A mistake--there is motion, coming from you: Your jaw pulses furiously.
"You think"--a pause for breath--"you think all I do is fuck you? Did I hear you correctly?"
"Yes." I will not flinch away. Cannot. Must not. "That's all you've ever done to me: fuck. Base, meaningless, and empty."
"You could not be more wrong, X. Am I monogamously faithful to you, sexually? No. And I will neither explain nor apologize for that. I am who I am. I am what I am. But my time with you, limited as it may be, has never been . . . base, or meaningless, or empty." You freight those three words, my words, with such acidic venom I cannot help flinching. "So far from that, X. I am not a man to whom emotion comes easily, and that is not likely to change."
My chin lifts. "I . . . don't . . . believe you."
"No?" An arched eyebrow. "Allow me to show you, in that case."
Another moment that is seared into me: You, lit by the pale glow of the city, mammoth, a creature of raw sexual potency, seething, furious, your hands rising from your sides as if in slow motion, your eyes fixed on me, blinking every few fragments of a second, a slow sweep of long black lashes, and then your hands grip my shirt, lift it.
I expect you to rip my clothes from me, but you don't. You remove them, carefully.
Reverently, almost.
The bra you roll upward until my breasts spill free, and then you tug it off my head, lifting it, forcing my arms upward. My jeans you unbutton, unzip, push down, removing my panties with the denim. And just like that, within seconds, I am naked.
And then, after a taut fortieth of an hour, your eyes roaming my shape, devouring my flesh, you take a step back. Away from me. And you look at me, your eyes daring me to glance away, to break the tensile fragility of this thing between us. What it is, I don't know. I can't stop it, though. This is your sorcery. Now I feel it. Now I am lost in its spell.
As I knew I would be.
You remove your suit coat, tossing it carelessly to the floor. Then the tie, ripped off impatiently. And then the shirt, one button at a time, with dexterous fingers. And then your belt, shoes toed off, socks. Even you look momentarily awkward, removing your socks; they are impossible to take off gracefully. But then you stand in just your underwear, black fabric stretched taut over pale skin, massive frame like a mountain of muscle, all crags of hard flesh. And now . . . thumbs in the elastic, not looking away, you shove them down, and you are naked with me.
Unmarred skin, perfectly proportioned. A god made flesh.
Your erection juts hard and proud, and I quake at the flash of physical memory that assaults me, the haptic knowledge of the way your engorged member feels, driving into me, filling me, piercing me.
I shake, but I cannot flee. Cannot speak, mouth dry, unable to look away, unwilling to try, knowing it is futile.
The way you close the space between us, moving slowly, so I know your intent, you reach for me. And I expect--I don't know what. To be kissed? To be lifted and fucked right here, in this moment?
I do not expect what happens: You take me by the shoulders, and for a split second you just look at me, dark eyes blazing, jaw pulsing, a million words burning inside you, burning and always unspoken, as if they are consumed before they can reach your lips. And then you spin me, a rough, abrupt twist, and you shove me so I slam against the window, the glass cold against my naked breasts. And then you're there, behind me, trapping me, and your shaft probes between my thighs, and your breath is in my ear.
"This is fucking you, X." And you drive into me.
Hard, sudden, a brief stab of pain as you stretch me to aching. And then I gush, wet at the fullness of you, and I cry out, and sag, would fall but for your presence.
A thrust.
I feel it, that burn. The explosive upwelling. I tamp it down.
"Yes, Caleb. This is fucking. This is what you do to me. Just this. This is all it's ever been." My voice is strong, though I am weak.
"Look at the window, X."
I do, but instead of the city, I see us. Reflected.
You, huge behind me, pale and heavily muscled, moving, skin flexing and shifting in the light as you fuck.
Me, palms to the glass, breasts flattened, areolae dusky circles around my erect nipples, hips wide and skin dark, hair loose and wild, eyes crazed. Moving as I am fucked.
"You see how we look together?"
"I need more, Caleb." I push back into your body, into your motion, into what you are doing to me. "I need more than just this. This is all you give me, and it isn't enough."
Abruptly, I am empty, left gasping, as you rip yourself out of me. I remain collapsed against the glass, watching you in the reflection. A moment, then, of you, standing naked behind me, shaft glistening wetly with our essences, massive chest rising and falling heavily with conflicted breath. Your eyes glitter.
I am on the cusp of orgasm, shaking with it, full to choking with need for it.
"You ask the impossible of me, X."
"All I'm asking for is you." Until I say it, I never understood how true this is. It hurts to admit, the pain lancing deep through every molecule of me.
You are an enigma. You will not change, and I know this, but still I feel as if I NEED you and I HATE you for this, hate myself even more for needing you, because needing you binds me to the howling ghosts of my murdered past, binds me to the memory of waking up as no one, waking up unable to speak or to move, unable to express the utter torment of waking up lost, alone, my soul echoing with absence, my mind blank, my past erased so completely that I cannot even mourn for what I do not know I've even lost.
I NEED YOU.
Damn all the gods for burdening me with this truth, but I need you.
I don't want to need you, but I do.
And you will not, cannot give me you. I don't know why, and I do know you will never tell me.
Your eyes ever so slowly flutter closed. Your fisted hands uncurl.
You reach for me. I tremble, paralyzed in place. Gently now, more gentle than you've ever been, you turn me in place, bend at the knees, curl your hands behind my thighs and lift me easily, tug my legs around the trunk of your waist, and in the moment before impalement, you pause.
"Oh, X. You don't know what you're asking for." The growl of your voice is the implacable slide of an avalanche.
"But I ask it anyway, Caleb," I say.
And then you're in me. A slow, sweet glide. My mouth falls open, and your eyes are wide, as are mine, and your hands cup my bottom, lower me onto you. I grip your neck, gasping with the dulcet ache of you, the molasses-slow piercing, until you are seated within me and I can't even breathe for it, can only let my head hang back on my neck and whimper.
"Is this what you want, X?" you ask, and pin my spine to the glass. "Look at me, goddammit, and answer me."
I open my eyes. My upper lip is curled in a snarl of ecstasy. "Yes, Caleb. This is what I want."
But it's not. Not only this. There is so much more, but I don't have the words for it all.
Three short thrusts, my clit scraping against your hard, pumping shaft, and I come.
I collapse against your chest, feeling and smelling and tasting your sweat.
You move, carry me, still full of you; each step causes me to flinch and twitch and gasp and tingle, shooting bolts of after-spasms through me. And then you lay me down on my bed, on my back, and my legs hang off the edge. You stand between my spread-apart thighs, and you push, once.
I cry out.
You push in again, your hands gripping my hips, and I wail aloud.
You lean forward, and I feel you over me, feel your gaze. I wrap my arms around your neck, legs around your waist, and hang on. You crawl forward, drape me gently so my head is on the pillow, and now you're kneeling over me. Still in me. Aching in me. I feel you shaking with need. Your eyes remain on mine, and you wait, utterly motionless now.
I arch my back, flex my hips, and thrust against you.
You groan.
Oh, that sound. Your v
oice, so often silent, rumbles a sound of wordless pleasure, and I thrill to hear it.
You dip your head, and I press my breasts to your mouth.
Something wild and hotter than lightning snaps through me at the touch of your mouth on my nipple.
I come apart again like an erupting volcano, thrust against you, and now you move, move, move.
We writhe together.
Your groans become loud.
Mine turn to cries, sobs of pleasure.
Your hand cups my neck, lifts me to you; the other curls around the back of my thigh near my knee and wraps my leg around your hip, and you push into me, and we meet each other there, thrust for thrust. I look at you and see your eyes wide and surprised, see emotion bleeding out of you. It takes the slashing rawness of this moment to make you show anything, but now I see it.
You don't know how to do this.
No more than I do.
We are learning this together.
"Caleb," I whisper, and I come.
It is a detonation of bliss, everything in me flying apart, and I exhale every molecule of breath I have left as I am wrenched by the orgasm, twisted, wrung.
And then, as the climax reaches its peak, you do the unthinkable.
You kiss me.
And you come, unleashing yourself within me, a hot wet gush, filling me, and you move frantically and you kiss me and grip my thigh with bruising frantic strength and your other palm grips my breast and thumbs my thickly erect nipple and I spasm with you, coming again, and now you see me, my eyes open as are yours, and this is a moment like no other, something huge and manic and terrifying and new bursting open and filling us both.
You come,
And I come,
And you kiss me,
And I kiss you,
And there is a thread between us, something real established.
Your forehead touches mine, and you are gasping for breath. Crushing me with your weight. "Jesus, X."
You try to move off me, but I cling to you.
"Don't leave, Caleb," I whisper.
"I have to--I've gotta go." You are not you anymore.
You are starting to close down. Perhaps, becoming more you. Or . . . less you. I don't know. Is the real you the tormented being I glimpsed trapped behind the shadowy veil of your eyes? Or is the real you the brusque, icy, efficient, impersonal creature of tailored suits and expensive cars?
I grip your wrist with one hand, lock my thighs around your waist and hook my heels around your backside, keep you firmly against me, in me, even as you soften. With my other hand, I do something I've never done before: I touch your hair. Feather my fingers through inky strands.
"If you leave now, Caleb, all of this will be for nothing. You'll undo whatever that was we just shared. That was sharing something. I saw part of you, Caleb."
"Fucking hell, X. You don't get it." A rough growl, a curse from you, so uncharacteristic.
"No, I don't. But . . . stay anyway. Relax, just for a moment."
You are tense for a moment, a sculpture of granite. And then, slowly, you melt, soften, and you dip a shoulder to the bed, twist to your back. Gradually, as if completely unsure if you're doing it right, or even what you're doing, you lay your head down on the pillow beside me. Drawn out of me, your manhood is slack and wet against your thigh. I feel your essence leaking out of me, but I don't dare move, don't dare to even think of it. I lie next to you, hands stuffed under the pillow, on my side, facing you.
This feels like curling up next to a lion in its cage.
You reach out a hand, and I tense, cease breathing.
But all you do is touch me, a single forefinger stroking upward from my thigh to my hip, over my waist, up my ribs, to my breast.
"You are beautiful." A murmur, as from the bottom of the turbulent dark sea.
"Thank you." I shift to the side, drape my arm behind me so your tentatively touching finger can brush from breast back down to my hip.
I dare touch your bicep. The lion twitches, and I know I could be devoured in a split second.
A game of touches, exploration of mutuality: a fingertip to my nipple, my palm sliding from knee to jagged hip bone; tracing my backside, following the curve from outer edge of hip to inner crease and up my spine, my fingers on the furrowed field of your abs.
You do not speak, and I don't dare break the magic of this. It is too fragile.
My eyes droop, weigh heavily.
Touch skates over me, hesitant and gentle and smooth and slow.
I drift, and drowse . . .
And sleep.
EIGHTEEN
I wake alone.
Silence.
"Caleb?"
Nothing.
Dawn streaks through the window. I look to the left, and see that my closet door is open. The racks are bare, not even a hanger in sight.
My throat seizes. I leap out of bed, headed for my library.
It is there, intact.
I return to my bedroom, to my closet. Empty. Totally empty. Even the bureau against the far wall of the walk-in closet is empty. I have not a single stitch of clothing left to me.
Back out to the living room. The couch is gone, the coffee table, the Louis XIV armchair. The dining room table is gone.
My front door stands open.
The elevator door is open, the key in the slot inside the car.
I am utterly confused.
Back inside, to the library. There is my chair and the table in the triangle between shelves. On the table is an envelope containing a stack of hundred-dollar bills, and a note handwritten in bold, slanting letters: MADAME X, THIS DRESS IS THE ONE I FOUND YOU IN. IT'S YOURS, FROM BEFORE.
I LEAVE YOU THE BOOKS, BECAUSE I KNOW YOU TREASURE THEM.
THE CAMERAS AND MICROPHONES ARE OFF.
THERE WILL BE NO MORE CLIENTS.
LEAVE, IF YOU WISH; THERE IS MONEY ENOUGH IN THE ENVELOPE TO ALLOW YOU TO GO WHEREVER YOU WISH. BUT IF YOU DO CHOOSE TO LEAVE, YOU WILL BE ON YOUR OWN. I WILL NOT CHASE YOU THIS TIME.
OR, YOU MAY TAKE THE ELEVATOR UP TO THE PENTHOUSE. BUT IF YOU CHOOSE THIS, YOU LEAVE EVERYTHING IN THIS APARTMENT WHERE IT IS, AND COME TO ME AS YOU ARE NOW, NAKED, WITH ONLY THE NAME YOU CHOSE FOR YOURSELF THAT DAY IN THE MUSEUM OF MODERN ART.
~CALEB
Folded on the cushion of the chair is a dress. Deep, dark blue. Of course. A shade of blue that seems to be a defining feature in my life . . .
Caleb Indigo.
Logan's indigo eyes.
And now this dress . . .
Indigo.
Except this dress is not new. Not beautiful. It was, once, perhaps. I lift it, and I am strangled by ravaging emotion. I do not recognize this dress; it is ripped, torn. From neckline to hem, it is torn open. Ripped in half and stained with blood. There is another rip, this one on the side, low, on the right.
I touch my right hip, where there is a scar.
There is blood staining the dark blue fabric at the neckline, all over the shoulders, down the back.
Why, I don't know, but I lift it, step through the gaping hole. Fit my arms through the sleeves. Tug the ends together.
It is too small. Even undamaged, it wouldn't fit me. I am too large in the bust and backside for this dress. Too tall, as well, perhaps.
Six years.
I would have been around eighteen or nineteen when I last wore this dress.
I remove the dress; I feel as if phantoms of the past cling to my skin, seeping into me from the fabric.
The tag says Sfera. Even the style is strange to me. So short, coming not even to midthigh. Sleeveless, intact the neckline would have been high around my throat, but the back gapes open to midspine. I stare at the material clutched in my hand, a useless clue to who I used to be. An empty fragment of my past.
The girl who wore this dress from Sfera . . . who was she? What was her name? Did she have parents? A sister? What did she like to do? Did she have friends? Did she sketch hearts on notebooks? Did she have a crush on a boy? Did
she speak Spanish? If she did, I have forgotten it.
This dress can tell me nothing. I cannot even wear it, and if I could, if I could sew the ends together . . . would I?
No.
So this choice of yours, Caleb?
I see through it.
It is a way of retaking what you feel I took from you last night.
Naked, hesitant, I enter the elevator, twist the key to the PH.
The doors close, and the car rises.
The doors open, and now I see the penthouse, whereas the last time I was here, I didn't, not really.
Expansive space, thick white carpeting, a wall of windows with a commanding view of the city. Black modern furniture. I recognize the sectional in front of the elevator as the one Caleb had me over. It is one of a set: an L-shaped couch, a modern minimalist chair, a small round silver table, and another chair, forming a small square to block off the space in front of the elevator.
In the distance, in the farthest corner of the penthouse, the kitchen, and near it a small eating nook in the corner where two walls of glass merge. You are there, sitting at the table, leaned back in a chair, elegantly casual in blue jeans and a white crew neck T-shirt. A mug in your hands, a rectangular electronic tablet on the table in front of you.
There is a place setting beside you. A saucer and a cup. A plate, with a bagel neatly presented, sliced into halves, one half laid facedown on a just-so angle atop the other. Precise, perfect.
"Come, sit." Your voice is very far away: The penthouse is enormous; it suits you exactly.
I cross the space hesitantly. If there is anyone in the buildings across the street, they can see me, and I am still naked.
You smile as I approach you, set down your mug of coffee.
You stand. Pull off your plain white T-shirt. Settle it onto my head, tug the neck opening over me, and I feed my arms through the sleeves. Clothed, somewhat, I feel more confident.
I glance at the cup of tea--I can see the tag: Harney & Sons Earl Grey--and the bagel, plain with light cream cheese spread thin. "You knew I'd come."
Your eyes are still impenetrable, but I am starting to see glimmers of something. Perhaps I am finally learning to read you. Or perhaps you are learning to let me.
"Of course I did," you say. "You are mine."
And this, from you, is a truth I cannot deny.