by Ava Lore
For a long while, he kissed me, and I let him, too tired to do anything but let him. He could have done anything he wanted with me—dressed me up in a clown wig and a tutu for all I cared—and I couldn't have put up a fight. In my brain, the realization that I had put myself completely at his mercy without ever feeling the bite of a rope against my skin was, intellectually, a bit jarring, but I felt no emotions about it at all. So what? If he did crazy things like that to me, I really had no objection.
After a bit he pulled away. “You seem tired,” he said, smiling. “Perhaps you would like to take a nap before we get to Croatia?”
“Oh,” I said, “I hate sleeping on planes. It's always so uncomfortable.” Well, except for that one time to Barbados with Felicia. First class. My god. The seats. I'd been a class traitor and I hadn't been able to care, what with the champagne and the seats that sort of became beds. It had been crazy. Also? Fucking steak for dinner. That had been a good time.
But Malcolm was smiling, his dark brown eyes crinkling at the edges. “Oh?” he said. “But you have never slept on my plane before.” Gently he set me down and stood up, helping me to my shaking feet. His clothes were streaked with paint and charcoal, and so was I.
We're rubbing off on each other, I thought, and giggled.
Placing a warm arm around my shoulders, he guided me to the back of the plane, where a wood paneled wall stood. An unobtrusive door was set into it, and he opened it to reveal...
...a bedroom.
Oh my.
“This is decadent,” I said.
“Not even the best part,” he told me. “See that?” He pointed to a door set into the back of the bedroom. “Through there is a shower. Hot water. Massage head. Would you like to try it?”
I looked down at myself, covered in paint and charcoal. “Don't you want to take a picture of your masterpiece?” I asked.
I felt the surprise radiate from him. “This?” he said. “This isn't my masterpiece. A thumbnail sketch, at best.”
Jesus, I thought. The masterpiece might very well give me a heart attack if this had been a thumbnail sketch. I took a deep breath and moved away from him. He let his hand fall from my shoulder. “Yeah,” I said. “Then a shower would be great.”
“Wonderful,” he said. “I'll leave you to it, if you don't mind. You have given me some lovely ideas and I'd like to write them down before we land.”
I nodded, and he reached out, capturing my hand. Pressing a kiss to the back, he bowed to me before backing out of the bedroom, a smile on his face.
As soon as the door clicked closed I wanted to collapse, but I was afraid of getting his jet any more dirty than I'd already made it, even though he clearly didn't care about its interior. Stumbling to the door in the back, I let myself into the bathroom.
And it was a bathroom. Utterly decadent. I felt like a jerk just standing in it, but I wasn't about to let a good hot shower go to waste. I turned the water on and stepped inside.
For a long while I stood in the hot spray, watching the water run black and brilliant as the pigments on my skin washed down the drain, until finally it ran clear. Only then did I use the luxurious soap and wash myself. By the time I was done the water was running cold, and I shivered as I stepped out and wrapped myself in a large, fluffy towel that had been sitting on a heated towel rack. I took the opportunity to relieve myself before stepping into the bedroom.
Someone—Malcolm perhaps, but probably a private and discreet in-flight steward—had drawn the shades down on the windows, making it lovely and dim inside the bedroom. The bed stood against one side of the plane, up against the windows, and for a weird moment the thought of sleeping next to a line of windows thirty thousand feet in the air gave me a little thrill of fear, and I realized that if I slept here, I wouldn't have my gun with me.
It'd been years since I'd slept without my gun by my bedside. I always had it. I never stayed over at men's houses. I had to have my gun.
I hadn't thought this through very well...
On the other hand, I didn't think Malcolm was the sort to assault me while I was asleep, seeing as how I was quite willing while I was awake. And it wasn't like someone could just break into a plane, thanks to the aforementioned thirty thousand feet of air between me and the ground. I should be safe.
I didn't really expect to sleep, though. I felt naked. Far more naked than actually being naked felt, which I didn't care about.
I bit my lip, then decided that since I had no idea what was in store for me, I'd better at least try to get some shut eye. Shedding the towel to the floor, because I'm classy like that, I slid under the soft white down comforter and thousand thread-count sheets. The bed was surprisingly warm, and I wrapped myself up in it.
I must have been more tired than I thought, because the moment my head hit the pillow, I passed out.
It was the best sleep I'd ever had.
*
I really had been more tired than I'd thought, because I slept until we landed in Croatia early in the morning the next day. I'd forgotten that we were passing into a whole new time zone. When I opened my eyes, I was reaching for my bedside table as I always did before I realized it was Tuesday, and I was nowhere near New York city.
The thought shocked me and I sat up.
“Oh, you're awake.”
I turned my head to see Malcolm sitting in a buttery leather chair at the other side of the plane, drawing in a sketchbook. Had he been drawing me while I slept? The thought should have creeped me out a bit, but instead I just felt a burning curiosity to see his sketch. I kept my tongue, though. I hated it when people asked to see my rough work. Or loved it. I could never tell. But I didn't want to know if he was good or bad at it. It would ruin the illusion he had built up around himself, a brilliant man capable of anything.
I wanted to believe in that. I'd been disappointed in too many men before. I wanted to live the fantasy just a few days longer.
While I'd slept, Malcolm had changed into a beautiful pair of slacks, another incredible sweater, and a jacket that was far too fashionable for a man of his age. But he made it look good. He worked it. I realized I was still naked. Behind him, one of the window shades had been pulled up, presumably to give him some light to work by, and I saw the runway outside. Mountains hulked beyond it.
“I need to get dressed,” I said.
“Your clothes will be here soon,” he replied. “I will be very upset if they are not.” He continued sketching in his book. He looked like he actually knew what he was doing. For a moment I watched him, the light from outside illuminating his beautiful face, all planes and angles and hidden strength. The sun on his hair gleamed golden, and I longed to run my fingers through it, but before I could gather up the energy to act on the impulse, the door opened and a young woman entered, carrying an armful of clothes.
Immediately I felt shabby. Impeccably dressed and with long, golden hair curled up on her head in an elaborate coiffure, she was gorgeous. Wide blue eyes took me in, assessing, then laid her burden down on the chair. “Thank you for your patronage,” she told Malcolm, her beautiful accent rounded, with sharp ends bracketing each word. Smiling at me, she exited.
“Please,” Malcolm said, “get dressed.” He closed his sketchbook and leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers in front of his mouth and fixing his eyes on me. It took me a moment to realize he wasn't going to leave. Instead, he was going to watch me.
I swallowed and stood up, letting the comforter and the warmth of the bed fall away. I shivered a bit in the cooler ambient air, but I threw my shoulders back and padded over to the chair where the pile of clothes threatened to tip over. Reaching out, I began to flip through them.
Every single one was beautiful. Lovely, well-made. And not fussy. Thank god. I just hate fussy clothes. Pulling out a dark shirt and holding it up, I realized it was warm cashmere. For a long moment I ran my fingers over it, enjoying the fine texture.
“There's underthings in the bag,” Malcolm said, his voice
startling me. Looking down, I found a discreet bag, colored silver, at my feet, full of tissue paper. Bending over, I peeled back the paper and found a small collection of lacy bras and flimsy panties in bright, startling colors.
Urgh. Colors. I selected the least offensive—a dark indigo-purple—and pulled the panties on before sliding my arms through the straps of the bra and hooking it in back. I tried not to think about Malcolm and his intense eyes watching me get dressed, though I felt a heat light up my cheeks anyway.
But the bra made my tits look amazing. And the indigo complemented my skin, dammit.
I slid the sweater on, then pulled out a white wool skirt from the pile, slipping that on as well. My boots, low-heeled and black, had survived the paintpocalypse, and I slipped those on as well before selecting a gray scarf from the pile and then shrugging into a soft black leather coat covered in pockets. I'm not a fashion girl, but I have to say: I looked good.
Malcolm stood, a smile on his face. Without a word, he led me out of the bedroom and to the front of the plane, where he donned his own coat, and then we exited, walking down a stairwell to the runway, like the rich and famous do. I knew Malcolm was technically rich and famous, but it seemed weird to see him surrounded by wealth. His sparse room at the top of his mansion suited him far better than sumptuousness.
We entered a private car, and I watched out the window as we drove from the airport to Dubrovnik.
Chapter Eight
Mediterranean countryside. That was what greeted me. And a crowded Mediterranean city. I hadn't expected these things, I suppose, when I had realized where we were going. Croatia was forever wedded in my mind to Bosnia and Serbia. Mountains and cold, and a war that had happened when I was very young—those were the things I had called up in my mind.
But this place was lovely, by the Adriatic sea. It was like Rome, or how I imagined Rome to be—I've never been—and it took my breath away.
A castle sat guarding the Old Town of Dubrovnik against the threats of the sea. Red-roofed buildings and ancient stone churches and crowded the streets peeked up at us from the walled city as we rode down toward the sea. Our driver, far more adventurous than any New York cabbie, wove and bobbed between other weaving and bobbing vehicles, until we got down to the wall and I discovered that the old part of town—where we were going, I assumed—was pedestrian only.
Wow, I thought. I didn't have a lot of coherence at that point. I felt like I had stepped into a completely new world, one that I had never even imagined existed. Our driver stopped and we exited the car, Malcolm holding the door for me, murmuring something about how our luggage would be brought behind us, but I wasn't really paying attention. A chill and the smell of the sea wrapped around me, and I huddled up next to Malcolm as he snugged his arm around my shoulders and held me close, gently leading me where he wanted to go.
We passed through the old stone wall and down stone steps to land in a square mostly devoid of people, but filled with gray stone and architectural details and puddles of rain reflecting the patches of blue sky overhead.
“I'm sorry,” Malcolm said. “I'd heard it was warmer here this year.”
I tried not to look like a tourist as we began a leisurely stroll through the streets. Narrow alleyways peeped at me from between buildings, terraces jutted around corners in the little paths off the main thoroughfare, long stone stairways of a hundred steps flashed here and there. People passed us, dressed beautifully for the cool weather, and fine clothes shone prominently in shop windows.
I was utterly taken. Malcolm had been right. The place appealed to my artistic sense, a city out of time. Another country, where magic might happen.
After a few minutes of walking, Malcolm turned and led me down a narrow alleyway. The old stone buildings reared up around us, stately and imposing, blocking out the sky. A wooden door, ornately carved, was set into the wall with a lovely arch over it. Malcolm pulled a key from his pocket and opened it, gesturing for me to enter.
We climbed the narrow stairs inside, switching back on themselves over and over again, until we reached a door at the top. Malcolm put another key in this door and unlocked it before pushing it open and bowing to me with a flourish.
“Our accommodations, my lady.”
I couldn't help but inhale sharply as the rooms beyond were revealed to me. The entire top of the floor of this house was Malcolm's. Blonde wood floor, clean white walls, sparsely populated with furniture... it was how I had imagined his house would look, or how it would look after he was done purging his actual house of stuff. It was beautiful, elegantly appointed, and yet somehow also homey. Photographs and works of art hung on the walls here, too, though they clustered and didn't sprawl over every available space. A wall of windows, barely concealed by flowing sheer white curtains, opened out onto a terrace. I crossed the floor and peered out.
“Oh, wow,” I had to say.
The red roofs of Dubrovnik's old town swept down and away from us, and I could catch a glimpse of the gray winter sea beyond the castle walls. In the summer, this place would be stunning. As it was, I wanted to make myself a cup of hot tea, wrap myself in a blanket, and just stare out at the sea from the comfort of the warm penthouse, curled up on the white overstuffed couch facing the windows. Maybe read a good book. Maybe write one.
Maybe draw a bit.
“This is exactly what I needed,” I said to Malcolm.
“Yes, I thought you might,” he replied. “I am glad I brought you here.”
I turned and studied him. He seemed very pleased with himself, a beautiful smile gracing his full lips, his sandy hair falling in messy locks against his forehead and curling over his ears and the collar of his jacket. He was still a mystery to me... but a mystery that I was content with for now.
“Did you plan this?” I asked. It was stupid, but he seemed to have known just what was in my heart, even when I didn't know it myself. I was being stifled by the city, by my responsibilities. He'd seen that.
My heart gave a little flutter. Stop that nonsense, I told it, but it didn't listen to my brain. It never did. I turned back to the sea so Malcolm wouldn't detect the sudden, disquieting turmoil in my chest.
“I didn't quite plan it,” he said, coming up behind me. His hands slid over my shoulders, his fingertips brushing against my neck and through my hair as he helped me out of my coat. “I've been wanting to... get away for a while. And I decided I wanted to take you with me. Yesterday. I thought it would be fun. Though I didn't think that we would be coming here so soon.”
My leather jacket slid down my arms and he tossed it onto the couch. Turning, I smoothed my palms over his chest, under his own coat, sliding my hands up and over his shoulders, slipping the fabric from his body. He felt good and warm. I had the sudden impulse to lean forward and press my forehead into his chest and just let him cradle me in his arms. “And why did we come here today? Why not next week?” I looked up at him.
His dark cherrywood eyes bored into mine. His fingers found their way to my scalp, running through my hair.
“Because I didn't want to lose you,” he said. “Whatever line I crossed, I wanted you to know I was sorry. I don't want to cross it again, until you tell me it's all right.”
For a terrible moment I thought I might cry.
“Shut up,” I told him. “Can we please just fuck now?”
His mouth broke into a grin. “You are so eager,” he said. “And yes. We are going to fuck. I think it might be my masterpiece. Let me show you how.”
I wanted to fuck him, not just fuck him as part of his art, but the way he said the word fuck, lingering on the f and drawing it out before cutting it off abruptly had gone straight down my spine to my pussy.
I had it bad for Malcolm Ward. I didn't like it, but, well, can you blame me?
Linking his fingers with mine, Malcolm led me away from the windows, through the kitchen and dining area, and then around the corner where a piano sat in a room lined with bookcases and full of books. Then we turned and
circled to the back of the flat, into a narrow hallway. At the end of it I saw a large, open room with a bed in it. The master bedroom. Two other doors in the hall were open, letting light from the small windows fall inside, and we entered one.
It had been turned into a studio. A sculpting studio.
It looked remarkably like Felicia's studio, except there were no tables of tools, only a large lump of red clay in the middle of a plastic tarp in the middle of the floor with two buckets of water beside it. Wet towels mostly covered the clay, and the air in the room was almost uncomfortably warm. I stood just inside the door, wondering how badly my clothes would be ruined this time. It would be a shame; they were so new and so lovely...
But then Malcolm turned and reached out, his fingers gathering the hem of my sweater, and gently he pulled it over my head, revealing my new bra. Reaching around, he unhooked the back of the bra, and slid it down my arms, leaving me topless as he moved his hands to my waist and fiddled with the hook and zipper enclosure on my wool skirt. I realized that he had watched me dress in the plane so that he would know how to undress me.
He was good. I was glad he was good.
The wool skirt slipped to the floor, and he knelt down in front of me again, removing my boots before hooking his thumbs into my panties and sliding them down my legs, until I stood naked before him, vulnerable and trembling, needy and filled with desire. I wanted him to touch me so badly. I wanted to touch him so badly.
He stood.
"Undress me, Sadie," he commanded.
Yes, I thought. God, yes.
I wasn't as methodical as he was. My hands shook as I assissted him out of the soft cashmere sweater he wore, trembled as I helped him shuck the fine cotton undershirt. I reached his trousers and undid them, my fingers brushing against the growing bulge that I'd never touched directly. It excited me like nothing else ever had. I wanted him inside me, pumping and fucking, until we both couldn't stand.
