Free The Proposition by Judith Ivory

drop," he said. He smiled his crooked smile that, despite herself, was somehow appealing. A charming villain, this one. "Want to smell me breath?" he offered.
    God, no. She took a step back.
    He took a step closer, letting go of the doorjamb, coming through the doorway into the dim hall. He smelled of soap and something else, barber's talcum perhaps. Milton had taken some scissors to his hair. It was shorter, neater. Up close, with her standing there in her bare feet, he was tall enough that she had to bend her neck back to look up at him. She wanted to laugh: She felt short next to him. "I'm not pretty," she murmured.
    His shadow, a silhouette with the room's light behind him, shook its head. As if speaking to a dim child with whom he was having difficulty communicating, he said, "Miss Bollash, we already know you be better with words than me. So all what I can tell you be this—"
    His head bent toward her. No, he wouldn't, she thought, almost giddy now from the absurdities that ran through her head. He certainly wouldn't … well, no— Men had to know women well to do that, didn't they? So, no—
    But, yes. Much to her dismay, her new student's moustache brushed her lip, then his mouth pressed to hers. The feel of his lips, the warmth that radiated off his face were such a surprise—a disarming surprise—it didn't leave her with the presence of mind to do anything. She just stood there befuddled. Being kissed.
    Strange, what her first kiss, at the ripe old age of twenty-nine, brought to mind. Her first reaction was to cry. To just plain weep and wail. Damn you, she thought. Damn you. Don't play like this.
    Her second thought, though, was to simply blank out the first thought. She said nothing, did nothing—half-waiting for him to laugh, to announce his funny joke on her, half-praying he would be kind about it: while one of the most elegant-looking men she had ever seen pressed his mustache, warm and dry, against her mouth.
    It wasn't prickly at all. Not bristly. Not broom-like. It was soft. Cushiony. It moved gently with his mouth.
    She backed away a little; he followed. She drew in a breath, though it sounded more like a hiccup of air than breathing. He caught her arm, pulling her toward him a little, his hand strong, warm, sure. The skin of her lips was more sensitive than she would have dreamed. His mouth was smooth against hers, and so soft—she would never have thought a man's mouth was so soft to touch, when the rest of him looked so hard and rough. As his mouth skimmed hers, she knew a tiny place on the curve of his lip where it was chapped. She could feel so much with her own mouth. Who could have imagined it was so … alive with feeling like this?
    His thumb touched her cheek. She made a small jerk to realize his hand was at her face. Jumpy. Nervous. While pleasure materialized in the pit of her belly like smoke, wisps of it that became soft billows. The feeling was so keen and foreign, she didn't know what to do with it. His mouth stayed on hers till the clock downstairs suddenly began to chime. One, two, three … It awakened good sense. She jumped at four, shoved away at five. It continued chiming, counting off the moments till midnight, while her palm lay flat against the chest she'd seen. Its predominant feeling was hardness, as solid as a cliffside under the shirt. And warm. His chest was several degrees warmer where it provided resistance against her hand.
    His face was close. "Ah," he said. "Yes." Ace, his ridiculous ace. He nodded, as if he were agreeing with something. "I was fair enough sure I'd like kissin' you, and I do. You, Miss Winnie Bollash, are better than pretty—"
    Oh, the insult of his game. The hurt of it. Tears rose up. She wanted to knock him down, to laugh, to cry. Outwardly, though, she moderated herself, only pushing him back more firmly. She was, after all, the sophisticated one here, the one who was supposed to teach him rules he didn't know to play by.
    Her throat tightened