“Wisdom from the great Jay Gatsby,” I say dryly. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
Coming out of the dungeon feels like turning off the TV after watching a horror movie. The disconnect between the rabid man downstairs and the quiet, pristine rooms of the house is so startling I almost feel sick for a second. Or maybe I feel sick because of what the guy said to me. I stand in the first-floor hallway, watching specks of dust drift through a streak of sunlight from the window. The rays shimmer like a golden veil, so touchable that I trail my fingers through the light, half expecting to feel it. But there’s only a faint warmth, nothing tangible. The illusion only exists as long as I don’t try to grasp it.
“So…um…” Jay stuffs his hands in the pockets of his jeans. “I’m going to grab a shower. Do you want to shower too? I mean, not with me, but in your own shower in one of the guest rooms. Not that you need to shower—you don’t smell bad—no, I meant… Oh hell…”
I turn and walk him backward to the wall, pressing him against it with my body and drawing his flushed face down to mine. His breath is faintly metallic, but it doesn’t matter. All that matters is the enchantment I feel right now. All I want is this, the sensation of his mouth quivering against mine, the pressure of teeth through lips as I kiss him harder, as his hand creeps around the back of my neck and his fingers spiral through my hair, cupping the back of my skull with rigid eagerness. When his fingertips brush the sore lump on my head where Myrtle struck me, I flinch, and he quickly shifts his hand lower.
When we break apart to breathe, he studies me, his thumb stroking my cheek. “You’re so beautiful,” he says. “You were always beautiful, but you’ve gotten even more gorgeous. It’s hard for me to process sometimes.”
I still have some body insecurities—thanks, Tom—and I don’t want to shave and soap down in front of Jay just yet. I accept the compliment with a smile and another quick kiss. “After showers—separate showers—could we try to investigate my voice power? Like we were planning to do yesterday?”
“Yes!” His eyes light up, and he pulls me toward the stairs. “I’m very curious.”
“Doesn’t it worry you, though? I mean, I could make you do anything I wanted, whenever I wanted.” A lot of possibilities there—very dangerous and seductive ones. “I promised I wouldn’t control you, but how would you know if I did?”
“I trust you to keep that promise. But even if you did command me, it makes no difference.” He bounds up the stairs with an energy I can’t muster without coffee.
“Why doesn’t it matter?” I climb slowly to the second-floor landing.
“Because I would do anything for you anyway, even without being compelled.” He flashes me a grin, then continues up the stairs to the third floor. “Hestia, unlock the Lavender Room.” The door clicks, and he throws it wide. “You can use the bathroom in here. It’s got a big rain shower and lots of towels. There are probably some clothes that’ll fit you in the dresser if you want to change. We keep spares around in case someone gets blood on their outfit.”
He’s gone again before I can thank him.
Hot water is a blessing I will never take for granted. It washes away the phantom roughness of the gag, the scrape of Myrtle’s fingernails on my wrists, the film of panicked sweat when I thought Jay was dead, that he would never come out of that pool again. It cleanses me of the glutton’s avaricious gaze, and the grungy feeling of sleeping in my clothes on the couch.
I massage fragrant shampoo gently over the sore spot under my hair, and I use one of the disposable razors in the little basket on the shower shelf. There are some sample packets of makeup by the sink, so I help myself. From the closet I select a breezy, floor-length maxi dress with skinny straps and just enough bust coverage. Without my usual products, my hair is going to be all wild, bouncy, untamed curls today, and the dress fits the mood. Since my sandals are still downstairs, I pad into the hallway barefoot and cross to the door that I know is Jay’s. It’s standing ajar, like he wants me to come in. He must not mind if I wander in and poke around his things. If he’s hiding anything else mysterious or incriminating, it’s probably in some secret office behind a bookshelf. As a kid he was always hiding his special possessions in random unexpected places except for his money. He usually gave that to me to keep it safe for him so his mom couldn’t find it.
When he was twelve, he made a list of resolutions. Things like “No drinking, drugs, or smoking. Work out every day. Save five hundred dollars. Try to be vegetarian.” He’d eventually crossed that last one out as an unachievable goal. He’d also adjusted his financial goal to “Save one hundred dollars.”
What would preteen Gatsby think of what he has become? If he and I met for the first time now, without any previous history, would I still love him? I hope I would. I want to believe that there’s a mystical tie between us, deeper than our years of playgrounds and homework and shared meals.
My mother always says that falling in love is part coincidence, part familiarity, and part sexual attraction. I’m not sure she’s right about all of that. My friend Hannah is ace and totally in love with her partner, though she couldn’t care less about the sex aspect of relationships. Besides, I feel like there’s something missing from Mom’s definition. An affinity or a connection that can’t be explained just by familiarity, or attraction, or chance.
When I enter Jay’s room, the bathroom door is open, spilling warm light and steam into the bedroom.
Maybe he was hoping I’d come in and share the shower with him after all. My cheeks warm at the idea.
And then he walks out, dressed in a pair of boxers and nothing else, his skin still damp and glowing, tendrils of wet, wavy hair dripping water onto his broad shoulders.
“Hey,” he says. “You look incredible.”
I have no response because I’ve never seen such well-carved abs outside of TV shows. I knew they existed in real life, somewhere. Tom had a nice set of abs himself, but Jay is in another league when it comes to fitness. He’s got an unfair advantage, of course, being a vampire with super cells and altered genetics or whatever. But still—wow.
“Could you throw me a shirt?” he says. “In the dresser behind you.”
“Okay.” Reluctantly turning my back to him, I drag a drawer open and inspect the rows of neatly rolled T-shirts. “Which one do you want?”
“Any of them.”
I pick one at random and throw it over my shoulder.
“Not this one,” he said. “Doesn’t go with the shorts.”
“Right.” I take a quick glance and choose another that looks like it might coordinate. “Or maybe this one.” I toss the second roll, and he lunges to catch it. And then, with a twinkling grin, he throws the first one back at me.
Oh. So that’s how we’re playing it. I snatch another from the drawer and lob it straight for his face—but he’s too quick and sidesteps.
“It’s no use,” he says, still grinning. “You might be a quick little klipspringer, but I’m the cheetah.”
I whip shirt after shirt from the drawer and sling them at him, and he dodges or catches every single one, until the floor and the bed are draped with them—T-shirts in every color, some plain, others with band logos or colorful designs or monochromatic patterns. I leap forward, scoop up an armful, and charge at him, bearing him down onto the bed and heaping shirts on top of him while he laughs himself helpless.
Somehow I end up sitting astride his hips, draping a T-shirt over his hair like a bonnet. “Do you surrender?”
“Always.”
And just like that, the mood shifts and tightens, heat pooling between us. Jay’s lips part, and suddenly he’s hard against my core, his length pressing through the fabric of his boxers. And I’m wide open, every sensitive part of me wakening, tingling. Tentatively I shift, rubbing myself against him, and a crisp burst of pleasure trickles along my folds. Jay’s head tips back, his lashes hooding his eyes, an unspoken moan shaping his mouth.
Slowly I push the pile of T-shirts off his chest. Then, heart racing, I trace a slow circle around one of his nipples with my fingernail. His cock throbs hard under the shorts, pushing against my center.
His hands find my waist and he starts to sit up, but I push him back down.
Shifting back onto his thighs, I part the flap of his boxers and slip my fingers inside, circling the hard, thick length I find there, easing it out into the open. He’s big, and warm, and velvety-smooth.
When I glance up at him, there’s utter vulnerability in his brown eyes. The predator who leaped from the pool and rattled his claws across the concrete of the dungeon wall is gone. It’s just Jay now, my Jay, helpless and yearning in my hand.
I adjust my position, bend, and take the head of his cock in my mouth.
He cries out, fingers grasping handfuls of the bedspread. I slide my lips down, taking more of him into my mouth. He’s so big I have to extend my neck and open my throat, and even then I can’t fit all of him. In this case, I’m glad I’ve had experience giving head. But I won’t think about how I got that experience. No, this is all about Jay, and I won’t let any malevolent presence from my past mar this moment.
