Madame X, стр. 22

No gentility here, no tenderness. None of the eroticism of only moments ago. This is what I’ve always known. Roughly thrusting, roughly using. Grunts in my ear.

I stand straight upright and cling to the arms gripping me, slippery with sweat and corded with muscle. Mad, wild thrusts from behind, straight up and down, legs bent wide and far apart.

Finally, when I think surely the moment of climax must be close, I find myself shoved forward so I’m bent double at the waist, hair fisted and jerked so my head snaps backward, a hand gripping my hip crease with bruising force.

Pound, pound, pound.

I whimper, shriek, and then— “Caleb!”

Slow now. Still just as rough and harsh and wild, but slowly.

Uttering that name, it was a plea. A protestation. All I could manage.

I feel the release, the hot gush.

The hands release me, suddenly, and I fall forward, bump up against the window. Opening my eyes, I look out the window and see across the street, an office tower black in the night, all the windows darkened save one, the window opposite my own. A figure in the light, watching.

What a show.

Hands, gentle now, lift me, cradle me, set me on my bed. I fight tears. I ache. My heart aches, my soul. What did I do to deserve so rough and thoughtless a fucking? There was no mutuality in that. No thought for my pleasure.

I let myself drowse, escape into sleep.

But a sound buzzes in my ear, slips through the curtain of unconsciousness. A voice. “I’m sorry, X. You’re mine, and only mine. You can’t know. I wish you could, but you can’t know. You can’t know, or you’d—no. You’re mine. And I don’t share.”

Nonsensical words. I know who owns me; that is one mistake I shall not make again.

An apology?

Gods do not offer apologies.

EIGHT

I need a date for an event, X.” You glance at me sideways.

“Ask a friend.” I pretend to be busy stirring milk into my tea so I don’t have to look at you.

“None of my friends are suitable.”

“Ask one of your many girlfriends, then.”

You laugh. “I don’t have any girlfriends? X.”

My turn to laugh. “Ha. I can smell them on you, Jonathan.”

“There are girls, but they aren’t girlfriends.”

“So you really are a quintessential playboy.” It is said with a hint of humor, and an edge of truth.

“Guilty as charged. But again, none of them are suitable. They aren’t classy enough for this event.”

“What is the event?” I shouldn’t ask, because I know where you are going with this, and it isn’t possible.

“It’s a fund-raiser, a charity thing. But it’s super upper-crust. Invitation only, ten grand entrance fee, and that’s just to get in. There’s a guest list that’s going to read like the Academy Awards. I can’t bring any old skank in some slutty dress, like I usually do for these things. I need someone with presence, and class.”

“Jonathan, I know what you’re—”

“I need you, X.”

“I am not available.”

You frown. “You don’t even know when it is.”

“It doesn’t matter when it is.” My tea is very well stirred at this point, but still I clink my spoon against the china.

“I’ll pay you normal rates for your time, of course.”

I look up sharply, eyes blazing. “I am not an escort, Jonathan Cartwright.”

“That’s not what I meant! I swear, I just . . . I know you’re not—I meant, it wouldn’t be, like, a date-date. It’d be part of my training. See how I do. A test.”

Nicely recovered. I hide a smile. “I see. Very clever. But still not a possibility, I’m afraid.”

You are suddenly on the couch beside me rather than standing casually at the window as has become your habit. Too close. Cologne tickles my nose. I glance sideways, see your Cartier watch, a square chunky thing of silver with a black leather strap, masculine and elegant.

“Why not, X?”

I cross my legs knee over knee, sip my tea. Do not look at you. “It’s . . . not done. Not possible. Not for me. Not with you. Not with anyone.”

“Why, X?” Your hand ventures along the couch back.

I freeze, silently begging you not to do that, not to put your arm around me. Don’t do it, Jonathan. For me, and for you, don’t do it. I’ve come to like you, against all odds, and I don’t want to see anything happen to you.

“Jesus, X. You are the prickliest woman I’ve ever known. I’m not even touching you and you’re all tensed up.”

“I am not prickly.”

You snort. “All right, babe. Whatever you say.” Sarcasm is rife in your tone.

I fix you with a glare. “Babe?”

You hold up your hands in mock surrender. “Sorry, sorry. But you are a little . . . standoffish.”

I stand up, empty teacup in hand. I am not even cognizant of having finished my tea, yet the cup is empty. I move into the kitchen, rinse the cup, set it upside down in the drying rack. I feel you, a foot away.

“If I am prickly or standoffish, perhaps it is for a reason.” I compress myself into the smallest area possible up against the sink as you invade my space. “It’s a warning, Jonathan. One you would do well to heed.”

“Hands off, huh?”

I let out a breath as you back away. “Yes. Hands off.”

“Property of Indigo Services?” Your voice is sharp.

I catch my breath and look up. Suddenly you seem to see more deeply into the truth of matters than I had assumed you were capable. “Don’t, Jonathan. Just . . . don’t.”

Yet you do. “Are you a hermit, X? I mean, I’ve never seen you even step over the threshold of this condo.”

“Jonathan. Stop.”

You pace away, out of the kitchen. Glance around. “I mean, damn, X. I don’t see a TV, or a radio, or a computer. I don’t even see a fucking pencil sharpener. Like, I don’t see one single electric appliance, except for the fucking refrigerator and toaster. And the thing with the elevator? The whole scary-as-fuck elevator operator-slash-bodyguard? Or is he a prison warden? Do you have a cell phone? Shit, even a landline? Do you have any contact with the outside world in anyway what-so-fucking-ever?” You come to a stop behind the couch.

I cross the room and step up close to you, razors in my gaze, ice radiating off me. “I believe it is time for you to leave, Mr. Cartwright.”

“Why? Because I’m asking questions you aren’t allowed to answer?”

Yes, exactly. I do not say that, though. God, no. That would be disastrous. I just stare you down, and, to your credit, you do not look away. You just return the stare, possibly seeing more than I am meant to allow.

You reach into your hip pocket and withdraw a slim silver case, depress a button, and the case flips open, revealing business cards. You slide one card free, close the case, stuff it back into the pocket of your slacks. A shuffled step, and you’re crowding me, staring down at me. The card pinched between thumb and forefinger, you slide it into the V of my cleavage without touching my skin.

The card stock pokes at my flesh. Your eyes are too knowing. Too perceptive. When did you stop being a spoiled boy and become this confident man? You do not rile my flesh, you do not incite panic or breathless fervor in me, but that is no fault of yours.

There are giants—which I can see you becoming, in time—and then there are titans. And even though you have found your footing, discovered the fire in your belly and how to harness it, you are no titan.

But your proximity unnerves me, nonetheless.

“’Bye, Madame X. I can honestly say that without you, I’d never have had the courage to live up to my potential. So . . . thanks.”

Your hand lifts, hovers a hairbreadth away from my jawline. Your face is an inch from mine. I think for a terrifying moment that you are about to kiss me. I cannot breathe; my heart does not beat. I do not blink. You have me trapped against the back of the couch, and I do not dare put my hands on you to move you. To do so would be tantamount to striking a match in a room full of dynamite; there is little chance an errant spark will find a fuse, but the risk is simply too great.