Behind the Green Curtain (11 page)

Arms finally giving out, she
dropped to the surface of the desk with nearly enough grace for it to have been
intentional, and Amelia fell with her, warm weight pressing Caton down against
the cool wood.

Painstakingly slowly, their bodies
moved together, Amelia’s touch expanding, pressing deeper, invading every inch
of Caton’s body, and, for the first time since Amelia stared at her across the
foyer, her gaze promising things Caton was convinced she was never going to
deliver, Caton felt truly and wholly fulfilled.

Amelia’s touch directed her to
paradise, and held Caton captive there, hovering on the verge of that familiar
abyss, the one that threatened each time to pull her down into a darkness she
couldn’t fully see. Amelia’s lips on the back of her neck, unbelievably gentle
against her skin, and Caton leapt into it, quaking between the unforgiving
surface of the desk and the soft, warm curves of Amelia’s body.

Amelia was right there with her,
keeping Caton from falling alone, the one thing that sent her soaring and the
one thing that kept her grounded. Wings and anchor. There was an instant, a
single pinpoint of ecstasy so acute, Caton thought she may cease to exist,
simply blink out like a dying star, but at last she fell free, heart restarting
with a desperate tremor as she returned to her body.

Bereft of breath and fight, she
remained there, unwilling to move even if she could, realizing she had survived
Amelia yet again as the big picture began to return to its individual parts -
Amelia flush at her back, Amelia’s smell, her uneven breaths, her hand finally
where Caton had needed it for so long.

When that hand retreated in haste,
Caton forced her eyes open, staring across the surface of the desk at the
pieces of an expensive desk set, neatly arranged and in sharp focus. Half of
Amelia’s body still weighting her down, Caton heard the zipper of Amelia’s
pants before she felt the frenzied movements against the back of her thigh.

Energy she thought utterly depleted
returning in an instant, she tried to push herself up, to turn, but Amelia’s
body kept her trapped against the desk. Forcing one sluggish arm to move, Caton
reached back, finding the curve of Amelia’s thigh, pressing her fingers into
impossibly soft skin, and, with a sudden hitch of breath, Amelia moaned softly
in her ear, sending a satisfying aftershock through Caton’s body, though she
wasn’t sure if was an offshoot of Amelia’s climax or the remnants of her own.

As Amelia collapsed against her,
there was stillness, a moment of near serenity, but it lasted only as long as
Amelia allowed it. Too soon, she pulled away and Caton’s warmth dissipated into
the biting reality of being face-down, ass-up on Amelia’s desk.

The image she must present sinking
in, Caton attempted to stand, but her loose limbs made messy work of it, and
she felt her face flaming for all the wrong reasons as she turned her back to
Amelia and unsteadily thrust her foot into the leg holes of her panties and
pants to pull them back into place. Stopping to readjust each piece of
clothing, as if it would somehow alter the fact that she had just been in an
extremely awkward position, she turned to find Amelia sitting on the edge of
her desk, legs crossed, looking almost untouched. The only sign she’d had any
part in what just transpired was the open closure of her expensive slacks, and
glistening fingers that hovered at her lips before Amelia sucked her middle
finger between them.

As calculated as it was, it had the
same effect. Feeling a fresh flush of desire that was hard to believe
considering the undeniable fucking she was just given by the woman sitting
before her, Caton knew she would let herself be pulled into the same moment
again, embarrassingly as it had ended, for the few moments those fingers were
inside of her.

Amelia held her hand out in
offering, and Caton tried to channel the confidence of someone who hadn’t just
been bent over a desk and made to beg for her pleasure. Palm settling on
Amelia’s thigh as she stepped nearer, she closed her lips around Amelia’s index
finger, tongue wrapping around it, rewarded by Amelia’s jagged breath. Teeth
raking the flesh of Amelia’s finger as she released it, Caton battled the urge
to close in on Amelia and find out how determined she really was to be in
control.

“So, not a prude then,” Amelia
stated.

“Did you really think I was?” Caton
returned in amused disbelief.

“I don't know,” Amelia responded,
eyes dropping to Caton’s lips just long enough to make Caton yearn for
something she knew Amelia wasn’t going to give her. “I don't know you.”

“Do you want to?” she heard herself
ask before she could think to quash the question.

It was so unexpected and so quickly
masked by her usual assuredness, Caton couldn’t be sure what flashed in
Amelia’s eyes, but, for a split second, she would have sworn it looked like
fear.

Pushing Caton’s hand from her
thigh, Amelia stood suddenly, forcing Caton to take a step back. “I want to
wash my hand,” Amelia said, all hints of intimacy, real or fake, gone as she
walked toward the door. “And I'm sure you want to go home.”

Well aware it would come whenever
Amelia decided, and that she would have no say, Caton leaned against the desk,
watching Amelia’s departure with little emotion. For a while, she loitered,
wondering if it was a good time to reevaluate her life choices, but she didn’t
bother sticking around for long, because she knew Amelia wasn’t coming back.

Chapter 20

All week, Caton waited to be
summoned. That was what she had been reduced to - half assistant, half slave to
her own body and Amelia’s sexual whims. Amelia was in need of neither of her
services, it seemed, because she came to Caton for nothing, gave her nothing,
and whenever Caton stopped in at Amelia’s office looking for some sense of
direction, she was greeted and dismissed in less than a minute. Amelia wasn’t
as off-putting as she had been in the past, but she was neither inviting nor
repentant, and, each day, Caton left feeling more baffled than the day before.

Sole told her it happened, the
lulls in work. It was the perk of working for people who could afford
everything, but needed nothing, she said.

As well-intended as the explanation
was, it only served to remind Caton that she was among those things Amelia
didn’t need. Which Amelia had made clear from the beginning, and had proven
many times since.

Caton didn’t need Amelia either. It
didn’t change the fact that every time she saw Amelia across the room, or
listened to her throaty laugh through the door that separated them, she was
back on that desk with Amelia on top of her and inside of her, and yearned to
feel her that way again.

Walking into the Halston Palace
Friday morning, after an entire week of checking her words and expressions,
Caton was already on edge, more than ready to be through with the week and free
of Amelia’s crippling presence. Then, she saw Jack’s briefcase on the table,
keys resting on top, and the feeling amplified. “Jack's still here?” she asked
quietly, moving to the bar to accept the coffee Sole wordlessly poured for her.

“Yes.” Sole abruptly nodded.
“There’s some benefit at his parents’ house today. They should already be
gone.”

Feeling a tinge of something she
refused to accept at the idea of Amelia playing the happy family with her
husband, Caton attempted to shrug it off, ignoring the weight that seemed to
only grow heavier as she stared at the bar top. Having Amelia out of range for
a day would be a blessing, she reminded herself, no matter how it came to pass.

At the noise behind her, Caton
turned to see Jack walking into the room alone, free, for once, of his tailored
suit in khakis and a polo that made him look almost tame.

“Is
Amelia’s
famous flan
ready?” Jack emphasized the name in a way that indicated Amelia had never made
flan in her life, letting his eyes drag over Caton without an ounce of
restraint. “Morning, Caton.”

Recognizing the man she knew him to
be, even in the sheep’s clothing, Caton looked away without response, in no
mood to exchange niceties.

“Everything’s packed up,” Sole
responded dutifully. “Do you want coffee for your drive?”

“Sure,” Jack answered, moving in on
Caton, and, though Caton kept her gaze averted, she could feel Jack’s all over
her like an infestation.

“Is Amelia coming?” Sole asked as
she poured coffee into a travel mug.

“She claims to be ill,” Jack
replied, tone somewhat amused.

“That’s too bad. I’ll make her
tea,” Sole responded without hesitation, tightening the lid on the mug and
setting it next to the other prepared items on the bar.

“Nice outfit.” Jack ignored Sole’s
response completely, words coming from too close, and Caton turned a
discouraging look his way. “It’s a compliment.”

Remembering too well the last time
he gave her a similar compliment in his kitchen, Caton considered telling him
she had picked it out special for his wife, hoping Amelia might find her
irresistible enough to give her one of those uncontrollable orgasms she seemed
to specialize in.

“Thank you.” Caton uttered to
appease him, eyes never leaving Jack’s as he took another step,  though he
seemed to know better than to try to touch her.

“Why don’t you come with me?” Jack
asked casually. “You could be Amelia’s surrogate. Everyone will probably like
you better anyway.”

Hardly a fan of Amelia’s past
behavior, Caton found herself considerably less tolerant of Jack trash-talking
his wife while she was right upstairs. Especially when she had seen Amelia bend
over backward to make the perfect impression on a group, and suspected there
was no crowd Amelia couldn’t win over with her smile alone, whether it was sincere
or just for show.

“I don't think Amelia would approve
of that,” Caton replied.

“It’s not up to her,” Jack said,
finally testing his luck and drawing the backs of his fingers down Caton’s arm.

Not bothering to shrug out of the
touch, Caton’s hand tightened into a fist, and it was only her father’s
constant advice to “choose her battles” that kept her from swinging. “It is,
actually,” she declared. “I don't work for you, remember?”

For a moment, Jack looked stunned.
Angry even. Then, with a laugh, as if no one of her lowly caliber could truly
bother him, he shook his head, gathering the items from the counter, and
grabbed his keys on the way to the French doors. Glancing toward the abandoned
briefcase, Caton wondered for a moment what secrets might be hiding inside it,
before realizing Jack would never leave his secrets so easy to access.

“I cannot believe you said that to
him,” Sole marveled, watching out the window as Jack walked along the back path
to the garage.

“I don’t work for him,” Caton
stated. “That was our deal.”

“Still, you’re braver than I am,”
Sole declared, generally upbeat demeanor darkening for a moment. As she went
back to the task of turning fresh oranges into juice, something in her voice
made Caton afraid to ask for more detail. She had been around Jack long enough
to know that Sole couldn’t have possibly gotten through her years of service
without Jack trying his luck with her, and she really didn’t want to know how
successful those efforts had been.

Finishing her coffee in silence as
Sole poured hot water over a tea bag, Caton wondered if Sole actually believed
Amelia was sick, or if she was protecting Amelia’s privacy and right to lie to
her husband from the prying eyes of an outsider.

“I'll take it up,” Caton declared,
wondering where the words had come from, as Sole added the mug to the tray.

“Are you sure you want to do that?”
Sole asked.

Though it wasn’t the singular cause
of Caton’s hesitation, Sole’s question did prolong it. She wasn’t sure about
anything. She never was anymore, and she doubted she would be until she was
free of the contract, the situation, and Amelia’s hold over her. “Yes, I’ll
take it,” she said at last, dropping her bag onto the closest stool, tugging
the tray across the bar, and turning to head out of the kitchen before she
could talk herself out of it.

Up the stairs, Caton forced her
feet to climb until she breached the barrier of the third floor for the first
time. Glancing down the hallway, she noted the door that could only belong to
Jack’s office, before knocking softly on the closed door that had to belong to
the master suite and taking a deep breath, wondering what in Satan’s dominion
had motivated her to volunteer for the fool’s errand.

“Come in,” Amelia said, voice too
muted to determine the state of its health, and Caton pushed the door open
enough to skim several pieces of a high-end bedroom suit before her eyes
alighted on Amelia sitting up against the headboard, a book bent open in her
hands. The deep purple silk of the nightgown Amelia wore hugged everything, and
Caton’s eyes struggled to focus anywhere else.

“Are you really sick?” she asked,
knowing the answer before she posed the question. Even Amelia couldn’t look so
insanely desirable ill.

Staring at her for a moment, as if
debating whether she wanted to answer, Amelia finally closed the book and slid
it onto the bedside table. “No.”

“Then you’re not going to want
this,” Caton declared, walking into the room without waiting for invitation and
pushing the door closed at her back. Turning away from Amelia to set the tray
atop the dark wood dresser, she grabbed the glass of freshly-squeezed juice she
had been eyeing ever since Sole set it down and took a defiant drink. Seduced
by the sweet, fresh flavor, she took another sip as she walked over to Amelia.
“Well, you may want this,” she amended, offering her the glass.

Much to her surprise, Amelia took
it without comment, staring up at Caton from the luxurious pile of pillows and
high-thread-count sheets as she took a drink. Amelia’s eyes unguarded, her
expression achingly familiar and tempting, Caton made a valiant effort not to
see it. It was always this way. On Amelia’s whims. On Amelia’s desires.

“I was going to come find you,”
Amelia breathed, voice so enchanting Caton sighed at her instantly crumbling
resolve.

“Were you really?” she asked,
focusing on the only flaw in the headboard, a nick that showed the raw wood
hiding inside the perfectly-finished surface. “You’ve known where I’ve been all
week.”

“Strip for me,” Amelia commanded,
feeling no need to apologize or explain herself, or even to act as if Caton had
spoken.

On Amelia’s whims.

On Amelia’s desires.

Scoffing less at the request than
her immediate urge to obey it, Caton returned her gaze to Amelia. “Why?”

“Because I want you to,” Amelia replied
instantly, and it wasn’t what Caton wanted to hear. It left too much question
as to what Amelia truly desired - her or the power she held over her.

Shaking her head, Caton walked
away, hand wrapping around the bed post to pull her back to Earth.

“Caton.” Amelia’s voice drew her to
a stop, and Caton tried to hold onto Sole’s sage insight that there was nothing
the Halstons needed, because Amelia had managed to sound very needy indeed. “I
want to look at you.”

Even with the admission, it would
have been more dignified for Caton to leave, to prove to Amelia, and to
herself, that she was not under Amelia’s complete control. It would have also
been counterproductive. Forcing Amelia’s hand was, after all, why she had made
the journey upstairs in the first place, to remind Amelia she was waiting
whenever Amelia decided she wanted her.

Shrinking an inch as she stepped
out of her shoes, Caton turned to meet Amelia’s gaze. Half the time she spent
with Amelia was spent faking confidence she didn’t possess. When Amelia looked
at her like that, though, blistering gaze penetrating Caton’s skin until Caton
would swear Amelia could see inside her, she felt like a different person, a
person who was comfortable taking her clothes off at a moment’s notice just
because she was asked.

Loosing the pinstriped pants at her
waist, she eased the fabric down her legs, and Amelia slid the glass in her
hand onto the table to push more upright in the bed.

Maybe she did have some power, it
occurred to Caton, some element of control. As much as she craved Amelia, she
hadn’t asked for what was happening. She hadn’t started it. Amelia was the one
who had followed her, who had come to her, who had touched her.

At the realization, something
relaxed inside of Caton, and it was enough to make her remove the rest of her
clothing without delay and stand in front of Amelia, naked and waiting. One
hand sliding up to her breast, her fingertips teased at her nipple, but it was
Amelia who reacted, arching slightly against the pillows at her back, eyes flicking
from the hand at Caton’s breast to the one traveling over the sensitive skin of
Caton’s abdomen.

“Touch yourself,” Amelia whispered,
slumping slightly in the bed, hair rucking up against the pillow, a blight on
her picture-perfect image, and even if Caton wanted to make Amelia wait, or
beg, or suffer, her body was nothing but willing. Fingers pulling at the nipple
that hardened more at Amelia’s gaze than her own touch, Caton’s other hand
dipped between her legs, fingers moving through thick warmth.

It wasn’t Amelia’s power, she
realized, or her own. Amelia wanted her. She wanted Amelia to want her. Their
powers were shared, intimately linked. They worked in tandem. What Amelia
wanted from her, Caton wanted to give her, and the more Caton gave her, the
more Amelia seemed to want. Maybe the confidence wasn’t all fake. Amelia
watching her, reacting to her, Caton’s inhibitions seemed to fall away as
easily as her clothing.

Amelia’s gaze focused, Caton dared
think even hypnotized, one hand curved around the top of the headboard, the
other disappearing beneath the covers, and Caton followed its path with envy.
She did have power, but power wasn’t what she wanted. Maybe that satisfied
Amelia, but it didn’t satisfy her. Amelia had followed her, had come to her,
had touched her, but she had never once felt free to touch Amelia.

Dropping her hands instantly, Caton
stalked to the bed, and Amelia’s gaze followed her, the movement beneath the
covers never ceasing. As soon as she was in range, Amelia reached out, transferring
the hand from the headboard to Caton’s hip, thumb dipping inward, her eyes
never leaving Caton’s, as if she could just continue on as she was, as if Caton
would stand for that.

Wrenching back the covers that
shielded Amelia from her view, Caton lowered herself to the edge of the bed,
bare hip bumping Amelia’s silk-clad one, breaking the rhythm of Amelia’s hand
where it disappeared beneath her nightgown. Hand tightening around the smooth
skin of Amelia’s wrist, she pulled it away without resistance. When she tried
to replace Amelia’s hand with her own, though, Amelia’s reflex was lighting
fast, fingers latching onto Caton’s forearm. “No,” she said, voice rasping
between uneven breaths.

After everything Caton had allowed
Amelia to do to her, the rejection was caustic, crawling over her exposed skin,
deadening every nerve ending one-by-one, threatening to extinguish all of her
unexplainable feelings for Amelia.

“I’m paying you,” Amelia added. She
tried to look formidable, but failed, apprehension and need rising to the
surface, two emotions Caton never thought she would see Amelia display
independently, let alone as one.