Requisite Vices (21 page)

Chapter 24

I received a text from hi
m
later that night with instructions to slip the balls into me whenever I left my house. He also firmly pressed that I wasn’t allowed to orgasm at all until I saw him that weekend for the show, and at that time, he may give permission.

Fantasies of the various possibilities of our upcoming meeting danced through my head every night as I went to sleep. The thought of him pinning me to a corner seat in a dark theater, teasing his fingertips along my body until I was soaked and aching, stifling moans so I wouldn’t be overheard by the guests, drove me wild. 

I count down the days, the hours, the minutes until I can see him again. My heart races when I dream of what he will do to me that evening, and the thought of needing his permission to come is…enticing. I wonder how long I’ve craved that kind of control; for someone to try and tame the animal that I’ve let run rampant through my body for so long.

Texts from Ethan have come on a fairly regular basis; one or two a day with pictures of the various sites around New York City, and updates on how the convention is going. He’s acting like such a tourist, and it’s almost adorable.

I entertain his texts with brief spurts of information about how Riley and Tom are doing, and how it’s nice to hear from him, but my sentiments feel hollow to my own fingers as I type them. The longer he’s gone, the less I can remember what he looks like or the sound of his voice, and Alexander has pushed his way to the forefront of my mind. It’s hard to fathom that he ever left that spot in the first place.

The day of the show quickly approaches, which I’ve finally found out is the opera Carmen, and Alex didn’t bother to send meet up directions until four hours before the drive into New Orleans. I had put off getting ready, afraid that he’d cancel our plans, so at the last moment I’m stuck throwing on a long black dress, and pinning my hair up in a makeshift clip. I don’t look
too
terrible, and once I pat on some makeup and a simple diamond pendant around my neck, I leave the house and head to the theater.

We decided to meet just outside of the theater. He’s standing on a charming, wooden walking bridge over a man-made lake with sparkling fountains spouting up around him. The water reflects and refracts the lights from the theater, casting glittering starlight on him as he stands there, waiting. He smiles as I approach the apex of the bridge and holds out his arm for me to take.

“You are stunning, Miss Roman. As always.” He whispers against my skin as he presses his lips to my cheek.

Blushing, I slip my arm in his and let him lead me into the theater. I can’t tear my eyes off of him. He’s dashing, dressed in a perfectly fitted three piece suit which mimics the ocean on a starless night, and a pale blue shirt accented with a black tie decorated with a silver fleur de Lis pin. His curls fall carelessly from his head, lightly dusting over his collar. I had often imagined how he would look in something other than a pair of jeans, but my dreams didn’t prepare me for how he looks tonight.

We take our seats near the front, and talk quietly over the dull roar of the audience behind us. The butterflies in my stomach are in full swing as we await the performance. I never thought I would actually witness an opera; it seems like one of those things that only the super-refined attend, and though I’ve always wanted to come, I never thought I was good enough. I often keep myself from attending things like this, based on that notion; the thought that I’m not good enough to be seen in a certain place. I feel like I’d stick out among the crowd, and wind up not enjoying the experience because I was too busy worrying about how everyone else saw me.

Sitting here beside Alex, chased those thoughts away. I belong here with him, and no scoff or rude glance from anyone could convince me otherwise.

The theater is a cavernous room dressed in cream colored ceilings and walls, with the stage carefully concealed in a blood red curtain. As patrons filed in and took their seats, the lights dimmed, and the opera commenced. There were no stolen glances from him, or any sneaking touches. We sat still in our seats, entranced by the brilliant performance before us, and as it came to an end, I wished they would find a reason to keep going. I dreaded the curtain’s fall; this moment is so perfect, and I don’t want it to end.

He stands as the lights fill the capacious theater, and offers his hand, which I graciously accept. Wordlessly, he leads me out into the night, winding us through brilliantly lit streets, back to his home. The silence between us is anything but uncomfortable. It’s more of a peaceful contentment, in which words would only serve to clutter and tangle the delicate strands of threaded between us.

My desire for him had grown steadily over the last few months, and tonight, it has warped into something more than a steaming primal lust. I want more; something more than the hunger in his eyes, and the twist of pleasure as our bodies bind together. I wish to hold him, run my fingers through his hair, and fall asleep in his arms. For once, the beast was absent. It wasn’t clawing through my skin and bones for a chance to taste his heat on my lips, and I just want to feel…loved, and perhaps, less lonely, if even for a single night. I ache for the gentle touch of a soft hand, and the whispered acceptance and reciprocation of those feelings from him.

“Thank you for joining me.” He says, hesitantly, breaking the silence between us as we make the last turn towards his home.

“Thank you for inviting me.” I offer, my fingers lacing with his and squeezing affectionately.

Smiling, he slows his stride to a leisurely pace, and slips his fingers out of my grasp. His hand slides up the side of my arm, and drapes around my shoulders as we walk the few feet through the courtyard, and up the steps to his door. Guiding me through the foyer, he kicks off his shoes and pulls me into the couch. I curl close, leaning against him. His arm wraps around me, his fingers gently twisting my curls as I rest my head against his chest. He’s so warm…so soft, and his gentle demeanor smothers me like a blanket fresh from the dryer on a frigid evening.

“This is nice…” I whisper

“It is. Can I get you anything? Are you hungry?”

“No…”

He leans down and kisses the top of my head as we sit in silence together. His phone begins vibrating from his pocket, and reaching in, he turns it off.

“Are you allowed to do that?” I laugh, teasingly.

“I am tonight.”

“What makes tonight different?”

“I need a day off, and I’ve decided today is going to be that day. So, for the rest of the night, no phone calls.”

He tosses his phone onto the table among the rolling hills of books, then flips on music, which fills the house. It begins in soft, muted notes, building in intensity with each passing second. A beautiful, tenor voice rings out to join the notes; powerful and filled with passion. It sends chills through my body.

“Ah, I’m quite fond of this one.” He sighs as he closes his eyes. His head leans back on the couch as he lets melody wash over his body, content in letting the music fill him till he drowns.

Looking up at him, the corners of my mouth lift. My fingers delicately slip up the side of his neck, and I tentatively stroke his cheek. He’s wonderful. The embodiment of everything I ever wanted, but never felt I deserved. Perhaps I still don’t.

He leans his head towards mine, as the voice flooding the house reaches a compelling crescendo. His fingers slide fluidly under my chin, tilt it up and he presses his lips against mine, his heat surging against my lips.

The sweet, soft touch of his lips threatens to replace my monsters’ lustful feelings with an ache in the core of my heart. The scent of his skin mingles with that delicious, old book smell wafting from the written tomes that fill every corner, and I feel myself drowning in him once again. Taking my hand, he stands and draws me up.

“Will you join me on the terrace? It’s a clear, beautiful night. We should enjoy the air.”

Without waiting for an answer, he grabs a bottle of wine from the kitchen, two crystalline glasses, and leads me out the back door onto the terrace. The moonlight shines against the flagstones, causing them to glow with its pure light as we step outside. The terrace is filled to the brim with palm trees, and vibrantly colored tropical plants. There’s a three tiered fountain in the center, and several small tables and chairs scattered amongst the foliage. He leads me to a chair furthest from the fountain, and pours a glass of wine. The music from the house streams into the night air from speakers planted outside of the house, and I feel as if I’ve been led, in secret, into his personal oasis.

We share our drink in silence, with the bubbling water and music as our background, but I can’t seem to keep my mouth shut for long. There’s so much I want to know. So much I need to know.

“Do you live here by yourself…?”

“Yes.”

“It’s an awfully big place.”

“I enjoy my space, and my solitude. Usually.”

Silence follows, and I’m hesitant to try and spark more of a conversation, but our entire relationship has been shrouded. I know nothing personal about him, and I’m aching to know more.

With his eyes fixated on the sky, his lips part once more.

“It wasn’t always so empty. There was a time where I enjoyed having people over. A time when the house, and terrace, were filled with the laughter and joy of friends and family. It was another time…a lifetime away from the here and now…”

“What…happened?”

He shakes his head, his eyes sliding to the fountain as he loses himself in the sparkling waters.

“I saw death. I saw agony, and fear, and saw people turn on one another with the savagery of untamed animals. Those closest to me…those I loved, were ripped away unfairly. Unjustly. It forced me to see the world as more than just joy and happiness. Now…now, I enjoy my solitude. It gives me time to think, and time to work.”

He looks over at me as he speaks, locking me in an intense gaze, then noticing my sadness, his expression softens.

“Cassandra, please don’t pity me. Death is everywhere. Whether we choose to believe it or not, it is an inescapable, irrefutable fact. I lost someone very near and dear to me, and it took me quite a long time to piece together some semblance of a life. Everyone goes through these things at some time or another. I just became something more than the carefree youth I was before. Life is filled with happiness, sadness, pain and pleasure. If it weren’t, if it were only filled with happiness, we would cease to appreciate everything good in our lives. There is no happiness without sadness, and no pleasure without a sense of pain.”

I gaze up through the trees. The center of the terrace is unobscured, offering a full view into the clear, sparkling night sky as I digest his words. I can’t imagine living in this place on my own. Doesn’t he get lonely? I’m at a loss as to what to say in response. What could I say that doesn’t sound rude or patronizing?

“What’s the name of this piece?” I ask, straining. It’s lovely, and I’m sure I’m making myself sound a bit less refined in not knowing what it is.

“Nessun dorma.”

“It’s beautiful.”

He turns to me, his eyes sparkle in the night as he smiles lovingly. Reaching over, he takes my hand in his, absently stroking his thumb along the back of my hand.

“It’s from an opera named Turandot. This song is sung by a prince, who falls in love with a beautiful princess with a heart of ice.” His eyes return to the sky, my hand still held in his. “We should go see it sometime…”

My heart can’t decide whether it wants to beat faster or ache in longing. The emotions run, conflicted and clashing, through my body as I struggle to piece him together.

The song shifts, and violins now sing out into the still air. He eases onto his feet, my hand still in his, and draws me up to him.

“Dance with me…” he whispers, his eyes gazing into mine.

His words sweep over me in a gentle, relaxing wave as he wraps one arm around my waist and holds me close, his other hand clasping mine. An arresting look in his eyes holds me against him as he leads me in soft, swaying movements to the exquisite notes of Pachelbel’s Canon. Each movement is premeditated, as if we’re playing out our parts in a scene, on a stage all our own. This is something that is only ever dreamed of; some flight of fancy that never happens in the real world. This is…he is…

The music swells as we glide across the terrace, tracing the fountain and its splatter of crystal droplets. Our eyes are fixed on one another, never wavering, never moving. The music steals us away as the background shimmers into a muddled mix of greens and browns, and flashes of pinks and oranges, as we circle one another in an endless dance. I am breathless, caught in the beauty of him. His hands effortlessly move my body with his own, synchronizing each step, each sway, and each breath.

“Will you stay the night?” he asks softly.

“Of course I will.”

His hand cups my cheek, his thumb lightly stroking my bottom lip. Oh, it feels wonderful, like the whispered breath of an angel against my skin.

His lips follow his thumb, pressing against mine; soft, gentle and tender. Taking my hand, he leads me upstairs to his bed. Our bodies shift as he pulls me firmly against him; absently moving with the beat of the slow, passionate tunes streaming from the sound system.