Page 26 of Dirty Game

My stomach clenches with actual hunger, not the nervous nausea I've been fighting all night.

"I'm fine."

"You're shaking." He moves behind me, and

I freeze. "The zipper?"

I nod, unable to speak with him this close.

His fingers find the zipper, but he pauses. "You let him touch you," he says quietly. "But you flinch when I get close."

"You're different."

"How?"

"You're..." I struggle for words. "You matter."

His breath catches.

Then, slowly, he draws the zipper down.

The silk parts, cool air hitting my spine, and I clutch the front of the dress to keep it from falling.

His fingers ghost over my exposed back, not quite touching, and goosebumps rise everywhere.

"There's a robe in the bathroom," he says, voice rougher than before. "Put it on and eat."

He turns his back while I grab the robe, and I quickly shed the dress and wrap myself in terry cloth that smells like the expensive detergent Maria uses.

When I turn back, he's seated in the chair by my window, watching me with an expression I can't read.

"Sit. Eat."

I perch on the edge of my bed, pull the tray onto my lap.

The soup is perfect—not too hot, seasoned with things I can't name but that make my mouth water.

I take a small spoonful, then another when he doesn't stop me.

"You don't eat enough," he observes.

"I eat what I need."

"You eat like you're afraid someone's going to take it away." He leans back in the chair, studying me. "Or like you think you don't deserve it."

I don't answer, just focus on the soup.

It's easier than meeting his eyes, than trying to understand why he cares whether I eat.

"The bread too," he orders when I only touch the soup.

I tear off a small piece, dip it in the soup.

It's good—really good.

Warm and filling in a way I'd forgotten food could be.

"Here." He stands suddenly, picks up something from the tray—a chocolate-covered strawberry. "Open."