Page 23 of Ice

I stand stock still, deliberately not moving. Not making eye contact.

Zephyra stands for a long moment, breathing deeply as if she’s trying to inhale my scent. Then she rolls her eyes, brushes down her dress, and says, “Very well. Perhaps after we have eaten.”

She clicks her fingers and a door opens. The one she called Evan steps through. He is floppy haired and slender. Pale, and stupid looking.

He spots Cherry and says, “Ahhh fuck.”

“Clear her up,” Zephyra says, “then bring the meal I asked for.”

Evan mutters something about not being paid help, but grabs Cherry by the ankles and drags her from the room.

When he returns, he’s carrying a small wooden table. He proceeds to set it up in the center of the room, adds two chairs, some candles, then a small crystal glass in front of each chair.

Zephyra sits down.

I sit opposite her.

Evan pours blood into each glass and is about to walk away when Zephyra shakes her head and points to the floor. “Between my legs. Eat until I tell you to stop.”

Evan’s eyes flash. He grins. Then he slips beneath the table and begins to suck clumsily on Zephyra’s clit.

The sounds he’s making are revolting.

He groans and fucks her hard with his fingers.

I can hear them thrusting in and out.

She sits back in her chair and fixes her gaze on mine, raises her glass to her lips, and drinks, all the while pretending she’s enjoying herself.

I fold my arms, silently daring her to fake an orgasm in front of me.

If there was one thing I was good at, it was making her come.

I hated every second of it. But I knew what she needed and I gave it to her so she would give me what I needed.

Her cheeks flush. But not with pleasure… with frustration.

She reaches beneath the table and grabs Evan’s shirt, pulling him back out. “Fuck off,” she spits.

Then she pulls a small vibrator from her purse and settles it between her thighs. This time, her face changes. She smiles and grinds down onto it.

I yawn.

Her eyes flash with anger.

She whimpers and grips the table with her free hand.

I do not move.

She frees her breasts from her dress and starts to fondle them, pinching her nipples as if it will make me want to leap across the table and suck them.

I look at my nails, picking dirt from beneath them.

She bangs her fist onto the table. “Look at me damn it! Watch me!”

I do as she asks. But it is still not enough. Because she does nothing for me. Watching her come does nothing to my body or my soul or any other part of me.

She is nothing to me.