EXCERPT: American Queen

Excerpt

He murmured, “You’re trembling. Are you scared of me?”

“I don’t know,” I whispered. It was the truth.

He liked that answer, it seemed, because he smiled. “I’d like to touch you again, if that’s okay.”

I thought of his lips on my finger, the bruises under his eyes, the heavy ache somewhere deep in my body. “Yes, please,” I said.

His hands came up under my elbows, cradling them as he searched my face. He must have seen what I felt, the echo of my words stamped all over my face:

yes please

yes please

yes please

And then he pulled me closer, those large, warm hands sliding behind me, one planted firmly between my shoulder blades and the other against the small of my back, and I could feel every curve of my body pressed against the wide, hard expanse of his chest. My head tilted back of its own accord, and his eyes dropped to the long arch of my throat.

“Stay there,” he breathed. “Don’t move until I tell you.” And then he bent down to press his lips against my neck.

I shivered—no one had ever done that before. Everything he was doing to me, every command and touch and caress—it was all new.

Virgin territory.

“What’s your name, angel?” he asked. I was still frozen like he’d asked, and he was clearly enjoying it, running his lips down to my collarbone.

“Greer.”

“Greer,” he echoed, nuzzling into me. “Tell me, Greer, do you like my lips on your skin?”

“Yes,” I responded, a little breathlessly. “And—”

“And what?”

“You telling me to do things. Ordering me. Moving my body.”

He groaned at that, lifting his head from my neck and pressing me closer to him. Even through the dress uniform jacket and my own dress, I could feel the firm lines of his chest and stomach. And for the first time, I could smell him. He smelled like leather and woodsmoke. He smelled like a fire burning.

Burn me, I thought, a little wildly. Consume me.

His gaze fell down to my mouth, and his eyelids hooded.

“You’re so young…” he whispered.

Somehow, I knew what was coming next, I knew what he’d say. In the same way he’d asked for permission to touch me, he’d need to know it was okay to do more. He’d need reassurance that I was old enough, that I was an adult, that my consent would have legal weight.

I wanted to lie. I needed to lie. Because if I told him what he wanted to hear, I knew he’d kiss me. And nothing seemed more important than that right now, nothing seemed more urgent and necessary. I needed him to kiss me, if he didn’t, my body would curl into ash like kindled paper and disappear, please please please—

Except I wasn’t a liar.

Except I wasn’t supposed to kiss anybody, that was the promise I made to myself nine years ago after all, and anybody included handsome American military officers.

Except I was certain that—somehow—he’d know I was lying. I knew those green eyes would blaze into mine and illuminate the outline of every lie and half-truth I’d ever told.

“Tell me you’re eighteen,” he whispered.

“I’m not.”

He swore.

And then he tilted my face back up to his, and his mouth came down over mine anyway.

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