Unrequited

by Camille Oster

  "Let's return home," he said. They hadn't walked far, but far enough to erase his intentions of keeping her at arm's length. Desire burned through his body now, a want he'd suppressed for a long time. Now it roared back to life, supplemented by months of parrying with her in fruitless negotiations.

  He could feel the excitement in her; she seemed to sense the drop in the walls that kept her out. They didn't speak further, instead quietly returned to the house, divesting the coats and moving up the staircase to his private quarters.

  When the door to his bedroom was shut, she came to him, her kisses deep and eager. Her gentle hands exploring his chest. He wanted this now and wouldn't let anything stop it. Perhaps this is what someone wanted, placing this girl under these magics, but there was no harm leveraging this. Not when she yielded so gracefully.

  Her blouse fell away and they had apparently not been able to secure her a brassier just yet. Rose-tipped mounds greeted him, her breath underneath expanding. Then the skirt fell away and she was entirely naked in his hands, trusting him completely. She was too vulnerable for him to admonish her for her foolishness.

  Urging her back, he had her on his bed, her skin glowing against the dark sheets. A flush of desire had spread across her body. She was utterly beautiful—long, lean limbs with soft, pale flesh. She reacted to each touch, her mouth parting in ecstasy. Claiming the softness on offer, he lay down in her eager arms, returning to explore her mouth.

  Desire burned through his whole body now. A few quick movements and he was burying himself in her welcoming heat, pleasure unfurling in his consciousness. Pleasure was usually something fraught with hidden agendas and intentions. Here he knew her intentions exactly, even if they were not true. This was perhaps only impossible because her intentions were untrue. Politically it would be too difficult otherwise.

  She arched beautifully underneath him, seeking more, seeking for him to claim her completely. Moving in and out of her, the sounds of her enjoyment only heightened, desperate hands clasping him. Bucking underneath him, she tensed through her release, her hands at his hips urging him deeper. Her responsiveness to him was complete and it was heady being in the thrall of it. As her body softened, his only tensed as he drove into her, again and again, until his own release surged through him. Pleasure exploded, draining every ounce of energy from him, giving to her.

  Then there was that moment of vulnerability he couldn’t but recognize. Tenderness washed over him, unwanted and unwelcome. Tentatively he accepted it though. Her arms wrapped around him as he sank down on her body, heaving with breath. For the first time in an age, he lay in the arms of another and harkened back to a time he didn’t overtly remember in anything other than feelings, when the warmth of another body had meant something.

  Already he wanted more, but he rolled off her and she came with him, settling at his side with her arm across him. "Please let me stay," she said in a quiet voice. "I can't bear to be on my own. I need you."

  He should make her go, but he wasn't. That buried part of him still wanted the feel of her next to him. Contented sleep claimed her quickly. It was perhaps not surprising as she had been on edge for days, trying to get this overwhelming need for him tended. Her limbs grew heavy and he felt trapped. Not enough to actually shift her off him, but he acknowledged a certain level of discomfort with still being ensconced in this softness.

  In her sleep, her hand still stroked across his body. Even now, she knew she was with him. He wondered what they were doing in her dreams. It was strange to be so important to someone on an intimate level. But all this was false; he could not forget that. It was also the reason he could allow this in the first place.

  Chapter 33:

  * * *

  It couldn't be denied that Melisande had stopped caring for things that used to bother her, like nudity. Now, she loved languishing in Adaeus' bedroom in the nude—maybe for the reason that it seemed to distract him. In the mornings, he delayed dressing and walking down to his study, preferring to read the morning paper in the chair by the window, while she watched and sighed, lying between his luxurious sheets, which draped so nicely across her middle. Breakfast was also now served in his bedroom and there was a special decadence eating naked.

  Nothing was as good as when he came to her. It was what she waited for, his touch on her skin, the kiss that tasted like ambrosia. Everything he did was beautiful. But when he did dress and leave, she took the time to bath and dress, scent and moisturize her skin, while he was downstairs tending to his affairs. He liked very much to undress her, and clothes had started arriving, particularly silk—stockings, lingerie, blouses. She loved wearing the clothes that appeared in the room, especially the soft and tactile silk. It was so like his touch against her skin, making her feel loved and treasured.

  They rarely left the house, only for walks around the city, particularly when it was raining and they had the city to themselves. It was all utter bliss.

  Quietly she walked down the stairs, making her way to the study. Her heart constricted when she saw him again, pleasure flooding her brain. He needed time to do his work; she knew that. If she was patient and good, he would reward her after, usually before lunch, where she would lean on his desk and he would slip down the stockings covering her legs, before having his way with her, driving her insane with desire before quelling it.

  For now, she would have to wait. A knock on the door took Adaeus' attention and Tarquin walked in. He looked at her for a moment then went and sat at one of the chairs on the other side of the desk. She was not allowed to sit in those chairs. They were for business and she was much too distracting, she had been told. She did wish he would allow her to help him more, but he wouldn't share his business dealings with her.

  "I have traced the wine," Tarquin said. "Delivered from a shop here in Paris. The systems at the couriers says so, but neither the shop staff nor the courier staff remember anything about the order. As if it never happened, but the systems show the delivery. Paid in cash."

  "Are they telling the truth?"

  "They appear to be."

  "So there are no further leads."

  "I am chasing a few. I will find them. There are also traces of magics on the staff, so it is perhaps not surprising they don’t remember anything about it."

  Adaeus sat back and wove his fingers together. Oh, she wished he would send Tarquin away so it could just be the two of them. They didn't need anyone else.

  "So it wasn't the humans," Adaeus said. "Unless they sought magical help."

  "They never have in the past. They wouldn't trust it."

  "This is interesting information. Someone wants these negotiations to fail."

  "Either to create discord, or to show us failing at dealing with the humans."

  "I suspect things have not gone as they planned." Adaeus ran the nail of his thumb along his bottom lip and Melisande felt her insides quiver with desire. "Do doubt they expected her to be carted away raving mad outside my house, suggesting my abuse of her and the negotiation process, or dead. Either they would have used against us. Her disappearing inside our house was probably not something they had expected, and I think they are unsure how to proceed.

  "But they will proceed in some manner. Find them. They are no doubt watching the house in some way. Find trace of them and track them back. I want them dealt with. I want them punished."

  Tarquin nodded, then left.

  *

  Adaeus sighed and turned his attention to the girl, sitting in her chair. She smiled when he looked at her. "Come," he said and she rose. She wore a loose fitting white shirt which caressed her curves, and a dark wool skirt. Her legs glistened slightly in the light as she walked. Adaeus felt heady desire flash through his system. "Sit," he said and she sat down in his lap.

  Everything about her was lush, her lips, her round cheeks and clear eyes. Also her hair, glossy locks sweeping her shoulders. With his fingers, he pushed her hair behind her ear, watching her eyes close with the touch, her lips part.


  In his gut, he knew they had expected him to kill her, dispose of her body somewhere. He couldn't lie and say the thought hadn't occurred to him when she'd first turned up, but something had stayed his hand, and now he had this sweet girl on his lap, craving every touch he gave her.

  His choice had been rewarding, probably more so than he'd ever expected. There was a sweetness he didn't think he had room for in his life, but she had coaxed him, with softness and desire—things he didn't normally respond to. For some reason, he had responded to this girl—probably because he'd known her before and knew this wasn't her. If this had been real, he would never have let it go so far, but it wasn't entirely real and he'd seen no harm.

  But the people out there had planned for her to turn up face down in the river somewhere, and they may not have given up on that plan. She could very well be in danger if he let her go. The light sparkled in her eyes. It was fairly dark outside, even for midday, and the fire crackled behind them.

  "I won't let them hurt you," he said and she smiled.

  "I know you won't."

  "So trusting." She shouldn't be so trusting, even of him—least of all of him, but he also couldn't bring himself to disabuse her. His thumb stroked across her lips, which were stained with a berry color. Drawing her head down, he claimed her lips. She tasted sweet, like the color of her lips and femininity. Her breasts pressed against his chest.

  Adaeus broke the kissed and looked down at her legs, the silk stockings feeling buttery under his hands stroking up her inner thighs. She parted her legs slightly, with hitched breath welcoming him.

  This hadn't supposed to have happened. It was against his own character, but for an unfathomable reason, he'd allowed himself to get sucked into this… seduction. He wondered if it would have happened if they'd chosen someone else. Some random human, no. An exquisite demonic girl or witch, probably not, but her, with her natural distrust and disregard—this had intrigued him, and now it had taken on a life of its own.

  She held her breath as his hand moved higher. It felt forbidden. This was definitely not something he should be doing, toying with a woman, a human—the chief negotiator for the humans. She was warm and wet, eager for him. She wore no underwear other than the lace topped stockings and the garter belt holding them up with small clips. He closed his eyes with the maddening tenderness of it. Mewls of desire escaped her lips.

  "Please, Adaeus. I need you," she said, her voice sounding lush with strain.

  Again, he kissed her, deeper this time, perhaps acknowledging there was something being filled in himself as well, something he'd buried a long time ago. Sharply, he rose and shifted her so her back lay on his desk. Her skirt had ridden up on her hips, revealing the lace stocking edges around her thighs, and she bit her finger, waiting for him. There didn't seem to be a way to stem this desire he felt for her now that it had been released.

  Unbuttoning and freeing himself, he sunk into her body, pulling her hips to him. Urgent warmth enveloped him, her body tightening around him. She reached for him, her hands clasping. Her mewls turned into cries and her heels urged him deeper. For a moment, it felt as if he had no control, the desire was taking over. His strokes into her grew harder and longer, and she froze in arched tension, her body pulsing powerfully around him, milking every ounce of strength out of him.

  After the surge of pure, undiluted pleasure, he withdrew and she stayed on the desk, spent and languid. He felt his heart calm as he sat down again. Some of his documents were now crumpled under her, a price to pay for such compelling passion. Her passion was insatiable, but he would deny her now, until tonight, when they would withdraw in the evening. The wait, the anticipation made it more tantalizing. The underlying desire—desire unspent, was a pleasure in and of itself.

  "I think lunch is being served, Miss Samra," he said, tidying away the unruliness about himself. "Come join me."

  She rose and straightened her skirt. "Shall we go for a walk afterward?" Her hand snuck into the crook of his elbow and they leisurely walked to the dining room.

  "No, I think we must stop." If there were people out to harm her, taking her out of the house would expose her. She looked disappointed. Perhaps he could take her to the manor down in Geneva. She would enjoy that, but it wasn't as secure as the main residence in Paris. Whatever happened, it felt important to ensure she wasn't hurt. If nothing else, he would ensure that.

  Chapter 34:

  * * *

  There was something quite decadent about having Melisande lying naked on rumpled sheets, wearing nothing but pearls. Adaeus was getting used to her attention, and she was intelligent enough to know when she was being overbearing.

  "And what have you planned today?" she asked, taking a deep breath as she lay on her side.

  "You know the answer."

  "You work too much."

  "There is no such thing," he smiled. This wasn't the first time they'd had this discussion.

  "Sometimes you need to fill the well. Art, culture. It sparks the imagination, enriches the soul. You must take care of your soul. There is a new exhibition at Pompidou. Tribal arts—primitive, honest and passionate.” Her voice sank to barely more than a whisper.

  Adaeus snorted. First, the concept of a soul was a fraught argument. Second, exhibitions and art were an utter waste of time, but she enjoyed them, apparently. "Why would I want to go look at how some savages interpret the world?"

  "Savages? You are so old fashioned."

  "Yes, I am."

  "Because you are one."

  Adaeus looked up, folding his newspaper in his lap. Her body looked delicious, every curve highlighted in the pale morning light. A strong urge to get up and go to her speared through him, just to forget it all and immerse himself in the softness of her, the sweetness of her. "I am probably more savage than you could ever tolerate." He worked hard on maintaining the refinement he treasured, but she wanted to break that, burrow underneath. It thrilled her, but only the hint of it. The reality was not as pretty.

  Smoothly, like a cat, she got up and walked toward him, high on the balls of her feet. With a satisfied groan, she sat down in his lap, the warmth of her skin soaking through the silk he wore. "Please?"

  "Why would you want me to go look at art?"

  "I want to see you respond. I want to see you feel."

  "You are a selfish girl."

  Almost purring, she put her arms around his neck. "I know what I want."

  "Which is what exactly?"

  "I want to see that sparkle in your eyes."

  "What sparkle would that be?"

  "When you want something." Without being able to help it, his hand ran up her bare thigh. "There it is," she smiled, leaning closer for a kiss. Deliciousness suffused his mind. He was growing quite accustomed to these kisses. She was always forthright in what she wanted, and she was becoming an expert at working around his barriers and deflections.

  The kiss broke with a sigh. "And what of all the work I must do?"

  "It will be there when you come back. You are more important than your work."

  "I am my work."

  "It's not your work that has me panting with need every night."

  Just a potion, he wanted to say, but the potion did not create her personality, or her ability to seduce him. That was all her. And granted, after an initial attempt at keeping her at arm's length, he had succumbed, and been richly rewarded for it. In fact, she was successful in submerging him in this play, this tease, and the heady rewards. He had to start wondering if he craved her in equal measure.

  *

  Melisande walked ahead of him, up the stairs to into the exoskeletoned building that was the Centre Pompidou. He had relented in the end, not that he was entirely sure why. Perhaps he wanted to watch her explore, be challenged, consider and wonder. Ideas had meaning to her. To her, they were a virtue in their own right, and seeking new ways of thinking was the practicing of an art.

  The exhibits were all challenging in some way, seeking to disrupt o
rder, toy with fears and resoundedly communicate how small one's world was. Adaeus liked order, needed order, and many of the things he saw made him itch with discomfort. But to her, they were thrilling. Maybe because she didn't know enough about chaos to fear it.

  She was so very innocent, toying with passion and savagery, and the rules of civility, like a teenager rebelling against their parent's rule. The truth would harm her. That innocence would be destroyed, and that would leave something drab and gray behind. On some level, she was a child and she would go through her life that way, excited about the world around her, and the hidden layers of a person. She wanted his hidden layers, not comprehending the darkness that must exist, that had to be harnessed and utilized.

  She turned to him, smiling in her usually seductive way, but she blinked and a flash of uncertainty worked through her eyes. It disappeared as quickly as it came, but it had beyond a doubt been there. "What was I saying?" she said.

  "You were speaking of the artist's dilemma."

  "Yes," she said, but didn't continue. Adaeus could see she didn't quite remember her conversation from a moment ago. "It is beautiful here. This entire building is an expression." Same sentiment as a moment before, but something had changed. He could see it in her eyes. She started saying something again, but faltered as if she were confused.

  Subconsciously, she crossed her arms—a protective urge. Uncertainty was invading her mind. "I think we must return to the house," Adaeus said. Melisande didn't argue, instead followed as he led the way to the exit, placing his hand on the small of her back as he'd grown so accustomed to doing. In his gut, he knew what this small, seemingly innocuous change signified: the potion was wearing off. The person who had become such a large part of his life was about to disappear and he didn't know how much longer she would be amenable to his company.

  Rain had made the street outside slick and dark, and he led her to the car where a driver was waiting by an opened door.