Traded for a Scar, I Carried His Heir and Took His Table novel · Chapter 2 of 24

Chapter 2: The Lamp

In his house with every lamp lit, Keti sets her rule, undresses in front of him and he kneels on the rug and tells her everything he sees.

His house stood on a corner four blocks from the bay, three stories of dark brick with every window lit.

Lamps were burning on the ground floor: one in the hall, one in the front room, one in the kitchen at the back.

"You leave them all on?" I asked.

"I like the light," Levan said, and held the door.

His driver set my purse on the hall table, which was everything I owned in the world that night, and went out without a word.

The house smelled of cedar and coffee and wine.

Levan stood in his own hall with his jacket on and his hands at his sides and looked at me for a long time.

"The guest room is on the second floor," he said. "The lock is on the inside. My room is on the third."

"I heard what you told the table."

"I told them what I'd do. I didn't tell you what you had to."

He took off his jacket and hung it on a hook.

"The oath asks for a child," he said. "It doesn't say how you come to it."

I looked at him for a long moment.

I was twenty-seven years old and I had been touched by exactly two men.

Both of them were boys, and both had liked the light off.

I had spent my whole life carrying plates through a room where nobody looked at me for longer than it took to take a dish.

"Which stairs?" I said.

He took me up two flights with his hand on the rail.

On the last one he slowed and set his foot down carefully, and I thought it was the day catching up with him.

His bedroom was big and plain, with a wide bed and a lamp on each side of it.

A third lamp stood on the dresser, and all of them were burning.

"Two rules," I said at the door.

His eyebrow went up. It was the right one, the one that still moved.

"I start it. Every time. If I say stop, you stop."

"Agreed," he said.

"And you don't call it payment."

"I won't." His voice had dropped. "Mine is short. The lamp stays on."

"All of them?"

"All three."

"Fine," I said. "I want to be looked at."

I had not known I was going to say it until it was out in the room.

Something went across his face that I could not read, and then it was gone.

I took the pins out of my braid one at a time and let my hair come down my back to my waist.

He watched my hands.

I took off my stained blouse and dropped it on the floor.

I took off my skirt.

He had not moved from the foot of the bed, and he had not looked away from me for even the space of a blink.

"Turn," he said.

I turned slowly, in my bra and underwear, in the light of three lamps.

"You have a burn on your left forearm," he said behind me. "An oven rack, a long time ago. It has healed white."

"Yes."

"And two small ones on the right, from oil," he said.

"You can see that from there?"

"I'm looking very closely," Levan said.

I unhooked my bra and let it fall.

"Your breasts are heavier than I thought," he said, very quietly. "Your nipples are dark. They're hard already, and I haven't touched them."

My knees went weak at a single sentence.

I pushed my underwear down and stepped out of it and turned to face him.

"Tell me what else," I said.

"You're flushed from here to here." He drew a line in the air from my throat to my belly. "Your thighs are pressed together."

"They are," I said.

"You're already wet."

"You can't see that."

"I can smell it," he said, and I heard his breath go unsteady.

That was when I crossed the room.

I put my hands on his chest, and the wool of his shirt was warm from his skin.

His heart was going hard against my palm.

I undid his buttons one by one.

He had a wrestler's chest, broad and dark-haired, with a long old scar along his ribs.

I put my mouth on it.

His hand came up into my hair and closed there, gently.

"Sit on the bed," I said.

He sat, and I stood between his knees, and I pushed him back a little with a hand on his shoulder.

Then I changed my mind.

"No," I said. "Me first."

I sat down on the edge of the mattress, and I put my heels on the frame, and I opened my knees.

He went down onto the rug in front of me without a word.

His hands closed on my thighs, wide and hot and rough with callus, and he spread me further.

For a moment he only looked.

"God," he said, in Georgian, under his breath. "Look at you."

"Kapanadze."

"Not yet," he said, and I felt his mouth curve against the inside of my knee. "I'm going to look until I know every inch."

"You're a bastard."

"Tell me what you want, Beridze."

"Your mouth," I said, shaking. "Now."

He put his mouth on me.

The first stroke of his tongue went flat and slow from the bottom of me to the top.

My whole back came off the bed.

"Oh, fuck."

He did it again.

He found my clit with the tip of his tongue and circled it, patient and exact.

I fisted a hand in his hair and the other in the sheet.

He made a low sound against me that I felt in my teeth.

Then he lifted his head, and his mouth was wet and his one good eye was black in the lamplight.

"You're soaked down to the sheet," he said. "You taste like salt and something sweet. I could do this all night."

"Then do it."

"Look at me."

I looked down.

He held my eyes while he slid two fingers into me, slow, all the way, and curled them up.

I cried out.

"There," Levan said. "That. I see you."

He bent and closed his mouth on my clit again and sucked, soft, and worked his fingers in the same slow rhythm.

My hips rose to meet him.

The heat built low and tight, and it climbed.

"I'm going to..."

"Yes," he said against me.

"Kapanadze, I'm..."

"Come on my mouth, Beridze," he said against me, and I did.

It broke through me in long hard waves, and I heard myself shout and felt my thighs clamp on either side of his head.

He didn't stop.

He eased me through it with his tongue gentle and flat, and then he looked up at me, wet-faced and watching.

"Too much?" he said.

"More," I said. "God, more."

He gave me more.

He pushed me through a second one, slower and deeper.

His fingers stroked the soft place inside me, his mouth kept working, and his hand lay flat on my stomach to hold me still.

I came again with my head thrown back and the lamp swimming and tears running into my hair.

When I could move I reached down and dragged him up by the jaw.

His mouth tasted like me.

I kissed him hard, with my legs locked around his waist.

I felt how hard he was against my belly through his trousers, thick and hot.

"Now," I said into his mouth. "Kapanadze. Now."

He pulled back far enough to see my face.

His thumb moved across my lower lip.

"Say it again," he said. "I want to watch your mouth when you say it."

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