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  "I know what you mean."

  "He came to see me this morning."

  "He told me."

  "Hearing him defend everything that's going on here, I can see—god, it's so twisted, so wrong—but he actually had me half believing in his intentions."

  "That's the scary thing about Smith. His gift of persuasion. Especially his knack for convincing himself."

  Eva is done eating; she's decimated the mashed potatoes, having used them to camouflage the unsavory looking peas and carrots, shriveled and gray. The mysterious piece of meat lays untouched at the edge of the plate, vaguely resembling a bit of flesh flayed from a squirrel or raccoon by the friction of a tire and some pavement. When she stands, John rises.

  "You know,” she says, pressing her palm to his chest, “what I said before, outside, about the men seeing me doing something besides fucking you. You know, when I say things like that, I mean the arrangement. I never mean anything against you."

  "I know. Mostly. But it's nice of you to tell me. It's hard not to feel guilty."

  "I know."

  Eva's other hand cradles John's jaw, and she goes up on her toes and brings her mouth close to his. Inviting him. His fingers weave themselves into her hair and he takes her up on the offered kiss. A tender, lingering press of lips. Then he breaks gently away.

  "I should go."

  "You're invited to stay."

  Smiling, lingering against her, he may be considering. “Will you be all right for tomorrow if I don't?” She nods. “I'm going to go, then,” he whispers, and with a final, soft kiss, he is off.

  * * * *

  "I'm sorry about last night, Eva,” John tells her when he arrives after his shift and before the monitors come on.

  Smiling, she approaches him, takes his hand, brings it to her lips, kisses his palm.

  "No need to apologize."

  When they have given the evening's performance, John invites her out for a walk. Looking eager, even happy, she dresses in her olive drabs and they set out. Both are quiet as they stroll the cement paths that wind through the campus, between barracks and mess hall, improvised field and storehouse, and along the perimeter path below the towering, curving brick wall encircling the compound. None of the men are in sight.

  "May I come in with you?” he asks before they reach the threshold of the mansion.

  "Yes, if you want to."

  Inside, she drops onto the love seat, and with a look draws him down beside her. She smiles at him, studying his face as she draws an index finger down the inside of his arm.

  "John,” she begins with a little laugh that makes her seem nervous. “I know you're trying hard to make things as easy for me as you can. But you shouldn't ... I don't want you to feel obligated to hang out when we're not ... when you don't have to."

  He gives her a melancholy half-grin and takes her hand in his. “I enjoy your company, Eva. It's no chore, spending time with you. Being with you,” he adds with an affectionate little nuzzle into the canopy of hair draping her neck. “It's just a little hard, sometimes, letting myself get so close to someone."

  Eva nods and smiles and puts her arms around him, pulling him to her. Kissing his hair. They pass a quiet evening together, John reading, Eva writing in a journal he obtained for her when she asked. Now that she gets to leave the room, each time she finishes writing, she carefully, furtively leaves something—an eyelash, some crumb—among the pages she's penned before closing the notebook.

  When they go to bed, John curls up behind her and she snuggles back against him. His arm curves over her waist, and they lie there, close and still and quiet.

  In the morning John wakes first. He carefully folds back his side of the blanket, leaving her covered, and slides to the edge of the mattress, preparing to prepare for work. She wakes, turns over. They look at each other.

  The blanket, folded down near his waist, is not hiding his chest. She is looking at it, and he can see that she's looking at it. Broad, hard, defined, smooth, almost no hair. Her gaze moves down to his belly, muscular yet vulnerable with its shallow navel and a fine trail of dark hair running away under the covers. She puts her hand on the blanket where it rises and falls over the center of him. She looks up for a moment to let him read her face, to read his. Then she looks back down and pulls the blanket back.

  She has exposed another inch or so of that little trail, hiding now under the white ribbed snugness of his underwear. She stares at the topography of that white landscape, the long rounded crest of hill that starts suddenly just below the elastic band, curving slightly into a soft swelling mass and dipping away over the horizon between his legs.

  "Is it always like this when you wake up?"

  "No."

  She lays her hand on it. The vulnerable belly flexes. She looks up to his face. Alarm. Confusion. Excitement. She moves her hand up a little. Down a little. The belly is bouncing fast and shallow. Up, down, first with the touch of a spirit that might not have been there, then with delicate softness, then with questioning firmness.

  "Is that okay?"

  "What are you doing?"

  "I want to learn how to touch you. Am I hurting you?"

  "No."

  "Are you afraid I'm going to hurt you?"

  "No."

  "It seems strange. I've hardly touched you. I want to learn. Does what I'm doing feel nice?"

  From behind his look of uncertain fear he smiles.

  "Yes,” in a gentle voice that puffs out on a pant.

  She goes on touching him, varying the path and power of her touch, watching his face and gauging his breath by the clenching, rising and falling of his belly. She explores the firm length of him and the delicate softness below. Then her hand leaves him and she teasingly fingers the very edge of the elastic striping across his abdomen.

  "I'd like to see you. Touch you,” she says, looking up at him.

  His hands go down to his hips. He studies her face for a moment, then pulls his underwear down on this thighs. Prometheus unbound. She stares at that strange, exciting, frightening, gorgeous configuration of flesh. Then she carefully begins to touch it. Her eyes go from his cock up to his face with a little look of surprised wonder, then turn back to the task at hand. She asks and he tells her what feels best. She does it to the death. A flex. A flex. A flex. Pearlescent threads and droplets on his belly and chest and neck. He watches as she takes some with the tip of her finger, looks at it, then makes it disappear between her finger and thumb.

  He looks at her for a long time, then touches her cheek and invites her into a kiss.

  "Will you let me ... would you like it if I touched you the way you've touched me?"

  She hides her face against his shoulder and quietly answers, “No."

  He cradles her head against his arm—pulling her to him would risk getting her dirty—and says, “It's good, you telling me no. I hope you know that I'm your friend. You don't have to play at being my lover to keep me on your side."

  He presses a kiss to the crown of her head, and starts to rise.

  "John.” He lies back down. Meets her eyes. “I didn't do that just now to ... manipulate you. I wanted to. Part of me ... I'm curious. And I ... like you. I woke up feeling your body, your warmth. I woke up wanting ... something. Maybe it's dumb, because we've fucked—does that sound ugly?"

  "No. Not when you say it."

  "Maybe it's dumb, but it's hard for me to let you touch me. It makes me feel vulnerable. But when I touch you, when I hear you, see your body shudder, I feel ... strong. A little in control, I guess."

  "It's not dumb. I understand. I enjoy giving you pleasure—or imagining I am,” he kids, smiling, “but I never mean to push you."

  Eva nods. John snatches his watch from the nightstand and checks the time.

  "I'm late."

  He gives her a smile, then speeds through a shower. He does not say goodbye as he goes, but she sees him pause by the door and gaze at her a moment before he knocks and mumbles to the guard outside. The bolts
scrape back and the door opens, closes, and the bolts slide home again.

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  CHAPTER FIVE

  The cameras are rolling.

  With a coquettish grin Eva pushes John back, and crawls onto his lap as he drops down onto the love seat.

  She is nearly writhing under his mouth when he brings his hand to her knee and lightly draws it up her thigh. Then over, down, up again, along the underside, palming the contours of her ass, then tracing a delicate fingertip along the crease where thigh and pelvis meet. Their bodies close and warm, their kiss a tender union, her breath growing each moment quicker, husky.

  "I want to,” she breathes between kisses. “Can we? Like this?"

  She reaches between them, cradles his cock against her naked belly, moving her body against him as she watches him, then goes for his mouth again, still sliding her belly up and down the underside of his cock. Her hand deserts his cock so she can capture his head between both palms, holding him captive, her kisses almost fierce, her whimpering sighs leaking from between their mouths as she chafes her sex against his. Rising up on her knees she shifts her hips—a little this way, a little that way—until things align. Holding her breath, then, she sinks down, only letting out a little squeak when she hits bottom. In his arms, against his body she shudders and, their kiss broken, her expression suggests she's startled. John watches her for a second, then averts his eyes, as he always has since she told him not to watch her.

  "Heh,” she laughs breathily near his ear. “It feels different like this. Like, completely different."

  Quivering, gripping John against her, Eva starts to move, making her little excited noises almost from the start. When she loosens her desperate grip on him, John presses a little kiss to her shoulder. Then, when he brushes his lips against the smooth curve of her breast she rakes her fingers into his hair, taking him prisoner again, demanding more. He kisses, licking, sucking, provoking louder, more plaintive sounds and frenzied movements—small, but desperate.

  She leans back and he releases her flesh from his mouth. John's hands slide over her back. She watches his face as she fucks him. He keeps his eyes closed. Eva cups her palms over his eyes.

  "Open your eyes,” she whispers.

  A moment later she hinges her hands away from his face and their eyes meet. The palms shutter closed over his gaze again, then open once more, and she laughs. Kisses each of his eyebrows.

  "It's all right,” she says, her voice soft. “You don't have to look away."

  For the first time she lets him watch her pleasure. It comes quickly, and it rolls over her, long and gentle. She hums her climax against bitten lips, then stills, shuddering, then starts moving against him again, her little flexes almost invisible as she milks a few more spasms of pleasure from their connection. Then she collapses against him and he wraps his arms tight around her, now and then kissing her shoulder, her neck. When she begins to stir again he loosens his hold on her.

  "Do you want me to try to make you come?” she asks, “Or should we do something different, now?"

  He laughs. “Try, nothing."

  She smiles, tips her forehead to his, watching his face as she writhes over him.

  "Faster?” she asks.

  "No, no. But can we...” he pants, then with his hands suggests an altered angle to her hips. “Does that work?"

  "That works,” she breathes back.

  Rolling, rolling, her hips work over him, John's breath catching, speeding, filling and going heavy with low, rough sound. She kisses his parted lips, cradling his head in her hands as he clutches her against him as he stiffens and shudders and growls out his climax.

  "Do you know the big picture?” she asks him later, between mouthfuls of corn, beans, and rice.

  "The big picture?"

  "Smith's grand scheme. The long-term plan."

  With visible effort, John goes on facing her.

  "No."

  "If you asked him, would he tell you?"

  "Maybe. Yes, I think so."

  Later they are lying in bed, still as two spoons in a drawer. Then something makes Eva stir. Reaching back, between them, she curves her hand against the hardness she finds, stroking him gently, wordlessly. When he's breathing hard she draws her hand back, then rolls over to face him in the dim moonlight slanting through the window. She draws her thigh up, over his, pressing her groin against his, brings her mouth to his. Panting, he gives in to her kiss, and everything else.

  "I like being with you. Always, but especially when it's just us,” he tells her after.

  "Me too,” she answers, lax and damp and panting. They curl up into each other's warmth, nuzzling and caressing and kissing. Little by little they calm, sinking down into the dark quiet.

  "Eva?” he tries in a voice too soft to disturb sleep.

  "Hmmm?"

  "There's something ... I'd like to tell you something."

  "What?"

  "I was married. When it happened."

  In a soft voice after a long silence Eva says, “You loved her."

  "Very much."

  "Were you together a long time?"

  "Five years."

  "And,” Eva starts, then stops, then starts again in a voice hesitant and low, “did you have kids?"

  "Amy and I had a little girl. Juliette."

  "John..."

  "You don't have to say anything. I just wanted you to know. So if I'm a little weird sometimes, distant, or reclusive, you know it isn't because of you."

  They are quiet a long time. Then Eva says, “It must be so strange, so sad for you, this farcical little domestic arrangement Smith's imposed on you."

  "What's strange is that Smith could force me, practically at gunpoint, into the bed of an eighteen-year-old girl, and that this girl—god, you were really just a kid when you were left all on your own—that you should be this scary-smart, unbelievably strong person who's somehow managed to hold on to her dignity through an arrangement degrading beyond anything I could have imagined, before. And that after everything I've been through, I'd find myself here, with you, feeling so ... much."

  "Do I remind you of her?” Eva asks.

  He laughs softly. “In most ways, you couldn't be less like her. Except that you're both smart. And kind. But in very different ways. It's strange, how we can be drawn so strongly to such different kinds of people."

  "Do you feel guilty?"

  "About what?"

  "Being with me. More than Smith forces you to be."

  "No. Amy ... well, if she could see all this, Amy would love you for the solace, the happiness you've given me. Really, she'd be glad. I just..."

  "Hmmm?"

  "After Amy, the idea of being so close to someone again. It terrifies me.” In the dark they are invisible. He pulls her a little closer and gives her face a gentle nuzzle, then a tender, lingering kiss. “Why are you crying?” he asks.

  Her voice breaks on a sob: “I'm so sorry, John. Sorry you lost them."

  John wraps Eva tight in his arms, lets her shuddering sobs shake his body for long, dark minutes before he breaks down, clinging to her as his sobs and tears flow into hers.

  * * * *

  Right away as John emerges from Smith's office it's obvious something is wrong. The pallor of his face. The rigid jaw. But by the time he's reached Eva's door he is composed.

  She greets him, naked, warm. Ardent, even. There's just one moment, as her gaze catches on a split in John's upper lip and a swelling bruise under his eye, that worry clouds her eyes. But then it's gone, and in a few hot, silent seconds she has John naked, on the love seat, caught in her kiss. After a little while he ends the kisses, the caresses.

  "Eva.” She looks at him and waits. “There's something. Something specific we have to do."

  Her flush of arousal pales and her languid eyes sharpen.

  "What's that?” she asks, her voice tight.

  In the frank manner he uses to confess to her whatever he's ashamed of, “I'm supposed t
o make you go down on me."

  For a moment she is like a statue—as if she had been frozen the moment before he spoke—and no reaction registers in her expression. Then she watches him as she asks earnestly, “Before, with your lovers, they'd do that?"

  "Yes."

  "Do you like it?"

  After an unsettled pause, he answers “Yes."

  She scoots back a few inches on his thighs and watches her own hand. John studies her face as she resumes her caress.

  "I've never done it before. Do you mind teaching me?"

  "No,” he breathes.

  His hard cock is twitching under her hand.

  "Then tell me,” she says, her voice just soft and earnest. Not playing the coquette. “Tell me you want me to."

  He pulls her to him. Holds her tight, almost desperately against him and breathes at her ear, “I want..."

  Her hand goes on working over him, despite the constraint of his embrace.

  "Tell me what you want me to do. Use your words."

  "I want to feel your mouth on me."

  She slips out of his arms, off his lap, and onto her knees on the floor where she's framed in the V of his thighs. From this new angle, much closer than the times before, she looks at it a moment, then tentatively, carefully, takes it in her hand. While he watches, his belly fluttering, she brings her mouth to the flushed, full dome. She caresses him first with her lips, sensing his velvety skin, his warmth. Smelling his smell. Then she tries using her tongue, just tentatively at first, touching it faintly to him, leaving the petal-soft skin wet where she's been. And then she parts her lips and takes him between, first just bringing him a little way into the heat of her mouth, holding the rigid girth of him in the loose curve of her hand while gingerly nursing at the head. Then she sinks down on him ambitiously, eagerly. He gasps, tenses. He seeks her free hand with his and holds it. With his other hand he reaches down to caress her hair. Little by little she goes from tentative exploration to eager, ardent caressing. And then she withdraws.

  "Talk to me,” she says. “Tell me what feels nice. What you want me to do."