Madame X - Wilder Jasinda - Страница 6
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Sleep is nearly impossible for me, because of the dreams.
“Caleb.” I keep my voice low, steady.
There is no answer. I need none, however. I will wait. I sit up, tug the sheet across my chest, tuck it under my arms. The flat sheet—a thousand thread count, softest Egyptian cotton—is my only shield, and it is a thin and flimsy one at best.
Click. Low amber light washes over me, bathing the room in a dim glow. There, in the Louis XIV armchair in the corner beside my bed, next to the floor-to-ceiling window with its black-out curtain. Tailored black slacks, from a suit. Crisp white shirt, cuff links with two-carat diamond inserts. The collar is unbuttoned. Only one button, just the very uppermost; the concession to the late hour is shocking in its uncharacteristic casualness. No tie. I see it folded, the thinnest end hanging out of an inner pocket of the suit coat, which is draped over the back of the chair.
Dark eyes fixed on me. Unblinking. Piercing. Steady, cold, unreadable. Yet . . . there is something. Wariness? Something I cannot fathom.
“Lower the sheet.”
Ah. A slight slur.
I release the sheet, let it pool around my waist. My nipples harden in the coolness, under the scrutiny of that dark gaze.
“Kick it away.”
I bend my knee, lift my leg, push the sheet away with my toe. Red silk underwear, bikini cut. I keep my gaze level, my breathing even, do nothing to betray the hammering of my heart, the churn in my belly.
“To whom do you belong, X?”
“To you, Caleb.” It is the only answer. The only answer there has ever been.
“What do I want, X?”
“Me.”
One button, two, three, and then the shirt joins the suit coat, folded neatly on the back of the chair. Shoes, set aside. Socks folded, tucked into a shoe. Trousers, next. The zipper, so slowly. A torture of moments, waiting for the zzzzzzhrip. Waiting for the thin, stretchy cotton of black boxer-briefs to find their resting place atop the trousers, folded in department-store-precise thirds on the cushion.
I do not look away. I follow each motion, and I keep my expression neutral. The body revealed is a study in classic masculine beauty. A sculpture of perfection carved from flesh. Muscles toned, carefully and exquisitely crafted. A smattering of dark hair on the chest, a trail from flat belly to thick erection. It is a body designed to engender desire in the viewer. And it does. Oh yes, it does. I am not immune.
The bed dips. Long, thick fingers with neatly manicured nails sweep through my thick black hair, which is loose around my shoulders at the moment. It is never down, unless I am in bed. Otherwise, it is done up in a chignon, or a neat braid pinned in a coil. Never down. The curve of a woman’s neck and throat is as exotic and erotic as breasts, when properly displayed; this was an early lesson. A tug of the hand, and my throat is bared, my head pulled back. This roughness is unexpected. I stifle a gasp of surprise. Not fear. I cannot, must not fear. I dare not even allow myself to feel it, much less let it show.
Lips, nipping and kissing my throat. Wet, slow, ever so slightly clumsy. Those lips, on my cheek. Sour alcohol-laced breath wafts over me. Fingers delve, dig, pierce. I am not ready, but that does not matter. Not now, not in this moment. Perhaps not ever. Momentary discomfort, and then a finger finds my most sensitive bundle of nerves, sweeps across it, and I feel wetness lubricate me, seep through my privates. A gasp, then. A male grunt, as uncharacteristic as the unbuttoned collar and the intoxicated late-night visit.
A tongue, sweeping across my nipple. Hardness nudging my softness. Penetration. Once, twice, lips on my cheek, my chin, my throat, my breastbone. I am pressed into the mattress by heavy weight, a hand on my hip, a trim waist pressing my thighs apart. I begin to wonder, deep in the recesses of my mind, how long this will last, this face-to-face encounter.
Not long.
Hands on my hips, turning me to my stomach. Drawing my hips up, my knees beneath me. A hand fisting in my hair, another on my hip. Hot, hard presence behind me, fingers searching, finding me damp and ready, guiding the thick bare member into me.
Long, slow, unhurried. Not exactly rough, but sloppy. Not with the usual efficiency and masterful pacing. No, this is a slow rhythm, lazy at first and then building and building and building. I cannot resist the burgeoning within me, the pressure of an impending climax throbbing through me. I dare not release it, however, so I clench my fists and squeeze my eyes shut and focus on containing it, holding it back.
The pace becomes punishing, then. Closest to rough as it’s ever been. But still, even in intoxication, exquisitely masterful. This body was created for sex. Designed to own, to pleasure, to dominate. And I am, all of those things.
Whether I will it, or no.
“Now, X. Come for me, right now. Give me your voice.” A rasping murmur, low and strong.
I finally let go with a panting moan at the base of my throat, let the climax burn through me.
Finished, I am allowed to fall forward. Absence behind me. Faucet running. I am nudged to my back, handed a damp, warm washcloth.
“Clean yourself.”
I obey, and return the cloth, roll to my side, and let my eyes slide closed. Let my emotions welter, tumble, let the post-orgasmic drowsiness tug me under. Let the deep, powerful riptide of my most private thoughts and fears and desires spin me into a disoriented tumble, far beneath the tumultuous surface of the sea that is consciousness.
• • •
Blood. Sirens. Loss. Confusion. Rain in the darkness, lightning gouging the blackness, thunder throbbing in the distance. Weeping. Alone.
“X—wake up. Wake up. You’re dreaming again.” Hands on my waist, lips at my ear, a comforting whisper.
I bolt upright, sobbing. Hair sticks to my forehead in sweat-smeared tangles. Strands in my mouth. My back is damp with sweat. My arms shake. My heart is hammering.
“Sshh. Hush. You’re okay now.”
I shake my head. I’m not okay. Eyes closed, fighting for breath—I can see nothing but snatches of nightmare:
Blood, crimson and thick, swirling and mixing with rain on a sidewalk. A pair of eyes, open, vacant and unseeing. Limbs bent at unnatural angles. A stab of lightning, sudden and bright, illuminating the night for the space of a heartbeat. An all-consuming sensation of horror, terror, the kind of loss that steals your breath and sucks the marrow from your bones.
Sobs. Wracked, shaking, incapable of speech. I try to push it down, gain control, but I cannot. I can only sob and gasp and tremble, shiver and weep. My lungs ache. I cannot breathe, cannot think, can only see the blood, the blood, scarlet and thick as syrup, arterial, lifeblood leaking away and mixing with rain.
“X. Breathe. Breathe, okay? Look at me. Look at my eyes.” I seek dark eyes, find them strangely warm, concerned.
“Can’t—can’t breathe—” I gasp.
Pulled against a firm, smooth chest. Heartbeat under my ear. I tense; comfort like this is alien. I still cannot breathe, or blink. Paralyzed with fear, with the poison of nightmares in my blood.
“How did we meet, X?”
“You—s-s-saved me.”
“That’s right. What did I save you from?”
“Him. Him.” I feel a presence from my dream, a malevolence, a hunger for that scarlet lifeblood.
“I found you on the sidewalk, bleeding to death. You’d been badly hurt. Beaten nearly to death. Savaged almost beyond recognition. I took you in my arms and carried you to the hospital. You’d crawled, alone, dying . . . so far. A mile, almost. They think you knew where the hospital was, and you were trying to get there. But you didn’t quite make it.”
“You carried me to the hospital.” In reciting the words, I can begin to find my breath.
“That’s right.” A pause, a breath. “I brought you in, and they wouldn’t let me go back with you, but you had no identification and you were unconscious. I just couldn’t leave you alone, not knowing what had happened to you. Not knowing if you’d be okay. So they let me stay in the triage room while they worked on you.”
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