And it was to this Whit she responded, gratified by his appreciation. Strange, so profoundly strange, to have found the one man, a gorgio at that, who could truly value her skill. She could only wish he hadn’t bartered himself to Wafodu guero .
“Nonetheless, there must be more to your art than simply controlling the shuffle,” Whit pressed.
“As I said, it’s also in the dealing,” she confirmed. Maybe she could still reach him, beneath the guise of revealing her card secrets. “You can either deal the second card or deal from the bottom of the deck.”
“I know about those techniques—and when we played I watched your hands.” These last words were a silken murmur. “I never saw you do either.”
She flushed to think of him looking at her hands, curiously intimate. “Simply because you could not see it does not mean it didn’t happen. Watch.” She immersed herself in the deal, her fingers barely whispering over the cards as she worked.
His hands, large and warm, covered hers. Stilling her. Yet she was far from still. His touch ignited cascades of awareness through her, darkly brilliant. The falsely named Mr. Holliday must have gifted Whit with some other enchantment, some power of seduction, for how else might she explain the hot need flooding her at Whit’s touch, the rough desire that spared no thought for her heart or her mind? He is your captor. Yet there’s another man within him, an imperfect, searching man who longs for meaning.
“Slower.” His voice was deep, a shadowed rumble.
She pulled her hands out from beneath his, feeling the drag of his hot skin against hers. Air became scarce, thick.
“Like this.” She demonstrated again her dealing technique, slowing down her movements so he might see them. It felt awkward and graceless to slow her actions. Yet she must. She might not reach Whit, free him from the Devil’s influence. If so, if he was lost, and the sooner he learned her skills, the sooner she could leave and return to her family, her people.
She went through the process one more time before Whit’s hand came to rest atop hers again. And again she felt the heat of his touch travel in incendiary waves through her body.
“Now me,” he said.
She pushed the deck of cards into his hand, wanting distance. He gave her none. His tall, masculine presence kept too close as he stood beside her. Now it was her turn to watch his hands, large yet dexterous, the tendons of his wrists whilst he shuffled the cards.
Her life was spent studying hands and the lines upon them. They revealed much—not the future, not what was to be, but the person who possessed them, the paths the person had taken and the truths of that individual’s life. Grime beneath fingernails, calluses, knuckles swollen from overuse, strength. Soft hands, barely lined, fresh and lavender scented, adorned with rings or very lightly stained at the tips from pinches of snuff. Professional habit had her observing a person’s hands within moments of meeting that person.
Hands were not sensual, not alive with sexual promise. They were business to Zora. Nothing more.
Watching Whit work the cards changed her mind. She saw his fingers glide lightly over their printed surfaces and could not stop vivid images blazing through her thoughts. Those long fingers toying with her body, cleverly stroking and touching her to fevered arousal. The breadth of his palm, cradling her head as he kissed her deeply.
She ruthlessly shoved those thoughts aside. Desire was a drug trying to lull her into compliance. He was no longer the man he’d been. Difficult to remember that, when they shared these moments together not as captor and captive, but man and woman, as they had been before.
The erotic potential of Whit’s hands captivated her. More than that. In their quick movements and the speed at which he learned this new art, she saw further evidence that his mind was incisive, adept. He might be born into privilege, but he was no thoughtless
“Nonetheless, there must be more to your art than simply controlling the shuffle,” Whit pressed.
“As I said, it’s also in the dealing,” she confirmed. Maybe she could still reach him, beneath the guise of revealing her card secrets. “You can either deal the second card or deal from the bottom of the deck.”
“I know about those techniques—and when we played I watched your hands.” These last words were a silken murmur. “I never saw you do either.”
She flushed to think of him looking at her hands, curiously intimate. “Simply because you could not see it does not mean it didn’t happen. Watch.” She immersed herself in the deal, her fingers barely whispering over the cards as she worked.
His hands, large and warm, covered hers. Stilling her. Yet she was far from still. His touch ignited cascades of awareness through her, darkly brilliant. The falsely named Mr. Holliday must have gifted Whit with some other enchantment, some power of seduction, for how else might she explain the hot need flooding her at Whit’s touch, the rough desire that spared no thought for her heart or her mind? He is your captor. Yet there’s another man within him, an imperfect, searching man who longs for meaning.
“Slower.” His voice was deep, a shadowed rumble.
She pulled her hands out from beneath his, feeling the drag of his hot skin against hers. Air became scarce, thick.
“Like this.” She demonstrated again her dealing technique, slowing down her movements so he might see them. It felt awkward and graceless to slow her actions. Yet she must. She might not reach Whit, free him from the Devil’s influence. If so, if he was lost, and the sooner he learned her skills, the sooner she could leave and return to her family, her people.
She went through the process one more time before Whit’s hand came to rest atop hers again. And again she felt the heat of his touch travel in incendiary waves through her body.
“Now me,” he said.
She pushed the deck of cards into his hand, wanting distance. He gave her none. His tall, masculine presence kept too close as he stood beside her. Now it was her turn to watch his hands, large yet dexterous, the tendons of his wrists whilst he shuffled the cards.
Her life was spent studying hands and the lines upon them. They revealed much—not the future, not what was to be, but the person who possessed them, the paths the person had taken and the truths of that individual’s life. Grime beneath fingernails, calluses, knuckles swollen from overuse, strength. Soft hands, barely lined, fresh and lavender scented, adorned with rings or very lightly stained at the tips from pinches of snuff. Professional habit had her observing a person’s hands within moments of meeting that person.
Hands were not sensual, not alive with sexual promise. They were business to Zora. Nothing more.
Watching Whit work the cards changed her mind. She saw his fingers glide lightly over their printed surfaces and could not stop vivid images blazing through her thoughts. Those long fingers toying with her body, cleverly stroking and touching her to fevered arousal. The breadth of his palm, cradling her head as he kissed her deeply.
She ruthlessly shoved those thoughts aside. Desire was a drug trying to lull her into compliance. He was no longer the man he’d been. Difficult to remember that, when they shared these moments together not as captor and captive, but man and woman, as they had been before.
The erotic potential of Whit’s hands captivated her. More than that. In their quick movements and the speed at which he learned this new art, she saw further evidence that his mind was incisive, adept. He might be born into privilege, but he was no thoughtless
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