Madame X (Madame X #1) (3 page)

Oh, the ache, the fierce throb as I’m penetrated. I’m rocked forward and my shoulders twinge and the grip on my wrists holds me in place.

I have no choice but to feel the burgeoning blaze, no choice but to let it push through me and make me breathless, and I want to cry, want to cry, want to cry.

But I don’t.

Not yet.

I let myself go when I’m told to do so: “Come for me, X.”

And then it’s over, and I’m turned to lie on my back, gasping, and whispers bathe over me. “So good, X. So beautiful.” A finger to my chin, lifting my gaze. “Did you enjoy that?”

“Yes.” It’s not a lie. Not entirely, at least.

Physically, I am rocked to trembling. Physically, aftershocks still seize me and touch makes me shiver and I am breathless. Physically, yes, I enjoyed it. I cannot help but enjoy it.

Yet . . . there is a space within me, a deep, deep, deep well where truths I do not even dare think live hidden and always buried. Down there, where those truths reside, I know I crave . . . absolution, freedom, a breath taken in privacy, a word spoken without ulterior motive.

But I cannot let those thoughts bubble up. Cannot, and do not.
I am a master of self-control, after all. I could hold off orgasm indefinitely. I could go without breathing until told to breathe or pass out. I could remain sitting motionless for hours, until told to move. I know I can do these things, because I have. I learned total control in the harshest of schools.

And so it is child’s play to let my body drape loosely in the guise of intimacy on a hard, taut, muscular body until a chime from discarded slacks demands attention.

“I have to take this.” A pause, a breath, a tap of finger on a cell phone screen. “This is Caleb. Yes. Yes. Sure, give me twenty minutes. Of course. No, don’t let him in until I get there.”

A kiss to my temple, a finger tracing my body from shoulder to hip to foot. “I have to go.”

“All right.” I don’t ask when to expect a return, because I don’t want to know, and because I wouldn’t get an answer.

“Will you miss me?”

“Of course.” This is a lie, and we both know it.

“Good. Your next client is in two hours, so you have time to shower, dress, and prepare. His name is William Colin Drake, and he’s the heir to a technology development company worth fifty billion. Usual terms and conditions apply. The file on William will arrive in the usual manner.”

“Should I expect as much trouble with William as with Jonathan?”

A quirk of a smile, amusement. “No, I should think not. William is a much different animal, from what I’ve observed.” A pause, and a speculative glance at me. “But, X?”

“Yes, Caleb?”

“Watch yourself with William. He’s got a mean streak.”

“Thank you for the warning.”

“He needs to learn to control it, so you’ll have to draw it out of him and make him aware of it. But be careful.”

Draw out his mean streak. Poke a snake, prod a sleeping bear. Risk injury. It won’t be the first time, and it won’t be the last. Hopefully I won’t need medical attention like I did last time. That’s not covered in the contract, of course, but it’s understood: Never, ever harm the property of Caleb Indigo; it’s just not smart business.

When the door closes behind a broad, suit-swathed back, I shower the sex-stink off. I scrub harder and longer than I have to and fight the boil of forbidden emotions. When my skin is rubbed raw, I force myself out of the shower and dress, apply makeup, remake the bed, prepare tea.

And then I seat myself on the couch and breathe, compose myself, push down the vulnerability, put away the fear and the desire. Once again, I am Madame X.

•   •   •

I
spare a single, momentary glance at the small dark dot in the ceiling, hidden in a corner, and let my eyes betray me. I imagine I see a red dot within the black depths of the camera, and I imagine I can see all the way along the trail of electrons and through the monitor to the faces on the other side.

I imagine, but that is all I can do.

There is a decisive rap on the door, and I rise, breathe out slowly, lift my chin, smooth my dress over my hips, and wiggle my foot in my shoe, breathe, breathe, let the moment linger.

And then I open the door, and I welcome you.

You are handsome, but not beautiful. You hold yourself with dignity, and your gaze betrays arrogance. And yes, as I meet your narrow gray gaze, I see ugliness, a propensity for cruelty, a viciousness.

“I see they didn’t exaggerate how hot you are,” you say.

I ignore your remark, and gesture to my couch. “William, welcome. Thank you for coming. Have a seat, please. Would you like some tea?”

You eye the decanter. “Scotch would be better.” And then you sink down on the couch, cross your ankle over your knee, and wait to be served, and your eyes follow me hungrily. I hand you the tumbler, three ice cubes, a finger of scotch. “I read the contract, and I have to say it wasn’t what I was expecting. Neither are you.”

I hand you the contract, and you read it yet again, and then you sign it, and so do I. “What were you expecting, William?”

“Well, I certainly wasn’t expecting item three, that’s for sure. I signed it, so I’ll abide by the rules, but I’m disappointed, Madame X. I’d love to get you out of that dress.” Your eyes peruse me, take their time cataloging and critiquing my body.

“I’m sure you would, William.”

“Call me Will, please.” You sip with casual elegance.

“All right then, Will. Tell me, what do you hope to get out of our sessions together?”

“I have a better question.” You lean forward, lift the contract as if about to rip it. “What do you say we tear this puppy apart and get to the good stuff? We can always sign it again later.”

I must still smell faintly of sex, despite how ruthlessly I scrubbed: Your nostrils flare, and you inhale, lean closer, let your shoulder touch mine. I take the contract from you, gently but firmly, set it on the coffee table, and slide it away from you.

“I think not, William.” I stand, take the tumbler from you. You don’t protest, but your eyes harden. “You signed it, and you are legally bound by it now. If you do not wish to continue, you may petition to have the contract absolved. If not, then I must insist you keep any further such comments to yourself, as they are neither allowed nor desired.”

You stand up, and you are right in front of me. Your eyes are hard, deep, and swirling with potent venom. “Oh, I think you lie, Madame X. I think they
are
desired. But . . . I signed the contract, and I’m a man of my word.” You resume your seat on the couch and cross your ankles and grin at me. “So. Teach me. I’m ready to learn.”

I walk away from the nugget of truth in your words, breathe slowly, and then turn to you, let my razor-sharp gaze rake over you, let the silence expand. You don’t shift, but you begin to show signs of discomfort.

“Tell me, William. What is your deepest, darkest secret?”

You are the one to let the silence breathe, this time, and your eyes pierce, and burn. “I’m not sure you really want to know, Madame X.”

“Oh, but I do, William. I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t.” I take two steps closer to you. “You don’t really think you can shock me, do you?”

You swallow, and blink, and then you let a smile curl your lips. “Fine, but you asked for it. And . . . this is covered under the contract, yes? You can’t talk about this to anyone?”

“I cannot, and I would not.” I don’t tell you about the cameras, or the microphones.

“I like it . . . rough,” you say. “And I like them . . . unwilling.” You eye me, as if to assess the effect of your words.

I nod. “Go on.”

And you do go on, in ever more graphic detail.

I’ve never been so glad of the third stipulation as I am
now.

I
wake abruptly; I am not alone.

Expensive cologne, just a hint of it in the air. There are other scents layered beneath the cologne, but they are too faint for me to identify. My bedroom is blackout dark, so there is nothing to see but shadows within shadows. My noise machine shushes, the soothing, gentle crash of waves on a shore.

Sleep is nearly impossible for me, because of the dreams.

“Caleb.” I keep my voice low, steady.

There is no answer. I need none, however. I will wait. I sit up, tug the sheet across my chest, tuck it under my arms. The flat sheet—a thousand thread count, softest Egyptian cotton—is my only shield, and it is a thin and flimsy one at best.

Click.
Low amber light washes over me, bathing the room in a dim glow. There, in the Louis XIV armchair in the corner beside my bed, next to the floor-to-ceiling window with its black-out curtain. Tailored black slacks, from a suit. Crisp white shirt, cuff links with two-carat diamond inserts. The collar is unbuttoned. Only one
button, just the very uppermost; the concession to the late hour is shocking in its uncharacteristic casualness. No tie. I see it folded, the thinnest end hanging out of an inner pocket of the suit coat, which is draped over the back of the chair.

Dark eyes fixed on me. Unblinking. Piercing. Steady, cold, unreadable. Yet . . . there is something. Wariness? Something I cannot fathom.

“Lower the sheet.”

Ah. A slight slur.

I release the sheet, let it pool around my waist. My nipples harden in the coolness, under the scrutiny of that dark gaze.

“Kick it away.”

I bend my knee, lift my leg, push the sheet away with my toe. Red silk underwear, bikini cut. I keep my gaze level, my breathing even, do nothing to betray the hammering of my heart, the churn in my belly.

“To whom do you belong, X?”

“To you, Caleb.” It is the only answer. The only answer there has ever been.

“What do I want, X?”

“Me.”

One button, two, three, and then the shirt joins the suit coat, folded neatly on the back of the chair. Shoes, set aside. Socks folded, tucked into a shoe. Trousers, next. The zipper, so slowly. A torture of moments, waiting for the
zzzzzzhrip
. Waiting for the thin, stretchy cotton of black boxer-briefs to find their resting place atop the trousers, folded in department-store-precise thirds on the cushion.

I do not look away. I follow each motion, and I keep my expression neutral. The body revealed is a study in classic masculine beauty. A sculpture of perfection carved from flesh. Muscles toned, carefully and exquisitely crafted. A smattering of dark hair on the chest, a trail
from flat belly to thick erection. It is a body designed to engender desire in the viewer. And it does. Oh yes, it does. I am not immune.

The bed dips. Long, thick fingers with neatly manicured nails sweep through my thick black hair, which is loose around my shoulders at the moment. It is never down, unless I am in bed. Otherwise, it is done up in a chignon, or a neat braid pinned in a coil. Never down. The curve of a woman’s neck and throat is as exotic and erotic as breasts, when properly displayed; this was an early lesson. A tug of the hand, and my throat is bared, my head pulled back. This roughness is unexpected. I stifle a gasp of surprise. Not fear. I cannot, must not fear. I dare not even allow myself to feel it, much less let it show.

Lips, nipping and kissing my throat. Wet, slow, ever so slightly clumsy. Those lips, on my cheek. Sour alcohol-laced breath wafts over me. Fingers delve, dig, pierce. I am not ready, but that does not matter. Not now, not in this moment. Perhaps not ever. Momentary discomfort, and then a finger finds my most sensitive bundle of nerves, sweeps across it, and I feel wetness lubricate me, seep through my privates. A gasp, then. A male grunt, as uncharacteristic as the unbuttoned collar and the intoxicated late-night visit.

A tongue, sweeping across my nipple. Hardness nudging my softness. Penetration. Once, twice, lips on my cheek, my chin, my throat, my breastbone. I am pressed into the mattress by heavy weight, a hand on my hip, a trim waist pressing my thighs apart. I begin to wonder, deep in the recesses of my mind, how long this will last, this face-to-face encounter.

Not long.

Hands on my hips, turning me to my stomach. Drawing my hips up, my knees beneath me. A hand fisting in my hair, another on my hip. Hot, hard presence behind me, fingers searching, finding me damp and ready, guiding the thick bare member into me.

Long, slow, unhurried. Not exactly rough, but sloppy. Not with
the usual efficiency and masterful pacing. No, this is a slow rhythm, lazy at first and then building and building and building. I cannot resist the burgeoning within me, the pressure of an impending climax throbbing through me. I dare not release it, however, so I clench my fists and squeeze my eyes shut and focus on containing it, holding it back.

The pace becomes punishing, then. Closest to rough as it’s ever been. But still, even in intoxication, exquisitely masterful. This body was created for sex. Designed to own, to pleasure, to dominate. And I am, all of those things.

Whether I will it, or no.

“Now, X. Come for me, right now. Give me your voice.” A rasping murmur, low and strong.

I finally let go with a panting moan at the base of my throat, let the climax burn through me.

Finished, I am allowed to fall forward. Absence behind me. Faucet running. I am nudged to my back, handed a damp, warm washcloth.

“Clean yourself.”

I obey, and return the cloth, roll to my side, and let my eyes slide closed. Let my emotions welter, tumble, let the post-orgasmic drowsiness tug me under. Let the deep, powerful riptide of my most private thoughts and fears and desires spin me into a disoriented tumble, far beneath the tumultuous surface of the sea that is consciousness.

•   •   •

B
lood. Sirens. Loss. Confusion. Rain in the darkness, lightning gouging the blackness, thunder throbbing in the distance. Weeping. Alone.

“X—wake up. Wake up. You’re dreaming again.” Hands on my waist, lips at my ear, a comforting whisper.

I bolt upright, sobbing. Hair sticks to my forehead in sweat-smeared tangles. Strands in my mouth. My back is damp with sweat. My arms shake. My heart is hammering.

“Sshh. Hush. You’re okay now.”

I shake my head. I’m not okay. Eyes closed, fighting for breath—I can see nothing but snatches of nightmare:

Blood, crimson and thick, swirling and mixing with rain on a sidewalk. A pair of eyes, open, vacant and unseeing. Limbs bent at unnatural angles. A stab of lightning, sudden and bright, illuminating the night for the space of a heartbeat. An all-consuming sensation of horror, terror, the kind of loss that steals your breath and sucks the marrow from your bones.

Sobs. Wracked, shaking, incapable of speech. I try to push it down, gain control, but I cannot. I can only sob and gasp and tremble, shiver and weep. My lungs ache. I cannot breathe, cannot think, can only see the blood, the blood, scarlet and thick as syrup, arterial, lifeblood leaking away and mixing with rain.

“X. Breathe. Breathe, okay? Look at me. Look at my eyes.” I seek dark eyes, find them strangely warm, concerned.

“Can’t—can’t breathe—” I gasp.

Pulled against a firm, smooth chest. Heartbeat under my ear. I tense; comfort like this is alien. I still cannot breathe, or blink. Paralyzed with fear, with the poison of nightmares in my blood.

“How did we meet, X?”

“You—s-s-saved me.”

“That’s right. What did I save you from?”

“Him. Him.” I feel a presence from my dream, a malevolence, a hunger for that scarlet lifeblood.

“I found you on the sidewalk, bleeding to death. You’d been badly hurt. Beaten nearly to death. Savaged almost beyond recognition. I took you in my arms and carried you to the hospital. You’d
crawled, alone, dying . . . so far. A mile, almost. They think you knew where the hospital was, and you were trying to get there. But you didn’t quite make it.”

“You carried me to the hospital.” In reciting the words, I can begin to find my breath.

“That’s right.” A pause, a breath. “I brought you in, and they wouldn’t let me go back with you, but you had no identification and you were unconscious. I just couldn’t leave you alone, not knowing what had happened to you. Not knowing if you’d be okay. So they let me stay in the triage room while they worked on you.”

“You waited for six hours. I died on the table, but they brought me back.” I know these words, this story. It is the only history I have.

“Your head had been badly damaged. Of your many injuries, your cranial injury was the most worrisome, they told me. You might never regain consciousness, they told me. And if you did, you might remember nothing. Or some things but not others. Or everything. Or you might be paralyzed, or have a stroke. With the damage to your brain, there was no way to know until you woke up.”

“And I almost didn’t wake up.”

“I had to leave eventually, but I came back the next day, to check on you.”

“And the next, and the next.” I know all the beats, all the pauses, where to say my lines. I can breathe. I can work my lungs: inflate, deflate; inhale, exhale. Flex my fingers, blink my eyes, focus on curling my toes. Familiar exercises.

“The police found the crime scene where you’d been attacked. It was murder. You had a family, but they’d been murdered. And you’d witnessed it. Seen it all. Barely survived.”

“And he’s still out there.”

“Waiting for you to show your face. Waiting to make sure you can’t ever tell anyone what you know.”

“But I don’t know anything. I can’t remember anything.” This is true. This is a part of the ritual, but it is true.

“I know that, and
you
know that. But he doesn’t. The murderer is out there, and knows you survived, and knows you saw everything.”

“You’ll protect me.” Another truth.

One of very few. I am protected. Provided for. Kept safe.

Kept.

“I will protect you. You have to trust me, X. I’ll keep you safe, but you have to trust me.”

“I trust you, Caleb.” Those four words, I must bite them out. Sometimes, I do not believe them; other times, I do. Tonight is the former.

It is like eating an orange, trying to separate the seeds from the flesh and spit out the seeds only. There is truth, but also lies. Trust, but something bitter as well, something foul.

“Good.” Fingers in my thick black hair. Smoothing. Petting. “Sleep now.”

Click.
Darkness now, a blanket settling over me, the noise machine soothing me with gently crashing waves on an imaginary shore. I let the sound of the waves take me away, like floating away on a tide.

Distantly, I hear the door open, close.

I am
alone.