So He Finds Us Some Privacy

Deeper into secrecy and privacy. Pulling me through a maze of flowing fabric and down paths that I couldn't even wrap my head around until we stopped short in a place with no exits and just a chair sititng in the little clearing surrounded by white cloth walls.

And it was so quiet that I could hear my heart pounding.

"Where did you take me?" I asked him.

"Relax," he grinned like a jackal, gesturing to the wlals around us, "These tents are all empty. Less crowd-pleasing clubs. Apparently college isn't immune to popularity contests.

"The people staffing these booths went on break a while ago and I don't think they're coming back. So we're hidden away here. No one to see. No one to hear. We can do... anything."

I swallowed hard, stilling myself and willing myself to plant my feet and not move.

"So what are we going to do then?" I asked him, "What is your plan with me, exactly?"

"I just want to talk, Em," he smiled, cocking his head to one side, "Ever since things turned physical between us we don't have our good chats anymore. Remember when we used to talk for hours, until the early morning, about anything and everything?"

"What the fuck?" I cocked an eyebrow, "Are you trying to be funny?"

"Yes," he said slowly, "And I'm guessing it's not working."

I scoffed, "You're not as charming as you think you are, Prince Charming."

"Oh that's where you're wrong," he cooed, "I'm exactly as charming as I think I am and I know my game works. It worked on Kim. It's worked on three other girls since I walked onto campus. It even worked on you."

"No it didn't," I protested, but it was a feeble excuse.

Still...

"No, you're right about that," he said, "Not that it didn't work entirely but more that it didn't work as well. Everyone else was so eager so quickly but you... you were hard work."

I shook my head again, "And just because you broke down my walls once, you expect it again?"

"Not expect," he smiled, "But maybe hope."

He moved quickly then, stepping into my space and gripping me so tightly that I gave a sharp shocking noise and gasped as he laid his hands on me. They curled onto bare skin, the skin of my waist and the back of my neck, and bend me into a shape that fit against his.

"You feel so good in my arms," he said, "The way your body twitches. I can tell things about you."

He was so close but he moved closer, his lips brushing against mine as he spoke and when I replied my breath tickled against him.

"What can you tell?" my words were meant to be defiant, but they almost sounded hopeful.

"I can tell that you're confused," he said, "That you are torn. That your mind and your heart and your head and your body are all telling you different things and that a big part of you, the biggest part perhaps, just wants to give in."

How did he get the words so right? How did he know me so well? How did Blake, the man who had tormented me so, know how to play me just right?

The answer, of course, was simple. He was a bully and a master of reading people as a result of that. He knew which buttons to push because he knew what I was thinking and feeling and wanting more than anything. Maybe even more than I did myself.

"Giving in would be nice," he promised me, "Giving in would be right, would be good. Giving in would feel just fantastic."

He smiled broadly.

"For me at least."

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