The rebellious mood that had gripped her and spurred her on this folly now thoroughly dissipated, like cheap perfume. She wasn't at all sure whether she desired or dreaded to meet the others as they climbed the stairs to the rooms—to desire an intervention, a break from her madness, from this spell she was in, or to avoid the shame of getting caught. The latter overwhelming her, she disengaged from the gigolo's gentlemanly arm. But the floor was deserted of anyone but themselves and no one saw her enter the room with him.
206 was a suite, impersonal as a hotel room, with a large vanity and plush chaises. The bed, centralized in such a way that all eyes were drawn to it, was a four-poster resting heavy on a dais, with translucent curtains and a canopy of mythological figures interwoven.
"Make yourself comfortable. I'll be back." And he squeezed the fleshy part of her waist briefly, which shocked her like a bucket of ice water, departing to an adjacent room she supposed was the water closet.
When he returns, she thought to herself, settling on the bed, discarding her shawl and purse, rubbing the side of her numb arms, I'll say, forget about it, cancel the transaction, even if I have to forfeit the money, half my allowance gone. This was the height of pure folly. It wasn't worth it.
But he returned promptly, unchanged and unsurprised by her clothed state. Up close he was even more beautiful, sleek and well-proportioned, fair-haired and fair-skinned, if a little sun-kissed. Her heart swelled painfully, as if to escape her chest. Longing stopped her speech, bidding her only to speak of love.
"Do you want to talk a little or get right to it? There's some wine here if you like."
"Ah, no, thank you, I—that is to say—" She took a breath, and spoke slower. "I'd like to get on with it."
"All right," he said neutrally, as if he had no preference on the matter, and began to disrobe.
He worked at the buttons of his jacket, cast it off easily, and then at the smaller, more delicate ones of his chemise sleeves, long deft hands easing them out of their confines.
"Have you done this before?" he asked.
She wordlessly shook her head. She didn't realize until later that he meant solicitation, not the act itself.
"All right. House rules first. No sadomasochism. no threesomes, unless the third party is female. I don't perform with men." He paused. "And lastly, no kisses."
She stared. "What, at all?"
"On the lips," he clarified. "Personal rule. I find it—unnecessary. I'm not too fond of kisses in general, but I can compromise." He checked his pocket watch. "Right. The hour begins now."
His vest and chemise discarded, revealing his lean form, creamy skin taut over smooth golden muscles, and jutting hip bones unveiled themselves before her eyes, doubled, in fact, by the large vanity mirror behind him, so that all the delectable angles and luscious curves of him could be seen. Her longing, as if taking sympathetic life, pooled itself at his feet along with his clothes.
"So what'll be? Penetration, oral, anal?" He paused, frowning. "Are you cold?"
It was too onerous to explain her nervous tic. "No, no." She forced her hands on her lap, as if to keep down the uncomfortable heat spreading. Ramrod straight, like a grammar school student facing the rector, she stared straight at his likeness in the glass as it approached her.
"Or would you prefer I take the lead? Play by ear?"
She finally looked at him, at the strong, sharp cheekbones and long eyelashes that had so enraptured her across the hall, fighting the temptation to look away. Gazing at him was like staring at a second sun. "I..."
A slight flicker of confusion. He scrutinized her. "You look scared. Why?"
When she said nothing, coloring, his gaze turned flat in understanding. "I see. You're a virgin."
"Yes." And because of his tone, the way he said it, she couldn't help but add, "I'm sorry."
He didn't look angry or even surprised. In fact, he looked almost weary. He looked down at his discarded clothes, almost as if suppressing a sigh.
"I did think you looked too young."
"I'm not," she said reflexively, out of pride.
"All right," he humored. "How old are you?"
"Seventeen."
If she hadn't been suffering from the shame and embarrassment of it all, she might have laughed at his harried, long-suffering look. He withdrew his pipe and lit it, with the air of a man who carried the world as a burden.
"All right," he said finally, evenly. "It's a talking night, then. That's fine. How did you know this place? You came with friends?"
Perhaps it was the casualness of his speech, the way he accepted the change in plans without an eyelash bat; the threat of his gorgeous body hidden away again in folds of creamy silk; the mere reminder of her pressing, urgent circumstances; or even the desire that had drawn her first to him like a moth to the flame, that made her say, stumbling with haste:
"No, it's fine. We can continue."
He raised his eyebrows at her, dubiously, in challenge. "Are you sure?"
She nodded, stomach writhing. "Yes. I just...can we go slow?"
For the first time, he looked amused at that. "Of course."
He let his clothes fall back on the chair again, and, finishing his last draught, put aside the pipe. He approached, hands in pockets, surveying her face, her bosom, her body in a bold sweep. She nervously tucked her legs under her, resisting the urge to cover herself. Yet even this manly appraisal had a practiced quality to it, the professional eye and impersonal cool of an expert.
"What is it?" she said at last, for he still had not moved, and the wait was killing her.
"I'm thinking how to start," he said shortly. "I'm not used to virgins."
"What are you used to?" she ventured tentatively.
"Undersexed widows, unhappy wives. The odd nymphomaniac. Rich women looking for a transgressive thrill."
"Is it bad, my being here?"
The amused, ironical look returned. "Do you really want me to answer that?"
And with that he finally joined her on the bed beside her. He swept her hair back in a practiced arch over one shoulder, positioning himself behind her. He worked at the small pearl buttons at the back, unknotting the lace sash easily. She jumped a little when he nuzzled her neck, his hands lowering the shoulders straps, the dress. His touch was warm, dry, electric. His hands cupped her full breasts, visible and straining against the undershirt, kneading them in purposeful rhythm. She could feel his cheek against her hair, his breaths, more regular than her shallow puffs. Little noises began to escape (hers?). She turned blindly, seeking him out, the aroma of his cologne. Already she had forgotten his personal rule.
"You have a good body," he commented, apropos to nothing. His hands rested on her waist. "You're still too stiff. Relax."
"I'm not—stiff." The ache for him grew keening. "Please."
And in impatience she took his hands in hers guiding them back up to her breasts, kneading, caressing. The mimicry was clumsy, but soon his hands began again, moving on their own accord. The undershirt was lowered; at last it was flesh on flesh. She could not endure it; she spun around to face him, her arms about him. His look arrested her, lips parted. The glass showed their image, the semblance of a lover's embrace. The jaded cool was finally gone. His caramel eyes had darkened a shade.
"No kisses," he said quietly. "Lie back."
On the tasseled pillows, sensible she was half naked, her reticence returned. "What are you going to do?"
He had straightened, already unbuckling his belt, the buttons of his breeches, but at her question he looked down at her. Some of his distant neutrality had lessened; he felt more present, more solid. He answered simply. "You."
He stretched out alongside her. She tensed when she felt his hand, cool and fluttering, on her thighs.
Gossamer folds of her dress skirt pushed up, his hand disappearing in them, and what could not be conceived happened. At the first caress of her inner folds she shrank, in confusion, surprise, and thrill. Further attempts brushed against a firm wall of thigh.
"Relax, sweet. You must be aroused if this is to work."
"Please, signor." She didn't even know what she was pleading. "It's—sinful—"
"It's all right." A change came into his tone then, seductive, persuasive. "Come, my sweet. You've been a good girl, haven't you? Too much goodness can be bad, you know. You need a little sin. You're as ripe as a peach with that woman's body of yours. You feel it? I'm already hard for you. Let me taste you. Sin for me."
His hands steadied her, soothing, distinct now from his earlier, calculated fondling. He tasted her breasts until they were as hard as rocks, teasing the nipple with his tongue. The inward flesh of her thighs turned tender mush, a liquid flame. The pressure was too great, too volcanic. She felt herself spreading, arching, flowing, flying. His hands delved and caressed with purpose and execution, relentless in their agenda of pleasure.
Cupid and Psyche, Venus and Adonis waved overhead, approaching and retreating at the same helpless rhythm of her hips, in tandem with the pounding fever at her temple. Sixteen years' worth of precepts, lectures, and warnings—sex should not be misused this way, its power and purpose trifled with, trivialized—all were purged away. It was a waste, a defilement, sordid and squalid. But oh, if this were sin, then goodness was heaven itself.
Hands threaded clumsily at his fair hair, caressed, cajoled. She wanted to tear away her clothes, but desire was a paralyzer as well as a spur, and changed course too quickly to settle into one course of action. She wanted to take him, to sink into him like quicksand, to meld her form into his until both were one in flesh and desire. To quiet the heat that like a fever coursed through her. To weep, rage, kiss him with a violence that would demolish his cruel interdict to pieces.
A gust of cool air at his absence, like an electric shock; she writhed, whining, begging. But then he was back at her ear, whispering encouragements, working at the straps of her dress, which she eagerly wriggled away from. Like a husk it fell away. He paused—a moment of weakness?—over the hills of her full breasts, the tips like the supple nubs of berries, the line of fertile valley to her hips. The hard planes of his muscles tensed, the tendon strings in tremolo. She arched toward him, innocently, blindly. She could no longer wait.
A dangerous moment. They locked eyes unexpectedly, face to face, forehead to forehead, breathing hard. Caramel eyes turned dark, inscrutable honey, hard on misty green-gray. Past all shame, she tried to meet his parted lips. It seemed to break the reverie, for he suddenly pulled away; he buried his head, for the moment, in her chest's swell. He positioned himself.
Theyrode the heat wave to the crest, limbs slick with sweat, entwined with eachother. Self escaped, split, rearranged, joined, returned anew to rest, heavywith renewed weight, in his firm embrace, as if the fount of all human lovecould be discovered there.