The words feel pulled out of me, drawn out, ensnared and tangled up and plucked out of the snarl of conflict within me:
“I am Madame X, and I am yours.”
Chapter 17
You do not speak, not until we’ve returned to the high-rise, to the thirteenth floor.
“Why did you leave, X?” Your voice is like thunder in the distance.
“You left first.” I stand at my window, dressed still in my plain jeans, my comfortable T-shirt, cotton underwear and sports bra, my ballet flats.
“So you ran away with another man?” An accusation.
“Yes.” You will not hear any denials from me.
“After all I’ve done for you, after all we have shared, you find it so easy to abandon me like so much trash?” You sound almost human, almost hurt.
“All we haveshared?” I put a palm to the cool glass, finding a tiny measure of inner peace at the soothing, familiar view of the cars passing to and fro, the buildings rising black and reflecting shadows and faint light. “What do weshare, Caleb? I am nothing but a possession to you. You use me as you see fit, and expect me to stay put and merely wait for you.”
“You act as if I treat you like a slave. Like a mere... physical object.”
“You do!” I whirl, and you’re there, and my palms strike your chest,hard. “I am an object for your sexual needs, Caleb. Just like Rachel and the others. Make whatever excuses you wish, you cannot fool me any longer, not as you have them. They at least have the promise of finding value to someone else. Sold as so much chattel, perhaps, but at least they have a goal, a future, a promise of somethingmore. I pace these rooms day after day, day after day, and yet I go nowhere. I accomplish nothing. I have no future. I am Madame X, yes. But who is that? WhoamI? And to you, Caleb, who am I? What am I? You enjoyfuckingme. I understand that much. But that is something you dotome, notwithme. And yes, you’re very,verygood at it. Ienjoyit. I admit that, freely. But that is notshared, Caleb. And when it happens, it’s just you...doing. And then you’re done, and you leave. You leave. You leave. You alwaysleave! You’re all I fucking have, and you’re always leaving me!”
You are strangely silent. How did I get here, up against you? Hands pinned between our bodies, palms to your chest. Leaning against you, as if I cannot stand without you.
I am not entirely sure that isn’t the truth.
You are absolutely still, your chest barely even moving with breath. Your eyes are on me, and they are blazing with heat, crackling with darkfire, as if behind those shadows within you there is an inferno, a sun, an ever-roiling supernova, but it can only be seen or felt when you deign to allow the veil guarding the world from your inner self to be swept away.
A mistake—there is motion, coming from you: Your jaw pulses furiously.
“You think”—a pause for breath—“you think all I do isfuckyou? 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 amwhatI am. But my time with you, limited as it may be, has never been...base, ormeaningless, orempty.” 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 . . .believeyou.”
“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, onebutton 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.
