He never minded the fact that she had changed his text tone. The only thing he had really ever disagreed with was the drugs she had pumped into him. But, he gave her credit for being able to disarm him. The Woman. THE Woman. He had never met any female like her.
It wasn't the body that enticed him. He had seen plenty of naked bodies in crime scene photos and anatomy books. No, it was the mind behind the body. It wasn't the red lipstick or the purring voice, it was the meaning of her words. She knew how to stroke his ego without touching his body. She knew how to submit herself at the entrance of his Mind Palace. And although he would admit it to no one but himself, and even sometimes not to himself at all, he wished she would get inside of his mind altogether. At times, he fancied that he wouldn't mind submitting to her psyche.
But then there was her pulse. Surely, a creature so carefully crafted, a woman so disciplined in her work would never falter that way. It was disobedient to her character. The tears that flooded her eyes as he brought down her house of cards could have been easily counterfeited, but again, her pulse revealed her heart. And his was softened at that point. He knew he had won the game and had broken her completely, but the thought of her pulse left him feeling…sorrow? Empathy? No, he felt distress. Before she spoke the words, he knew she would never last on her own.
So he used his contacts. As John blogged about the drudgery of mundane, The Woman crowded his mind and reflected in his violin strings. No more sad tunes, but pensive. As he tracked her movements and made plans within plans to atone his victory over her. The thought of returning to her to the game brought him a contentedness that he rarely felt in his life.
And he always wondered what, exactly, it would feel like to beg. Twice.