Madame X (Madame X #1) (11 page)

“When you need to be.”

“Not now.”

“Why?” Breath, wine-laced, from lips at my ear.

“It’s all so much to process. I don’t know what to think, Caleb.”

“You’ll figure it out.” Teeth on my earlobe. I shiver, tilt head away, close my eyes and hate my weakness, my involuntary chemical reaction. “Come. One more surprise for you, back down in your room.”

I was not at all sure I had room within me for more surprises, but I allowed myself to be led away from the window with its mesmerizing view of the city. To the elevator. A key, from a trouser pocket, inserted, twisted to the
13
. Descent, moments of utter silence in which my heartbeat is surely audible.

As I am led into my living room, the first thing I notice is that my books have been replaced on my shelf. Heart leaping with hope,
I turn and see that my library is open once more. I am allowed to leave the strong-armed embrace, wander into my library. Sweep my hands over the spines of my dear friends, these many books. My gaze falls on this title, that:
The
Forge of God
;
Wool
;
I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings
;
Lolita
;
Breath, Eyes, Memory
;
A Brief History of Time
;
Influence: Science and Practice
;
American Gods
 . . . everywhere my eyes look, a book that has taught me something invaluable. I could cry from joy at having my library back.

I turn, let a tear show: gratitude emoted. “Thank you, Caleb.”

Somehow the distance between doorway and room center has been traversed invisibly, silently, and a thumb trails through the wetness on my cheek. “I think you’ve learned your lesson now, haven’t you?”

“Yes, Caleb.”

Deep, long, gusting breaths, swelling that great, powerful chest, eyes raking down my form, eager and hungry and admiring. “My Spanish beauty. My X.” There is a note in those words, in the delivery of them . . . it must be the wine, the alcohol pushing aside some of the granite wall veiling whatever emotions roil behind those eyes, which have always seemed to me the ocular equivalent of Homer’s “wine-dark seas.”

“Caleb.” What else do I say? There is nothing.

“Look in the display case.” The words hold a thread of satisfaction. There is a new tome in the case:
Tender Is the Night.
F. Scott Fitzgerald. “It’s a signed first edition, the original 1934 version with the flashbacks.”

There are white gloves in the case, of course. I open the case, don the gloves, withdraw the book with shaky breath and steady hands. The inscription, in Fitzgerald’s own hand:
From one who wishes he could be at 1917s 20th
, in that crabbed, looping script, the name below, the curlicue
F
, the double-bar downstrokes of the twin
T
s in
Scott
, the crossbar looping and swooping to merge with the second
F
that begins
Fitzgerald
.

“Caleb, it’s . . . it’s incredible. Thank you, so much.”

“It’s your birthday, after all, and birthdays require gifts.”

“It’s a marvelous gift, Caleb. I shall treasure it.” I look up and see that the time for admiring my gift is over with, for now.

Time to show my appreciation.

Some things cannot be rushed.

This night, insatiability comes in the form of my body being slowly unwrapped, inch by inch. The dress unzipped, lowered to bare my lingerie—nostrils flare and eyes go heavy-lidded and hands reach; evidence of my “Spanish beauty”—and then the lingerie is peeled off, tossed aside.

Naked, I wait.

“Undress me, X.”

To reveal that body is like unveiling a sculpture by Michelangelo. A study of masculine perfection done in unforgiving marble. Each angle carved with a deeply piercing chisel. My hands work and my eyes devour. My heart resists, twists, beats like a hammer on an anvil. My body, though. God, my body. It knows something my metaphysical heart and cerebral understanding do not: Caleb Indigo was created by an artist for the express purpose of ravishing women.

Specifically, in this moment, this woman.

And I hate my body for it. I tell it to remember the way of things. That this is expected of me. Required. Demanded. I
must
; my will does not enter this equation.

And my body? It has a response:
I do not care about requirements . . . all I know is a singular desire: TOUCH ME.

Touch me.

Touch me.

My body says that, as does the body I have now laid bare.

So I obey. I obey my body and the tacit command within the two words so recently spoken: “Undress me.”

Touch me
, that order implies.

So I touch.

Stroke into life the erection as large and perfect as the rest. Well, it was already fully alive and ready; I merely gave it the attention it was begging for by standing so tall and thick and straight.

Hands go to my shoulders, gently and implacably push me to my knees. I cast my eyes upward and obey. Mouth wide, taste flesh. Lips curled in to sheathe my teeth, hands plunging in a slow rhythm. Watch now. Quick breaths go ragged, hands clutch my hair, voice box utters guttural moans. Taste smokiness, essence leaking.

“Enough. Jesus, X.” A curse, more rare still than a smile.

Suddenly, I’m airborne, carried into my room and tossed unceremoniously onto my bed. I scramble backward, knock aside pillows, but I’m too slow. Lip curled in a snarl, eyes feral, hands reaching and gripping my hips. Tugging me roughly, and my heart leaps a mile from chest to throat as hips wedge my thighs apart. Face-to-face?

I dare not think, dare not even hope. Breathe, cling to broad hard shoulders . . . exhale sharply as I am pierced.

Movement, face-to-face.

I can’t breathe.

This is a night for firsts, it seems.

I dare to flutter my hips to the rhythm of our sex, dare to keep my eyes open and see. There is turmoil. Desire. Conflict. Heated need. Demand. Fire. Urgency.

And also in me?

I shy away from parsing and enumerating my own emotions. To do so would be to open Pandora’s box, and I dare not.

Desperate movement now. Eyes on mine. Unwavering, piercing
directness. There is a world in those dark orbs, a whole galaxy a mere mortal such as I cannot fathom.

Close.

So close.

Breath leaves me. Neither of us looks away.

Oh God.

Hands claw and clutch, grip and tug and bruise.

“Fuck. Fuck!” And then total absence. Everything ripped away, heat, presence, breath, body.

The moment is gutted.

“Caleb? Did I do something wrong?”

That huge body stands at the window, silhouetted, erotic male sexuality in shadow, shoulders bowed, head bent, hands wide and high on the frame, hips narrow and trim, buttocks firm and clenched and bubble-round and taut looking, legs like Grecian pillars. Shoulders heaving.

“Over here, X.” A command, uttered so low as to be nearly inaudible.

I hear it, though, for I am painfully attuned to every whisper, every breath.

I rise, move tentatively to the window. Touch a shoulder with trembling fingers. “Are you okay? Was it me?”

“Shut up. Stand at the window.” So unexpectedly harsh. Almost angry.

At me?

I dare not question again. That tone brooks no argument.

I stand at the window, shaking all over. Turn my head, look over my shoulder. Oh. That face, cast into shadow now, but not the shadows of absent light, rather the shadows of veiled emotion, features smoothed into unfeeling stone. Only the lips slightly pursed and tightened betray the tumult within.

I shake with cold, goose bumps pebbling on my skin.

A foot nudges mine apart, and then arms like boa constrictors snake around my chest, clutch my breast, another around my waist to clutch my hip. Behind me, bent at the knee, a moment to fit that hot thick erection to my opening, and then a hard upward, inward thrust. I gasp, a shrieking exhale of surprise and pain. So hard, so sudden, so rough.

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.

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.

You back away, one step. Two. A breath, a single lift of your chest, your chin rises. And then there it is, that insouciant smirk, knowing, a little mocking, ripe with boyish, roguish humor. You whirl, twist the knob, jerk open my door, and you’re gone.

When the door has clicked closed, I withdraw your business card from my cleavage and examine it.

J
ON
C
ARTWRIGHT

Owner, Cartwright Business Services, LLC

Tel: (212) 555-4321

E-mail: [email protected]

You started your own business. I am inordinately proud of you.

When my door opens rather suddenly, I don’t look up, assuming perhaps you forgot something.

It isn’t you.

“Well, well, well,” a deep, leonine voice says. “Looks like our little Jonathan has grown up.”

•   •   •

“C
aleb.” I glance up sharply and take a step back, surprised. “Yes. It seems he has.” I extend the business card, feigning casual disinterest. I don’t think it is a believable farce, however.

Dark eyes flick over the card. “Good for him. He has the potential to do well, I think. Perhaps Indigo Services will offer him a contract.”

I remain silent. Business endeavors are not within my sphere of knowledge or influence.

Smooth, panther-silent strides across the room, sit, recline with
kingly elegance in the Louis XIV armchair. Examining Jonathan’s card. Speculating. “You parried his questions and advances very adroitly, by the way. Well done.”

“He’s harmless.”

“No, he isn’t. You’re wrong there, I’m afraid. He’s not harmless at all.” The card flips, flips, flips, twirled between index, middle, and ring finger.

I dare. “What do you mean? What harm is there in him?”

“His questions. His curiosity.” Eyes, burning like balefire, scorching me. “He wouldn’t understand the truth, X.” The card flies through the air like a knife, then flutters to the floor.

The truth. Which truth?

I remain silent, knowing my input isn’t required as yet.

“You will accompany Jonathan to his event.”

I manage an admirable pretense of casual surprise, when inside I am utterly stunned, faint enough that I could have been knocked over with a feather. “I will? Really?” I sound more eager than I should.

I am not eager; I am terrified. Or rather, I am eager
and
terrified in equal measure.

“You will. You will be well guarded, however. Len and Thomas will be at your side at all times.”

“Why?”

“Why Len and Thomas? Or why am I sending you with Jonathan?”

“Both, I suppose.”

“Well, Len and Thomas because they’re the most suited to watching over you. Len is as vicious as he is vigilant, and Thomas, well . . . let’s just say he has a rather specific skill set.” A pause. “As for why I’m sending you? It will allay suspicion. The event itself is very private, so there will be no cameras, no press. Everyone else attending
will have their own security, as well, so it’s as safe an event for you to attend as anything.”

I still don’t quite understand, but I say nothing. I don’t need to understand.

I’m going
out
.

“Say something, X.”

“I’m not sure what to say, honestly.”

“Are you excited? Scared?”

I shrug. “Both.”

“Understandable. After what you’ve been through, I can see how you might have mixed feelings about it.”

I nod. “Mixed feelings. Yes.” I sound faint, slightly incoherent. It’s too much to take in. To process. Too many thoughts, too many feelings, too many questions. Too many doubts.

I find myself waiting, expectant. A distraction would be welcome. Yet when long legs unfold and eyes stare down at me from such great height, they are distant, a little cold. Calculating.

“I have much to do today, X. I’m afraid I have to get going.”

“You aren’t . . . staying?” I know how I sound, and why, and I hate it. I hate that I sound disappointed, needy.

“No. I can’t, but you know how much I wish I could.” Cold and calculating becomes hot and amused. “You know how much I wish I could stay, don’t you, X?”

“Yes, Caleb.”

“But you understand why I have to go.”

“Yes, Caleb.”

Yet despite claims of pressing matters, I feel an erection crushed against my belly, hands feathering up my thighs, lifting my dress hem. Slipping under the elastic of my underwear, slipping into me. Curling, circling, dipping, swiping. Swiftly, no play or pretense.

I come in moments.

“Your mouth, X.” I sink to my knees.

Unzip. Free the slide-and-hook clasp of custom-tailored trousers. Taste flesh. Smoky essence. My hands and mouth on firm, clean, masculine flesh, and then it’s over, faster than I would have thought possible, considering how long it can last under other circumstances.

“Thank you, X.” A sigh, now-slack manhood tucked away. A few strides, and the door is silently swinging open. “I’ll send someone with a suitable gown for the event.”

I remain where I am, kneeling in the middle of the living room, dress rumpled, lipstick smeared, hair mussed by gripping fingers. “All right.”

“Don’t look so sad, X. I’ll be back, and we’ll have some proper time together.”

“All right.”

“X.” This is a scold. “What is it?”

“I don’t understand you, is all.”

A long, long silence, the door half open, expression hidden in the doorway. “You don’t need to.”

“I’d like to, though. I try to.”

“Why?” Curiously inquisitive, strangely sharp, subtly tender. All in one word.

“I . . . you’re what I know. What I have.
All
I have. Yet I don’t
know
you. And I don’t get much of you. Of your time, of
you
. And when I do, it’s . . .” I shrug, unable to articulate any further.

“In your own words, X . . . it’s for a reason. It’s a warning.” A step out the door. The conversation is over.

But I hear five words sling out of my mouth like reckless bullets: “I saw you. With
her
.”

“X.” This is growled. Snarled.

“That girl. She was upset. She was angry with you. I saw you
fuck
her, right there in the limo. The door open, for all the world to see.
I
saw. And I—I know you saw me. You looked right at me, and you—you fucking
smiled
.” Why on earth do I sound so angry, so jealous, so crazed?

“Goddammit, X.”

“I know I mean nothing to you, Caleb, but must you flaunt it in my face?” I am reckless. This is insanity.

The door slams closed.
BANG!
“You need to think very carefully about your next words, X.” This is spoken in a voice that resembles the edge of a scalpel.

My chin, on its own, lifts. Dares rebelliously upward. “So do you.”

Three lunging steps, a brief sensation of weightlessness, and then I’m pinned against the wall as if I weigh nothing, hard hips crushing mine to the wall, a hand on my throat, cutting off my oxygen in a way that somehow does not hurt.

“Let’s get one thing straight.
You
belong to
me
. Not the other way around. Do
not
presume to speak to me as if I owe you
shit
for explanations regarding
anything
I do or with whom I do it.”

I blink. See stars. Darkness encroaches my vision.

“Do you understand me, X?” This is whispered so low as to be nearly inaudible.

I dip my chin ever so slightly, lift it. I am released. I drop to the floor, gasping, oxygen rushing into my brain in a sweet, cool flood.

I barely notice as my favorite window is darkened, the frame filled. Shoulders hunched, head hanging. “Fuck. X, I’m sorry. I overreacted.” Pivot, a glance at me. “Are you okay?”

I am sprawled, very unladylike, against the wall, knees indecently apart, dress hem hiked up around my thighs. I gasp. Merely breathe. I do not answer. I do not have the strength.