Chapter 2

Chapter

Two

" W hat—what are you—" I cough, clear my throat, try again. "What are you doing here, Logan?"

His palm touches my cheek, and I can breathe. "Stalking you, obviously."

"Logan." I manage to sound scolding. It is a feat of will.

I hear the grin in his voice, but also the strain. "Actually, I wasn't kidding. I really am stalking you. I mean, I've been looking for you. Hoping to get a glimpse of you. Talk to you, even just for a second."

"Why?" This is weak, small, confused.

"Because I can't stop thinking about you, X. I've tried, and I suck at it. I'm really good at thinking about you, it seems, and not so good at not thinking about you."

This brings a smile to my lips. "You must be a glutton for punishment then."

"I am, though. I love punishment." His hands weave into mine, help me to my feet. "The real truth is, I have business on this end of town, the next building over. I couldn't help passing by this building and wondering if you were up there. If you're happy. I never thought I'd actually get to see you, though."

Now I'm confused. Which of his statements is the truth? "You're contradicting yourself, Logan."

"I know. I'm trying to obfuscate how debilitated I am at running into you like this."

"Obfuscate. That's a wonderful word." What I don't ask is why he's so debilitated. I don't think the answer would do me good.

"Are you obfuscated, X?"

"Completely." Am I gazing up at him?

I am. Very much so. I am faint. My heart is pitter-pattering. I want to feel his hands in mine again.

"Good," he says. "Then my work here is done."

"Jokes do not suit this situation, Logan."

"No?" he sounds serious, suddenly. His voice smooth, too smooth. Too featureless. A little cold. "What am I supposed to say then? That I'm still absurdly, childishly hurt by the fact that you chose him over me? Or that I legit just cannot stop thinking about you? Wanting you? That I keep wanting to show up at your door again and literally carry you off over my shoulder like a fucking Viking? What is the right etiquette for a situation like this, Madame X?"

"Don't, Logan. Please don't." I don't mind begging.

"I can still feel you, your bare legs around my waist." His voice is in my ear, murmuring. Intimate. Sensuous. "I can feel the heat from your tight pussy against my stomach. I can smell you. I can feel how wet you are for me. For me . You wanted me, X. I could have done anything I wanted with you. I had you naked , in my arms. Wet and wanting and desperate and all over me. I could have laid you down on the carpet right there in the hallway and fucked you senseless, and I guarantee you, if I had, you wouldn't have walked away from me."

"Then why didn't you?" Oh, I am damned.

"Because you weren't ready, and you still aren't. You were scared, and you still are. You were like a frightened little rabbit out of its hole for the first time, blinking in the sunlight. There's a lioness inside you, X, you just have to find it and become it."

"I didn't even make it ten feet from the door on my own, Logan," I whisper against the soft cotton of his T-shirt.

"But you walked out, didn't you? Baby steps to the elevator, Bob."

"What?"

"What about Bob?" he asks, expectant. "No? Nothing? Okay, never mind. It's a movie reference."

I sigh. "Total amnesia, remember? Movies are not exactly a common feature in my life, Logan."

"Well, that'll be the first thing I'll rectify. You and me, we'll stay naked in my bed for a month, having hot, wild monkey sex and watching movies. Catch you up on all the great cinema you're missing out on. What About Bob? is a classic. Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas . Goodfellas , The Godfather , shit, I'll even throw in some rom-com for you. Notting Hill is a great one, or How to Lose a Guy in Ten Days . Or, wait, wait, Love Actually . God, that movie is awesome, although I know some people hate it. I love it. It's real."

"Hot and wild monkey sex, Logan? Really?"

He laughs in my ear, pulling me to his chest, arms wrapping around me. "Yes, X. Hot and wild monkey sex. It's the greatest thing on earth. No inhibitions, no time, no responsibilities, nothing but both of us taking as much pleasure from each other as we can, for hours and hours and hours until we're too exhausted to even move."

"And watching movies."

"And watching movies. And drinking beer by the case, and ordering pizza and Chinese takeout."

"I've never had either," I admit.

"You're not for real, are you?" He is utterly incredulous.

"And you're not still surprised at my lack of experience with things you deem normal, are you?"

"It just seems wrong," he says. "Beer and pizza... it's like—a basic, elemental part of life. Seriously. Without beer and pizza and movies, you're not really living."

"I certainly feel alive."

"X... you are alive, yes, but are you living ? Not just existing, not just continuing to be physically present in the world day by day, but... enjoying life. Making a difference. Being totally you . Owning who you are and choosing a life that fulfills you. Because from where I'm standing... it doesn't seem that way."

"And beer, pizza, and movies is a part of that, is it?" His words hit too close to bull's-eye, and my defenses are engaging.

A sigh. "No, X. It is for me, yes. But in the context of this conversation, beer, pizza, and movies are a stand-in for you having the freedom to make your own choices. You're still wearing designer clothes, I notice. Probably designer lingerie underneath, too. When I took you shopping, I bought you basic clothes. Basic comfortable jeans, a T-shirt, basic bra and underwear. Nothing fancy. And you seemed... I don't know, more you in them. This is still you, this designer-clothes-fancy Madame X. But that's Madame X. Not X, just X. And I don't think you're free to choose that. Not while you're with him."

"Logan—"

"All I'm going to say here is that to me, you deserve more. More than just fancy clothes and a penthouse prison."

"It's not a prison, Logan." I say this because something inside me insists I do, even though his words yet again strike hard and accurate.

"I want you to leave him and be with me," he murmurs. "I have absolutely no problem saying it in so many words, right here, right now. That's what I want. I want you. I want us . But I also want you to have a choice. I want you to be able to decide what you want out of life. Even if that isn't me. Which means I'll help you find what you want, regardless of the outcome for me."

We're standing in the middle of the sidewalk not ten feet from the front door of Caleb's tower. This feels dangerous, somehow.

"Logan... why?" I really do not understand. "Why do you care so much?"

He shrugs. "I honestly don't know, X. I wish I did. It'd be a fuck of a lot easier for me if I could just walk away, if I could stay away. But I can't . I've tried." He gestures up at the tower. "He's not what you think, X. You have to see that much, at least."

"Then what is he, Logan?"

A frustrated groan. "Not a good person. Not who you think."

"What proof do you have, Logan?" I hear myself ask.

Do I need proof? More than the evidence of the third floor? Yet still I persist. I do not know why.

I do, though. Don't I?

Because Logan scares me. He challenges my conceptions, my worldview. Makes me want things I'm not sure I can have. Things I never thought I could have. He makes me feel like choices I never even knew existed are suddenly possible.

Logan turns away, stares into nothingness, scrubs his hand through his hair. "None. Not yet, at least."

A long, low, sleek, white vehicle slides up to the curb. It is a Maybach Landaulet 62. Worth somewhere between half a million and a million dollars. I've ridden in that exact vehicle. I know who is about to emerge.

"Shit," Logan murmurs. He glances at me, eyes searching mine. Whatever he finds leaves him unhappy. "I'll find proof, X. I'll show you."

I have no words; there is nothing to say. I can only watch him turn away, and feel a pang of sadness, a spear of distress. Something in him calls to me, speaks to my soul. The intensity of it frightens me. I do not know how to handle the power of what merely being near Logan does to me.

The rear passenger-side door of the Maybach opens, disgorging a god of the tall, dark, and handsome variety.

A displeased god. "Logan." This, in a deep, cold voice. "She made her choice."

"Yeah. Doesn't mean it was the right one, though." Logan walks away then. Doesn't turn back.

Something in me fractures.

"Why were you speaking to him, X? And what are you doing out here?" Your voice is low and calm. Too low, too calm.

"He was passing by. I ran into him."

"What are you doing out here, X?" You repeat the question.

I find a seed of courage. "Am I not allowed outside, Caleb?"

Your eyes narrow. "Of course you are. You're not a prisoner. I just worry for you. The streets are unsafe, and you're prone to panic attacks."

Prone to panic attacks. Yes. I am. But something about Logan soothes me. Makes me forget my panic. Makes it all okay.

I do not say this, of course.

"Sometimes I wonder if perhaps you don't want me to really get over them, though," I find myself saying. Unwisely. Foolishly. Courageously—the seed has germinated, perhaps. "I wonder if perhaps you just want me to stay up there in your tower, at your disposal."

Your hand closes around my arm. "I'm not having this discussion with you out here."

You pull me through the revolving door, back across the expansive marble lobby, and for some reason, I let you. I am outside myself, watching as I allow you to haul me into the private elevator, up and up and up back to the penthouse. Watching as you release my arm and pace in circles around me. You are, suddenly, a lion pacing in its cage, feral and furious, and I am a little lamb somehow stuck in the cage with the predator.

"I worry for you, X," you repeat.

"I know you do." I stand my ground, watch you pace. "Perhaps you don't need to. Not as much."

"Of course I do," you insist. "Your understanding of the world beyond these walls is... limited."

"And perhaps that is something I wish to rectify."

"Why?" you ask. You cease pacing, stand inches from me, staring down at me, dark eyes icy with suspicion. "Why the sudden change?"

"It's not sudden, Caleb—"

"It's him, isn't it?" This from you sounds almost... petulant.

Jealousy? It is unbecoming, Caleb. It does not suit you.

"It isn't about Logan." I pause, blink, thinking, and then take a breath to nudge the seedling of courage to grow a little stronger. "Or, not entirely."

"What does that mean, X? ‘Not entirely'?"

I hesitate, seeking a neutral but true answer. "It means... the brief time I spent with Logan did make me curious about the outside world. It didn't start with him, though, and it doesn't end with him." I try a placation. "You can't keep me locked in here forever, Caleb. I am not a possession. I am woman. A person."

"I'm just trying to protect you." You are closer, your hard chest pressing against my breasts, your hands coming to rest on my hips.

"I know."

"You may not be a possession, X," you say, your voice a buzzing rumble, "but you are mine ."

This statement twists me up. Part of me knows it's true, and likes it. And part of me hates it. Part of me knows as long as I am yours, I will never be my own.

My thoughts are smashed by your lips on mine, sudden and crushing. A little clumsy. Impulsive, even. Not with the usual mastery of your body over mine.

As you kiss me, I am struck by a question: how often do you kiss me?

The answer is immediate: not often. Almost never. Not your mouth on mine, not your lips against mine. Not like this, not with this intimacy. You kiss my body, my breasts, between my thighs, but my lips? Never.

I do not know what that means.

You kiss me slowly, and as you kiss, your skill grows.

It isn't until your hands begin scouring my body, however, that my will is swept away as it usually is. It isn't until your hands are tugging at the zipper of my dress and nudging it off my shoulders that heat suffuses me, that my stomach tenses and my core tightens. When I am standing before you in nothing but lingerie—and yes, the lingerie is Carine Gilson, and you told me when you gave it to me that it was handmade by the designer herself specifically for me—that is when my heart rate spikes to a frantic hammering and my hands shake and I am weak in the knees.

Your eyes rake over me. "You look ravishing, X. That set really suits you. Carine outdid herself when she made it for me."

"For you?"

A brief, uncharacteristic smile. "Well, yes. Lingerie, at the heart of it, is about the viewer rather than the wearer, isn't it?"

This tolls within me, a truth I do not like. It is not just true for lingerie, I think. But for all of my clothes.

It is true about me, as an entity.

I would say "individual," but I fear I am not an individual so much as an entity. A possession. Like a fine vase, or an original painting.

A piece in your collection.

You somehow have placed me on a couch, sitting down on the edge. Your fingers are brushing across the delicate Lyon silk over my core. I cannot help but feel the rush of heat at your touch. I watch, and part of me feels disconnected. Impartial, somehow.

As when you hauled me up here, I watched almost as if from above, as if I could see myself and you, see us. Me, on the black leather couch nearest the elevator. I am leaned back, my shoulders touching the upright part of the couch. My knees are splayed wide. Pale peach silk covers my core, Chantilly lace demi-cup bra over my breasts, propping them up, making what are already large appear even larger. For you.

Not for me, but for you.

You kneel on the glistening dark hardwood floor, broad shoulders between my knees. Still in your suit. Dark pinstripes stretched across perfect muscles, crisp white button-down, a thin gray tie. Two-tone oxford dress shoes. Your hands on the insides of my thighs, your mouth now brushing over my skin, over my hip, across my stomach. I watch as your hands tug down the silk, and I watch as my bottom lifts, allowing you to slide the underwear away, leaving me bare.

I watch as your fingers brush over me. Thick fingers, strong. Hard. Not quite gentle as they stroke between my nether lips. Insistent, knowing. Familiar.

My body is utterly known by you.

The passive grammatical construction of my thoughts seems apropos.

I am curious, in a strange way. My voice responds to your touch, my body rises and writhes as your tongue laps at me and sends thrills of pleasure through me. It feels good. Of course it does. You are a master of pleasure. I am curious, though. What will you do? What will you want from me? And will I give it to you?

When I have spasmed, spine straight, backside lifting off the couch cushions, you finally reach to my back and unclasp the bra, set it aside, and I am, once again, naked while you are clothed.

You will remain clothed until the last possible moment. I know this, from experience.

But somehow I'm just now realizing it.

You lift me in your arms and turn me so I face the back of the couch, kneeling upright. I feel your weight on the couch behind me. I feel you lower your zipper. You won't even disrobe for this. Just unbutton, unzip, lower your slacks and black Armani briefs.

Slide into me.

I gasp, of course. Because you fill me and strike within me just so, and know how to thrust so I feel it perfectly, so I cannot help but gasp, and your fingers pinch my nipples and reach around to touch my clitoris and I am undone. Undone.

Watching, numb within.

Gasping, aching, coming apart.

But numb.

How is this possible?

What is happening to me?

When you have finished, you step away. Button and zip. Presentable within seconds, unruffled. Not a hair out of place.

You lean over me. I am still bent forward over the back of the couch, thighs quaking with the effort of holding myself upright while you take your pleasure in me. I felt it too, oh yes. I must give you your due: You do not take without giving as well. But now, finished, with your essence still inside me, still warm, you lean over me, chin brushing the top of my left shoulder, stubble scratching.

Your voice is distant thunder in my ear. "Mine, X. Don't forget it."

Ah. That's what this was about. Reminding me.

Don't worry, Caleb. I am reminded.

I think of Rachel then. Of the things you do to her. The things that should be degrading, but somehow aren't.

And yet, I do not have the courage to ask you to do any of them to me.

And then you're gone. Just like that.

I shower, again. Scrub your touch and your essence away.

I still feel as if I am outside myself, and I do not like it.

I watch as I dress again, this time in the plainest lingerie I own— you own, really—and the least sexy, least revealing dress. Flat shoes, no jewelry. Hair in simple twist, pinned up.

Once again, take the elevator down. I think I am going to the lobby, but for reasons I do not understand, I am on the third floor.

Knocking on the door marked 3.