Madame X (Madame X #1) (25 page)

“But you don’t
have
to, X.” Logan reaches for me but doesn’t touch me. Not quite. Almost, but not quite. “You don’t have to. Don’t you see that?”

I feel the pull. An invisible thread, ensnaring my wrist. My ankle. My waist. My throat. It isn’t a scent, or a memory, or a touch. It isn’t sorcery.

I lost twenty years of memory. I lost all I was. I lost me.

But now I have a past. Six years, perhaps only a fraction when compared to the totality of my life, but it is the only history I know. The library. The window. Tea. The way time passes in lulling increments, each moment ordered and known and understood.

Logan . . . he represents the unknown, a future that
could
be. A dream. A dog to nuzzle my cheek, to welcome me. Kisses in the madness of wild moments, passion that consumes. Disorder, frenzy of need, time like sand slipping through a clenched fist, so many new things.

But then there’s Caleb . . . my savior, my past, and my present. I’ve gotten a glimpse, rare and precious, past heaven-high walls and into the inner sanctum of who the man really is.

Caleb has given me so much . . . a name, an identity, a life.

He is a mystery, and often inscrutable, but he is all I know.

I choke on my breath.

I feel my foot slide backward.

Logan’s eyes distort, and his jaw clenches. He sees the infinitesimal slide of my foot, and he correctly reads the sign for what it is. “Don’t, X.”

“I’m sorry, Logan.”

“
Don’t.
You don’t know what you’re doing.” He sounds utterly sure of this.

“I’m sorry. Thank you, Logan. So much. Thank you.”

Caleb stands waiting, watching, tall and broad and clad impeccably in a tailored suit, navy with narrow pinstripes, white shirt, thin slate-gray tie. Fingers uncurl from a fist, palm lifted, hand extended. “Come now.”

I cannot make myself break my gaze away from Logan’s, away from the sadness, the need. He, too, sees me.

I back away. Back away.

Logan lifts his chin, jaw hardened, fists at his sides, brow furrowed. Faded jeans, a pale green henley, four buttons at the neck, each one undone, sleeves pushed up around thick, corded forearms. I see his hands—and for a moment, only those hands. They touched me, so gently. I felt a lifetime of touch in what in this moment feel like were stolen moments.

A moment is a fortieth of an hour.

How many fortieths of an hour did I steal with Logan?

They do feel stolen, indeed, but no less precious for that.

Hands, on my shoulders, pulling me back. Fingers that know me, fingers that have peeled away all my layers, night after night, and have known me in the darkness and known me in the light.

I still do not turn away, do not look away, even as I retreat into the shadows around the waiting car.

The interior is cool, and silent.

Dark.

Logan stands in a pool of pale light, framed, illuminated. He watches me and does not blink.

I watch, still, even when Len closes the door, and I must watch through tinted glass.

A low, powerful growl of the engine, and then Logan is behind me, still watching, growing smaller.

A long, deep, fraught silence, as the car returns me to the familiar glass-and-steel canyons, echoing with the ceaseless life of night in this city.

•   •   •

W
hen you speak, your voice strikes chords within me, hammers on the strings of a piano. My entire being hums, and I must turn, must look. Must meet your eyes like darkness of a moonless night.

“You are Madame X, and you . . . are . . .
mine
.” Your fingers pinch my chin, tilt my head to look at you. “Say it, X.”

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.”

Y
ou 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 have
shared
?” 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 we
share
, 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 something
more
. 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? Who
am
I? And to you, Caleb, who am I? What am I? You enjoy
fucking
me. I understand that much. But that is something you do
to
me, not
with
me. And yes, you’re very,
very
good at it. I
enjoy
it. I admit that, freely. But that is not
shared
, Caleb. And when it happens, it’s just you . . .
doing
. And then you’re done, and you leave. You leave. You leave. You always
leave
! 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 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 voice, 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.