Exposed

by Jasinda Wilder

  Anger flushes through me. I push you away, but you do not let go of my hair, and I must return to you or suffer the pain. "Let go, Caleb." I accept the pain and continue to push away.

  You swell with an inbreath. "No," you growl. "I know you're angry. But you cannot deny that you feel this, Isabel."

  I do. Oh, I do. And that is the true source of my rage. That I cannot help but feel this. Somehow your proximity eradicates all that exists beyond you, all that exists outside of you and me. Your heat and your brutal strength occlude my ability to remember why I hate you, why I do not trust you.

  This feels familiar.

  I know when you will move next. You will wait a beat . . . a second . . . a third, and then--yes. Now. You cup the back of my neck, my own hair crushed against my neck, soft and silky against my skin, between my neck and your hand. And you lift me up thus, force me up to my tiptoes and your lips are insistent on mine. The kiss blasts me. Shadows of confusion contort and cavort with rays of truth, dance on the walls of my twisting mind like a puzzle of chiaroscuro. You kiss me dizzy and then release me. Abruptly, violently.

  "Fuck," you snarl. "Fuck. I taste him on you. I smell him."

  "You knew," I say, wiping at my lips with the back of my wrist. "You knew where I was going, and who I'd be with."

  "That's different than tasting it."

  "And how do you think I feel, watching you fuck Rachel?" I hiss. "How do you think that feels for me, knowing you leave me, still smelling of me, and go to her. Bed her . . . taste her, fuck her. And then come back to me, and bed me, taste me, fuck me, and now both of us are on your skin. Or more, even? The other girls on that floor, too, maybe. Are there others? Other girls, in other buildings? Girlfriends elsewhere in the city, who know nothing of each other? Like that girl from the limo . . . what was her name, the Jewish one?"

  "Isabel--" you begin.

  "There is nothing you can say to me, Caleb. Nothing that will make it better. Nothing that will take away that betrayal. And then you did what you did to me, right there by that elevator. The way you used me." I swallow hard against the rage and the hurt. "The way you've always used me. It's never been about us. It's been about me belonging to you. Being your whore. Only you do not pay me in money, you pay me in life. You pay me in things, in false memories and mantras in the night, old stories and half truths. You pay me in things far less useful or tangible than mere currency, Caleb. And I will not accept those forms of payment anymore."

  I turn then, and you let me go. Allow me to walk away. But then you're behind me. Standing far too close. Breathing on me. Your front touching my back. I can feel your erection against my backside, and your hands clutch my hips. Your lips touch the curve of my neck, near my shoulder.

  You murmur to me.

  "Can you walk away from this, Isabel? How right we feel together? Yes, I use you. But you use me just the same. You accept what I give, and you take more from me. You do not stop me. You do not say no. You beg for more. Not in words, but sex is not about words, is it? You beg for more with the way you breathe, the way you tense when I draw closer to you, the way you arch back into me. The way you lift your hips when I touch you. The way you moan when I make you come, over and over and over. You come for me, Isabel." Your large, powerful hands with your squared-off, manicured nails and rough calluses paw across my hips, one scraping up to cup my breast, the other down to my core. "Do you remember the first time I touched you?"

  I cannot breathe. God, I remember. All too well, all too vividly. I remember. I'd felt it coming for so long. Weeks. Months. Years, even. Tension building, heightening, mounting. The way you looked at me, didn't quite touch me. Almost, but not quite. We were in my condo, which was new. Still smelling of fresh paint. I'd lived in a different apartment in that building until then, a smaller one. Much like it, but not as large, not as nice. But very similar. I was standing at the kitchen counter, looking at my new home. Admiring the dark hardwood floor and the bookshelves, daydreaming of all the books I'd put on them--you'd put on them. And you came up behind me, just like this. An inch away at first. I smelled your cologne, and felt you there. You put your hands on the counter to either side of me. Just stood there. Inhaling my scent. I wanted you. I wanted to touch you. I remember that. Needing to know how your muscles would feel. Needing . . . something. I wasn't sure what, but something. And when you edged closer so your body was touching mine, I knew. I'd straightened, and you'd moved closer. I felt your chest against my back, and the thick ridge of your erection. I remember fighting it. Not knowing if it was right or wrong, nor understanding the potency of my desire.

  But when your hands touched my waist and skated down to cup my hips, I had no choice but to let out the breath I'd been holding and melt into you.

  Second by second, you seduced me with nothing but touch, and I let you. I ate it up, truth be told. Devoured every touch. Felt you remove my clothing, bit by bit, until I was naked in that kitchen and your hands were on my skin and you were tasting my flesh and I was moaning. You tasted me then. Buried your face between my thighs and made me come. And then you bent me over the counter and drove into me right there. It surprised me, but excited me. And when you were done, you carried me to the bedroom, set me in the bed. Touched my skin. My curves. And in not too many minutes, you were ready again and this time you rolled me to my hands and knees and took me once more, and you commanded me to keep quiet and told me not to come until you instructed me to do so. It lasted for a time I could not measure. You allowed me to come close to climax, and stopped. Closer, and stop. Closer and closer, stop. And when you did let me come, I was ripped apart by an orgasm so potent I cried.

  My skin is hot and my breathing falters, just remembering.

  "You remember." You pinch my nipple through dress and bra, and I gasp. "I waited so long to have you. Years, I waited. I wanted you every single day, but you weren't ready. So I waited, and waited, and waited. When we moved you into that condo, I was planning to wait longer yet. But you were standing there, and you were just so fucking beautiful that I had to be closer to you. And the way you reacted, I knew you wanted me. I knew you were ready. Not before or since have I ever experienced anything so beautiful and erotic and incredible as that first time with you. You were so responsive. You knew what you wanted. You weren't a virgin, Isabel. You had no more memory of yourself then than you do now, but I could tell. You knew what you were doing, and what you wanted, even if you didn't know you knew."

  "Years?" Those early years are a blur. I remember your presence, always you, only you. I remember wanting you, wondering why you didn't touch me, kiss me. And then you did, and I glutted on you.

  "Every single day, every moment I was near you, I wanted you. Obviously, at first, you were barely able to function. But after you regained mobility and speech, it got so much harder to resist you. I taught you, educated you, trained you. Worked out with you, ate with you. And all that while, I craved you." You drive a finger against my core, through my dress. "As I crave you now."

  My next words are foolish, daring, and so very, very stupid. But I cannot stop them. "And do you still crave me, knowing another man has touched me, Caleb? Do you still crave me, knowing another man has tasted me, touched me, kissed me?"

  You spin away with a snarl so feral I wonder if perhaps you truly are an animal in human disguise. You scrape your hands through your hair, stalk away, glance at me with unbridled rage so fierce it frightens me. A rare look into your deepest emotions. You pace with angry, leonine steps to the table containing the decanter of scotch, pour a huge measure, and toss it back in one swallow, hissing at the burn.

  "Do not test me, Isabel."

  "Or what?" I ask, my voice calm and quiet, filled with the venom you taught me so well. "Will you beat me? Kill me? Turn me out? What will you do if I continue to test you? You are a hypocrite and a liar, Caleb Indigo. If that's even your name." Rage suffuses me. "You crave me, but not me. Not me, Isabel. You crave Madame X, the nameless, identityless woman you crea
ted. I was your golem, Caleb. I know this. I see this. You formed me out of clay, baked me in the fires of your controlling and mysterious ways. But now--now the clay and the stone are cracking and falling away, and the true woman beneath the perfectly shaped skin of the golem is emerging, and you hate that. You hate it. Because I'm not the woman you thought I was. Because I am not so completely yours anymore."

  "Such poetry, Isabel. You are very eloquent in your anger." Your voice is low, thinner and sharper than the blade of an electron splitter.

  You move with the slow, precise gestures of a man in complete control of his rage. You are better than useless displays of anger, better than tantrums. You do not hurl the glass to smash on the floor or against the wall. Such a gesture would be satisfying, perhaps, but useless. Petty, and empty. No, you take a moment and merely breathe. I watch your chest swell and contract. I watch your fists clench and loosen. I watch your eyes pierce me, unblinking, staring, and you are utterly inscrutable. I do not know your thoughts. I do not know what moves beneath the surface of your carefully shuttered expression, coiling and diving and not quite breaching the surface.

  You are leviathan.

  And my rage is the callow fury of a young woman only now learning how to express her emotions.

  You stand before me. Stare down at me. "You cannot deny me, Isabel. You walked away, and yet here you are once more. In my home. You tremble. With rage, yes."

  A step closer, and your chest brushes against the tips of my breasts, and even through the fabric of my dress and bra, my nipples respond to your proximity.

  "But also, you tremble with desire." Your lips brush my earlobe. "For me."

  I am stronger than this.

  I am stronger than this.

  You cup my core with a broad, hard hand. "Your pussy is wet." You bite my earlobe, whisper dirty secret truth against the shell of my ear. "For me."

  I am stronger than this.

  I am stronger than this.

  Your words leach my lungs of air. Your proximity snarls my will and tangles it. You are a sorcerer, and you weave magic of singular purpose: to seduce me.

  You slide your hands up my front, grasp my breasts.

  Clutch the V of fabric between them.

  Slowly, slowly, with exquisite control, you rip my dress open from top to bottom. Unclasp my bra with a single deft flick of your hands. Tear apart my underwear at the seam over my hip, and the scrap of lace tumbles to the floor.

  I am gasping for breath, my breasts heaving. My blood thrums as I hunt vainly for the will to resist you.

  I sob once, and then your lips are on mine and your hands are lifting me and somehow you've shed your sweatpants and shoes and socks and you are utterly naked with me in this echoing space with dawn light battering blindingly upon us, illuminating us, leaving no shadows in which my weakness can be hidden, no darkness that can absorb the stain of my sin.

  You press my spine to the coolness of the window glass. Your hands are large and rough and strong on my backside, holding me up, spreading me open for you.

  I bite your shoulder as you thrust into me, taste blood as I am filled by you.

  As Madame X I was owned by you.

  As Isabel, I am fucked by you.

  A thrust. A thrust. I sob, and you buck into me. My flesh squeals against the glass. This is agony, this is ecstasy. You move like a machine, hips driving you into me with pistonlike power.

  But . . .

  There is a void within me now. It was always there, perhaps, but now I feel it most keenly, as you fill me and fail to sate me.

  I know your patterns. I know your needs.

  You cannot stomach being face-to-face very long. I wait, but it isn't long before you lower me to the floor, spin me in place and press me to the glass. Not just my hands, but all of me. Breasts smashed flat against the cold glass, thighs, stomach, cheek. Naked, I am pressed against the glass for all the world to see.

  I am exposed.

  And you are behind me, pushing into me. One hand on my hip, guiding my motions, the other clutching the queue of my braid.

  You fuck, and you fuck, and you fuck.

  In this, there is no pleasure for me. For the first time that I can remember, you do not spare a single moment of attention for me. You only drive with single-minded madness into me again and again and again, hips slapping loudly against the taut roundness of my backside. I hear that, and only that. The slap-slap-slap of your body meeting mine. I glance out the window, and across the street I can almost see a face in a window, watching me.

  You come, and I feel the hot rush of your seed filling me, dripping out of me.

  You have claimed me, but there is a secret only I know: Your mark does not adhere to my skin, your claim does not sear into my soul.

  In the last few minutes, I felt the earth shift, felt the shackles of your sorcery fall away.

  You step away, and I spin in place, rest my bottom and shoulders against the glass, stare at you.

  Something within me aches.

  There are no words to speak.

  I turn away from you, return my gaze to the world beyond the glass. After a time the silence grows profound, becomes empty, and I know you've walked away.

  My cigar, at some point set in an ashtray, still smolders. I place it between my teeth, pour a measure of scotch, blow thick plumes of smoke into the rays of sunlight, and swallow burning mouthfuls of scotch in an attempt to drown the screams of self-loathing welling up within me.

  I smoke, and I drink, and I listen to you shower.

  I remain naked, because clothes cannot cover my shame.

  You emerge dressed, hair wet and clean and slicked back, dressed in a tan suit with a pale blue shirt, no tie, baring that sliver of skin. You stare at me, a frown pinching your face, razoring a line into the bridge of your nose.

  I want to yell at you. Tell you how much I hate you. Tell you how empty I feel. Tell you that everything is different now, everything is changed. I am changed. If I am addict and you are a drug, the high has soured.

  I say nothing, however, because there are no words that can express the weltering chaos within me.

  Neither of us speaks, and after a moment, you leave. The elevator doors close together, narrowing my view of you until there is nothing left but the doors.

  And I am alone once more.

  I give in to the screams, and my voice echoes off the glass in raw, ragged, jagged fragments. I scream until my voice gives out, and then I weep.

  I allowed you to use me again. I feel the cancer of it like a film of grease on my soul.

  No more.

  Never again.

  I cease weeping, and I shower you off me.

  I step into a long, loose dress, wrap myself in a blanket. While away the hours with a book, bored and alone and drowning in self-loathing and disgust. Eventually, the day fades, and I fall asleep on a couch, because I do not want to be in your bed, even to sleep.

  ELEVEN

  Rain slices like knives forged from ice. I shiver, but not from cold; I bleed. I taste blood in my mouth, feel it spill warm and wet from my head and my hip, dribble down my cheek and drip off my chin. Darkness. All is dark. A pale rectangle of light from a window illuminates a portion of sidewalk and some of the street, the curb between them.

  I hear sirens. They sound like the warbles of prehistoric birds, echoing off cliff faces.

  I want only to be warm.

  I want to not hurt.

  My stomach shudders, and I hear a sound. A sob. A scream.

  My throat aches, and I realize the sobs and screams emit from me.

  I am alone.

  I cannot lift my head.

  I can stare sideways at the pale scrap of light and wish I could reach it, crawl to it, lie in its warmth. Anything must be warmer than here, where the rain batters me and the cold cracks open my bones, freezes my marrow.

  Why am I here? I don't remember.

  I have an idea of horror, dreamed remnants of terror. Smashing glass, t
wisting metal. Razors splitting open my skull. Hammers bashing my body. Weightlessness. Darkness.

  Blood.

  So much blood.

  A face appears. An angel?

  No, too dark, the eyes like glinting shards of night betray too many devoured dreams, speak of nightmares feasted upon.

  An incubus.

  I fancy I can see his wings spread to either side of his wet, muscular body, thick coiled whipping things like feathered serpents. I blink, and he is only a man.

  I blink, and I know his face.

  I scream, or perhaps I only try to. He is lifting me, and I see blood on his hand as he brushes my hair away from my eyes.

  The world tilts and darkens, and a hole attempts to swallow me from inside out, and then I see the flames. I want to be in those flames, where it is warm. I want to be in those flames. I want to be with those in the flames.

  I strain, and iron bands hold me back. I reach for the flames. I peer into them, and I can see a hand, blackening. A shirtsleeve crisping, curling. Perhaps I imagine it all. Perhaps I imagine the flames.

  I don't know. I know I am cold.

  So cold.

  I know pain is all.

  I know the iron bands strapped around me are warm and breath smelling of whisky bathes my face.

  I look up, and eyes pierce mine. "Sssshhhh. You'll be okay. I'll get you help." The voice is the texture of a blacked-out room, smooth as velvet, powerful and deep.

  I am falling. I fight against gravity, because that way lies darkness, and in the darkness lurks obscurity. I don't know what that thought means, but I know I must fight.

  I lose.

  I fall.

  Through depthless dark, I fall.

  *

  I wake with a start. My voice is hoarse. My throat hurts.

  You brush away a flyaway strand of hair. Shush me.

  I taste the dream, still.

  I push you away. Your touch holds no comfort, your voice no respite from the images haunting my brain. "Get away."

  "It's me, it's Caleb."

  "I know." I struggle for a single deep breath. "Don't--don't touch me."

  I sit up, curl the blanket tighter around my shoulders, hunch in on myself, eyes clenched shut so hard I see stars and my eyes hurt. I do not want to share this with you, but I must speak it out into the world so it doesn't die the death of dreams, lost somewhere between brain and tongue.