It’s working.
I imagine the lacy, see-through material, her nipples partially visible, her hips fuller, ass larger, accentuating her curves and her femininity. If I didn’t like games this much, I’d have her on her back by now.
The crystal chandelier rattles above us, the light dimming on its own. This isn’t the first time it’s happened.
She looks up, the crystals clinking together. “Why does he have to fuck my little sister on the roof?”
“The same reason why you prefer my hands around your throat when I fuck you and the same reason why I enjoy it.” I pause. “And dogs need to be let outside from time to time.”
She lifts the robe higher near her collar before returning to the chess set, further hiding her bare skin.
“New rules,” I suddenly say.
Her fiery yellow-green eyes flit to me, as if I have no power to change what’s already been established. Think again, Rose.
“You take one of my pieces,” I say, “and I tell you a truth.”
Her lips purse, but her shoulders loosen. “Let me guess, if you take one of mine, I have to automatically remove an article of clothing. No choice at all.”
I smile as her eyes heat. “I won’t have a choice either,” I remind her. “This way, we both get what we want. You naked. Me exposed. We’re both winners.”
She lets out a short, dry laugh. “There’s only ever one winner, Connor.”
“Not if you’re playing on a team.”
“Chess isn’t a team game,” she says under her breath, already softening to the idea. Her eyes flit to my abs and the definition in my biceps. “What if I want you naked?” A tense silence coils my muscles, and her eyes flit up to me with deadly power, poisonous and beautiful all at once.
“I’ll be happy to do that without a game.”
Her shoulders lock, and she rolls her eyes at the sight of my wide grin.
“Darling,” I add. “We’re both bored playing this. Either we change up the rules or I’m finding a new game. And I’m not sure you’ll like it.” I want to wind her silk strap around my fist and yank off her robe. Patience. I do have patience. More than most men. It’s what makes me better than them.
Her cheeks heat. “Fine.” She steals a glance at the baby monitor on the nightstand. “I need to check on Jane in a little anyway. We can do this quick.”
Quick isn’t a word I like when it comes to my wife. Every moment with Rose, I would extend for infinite measures of time. Even the hostile, torrid moments where she tries to light the world, and me, on fire. I love them all.
Since she’s already agreed to the new rules, I don’t argue with her about the speed of the game. I return my attention to the chessboard, her knees perilously close to the ivory pieces as she splays her legs to the side. I sit across from Rose with my elbow resting on one bent knee, fingers to my jaw in contemplation.
I’ve strategized ten moves ahead, but I deduce—based on the other times we’ve played—that she’s five ahead of me. We’re both adept at chess, but neither of us ever competed. Grandmaster is one title I never sought or wanted.
Most of my skills arise from my boarding school. I spent almost half my life at Faust, my mother sending me there for third grade to twelfth. I was seven when I unpacked my suitcase and my mom patted my shoulder in goodbye.
I’ll see you when you need me, she said. But if you’re the boy I know you to be, then you won’t need me at all. She didn’t want me to be attached to her, and so I never was.
That boarding school became my mother and my father. I refer to Faust more than I refer to Katarina, more than I ever speak of my absent father. The institution taught me how to survive. It gave me more knowledge, but a place can’t hug you or love you.
And I remember most days at Faust like vivid dreams set in gray-scale. It only bled in color when I met Rose for the very first time.
Chess was common. About fifteen of us would congregate in an upperclassman’s room, cigarettes lit and the windows cracked in ten-below winters. We’d begin a clandestine tournament, drinking shots for every piece captured, doubled if someone checked. Moves had to be made in under ten seconds or you’d drink again.
We looked like drunken, privileged geniuses—high off being smart enough to play a game most don’t understand. And we were bored enough to spin it into something more exhilarating, juvenile and fun.
Parts of me will never change.
I slide my rook towards her side. She cages her excitement behind suspicion, staring at my vulnerable pawn. I press my fingers to my jaw again. “At Faust, we had a ten-second rule when we played chess,” I tell her.
“That must be where the rumor comes from.” Her eyes still pin to the charcoal pawn.
She’s baiting me with her words, and I feed into it. “What rumor?”
“The one about Faust boys only lasting ten-seconds in bed.” She moves her bishop, seizing my sacrificial pawn.
My brows rise, just slightly. “And I’ve been able to disprove that rumor numerous times with you.”
She raises her hand to silence me. “This is not the time for you to boast about your sexual talents.”
My lips curve upward at that particular word: talents.
She points at me and suddenly kneels for height advantage while I stay in the same relaxed position. “Don’t even think it.”
“Talent?” I say aloud.
She growls beneath her breath. “I didn’t compliment you.”
“Talent is a compliment by definition.”
“It wasn’t one.”
“Let’s consult Merriam-Webster then.” Before she protests, I type into my phone’s search engine and the answer pulls my cheeks into a much larger grin.
“Richard,” she warns, hating that she mistakenly complimented me. I love it, only because it angers her this much.
“‘A special ability that allows someone to do something well,’” I read the definition. “That was a compliment.”
Her eyes flame.
I stare at my screen with more humor in my features. “Also, ‘people who are sexually attractive.’”
She scoffs. “It doesn’t say that.”
I flash her my phone, and she snatches it out of my hands, her eyes like lasers, scorching the screen as she reads.
“Rose Calloway Cobalt finds me sexually attractive,” I say. “If only you’d called me talented when you were fourteen.”
She stiffens but keeps her gaze on the phone that she cups between two hands. “And what would you have done if I had?”
I wait for her to look up at me. When she does, I see our history laid flat like an ancient world map. “I would’ve called you talented right back.”
Her collarbones jut out as she inhales, deeply.
My grin spreads, the one that she calls conceited. It instantaneously makes her aware of how infatuated she looks. She ices over and chucks a nearby pillow at me, narrowly missing the chessboard.
I laugh and she pelts me with another beaded one.
“That better not be the truth you owe me.”
“What was wrong with that one?” I ask.
“It wasn’t real.”
“It was real,” I say.
“You told me that you didn’t find me attractive until you were seventeen.”
My smile fades. The real truth: I found Rose fascinating from our very first encounter, but if I admit that, then I’m admitting to the concept of love at first sight. The whole notion is ridiculous, fallible—one-hundred percent unbelievable. So I had to have been seventeen when I was first drawn to Rose. Anything else is just fantasy.