Exposed (Madame X, #2)(7)

Your hand closes around my arm. “I’m not having this discussion with you out here.”

You pull me through the revolving door, back across the expansive marble lobby, and for some reason, I let you. I am outside myself, watching as I allow you to haul me into the private elevator, up and up and up back to the penthouse. Watching as you release my arm and pace in circles around me. You are, suddenly, a lion pacing in its cage, feral and furious, and I am a little lamb somehow stuck in the cage with the predator.

“I worry for you, X,” you repeat.

“I know you do.” I stand my ground, watch you pace. “Perhaps you don’t need to. Not as much.”

“Of course I do,” you insist. “Your understanding of the world beyond these walls is . . . limited.”

“And perhaps that is something I wish to rectify.”

“Why?” you ask. You cease pacing, stand inches from me, staring down at me, dark eyes icy with suspicion. “Why the sudden change?”

“It’s not sudden, Caleb—”

“It’s him, isn’t it?” This from you sounds almost . . . petulant.

Jealousy? It is unbecoming, Caleb. It does not suit you.

“It isn’t about Logan.” I pause, blink, thinking, and then take a breath to nudge the seedling of courage to grow a little stronger. “Or, not entirely.”

“What does that mean, X? ‘Not entirely’?”

I hesitate, seeking a neutral but true answer. “It means . . . the brief time I spent with Logan did make me curious about the outside world. It didn’t start with him, though, and it doesn’t end with him.” I try a placation. “You can’t keep me locked in here forever, Caleb. I am not a possession. I am woman. A person.”

“I’m just trying to protect you.” You are closer, your hard chest pressing against my breasts, your hands coming to rest on my hips.

“I know.”

“You may not be a possession, X,” you say, your voice a buzzing rumble, “but you are mine.”

This statement twists me up. Part of me knows it’s true, and likes it. And part of me hates it. Part of me knows as long as I am yours, I will never be my own.

My thoughts are smashed by your lips on mine, sudden and crushing. A little clumsy. Impulsive, even. Not with the usual mastery of your body over mine.

As you kiss me, I am struck by a question: how often do you kiss me?

The answer is immediate: not often. Almost never. Not your mouth on mine, not your lips against mine. Not like this, not with this intimacy. You kiss my body, my breasts, between my thighs, but my lips? Never.

I do not know what that means.

You kiss me slowly, and as you kiss, your skill grows.

It isn’t until your hands begin scouring my body, however, that my will is swept away as it usually is. It isn’t until your hands are tugging at the zipper of my dress and nudging it off my shoulders that heat suffuses me, that my stomach tenses and my core tightens. When I am standing before you in nothing but lingerie—and yes, the lingerie is Carine Gilson, and you told me when you gave it to me that it was handmade by the designer herself specifically for me—that is when my heart rate spikes to a frantic hammering and my hands shake and I am weak in the knees.

Your eyes rake over me. “You look ravishing, X. That set really suits you. Carine outdid herself when she made it for me.”

“For you?”

A brief, uncharacteristic smile. “Well, yes. Lingerie, at the heart of it, is about the viewer rather than the wearer, isn’t it?”

This tolls within me, a truth I do not like. It is not just true for lingerie, I think. But for all of my clothes.

It is true about me, as an entity.

I would say “individual,” but I fear I am not an individual so much as an entity. A possession. Like a fine vase, or an original painting.

A piece in your collection.

You somehow have placed me on a couch, sitting down on the edge. Your fingers are brushing across the delicate Lyon silk over my core. I cannot help but feel the rush of heat at your touch. I watch, and part of me feels disconnected. Impartial, somehow.

As when you hauled me up here, I watched almost as if from above, as if I could see myself and you, see us. Me, on the black leather couch nearest the elevator. I am leaned back, my shoulders touching the upright part of the couch. My knees are splayed wide. Pale peach silk covers my core, Chantilly lace demi-cup bra over my breasts, propping them up, making what are already large appear even larger. For you.

Not for me, but for you.

You kneel on the glistening dark hardwood floor, broad shoulders between my knees. Still in your suit. Dark pinstripes stretched across perfect muscles, crisp white button-down, a thin gray tie. Two-tone oxford dress shoes. Your hands on the insides of my thighs, your mouth now brushing over my skin, over my hip, across my stomach. I watch as your hands tug down the silk, and I watch as my bottom lifts, allowing you to slide the underwear away, leaving me bare.

I watch as your fingers brush over me. Thick fingers, strong. Hard. Not quite gentle as they stroke between my nether lips. Insistent, knowing. Familiar.

My body is utterly known by you.

The passive grammatical construction of my thoughts seems apropos.

I am curious, in a strange way. My voice responds to your touch, my body rises and writhes as your tongue laps at me and sends thrills of pleasure through me. It feels good. Of course it does. You are a master of pleasure. I am curious, though. What will you do? What will you want from me? And will I give it to you?