Madame X - Wilder Jasinda (книги хорошем качестве бесплатно без регистрации .txt) 📗

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.