s just a normal man, I’m humiliated to ask.

“Do you want…” God, it feels like there’s sand in my mouth.

“You want me to fuck you?” A hint of incredulity colors his cool voice.

I shrug, wearing a coy smile. Better he thinks I’m a shy flirt than a beggar.

His eyes narrow, and a smirk plays at the corner of his mouth. “Say it.”

The husky, teasing note in his voice flares arousal through me. And irritation. He wants this too, or he doesn’t. I’m not asking for a handout.

“No, thanks.” I let go of his coat and brush past him, stopping in front of the other door. My fingertips rest on the handle. “My mouth can be put to much better use.”

He tilts his head at an angle, considering me.

Without looking back, I twist the handle open and slip inside.

The guest bedroom is warm and dark. Music pounds against the door.

I tug off Mei’s jacket and set it over an armchair.

The click of the door behind me and the rustling of clothes tells me my stranger has followed.

I smile.

We meet in the almost darkness. His hands rise to my waist and squeeze. I curl my fingers around the nape of his neck, a thrill racing through my veins.

His breath, smoke and mint, warms my ear as he traces his mouth along my cheekbone. I arch into him, letting the last of my reservations fall away. I want his hands everywhere. I want the forgetting you can find in another person, and I know this man will give it to me.

His fingertips drop lower, flirting with the hem of my dress, skimming along my upper thighs and sparking electricity across my skin.

It’s been so long since I’ve let a man touch me. Months, maybe a year. First-time nerves flutter in my belly. I want this to be good, and—I’d never admit it—I want to impress this stranger.