Wishing Well

by Lily White

  . . .

  I wish there was a way to turn off your brain. Like a special switch, or perhaps a drug you could easily access at a corner store that would enable you not to think, not to dream, not to wonder how stupid you are.

  While working the morning shift the day after meeting Vincent in his office, I found that even the physical labor wasn’t enough to distract my every thought from being homed in and focused on him. Questions lingered in hidden corners, whispering - always whispering - as I told myself that I was a silly girl for even entertaining the thought that I’d seen desire in his eyes when I’d glanced back before leaving his office.

  Desire.

  Heat.

  Regret.

  Dismay.

  Was he thinking about me as often as I was thinking about him?

  Returning my cart to the employee office, I said my goodbyes to Theresa for the day when she informed me there weren’t any additional jobs that needed to be done. I didn’t feel like going up to my room immediately, so I wandered the employee halls instead, eventually making my way out into the gardens. Still wearing my housekeeping uniform, I wound down the cobblestone path, continuing far past the wishing well that was a centerpiece of the gardens, and after exploring for what felt like an hour, I discovered another small alcove, one large enough to hold a bench swing.

  Spring was settling into the air, the sun able to warm the breeze that softly blew past. The vines, bushes and trees were all a bright green with new leaves, and except for the muted sounds of traffic outside the walls, the garden was silent.

  For the first time in two weeks, I felt peace settle over my mind, the constant whispers quieting as I approached the bench swing. Lying down, I allowed a leg to drape over the edge, the tip of my foot pushing against the ground so that the swing would rock me like a cradle. A breeze tickled up my legs, but I didn’t feel exposed with my unladylike position since the alcove provided privacy and the boy shorts I wore beneath my grey dress kept too much from being seen.

  After a while, I wasn’t quite sleeping and wasn’t quite awake. Instead I was in an in-between, a place where I felt hypnotized, relaxed, drifting over a softly rolling wave that came to a sudden stop as soon as gravel crunched beside me and a heavy weight dropped down onto the seat near my legs.

  “Are you enjoying the peace and quiet?” Vincent asked, his voice smooth and rich, fluid and entrancing. I opened my eyes to see him with one arm draped over the back of the bench seat, the corners of his lips tilted up just slightly, the green shirt he wore bringing out the jeweled clarity of his eyes. “Have I ruined it for you?”

  Yes...but in good way.

  “No,” I answered, “Not at all.” Moving to sit up, he gripped the ankle of my bent leg that I’d propped on the seat of the bench.

  “Don’t move on my account. Continue relaxing. I was just out for a stroll looking for a bit of peace and quiet myself.”

  Sparks chased up my leg from where his fingers wrapped over my skin. Unable to breathe, much less talk, I trembled when he gripped beneath the knee of my other leg and lifted it so that my leg would drape across his lap. The bench continued softly swinging, and I assumed it was his feet that pushed against the ground to keep the slow motion going.

  “I was just getting some air after working this morning,” I finally said, searching but finding nothing more interesting to say. Vincent watched me with amusement in his eyes, his left hand still gripping the ankle of my right leg. When I realized that he had an unobstructed view down my skirt, a shiver coursed through me. Normally, I hated to be exposed, but for this man, the feeling was far different.

  My heart stuttered, a pulse in my throat as his left hand released its hold on my ankle, his fingertips slowly brushing up the side of my calf.

  “Does this bother you?”

  “Your presence?” I asked, my voice shaky.

  “My touch.” There was no waver to his voice. Fluid as water, strong as steel, as assured as any man would be, knowing he cornered his prey.

  “No.” I inhaled. “Yes.” Exhaled. “Maybe.”

  Dark laughter danced along the breeze. “That’s not an answer. Or perhaps it’s the most accurate answer of all.”

  When I thought he would continue taunting me as the tips of his fingers stroked up and down, never reaching my knee, never going any place inappropriate, he surprised me with an unexpected question.

  “Will you be attending the Masquerade Ball next week?”

  “The what?” I squeaked, willing his fingers to go just a little higher, to breach the curve of my knee...to explore down. As usual, he refused to give me what I wanted. I was practically squirming when he finally answered.

  “Our annual Masquerade Ball. It is one of the biggest events for the Wishing Well. Every person will be elegantly dressed, their masks concealing their faces. Everybody who is somebody will be there.”

  His fingers swept up to tickle the back of my knee and I felt heat bloom between my legs. Just as I thought he’d follow the curve to the back of my thigh, he changed direction, a whisper of touch dragging back down along my calf.

  I struggled to speak intelligently, my eyes shut, the bench still softly swinging as birdsong crept within the silence of a clear spring day. Opening my eyes as his fingers kept brushing the skin, a touch but not really, I watched white cotton clouds dance along azure skies, the verdant green of fresh leaves rustling across the dainty branches of tall trees. “I’m just a housekeeper. I’m not sure that qualifies me as somebody.”

  “My interest in you qualifies you as somebody,” he answered.

  My breath was trapped in my lungs. “Isn’t that the mistake you were trying to avoid?”

  “What is life without mistakes?”

  How the fuck does a question become the perfect answer?

  “I don’t have a dress.”

  Silence, and then: “We keep extra gowns and masks for guests who are in the hotel but may not have known about the ball and would like to attend. I’ve set aside two gowns and two masks that will fit you.”

  Applying pressure to my skin as he dragged his fingertips up, he said, “You can answer my question with your choice of which gown. If you wear the red, then I will know your answer is no.” His fingers swept under the curve of my knee, continuing down along the back of my thigh, so slowly. “And if you wear the green, my favorite color, I’ll know your answer is yes.”

  My mouth went dry. Swallowing was impossible. Down, down, down his fingertips traveled. “What’s the question?”

  “Will you take me to your bed?”

  His fingers were between my legs driving a line down the center of my boy shorts, teasing all the places from top to bottom of what skin against skin would be like.

  I opened my mouth to answer, but his hand pulled away, the bench swing shifting as he stood up. A shadow fell over me and I opened my eyes to see him standing tall, looking down, blocking my face from the sunlight. “Bonne journée , Penelope. I’ll expect your answer at the ball.” He stepped away, but then stopping, twisted back to look at me. “I think it’s only fair I warn you that in the bedroom I am a man with particular tastes. You should keep that in mind while making your decision.”

  Tucking his hands inside his pockets, he strolled off, and I was left a quivering mess of damp need while lying on a bench swing in the brilliant afternoon sun.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Red or green?

  Green or red?

  Nope. Didn’t matter which way I asked it, the question had no clear answer. Was not showing up at all a way to avoid it?

  The next week sped by fast, despite my wish for it to crawl. The monotony of my job did nothing to silence my thoughts, the glimpses of Vincent I caught here and there doing nothing to tell me which direction I was going.

  Green!

  Green!

  Green!

  No, wait. Red.

  My heart, my body, my traitorous soul were warring against my logic. Vincent was my boss. Vincent was t
he man keeping me from being homeless. Vincent, I was sure, was a man-whore with a slick tongue and powerful swagger. Vincent was the man that had tossed Émilie to Maurice. Yet, Vincent gripped my every thought.

  As the hours passed, as the minutes now ticked quickly, I stood barefoot in my bedroom, staring down at my bed wondering which beautiful gown I would be wearing. My weight shifted from one foot to the other, my heart leapt and then dove, pounded and then stopped. I was going to pass out if the rhythm didn’t steady.

  My hand reached for the red gown, the silky material sliding against my fingers, before I dropped it down to the white sheets and picked up the green instead. I must have repeated the act several times before having a anxiety attack and walking away entirely.

  It wasn’t that I didn’t want Vincent. It was that I wanted him too much. And I was certain that like any drug that was oh so good, but oh so lethal, just one taste would make me an addict.

  Red.

  No, green.

  Red, definitely red. I would be crushed if he took what he wanted and walked away. I would be homeless if he kicked me to the curb after getting what he was after.

  I would be an idiot not to jump at the chance to learn what that man would be like in bed.

  Walking back to the foot of my bed, I closed my eyes and spun quickly in place until I was dizzy. And like I was playing a children’s game, I reached out blindly, deciding I’d let fate decide what would happen to me with whatever gown my hand landed on.

  Gripping the silk, I blew out a breath, and opened my eyes to see green.

  It appeared fate had chosen to throw me to the wolves. I chose to ignore the way my breath caught at the thought of it.

  In a ridiculous rush, I pulled on the slinky gown, taking note of how low the neckline rode, my cleavage on full display above a bodice jeweled with crystal. Sleeveless, the gown hugged my chest and abdomen, green silk cascading down from an empire waist to brush the ground as I walked.

  If not for the matching heels that gave me four more inches of height, there would have been no way for me to walk in this. Carefully twisting my hair up into an elegant design, I pinned it all in place and hurried out to the bed to grab the mask and tie it on. Green like the dress, the jeweled mask only covered my nose and eyes, the ribbons long and trailing down my back.

  The room spun as I made my way out into the halls, the silence of the elevator ride down the first floor ballroom setting my nerves on edge and twisting my stomach into so many knots, I wasn’t sure I’d ever be able to eat again.

  But for all the trepidation, for the fear and panic and uncertainty that drowned me, I was still able to stand amazed and mesmerized when I turned a corner and followed the music that filled the hotel to see the glamor and opulence of the ballroom.

  They’d spared no expense in its splendor, cut no corners in its design, and now with the room filled from wall to wall with beautiful people, I felt like I’d stepped out of some ordinary life and into a fairy tale. Never had I imagined I would attend an event such as this, never had I felt like I was floating while my feet were planted firmly on the ground.

  Stepping inside, I glanced up at the large, crystal chandelier, its light spilling down onto the dancers casting prisms of colored designs. The walls flickered with hundreds of fire sconces, the silver fissures in the black marble floors sparkling beneath the dance of shadow and light. A waiter moved past me dressed in a black on black suit, pausing to bow shallowly and offer one of the flutes of sparkling champagne. After plucking one from the silver tray, I inclined my head to thank him and brought the rim of the glass to my lips.

  Nobody in this room knew who I was, they had no clue I was simply a housekeeper. And as they passed me in their tailed tuxedos and partial face masks, I smiled back with red glossed lips when they nodded their heads in greeting. If I knew how to dance, I would have done so, but instead, I stood off to the right of the room watching while people laughed and clapped and kissed each other, the center of the room a whirlwind of activity as masked dancers moved in coordination.

  My eyes peered about the room wondering which masked man was Vincent, which tuxedo would he wear? Black on white, black on black? Would his mask be gold, or black or red? Who was he the among these glamorous people and would he make himself known to me now or later?

  He would recognize me because I wore the dress he selected. He would know my answer was yes.

  An hour passed and then another as I drank more champagne and ate the hor d’oeuvres that passed by on silver trays, my head spinning as the alcohol coursed through my veins, my cheeks hurting from smiling so much. Just as I’d given up hope of ever recognizing Vincent, a hush fell over the crowd, people backing away from the center of the room as dancers dressed in jaw dropping costumes took their place beneath the chandelier.

  A song lightly played, the crescendo building, the increasing tempo driving my pulse until the room was spinning, the dancers hearing their cue and becoming the music that transfixed me. One man stood facing them from the front of the room, his tailored tuxedo perfectly displaying broad shoulders that tapered down to a strong chest and a trim waist, his face completely covered by a black mask that bore no embellishments except shadow.

  It must be him, I thought, but then a pair of strong hands grabbed me, a warm chest pressed against my back as the cool surface of a devil’s mask brushed against my cheek. Twisting so that I could see the man that held me, brilliant green eyes stared back.

  “Vincent,” I whispered, unable to see if he smiled that dangerously devilish grin that fit so perfectly with his green and silver mask. His hand found mine, and before I could utter another word, I was being led from the ballroom by a man whose black tuxedo did nothing to hide the masculine strength of his body.

  I was practically running to keep up with him as we wound our way through the halls, and when we were alone together as the elevator climbed, I laughed and reached for his mask.

  His grip was bruising when he snatched my wrist to keep me from pulling it off.

  The elevator doors opened and he swept me up into his arms, cradling me to his chest as he ate the distance of the hall with his long, powerful stride. He didn’t set me down again until we were in the privacy of my room.

  He stilled as we stood staring at each other, our masks in place and our chests heaving. It was the motion of his arm that caught my gaze, the length of his fingers slipping into his pocket to extract a long stretch of black silk.

  I think it’s only fair I warn you that in the bedroom I am a man with particular tastes.

  My heart was a trapped bird beating its wings desperately beneath my ribs.

  Raising a black-gloved hand, he twirled his finger in the air, silently demanding I turn around. I obeyed him without uttering a complaint.

  Without making a sound beyond the soft thud of his shoes against the carpet, Vincent stepped behind me, so close that the heat of his chest was a furnace against my back. His hands were gentle as he untied the ribbon holding my mask in place. It fell to the ground as silently as a feather. Soft silk stretched over my eyes, the low light in the room disappearing, and after securing the blindfold in place, his fingertip traced the shape of my mouth, his breath a whisper of sound near my cheek as his other hand gripped my hip and pulled me against him.

  I could feel the hard length of his excitement against the cheeks of my bottom, a violent tremor coursing through me. His finger slipped inside my mouth and I suckled the tip without thinking. The responsive growl that rattled his chest was full of male satisfaction. His hand was a bruising pressure on my hip, his body pressing closer, his finger pulling out of my mouth so that he could rip the mask from his face. I felt the skin of his cheek against mine, felt the burn of stubble as his face fell down and his teeth locked on to the tender place where my neck met my shoulder.

  All the breath that had been held in my lungs rushed out at once.

  My head fell back as his hand splayed over my stomach, slowly moving up until they palm
ed the weight of my breast over my dress and tore at the bodice of my gown. The material ripped apart, the beauty of the silk shredded as he stripped me bare except for the panties I wore and the heels still holding my feet at four inches above the floor. While his teeth grazed over my shoulder, the tips a sharp line against sensitive skin, one of his hands held me in place by the hip, while the other dove down beneath my panties.

  My knees gave out and I would have fallen had he not been holding me up. Circling a fingertip over my aching clit, he’d never bothered to take his gloves off. The cloth was a rough texture against that pulsing place, the movement of his hand tortuous and demanding. His foot moved to kick my legs farther apart and he dipped that finger down to thrust inside me.

  A startled moan burst from my lips, my body like putty as his teeth sank down again, his tongue licking over the skin for a taste. It didn’t matter the pain he caused, I didn’t care if he broke the skin to lick the blood away, all that held my attention in that moment was the way his finger played me. Every muscle beneath my skin tensed as a storm sparked to life in my body, the whispers of an orgasm licking at my brain until my hips moved to beg him to drive deeper.

  I was so close to coming apart when he released the hold his teeth had on my shoulder, pressed his mouth to my ear and whispered in the most haunting voice I’d ever heard, “Du sang pour le plaisir, ma chérie. Je suis à genoux mais je te possède. ”

  It didn’t matter what he’d said. I would agree to anything just to feel the pulse of him inside me.

  His hand pulled away as his arm swept around to lock over my abdomen and lift me from the floor. From one second to the next I was standing in my living room and being tossed down onto my stomach over the bed. I tried to turn, my his hand slammed down on my back until I gave in, the tips of his fingers dragging down to cup me between the legs until he took both my legs in his grip, pulled my body to the edge and forced my knees apart.