Exposed (Madame X, #2)(56)

I cannot breathe. God, I remember. All too well, all too vividly. I remember. I’d felt it coming for so long. Weeks. Months. Years, even. Tension building, heightening, mounting. The way you looked at me, didn’t quite touch me. Almost, but not quite. We were in my condo, which was new. Still smelling of fresh paint. I’d lived in a different apartment in that building until then, a smaller one. Much like it, but not as large, not as nice. But very similar. I was standing at the kitchen counter, looking at my new home. Admiring the dark hardwood floor and the bookshelves, daydreaming of all the books I’d put on them—you’d put on them. And you came up behind me, just like this. An inch away at first. I smelled your cologne, and felt you there. You put your hands on the counter to either side of me. Just stood there. Inhaling my scent. I wanted you. I wanted to touch you. I remember that. Needing to know how your muscles would feel. Needing . . . something. I wasn’t sure what, but something. And when you edged closer so your body was touching mine, I knew. I’d straightened, and you’d moved closer. I felt your chest against my back, and the thick ridge of your erection. I remember fighting it. Not knowing if it was right or wrong, nor understanding the potency of my desire.

But when your hands touched my waist and skated down to cup my hips, I had no choice but to let out the breath I’d been holding and melt into you.

Second by second, you seduced me with nothing but touch, and I let you. I ate it up, truth be told. Devoured every touch. Felt you remove my clothing, bit by bit, until I was naked in that kitchen and your hands were on my skin and you were tasting my flesh and I was moaning. You tasted me then. Buried your face between my thighs and made me come. And then you bent me over the counter and drove into me right there. It surprised me, but excited me. And when you were done, you carried me to the bedroom, set me in the bed. Touched my skin. My curves. And in not too many minutes, you were ready again and this time you rolled me to my hands and knees and took me once more, and you commanded me to keep quiet and told me not to come until you instructed me to do so. It lasted for a time I could not measure. You allowed me to come close to climax, and stopped. Closer, and stop. Closer and closer, stop. And when you did let me come, I was ripped apart by an orgasm so potent I cried.

My skin is hot and my breathing falters, just remembering.

“You remember.” You pinch my nipple through dress and bra, and I gasp. “I waited so long to have you. Years, I waited. I wanted you every single day, but you weren’t ready. So I waited, and waited, and waited. When we moved you into that condo, I was planning to wait longer yet. But you were standing there, and you were just so f*cking beautiful that I had to be closer to you. And the way you reacted, I knew you wanted me. I knew you were ready. Not before or since have I ever experienced anything so beautiful and erotic and incredible as that first time with you. You were so responsive. You knew what you wanted. You weren’t a virgin, Isabel. You had no more memory of yourself then than you do now, but I could tell. You knew what you were doing, and what you wanted, even if you didn’t know you knew.”

“Years?” Those early years are a blur. I remember your presence, always you, only you. I remember wanting you, wondering why you didn’t touch me, kiss me. And then you did, and I glutted on you.

“Every single day, every moment I was near you, I wanted you. Obviously, at first, you were barely able to function. But after you regained mobility and speech, it got so much harder to resist you. I taught you, educated you, trained you. Worked out with you, ate with you. And all that while, I craved you.” You drive a finger against my core, through my dress. “As I crave you now.”

My next words are foolish, daring, and so very, very stupid. But I cannot stop them. “And do you still crave me, knowing another man has touched me, Caleb? Do you still crave me, knowing another man has tasted me, touched me, kissed me?”

You spin away with a snarl so feral I wonder if perhaps you truly are an animal in human disguise. You scrape your hands through your hair, stalk away, glance at me with unbridled rage so fierce it frightens me. A rare look into your deepest emotions. You pace with angry, leonine steps to the table containing the decanter of scotch, pour a huge measure, and toss it back in one swallow, hissing at the burn.

“Do not test me, Isabel.”

“Or what?” I ask, my voice calm and quiet, filled with the venom you taught me so well. “Will you beat me? Kill me? Turn me out? What will you do if I continue to test you? You are a hypocrite and a liar, Caleb Indigo. If that’s even your name.” Rage suffuses me. “You crave me, but not me. Not me, Isabel. You crave Madame X, the nameless, identityless woman you created. I was your golem, Caleb. I know this. I see this. You formed me out of clay, baked me in the fires of your controlling and mysterious ways. But now—now the clay and the stone are cracking and falling away, and the true woman beneath the perfectly shaped skin of the golem is emerging, and you hate that. You hate it. Because I’m not the woman you thought I was. Because I am not so completely yours anymore.”

“Such poetry, Isabel. You are very eloquent in your anger.” Your voice is low, thinner and sharper than the blade of an electron splitter.

You move with the slow, precise gestures of a man in complete control of his rage. You are better than useless displays of anger, better than tantrums. You do not hurl the glass to smash on the floor or against the wall. Such a gesture would be satisfying, perhaps, but useless. Petty, and empty. No, you take a moment and merely breathe. I watch your chest swell and contract. I watch your fists clench and loosen. I watch your eyes pierce me, unblinking, staring, and you are utterly inscrutable. I do not know your thoughts. I do not know what moves beneath the surface of your carefully shuttered expression, coiling and diving and not quite breaching the surface.