Madame X - Wilder Jasinda - Страница 23
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You back away, one step. Two. A breath, a single lift of your chest, your chin rises. And then there it is, that insouciant smirk, knowing, a little mocking, ripe with boyish, roguish humor. You whirl, twist the knob, jerk open my door, and you’re gone.
When the door has clicked closed, I withdraw your business card from my cleavage and examine it.
JON CARTWRIGHT
Owner, Cartwright Business Services, LLC
Tel: (212) 555-4321
E-mail: [email protected]
You started your own business. I am inordinately proud of you.
When my door opens rather suddenly, I don’t look up, assuming perhaps you forgot something.
It isn’t you.
“Well, well, well,” a deep, leonine voice says. “Looks like our little Jonathan has grown up.”
• • •
“Caleb.” I glance up sharply and take a step back, surprised. “Yes. It seems he has.” I extend the business card, feigning casual disinterest. I don’t think it is a believable farce, however.
Dark eyes flick over the card. “Good for him. He has the potential to do well, I think. Perhaps Indigo Services will offer him a contract.”
I remain silent. Business endeavors are not within my sphere of knowledge or influence.
Smooth, panther-silent strides across the room, sit, recline with kingly elegance in the Louis XIV armchair. Examining Jonathan’s card. Speculating. “You parried his questions and advances very adroitly, by the way. Well done.”
“He’s harmless.”
“No, he isn’t. You’re wrong there, I’m afraid. He’s not harmless at all.” The card flips, flips, flips, twirled between index, middle, and ring finger.
I dare. “What do you mean? What harm is there in him?”
“His questions. His curiosity.” Eyes, burning like balefire, scorching me. “He wouldn’t understand the truth, X.” The card flies through the air like a knife, then flutters to the floor.
The truth. Which truth?
I remain silent, knowing my input isn’t required as yet.
“You will accompany Jonathan to his event.”
I manage an admirable pretense of casual surprise, when inside I am utterly stunned, faint enough that I could have been knocked over with a feather. “I will? Really?” I sound more eager than I should.
I am not eager; I am terrified. Or rather, I am eager and terrified in equal measure.
“You will. You will be well guarded, however. Len and Thomas will be at your side at all times.”
“Why?”
“Why Len and Thomas? Or why am I sending you with Jonathan?”
“Both, I suppose.”
“Well, Len and Thomas because they’re the most suited to watching over you. Len is as vicious as he is vigilant, and Thomas, well . . . let’s just say he has a rather specific skill set.” A pause. “As for why I’m sending you? It will allay suspicion. The event itself is very private, so there will be no cameras, no press. Everyone else attending will have their own security, as well, so it’s as safe an event for you to attend as anything.”
I still don’t quite understand, but I say nothing. I don’t need to understand.
I’m going out.
“Say something, X.”
“I’m not sure what to say, honestly.”
“Are you excited? Scared?”
I shrug. “Both.”
“Understandable. After what you’ve been through, I can see how you might have mixed feelings about it.”
I nod. “Mixed feelings. Yes.” I sound faint, slightly incoherent. It’s too much to take in. To process. Too many thoughts, too many feelings, too many questions. Too many doubts.
I find myself waiting, expectant. A distraction would be welcome. Yet when long legs unfold and eyes stare down at me from such great height, they are distant, a little cold. Calculating.
“I have much to do today, X. I’m afraid I have to get going.”
“You aren’t . . . staying?” I know how I sound, and why, and I hate it. I hate that I sound disappointed, needy.
“No. I can’t, but you know how much I wish I could.” Cold and calculating becomes hot and amused. “You know how much I wish I could stay, don’t you, X?”
“Yes, Caleb.”
“But you understand why I have to go.”
“Yes, Caleb.”
Yet despite claims of pressing matters, I feel an erection crushed against my belly, hands feathering up my thighs, lifting my dress hem. Slipping under the elastic of my underwear, slipping into me. Curling, circling, dipping, swiping. Swiftly, no play or pretense.
I come in moments.
“Your mouth, X.” I sink to my knees.
Unzip. Free the slide-and-hook clasp of custom-tailored trousers. Taste flesh. Smoky essence. My hands and mouth on firm, clean, masculine flesh, and then it’s over, faster than I would have thought possible, considering how long it can last under other circumstances.
“Thank you, X.” A sigh, now-slack manhood tucked away. A few strides, and the door is silently swinging open. “I’ll send someone with a suitable gown for the event.”
I remain where I am, kneeling in the middle of the living room, dress rumpled, lipstick smeared, hair mussed by gripping fingers. “All right.”
“Don’t look so sad, X. I’ll be back, and we’ll have some proper time together.”
“All right.”
“X.” This is a scold. “What is it?”
“I don’t understand you, is all.”
A long, long silence, the door half open, expression hidden in the doorway. “You don’t need to.”
“I’d like to, though. I try to.”
“Why?” Curiously inquisitive, strangely sharp, subtly tender. All in one word.
“I . . . you’re what I know. What I have. All I have. Yet I don’t know you. And I don’t get much of you. Of your time, of you. And when I do, it’s . . .” I shrug, unable to articulate any further.
“In your own words, X . . . it’s for a reason. It’s a warning.” A step out the door. The conversation is over.
But I hear five words sling out of my mouth like reckless bullets: “I saw you. With her.”
“X.” This is growled. Snarled.
“That girl. She was upset. She was angry with you. I saw you fuck her, right there in the limo. The door open, for all the world to see. I saw. And I—I know you saw me. You looked right at me, and you—you fucking smiled.” Why on earth do I sound so angry, so jealous, so crazed?
“Goddammit, X.”
“I know I mean nothing to you, Caleb, but must you flaunt it in my face?” I am reckless. This is insanity.
The door slams closed. BANG! “You need to think very carefully about your next words, X.” This is spoken in a voice that resembles the edge of a scalpel.
My chin, on its own, lifts. Dares rebelliously upward. “So do you.”
Three lunging steps, a brief sensation of weightlessness, and then I’m pinned against the wall as if I weigh nothing, hard hips crushing mine to the wall, a hand on my throat, cutting off my oxygen in a way that somehow does not hurt.
“Let’s get one thing straight. You belong to me. Not the other way around. Do not presume to speak to me as if I owe you shit for explanations regarding anything I do or with whom I do it.”
I blink. See stars. Darkness encroaches my vision.
“Do you understand me, X?” This is whispered so low as to be nearly inaudible.
I dip my chin ever so slightly, lift it. I am released. I drop to the floor, gasping, oxygen rushing into my brain in a sweet, cool flood.
I barely notice as my favorite window is darkened, the frame filled. Shoulders hunched, head hanging. “Fuck. X, I’m sorry. I overreacted.” Pivot, a glance at me. “Are you okay?”
I am sprawled, very unladylike, against the wall, knees indecently apart, dress hem hiked up around my thighs. I gasp. Merely breathe. I do not answer. I do not have the strength.
Or the courage. That has been choked out of me.
I very intensely dislike being strangled, I am discovering.
Soft footfalls, huge, hard, heavy body crouching beside me. A hand extended to touch. Hesitant, gentle.
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