Madame X - Wilder Jasinda - Страница 21
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“And you are.”
“Sometimes.”
“When you need to be.”
“Not now.”
“Why?” Breath, wine-laced, from lips at my ear.
“It’s all so much to process. I don’t know what to think, Caleb.”
“You’ll figure it out.” Teeth on my earlobe. I shiver, tilt head away, close my eyes and hate my weakness, my involuntary chemical reaction. “Come. One more surprise for you, back down in your room.”
I was not at all sure I had room within me for more surprises, but I allowed myself to be led away from the window with its mesmerizing view of the city. To the elevator. A key, from a trouser pocket, inserted, twisted to the 13. Descent, moments of utter silence in which my heartbeat is surely audible.
As I am led into my living room, the first thing I notice is that my books have been replaced on my shelf. Heart leaping with hope, I turn and see that my library is open once more. I am allowed to leave the strong-armed embrace, wander into my library. Sweep my hands over the spines of my dear friends, these many books. My gaze falls on this title, that: The Forge of God; Wool; I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings; Lolita; Breath, Eyes, Memory; A Brief History of Time; Influence: Science and Practice; American Gods . . . everywhere my eyes look, a book that has taught me something invaluable. I could cry from joy at having my library back.
I turn, let a tear show: gratitude emoted. “Thank you, Caleb.”
Somehow the distance between doorway and room center has been traversed invisibly, silently, and a thumb trails through the wetness on my cheek. “I think you’ve learned your lesson now, haven’t you?”
“Yes, Caleb.”
Deep, long, gusting breaths, swelling that great, powerful chest, eyes raking down my form, eager and hungry and admiring. “My Spanish beauty. My X.” There is a note in those words, in the delivery of them . . . it must be the wine, the alcohol pushing aside some of the granite wall veiling whatever emotions roil behind those eyes, which have always seemed to me the ocular equivalent of Homer’s “wine-dark seas.”
“Caleb.” What else do I say? There is nothing.
“Look in the display case.” The words hold a thread of satisfaction. There is a new tome in the case: Tender Is the Night. F. Scott Fitzgerald. “It’s a signed first edition, the original 1934 version with the flashbacks.”
There are white gloves in the case, of course. I open the case, don the gloves, withdraw the book with shaky breath and steady hands. The inscription, in Fitzgerald’s own hand: From one who wishes he could be at 1917s 20th, in that crabbed, looping script, the name below, the curlicue F, the double-bar downstrokes of the twin Ts in Scott, the crossbar looping and swooping to merge with the second F that begins Fitzgerald.
“Caleb, it’s . . . it’s incredible. Thank you, so much.”
“It’s your birthday, after all, and birthdays require gifts.”
“It’s a marvelous gift, Caleb. I shall treasure it.” I look up and see that the time for admiring my gift is over with, for now.
Time to show my appreciation.
Some things cannot be rushed.
This night, insatiability comes in the form of my body being slowly unwrapped, inch by inch. The dress unzipped, lowered to bare my lingerie—nostrils flare and eyes go heavy-lidded and hands reach; evidence of my “Spanish beauty”—and then the lingerie is peeled off, tossed aside.
Naked, I wait.
“Undress me, X.”
To reveal that body is like unveiling a sculpture by Michelangelo. A study of masculine perfection done in unforgiving marble. Each angle carved with a deeply piercing chisel. My hands work and my eyes devour. My heart resists, twists, beats like a hammer on an anvil. My body, though. God, my body. It knows something my metaphysical heart and cerebral understanding do not: Caleb Indigo was created by an artist for the express purpose of ravishing women.
Specifically, in this moment, this woman.
And I hate my body for it. I tell it to remember the way of things. That this is expected of me. Required. Demanded. I must; my will does not enter this equation.
And my body? It has a response: I do not care about requirements . . . all I know is a singular desire: TOUCH ME.
Touch me.
Touch me.
My body says that, as does the body I have now laid bare.
So I obey. I obey my body and the tacit command within the two words so recently spoken: “Undress me.”
Touch me, that order implies.
So I touch.
Stroke into life the erection as large and perfect as the rest. Well, it was already fully alive and ready; I merely gave it the attention it was begging for by standing so tall and thick and straight.
Hands go to my shoulders, gently and implacably push me to my knees. I cast my eyes upward and obey. Mouth wide, taste flesh. Lips curled in to sheathe my teeth, hands plunging in a slow rhythm. Watch now. Quick breaths go ragged, hands clutch my hair, voice box utters guttural moans. Taste smokiness, essence leaking.
“Enough. Jesus, X.” A curse, more rare still than a smile.
Suddenly, I’m airborne, carried into my room and tossed unceremoniously onto my bed. I scramble backward, knock aside pillows, but I’m too slow. Lip curled in a snarl, eyes feral, hands reaching and gripping my hips. Tugging me roughly, and my heart leaps a mile from chest to throat as hips wedge my thighs apart. Face-to-face?
I dare not think, dare not even hope. Breathe, cling to broad hard shoulders . . . exhale sharply as I am pierced.
Movement, face-to-face.
I can’t breathe.
This is a night for firsts, it seems.
I dare to flutter my hips to the rhythm of our sex, dare to keep my eyes open and see. There is turmoil. Desire. Conflict. Heated need. Demand. Fire. Urgency.
And also in me?
I shy away from parsing and enumerating my own emotions. To do so would be to open Pandora’s box, and I dare not.
Desperate movement now. Eyes on mine. Unwavering, piercing directness. There is a world in those dark orbs, a whole galaxy a mere mortal such as I cannot fathom.
Close.
So close.
Breath leaves me. Neither of us looks away.
Oh God.
Hands claw and clutch, grip and tug and bruise.
“Fuck. Fuck!” And then total absence. Everything ripped away, heat, presence, breath, body.
The moment is gutted.
“Caleb? Did I do something wrong?”
That huge body stands at the window, silhouetted, erotic male sexuality in shadow, shoulders bowed, head bent, hands wide and high on the frame, hips narrow and trim, buttocks firm and clenched and bubble-round and taut looking, legs like Grecian pillars. Shoulders heaving.
“Over here, X.” A command, uttered so low as to be nearly inaudible.
I hear it, though, for I am painfully attuned to every whisper, every breath.
I rise, move tentatively to the window. Touch a shoulder with trembling fingers. “Are you okay? Was it me?”
“Shut up. Stand at the window.” So unexpectedly harsh. Almost angry.
At me?
I dare not question again. That tone brooks no argument.
I stand at the window, shaking all over. Turn my head, look over my shoulder. Oh. That face, cast into shadow now, but not the shadows of absent light, rather the shadows of veiled emotion, features smoothed into unfeeling stone. Only the lips slightly pursed and tightened betray the tumult within.
I shake with cold, goose bumps pebbling on my skin.
A foot nudges mine apart, and then arms like boa constrictors snake around my chest, clutch my breast, another around my waist to clutch my hip. Behind me, bent at the knee, a moment to fit that hot thick erection to my opening, and then a hard upward, inward thrust. I gasp, a shrieking exhale of surprise and pain. So hard, so sudden, so rough.
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