Page 68 of Dirty Game

"I don't understand how it works," I admit quietly. "The wanting. The... mechanics. My family made it seem like something that happens to you, not something you choose. Something violent and painful that women endure."

"Oh, child." Her voice is soft with sympathy. "That's not how it should be. Not how it is when it's right." She sets down her coffee, turns to face me fully. "When a man cares for you—reallycares—it's not about taking. It's about giving. Both of you, giving to each other."

"But how? How do I know what to give? What to do?"

She considers her words carefully. "Your body tells him what feels good. The sounds you make, the way you move, the way you respond to his touch. And his body tells you the same. You learn each other, like a dance. And when it's someone who sees you, who values you, who wants your pleasure as much as their own..." She smiles. "It's like nothing else in the world. It's like flying and drowning at the same time, but in the best way."

"Does it hurt?" The question escapes before I can stop it. "The first time?"

"The first time can, for women. But with the right man, one who's patient, who prepares you properly, who makes sure you're ready..." She gives me a knowing look. "Mr. Bane strikes me as a man who would be very thorough in his preparations."

The image her words conjure—Varrick being thorough with me—makes heat pool between my thighs, makes me shift in my seat.

"How do I... how do I tell him I want...?"

"You use your words," Maria says simply. "Men aren't mind readers, no matter how much they like to think they are. If you want something, you ask for it. If you’re ready for something,you say so. And if something doesn't feel good, you say that too. Communication is everything in the bedroom."

"But what if I don't know what I want? What if I don't know what to ask for?"

"Then you ask him to show you. To teach you." She stands, pats my shoulder. "That man's in his study, drowning in reports and whiskey, probably driving himself crazy with the same thing you're feeling. Maybe it's time someone did something about it."

She leaves me on the porch, her words echoing in my mind.

The sun sets, painting the sky in vibrant shades—red bleeding into purple, purple into black.

I spend an hour in the shower, the hot water doing nothing to ease the ache in my body.

I wash my hair twice, shave everything, scrub my skin until it's pink and sensitive.

Then I stand naked in front of the mirror, studying this body that feels so foreign to me now.

The bruises from my family have faded to yellow-green shadows—Marco's handprint on my upper arm barely visible, Uncle Enzo's grip marks on my shoulders almost gone.

The cigarette burns on my wrist are just scars now, five perfect silver circles that will never fully disappear.

My ribs show the coordinates of my mother's grave in black ink, the only act of rebellion I ever managed.

This body has been currency, payment, property.

But tonight, I want it to be mine. Mine to give. Mine to share. Mine to choose what happens to it.

I put on one of his shirts—the black one that smells like him, that falls to mid-thigh.

Nothing underneath. No underwear, no bra, nothing between my skin and the soft cotton that carries his scent.

My hands shake as I button it, leaving the top three undone so the collar falls open, showing my collarbone, the top of my chest.

The walk to his study feels like miles.

Each step is a choice, a declaration.

The wooden floor is cold under my bare feet, and I can feel cool air kissing my skin through the shirt.

My nipples harden, visible through the thin fabric, and I don't try to hide them.

I'm choosing this. Choosing him. Choosing to learn what my body has been trying to tell me for days.

He's at his desk when I enter without knocking, surrounded by papers, a glass of whiskey at his elbow.