Madame X - Wilder Jasinda - Страница 43
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I let out a gasp of surprise. It scrapes within me, fills me in a strange angle, fullness but different. Hands gripping my hips, I am lifted and pulled backward into the next thrust, which is hard and rough.
“Oh—oh God.” It hurts, these hard thrusts, but they feel good as well.
“You’re mine, X. You fucking belong to me.”
Hips slam in between my thighs, and I am rocked forward, but strong hands keep me hauled taut for the next powerful drive.
Dark eyes do not leave mine. I cannot look away, not even to close my eyes as orgasmic tremors blow through me. Cannot look away, do not.
“Mine.” A rocking thrust, sending me over the edge. “Say it, X. Fucking say it! Say you’re mine.”
I need the next thrust, need it to stay here on the far side of bliss, where everything is nothing, and nothing matters but the heat and fullness and the slight ache and burn and twinge and the grip of hands on my hips and the slam of body against body. Right now, that’s all that matters. I am conditioned to need that, this moment, this now. It’s all I am.
“I’m yours, Caleb.” I say on a whimper, a sob.
As soon as those three words leave my lips, I feel the hot wet rush of release within me, feel that heavy body collapse forward, and I accept the weight, feel hard muscle under my hands. Stubble on my face, cheek against cheek. A moment of mutual breathing, harsh and ragged.
“X.” My name, said thus, with such . . . not vulnerability, but something like it—I want to believe everything I’ve heard over the last few minutes.
I should say something, but what?
Abruptly, the weight is gone, and the cold statue-blank expression is in place. “I have to go.”
I lie on the couch, naked and sated, confused, emotionally demolished. I watch the naked body as it is covered inch by inch with expensive clothes. Shoes, last, slipped on, tied quickly.
“Stay.” I say it, hoping.
A pause. Hesitation. All I can see is a broad back, trim waist, strong legs. I cannot see the expression on that handsome, too-beautiful face. “I can’t. I’ll be back, though. You stay here. Don’t put on clothes.” A rumble, deep-chested, of some deep emotion too thick and male and tumultuous to express in mere words. “Just . . . stay. I’ll be back. And X?”
“Yes, Caleb?”
“You are special to me.”
I feel something in me twist and expand and bloom with hope.
Silver key, twisted. Elevator doors open, easy strides into the car, turn, and I can see a hint of the storm of emotions. There is much kept hidden, I’m realizing.
Still waters run deep, I believe the saying goes.
The elevator doors close, and I am alone.
Glance away, huge windows letting in the sunlight. Perhaps thirty minutes have passed since I entered this penthouse.
The space is mammoth. Exploring, I realize the entire uppermost floor of the building composes this penthouse, more square feet than I can count. Most of it is open space, divided here and there with half walls and paper panels, or sectioned off with long couches to create informal nooks of space. A kitchen, way off in the distance, all gleaming marble and stainless steel. A balcony, the walls themselves sliding apart and the ceiling sloping back and away out of sight to bare an outdoor area cut out of the structure of the building itself.
There, a set of elaborately painted paper panels inspired by Japanese culture, sectioning off the bedroom. Cleverly layered, three sets form a barrier so that the bedroom cannot be seen from without. A wide, low bed with a white comforter, neatly made. A nightstand on either side, empty of any effects. An actual wall forms the left side of the bedroom, and in it a doorway, leading to the bathroom.
I need a shower, I suddenly realize. I’ve not had one in a long time.
But when I get into the interior of the bathroom, there is a deep claw-foot tub, and I smile to myself.
I run the water hot, fill the tub. Climb in, skin scorched by the delicious heat, splashing water onto the floor. Sink down, submerged gradually until I’m immersed to my nose.
Immediately, I am assaulted by the chaos in my mind, the furious onslaught of everything I’ve refused to think about.
I ache between my thighs, and now that the source of that ache is gone, I feel shame, embarrassment, revulsion. Hatred. I fell for the sorcery yet again. Caleb has some way of weaving a spell over me, of making me forget all my objections and all my thoughts and everything that is logical or rational.
Caleb is a god, and gods are meddlesome . . . or so read the ancient myths. As a god, Caleb meddles with my rationality. Manipulates my body and my mind. Drowns my senses with masculine perfection, blinds me with beauty. Now, alone, I can only see the distinct parts that compose the whole, and the effect is not the same. The eyes, the mouth, the jawline; the arms, the hands, the massive musculature . . . these are Caleb. The anger, the coldness, the body heat and skillful touch, the way I can be melted down to nothing. These, too. But all together, it is more.
And I fall for it every time.
I let Caleb spin a web of words and touch, and I let—I allowed myself to be fucked, only a few short minutes after Rachel.
I am repulsed . . .
Yet also turned on.
The hatred is for myself.
And for Caleb. For twisting me around, for making me feel like I meant something. How can all my thoughts and protestations and objections be swept away so easily?
Did Caleb even shower after Rachel and before me? I doubt it. I didn’t smell evidence of a shower. I lift up and twist, look behind me at the shower stall; it is dry, unused.
Do I have the mixed essences of Rachel and Caleb and me, all smeared together?
Disgust, and deeper than that, shame.
I fell for lies. Believed neat explanations and trite claims that I am special.
And yet, here I am, in this penthouse, in Caleb’s tub, bathing, waiting.
The hot water pulls me under, makes me sweat, makes my eyes heavy.
Self-hatred is exhausting.
• • •
A noise jerks me awake, upright. I sit, splashing cool water everywhere, the ends of my hair sticking to my back. I wait, tensed, sure I heard something.
Footsteps.
“Caleb?” I sound fearful. Naked, vulnerable, disoriented from accidentally falling asleep in hot water, dizzy from overheating, I am in no shape to fend off Caleb’s sorcery.
The footsteps are not Caleb’s, however. Shuffled, strange. I look around for a towel, see nothing. Crossing my arms over my breasts, I crouch in the now-cool water, waiting for whoever it is to show themselves.
Shiny black shoes, first. Pants leg, waist, suit coat. It is Len, edging forward while leaning backward, walking strangely.
Ah. An arm around his throat, shiny barrel of a handgun to a temple. I recognize the hand clutching the gun, and the golden forearm wedged under Len’s throat.
“X?” I hear his smooth familiar voice, first, and then he and Len are in the bathroom, Logan not quite visible behind Len.
“Logan? What—what are you doing?”
“I came to get you.” The gun nudges Len’s temple. “He didn’t want to let me, and he lost.”
I am absolutely speechless, hunched over in the tub, cowering, dripping wet, cold, shivering.
“On your knees, fucker.” Logan taps Len on the back of the head with the gun barrel.
Len hesitates.
Logan presses harder, draws back the hammer. “Don’t make this messy, man.”
My heart stops. Len blinks, squeezes eyes shut, shoulders lift . . . and then Len slowly kneels, a heavy, lumbering motion. Logan is visible now: distressed blue jeans, scuffed black combat boots, a gray V-neck T-shirt tucked behind the buckle of his belt with the rest left untucked, sleeves stretched taut around his arms. Black hat, brim tugged low to hide his face.
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