Ascension (18 page)

"I'm going to come," I say, and stop, but he kept thrusting.

"Keep going," he says, and I tense as the sweetness overcomes me, my body spasming around him and then he does something to me, like a time shift when I’m fighting, and my orgasm goes on and on. He turns me over and in my delirium, I wrap my legs around his waist and lie back, my eyes closed as he starts fucking me, his thrusts fast and hard and soon he comes as well, his mouth by my ear, grunting with each thrust.

Later, as we lie in each other’s arms, he kisses me and runs his fingers through my hair, the ends still damp from the bath.

"I have to go."

I frown. "Where?"

He shakes his head.

"No questions. I just have to go."

I bite back another question. I was going to ask him how long he'd be gone.

He rolls off the bed and goes to the bathroom. I lie there, my feelings conflicted. I want to throw something at him, I want to ask him to stay. I realize that neither would be appropriate. I crawl under the covers instead.

He emerges fully dressed in a few moments, putting his tie back on, his jacket over his arm. He stops at the bedside and stands for a moment, tying the knot in his tie. He leans over and kisses me. "Next time, we'll do a little role playing. Maybe use a few restraints Maybe smoke a little pot. I want to see you stoned again."

Then he’s gone.

I lie back and rub my eyes. There are no tears. Frustration, some anger. But my body feels so well used.

It will have to be enough for now.

CHAPTER 16

“
Love takes off masks that we fear we cannot live without and know we cannot live within.”

James A. Baldwin

The next night, julien returns,
sitting on the bed beside me, waking me up from a dead sleep. I turn over and face him and he smiles, brushing hair off my face.

I smile back.

“That’s what I want to see,” he says, running the backs of his fingers over my cheek. He leans down and nuzzles my neck, licking his bite mark, which is almost healed. The touch of his tongue on my skin sends a shock of lust through me, and I want him immediately. I think he’s going to fuck me, but he doesn’t. He just sits there, smiling at me, running his fingers through my hair.

“Sorry I’m waking you so late but I had work to do.”

“That’s OK.”

“Get up,” he says and takes my hand. He pulls me out of bed and leads me over to the seating area in the living room. This time, he doesn't pull me down onto his lap as he has on other occasions. He just sits down and looks at me expectantly.

"Sit," he says finally.

I sit on the couch beside him.

"How are you?" he says, and runs his hand down my arm to my hand, which he squeezes.

"Fine. How are you?" I say.

"Never better."

We sit for a moment, looking at each other, each of us waiting for the other to speak. He leans back, one elbow resting on the armrest, his chin in his hand and watches me for a moment.

"Oh, I brought something for us." He goes to the coat tree and removes something from a pocket in his coat. A bag of dope and some paraphernalia. He sits back down and holds it out in front of me, smiling. "Something to lighten the mood."

"Oh, no, thanks," I say and shake my head. "The other night was enough."

He pulls out rolling papers and prepares to roll a joint.

"I feel like relaxing. I want you completely relaxed as well."

“When did you become a pot smoker?”

“Oh, since about when it was invented. Soldiers do a lot of drugs. Helps get you through the long stretches of total boredom and brief but intense moments of utter fear.”

“Aren’t you afraid of becoming addicted?”

“Can’t,” he says. “Body heals of every insult. Even drugs.”

He pulls me over to him, across his lap, so that I'm sitting to the side with my legs over his lap rather than straddling him. He keeps working on the joint, rolling it together, twisting the ends. He picks up a lighter and lights it, takes a puff and then offers it to me.

I wave it away.

"No, I don't think so. Unlike you, I don’t heal.”

“You could,” he says, his voice playful. “All you have to do is drink my blood…”

“Not a chance, " I say, my arms crossed. He smiles.

"You loved it.”

"It's a drug. That's all. I couldn't help but—"

"Quit lying to yourself," he says and turns my face to his. "You loved the idea as well."

I don’t say anything. What can I do? I can’t deny it – he knows my thoughts.

“Now smoke this. It’s an order.”

I shake my head.

“Luke was right when he said you'd top from the bottom. Eve," he says. "Submission…"

"Do we have to tonight?"

"Yes." He holds it in front of my face. "This is very mild stuff and I rolled it pretty thin, so don't worry. You're not going to freak out or anything."

 
He lights the joint and holds it out to me. I relent and take a puff, sucking in the smoke, holding it in my lungs as long as I can before coughing it out.

“There are so many things you want to do and try that you’re afraid to admit to yourself. You don’t have to be afraid with me. For example, you want to get stoned and let yourself go. I aim to please.”

He takes it back and does a small hit, and then quickly hands it back to me. I do another hit, coughing even more this time, tears in the corners of my eyes. He hands the joint back to me after a tiny puff. I comply and take in another lungful of smoke.

"You're not inhaling," I observe when he lets the smoke curl out of his mouth.

"Nonsense. What do you know about smoking pot anyway?" He takes another tiny hit and hands it back to me. "Besides," he says, the smoke coming out of his mouth without inhaling, "when you're experienced like me, you don't need as much to get high."

Somehow, I don't believe it.

"Liar." I take another hit, the smoke not bothering me nearly as much as it first did. "You just want me stoned and you sober so you can take advantage of me."

"Am I that transparent?" he says, that devilish grin on his face. Soon, the joint's just a tiny smoldering stub. I hand it back to him and he clips the end and then sucks.

"Here," he says, blowing the smoke out before inhaling. "Finish this off."

I giggle. "You're not inhaling."

"Eve, there aren't very many people who can get away with calling me a liar, or even suggesting it. Consider yourself lucky."

"You're a big fat liar." I suck on the tiny ember, holding the smoke in my lungs as long as I can.

"I am not fat." He starts to roll another joint.

"I can't smoke any more," I say, and then lean back, closing my eyes. I feel giddy, a bit dim as if I have a screen between me and the world.

"That's hardly anything. I thought I'd start off slow, since you're not very experienced."

I peer through my eyelashes and watch as he puts the joint down and then runs his hand up my bare leg, from my ankle to my knee and then up my outer thigh to my hip, underneath my nightgown. He turns to look at me and I don't hide that I'm watching him.

"You have beautiful legs."

"My ballet teacher told me I had the perfect dancer's body, but maybe a bit too short," I say, my tongue feeling a bit fuzzy already but I feel good. I stand up, and teeter a bit, but regain my balance. I stand a few feet away from the couch on the other side of the coffee table and take the first position in ballet, my feet turned out to one-hundred and eighty degrees, my arms softy curved, hands in proper position. I move through each position and back with only a slight wobble. "Not too tall, thin, legs in proportion to my torso."

He leans back, watching me with his head cocked to one side.

"Why did you stop dancing?"

I attempt an arabesque, succeeding for a moment and then try to move into a second one and lose my balance, falling into a very undignified position before trying to right myself. He stands quickly and holds out his arm, which I take, using it for balance.

"Eve, why did you stop?"

"I don't like to talk about it," I say and do another arabesque, determined to get it right.

"Submission…" he says, frowning, a lopsided grin on his face.

"You keep saying that word," I say, and do a plié. "But you also said 'partners'. Partners don't force each other against their will."

"And you said 'all in'."

Finally I relent.

"I spent a year in and out of court after my current foster parents got custody of me. You can spot me," I say, pulling him around the table, his arm out so I can use it for balance, performing
battement tendus
, holding my body still while one leg moves into the three positions, front, side and to the rear. Then I perform
battements
, lifting my leg to the level of my hip and then moving down rapidly, repeating it several times, front, side and back, my arm moving into the correct position each time.

"Court?"

I perform a
passé developpe
, ignoring his question, not wanting to get into it. I start in first position, my arm out in front, my right leg moving to the front then back, and then to the side and then finally into an
arabesque
, using his arm as a bar for support.

"You didn't answer."

"I don't want to talk about it."

"You're still too sober." He pulls me back to the couch and I collapse onto to it, my legs across his lap once more. He leans forward and takes the fresh joint, lighting it and taking a small puff to get it going. "I think I made them a little too thin because you should be feeling it more."

He hands it to me and I take it, feeling relaxed enough that I don't care how stoned I get. I inhale deeply, hold it in as long as possible, and then blow out the smoke, lying back, my eyes closed. I hand it back, peering at him under my eyelashes, pretending to keep my eyes closed, and he takes the joint and puts it between his lips but doesn't even puff on it, a smile on his face.

"Hey," I say, indignant. "You aren't even pretending to inhale."

"No, no," he says and hands it back to me. "This is about you, not me. You need to chill out. Mellow." He motions to the joint. "Go ahead. Finish this."

I take in another lungful, and then exhale. I glance at the joint. It's half gone. I'm definitely starting to feel it now, my arms and legs heavier, my mouth feeling like it doesn't really belong on my face. I take one more hit and when I exhale, I shake my head.

"I can't do any more."

I hold it out for him, turning my head away. He takes it back and taps it out, leaving it on a dish. I get up awkwardly, intent on trying out more dance steps. I hold onto the back of the other couch and try another
plié
, a deep knee bend and then lean back in a stretch, my arm extended. I lose my balance, laughing as I do, and he's once again at my side, catching me and holding me up.

"Hold your hand out," I say, "just in case I fall." Then I attempt a pirouette. It's a big mistake, for I knock into him, falling over into his arms, and then have to watch his wide grin at my clumsiness. I extract myself from him and pretend to be Odette from
Swan
Lake
dancing around Prince Siegfried.

"Eve, you better sit down," he says, following me as I dance away from him. "You're going to hurt yourself."

I imagine I have on a costume with long flowing skirt, moving my nightgown as if it were a full costume. I don't care – I feel giddy, laughing as I run, my face flushed, cheeks hot. He's smiling as he comes after me and I try to elude him but he's far too fast, then I collapse into a fit of laughter when he catches me from behind, leaning back when he turns me around to face him, my arms out, my head to the side, eyes closed.

"That's more like it," he says, letting me lean back as far as possible, so that I feel as if I'm floating, falling, not caring what happens.

"I think I'm stoned," I say, my arms starting to feel unwieldy, my head spinning.

"Oh, yes. You are
definitely
stoned."

Finally, I stand up straight and he pulls me close and I feel so loose and free that I don't care what happens. He bends down and picks me up and carries me back to the couch, sitting down with me so that I'm once more lying with my legs over his lap, my head leaning on the armrest.

"Tell me about court," he says, his voice soft, one hand stroking my calf.

"I don't really remember," I say. "But it was very scary." I nod, my eyes closed. I feel so good lying there, so free. "I was supposed to testify about him, but he scared me and I didn't. They got custody, and then there were no more dance lessons. No more piano. Just martial arts and science."

"That's too bad."

"No," I say, wistful, listening to Debussy's
Arabesque
in my mind, my hand directing. I dance the steps I learned as a young girl in my mind's eye and hum the music. "I'm glad. Dance and music are pointless. Who cares? I prefer science."

"They aren't pointless. They make humanity beautiful. Worth saving."

I sigh. Such sweet thoughts.

"I wish he was dead."

"He will be."

He sits and just stares at me, his face dark.

"You're so serious," I say, giggling at the frown on his face, barely able to open my eyes. "I want to dance again, with you as my evil prince."

"I'm not evil."

"In the play – you have to be evil, the dark prince. The vampire prince. And I'm your captive, a tiny white swan held against my will." I laugh to myself, imagining him with a crown on his head, in a dancer's costume. "You were a vicomte after all." I hold my hand up to my forehead in my best damsel-in-distress mode.

"And if I let you go?"

"Oh," I say, filled with theatrics. "What would the swan do? She'd fly away. Away to the police and enter the witness protection program, never to be seen again."

He says nothing for a long while. Finally, I force my eyes open and see him sitting there, no longer smiling.

"What?" I say, poking his arm, laughing. "The world is so smooooth. Why are you frowning?"

"Would you?"