I ignore it.
Peruse the menu.
Logan does not suggest anything, and when the server appears to take our orders, Logan allows me to speak for myself. I like that. Deciding what I want, making my own decisions.
Dinner is long, broken into several courses. I refuse wine, which perplexes Logan, but he doesn’t push it, and also does not order anything for himself.
And he doesn’t ask why.
I wonder if he will begin to suspect what I fear.
When dinner is over, we return to the limo, which drives only a couple of blocks and then slides to a halt in front of a grand building, soaring arched windows gleaming with blazing light in the night. Red ropes, red carpet laid over the stairs. Someone opens the door, and Logan emerges. Camera flashes sparkle blindingly. He waves, smiles, and then assists me out of the limo. I try to smile, cling to his arm, and tell myself to breathe.
Logan, Logan, who’s your date?
What’s your name, sweetheart?
Who is she?
Are you two an item?
What are you wearing?
Questions come hard and fast, and Logan ignores them all, nudges me into a walk.
Who is she?
What’s your name, sweetheart?
I do not have a real, legal identity. I have no ID card. No social security number. I suppose that information exists somewhere, but I don’t know where. Or how to get hold of it. Some research online told me these are the basic ways to establish one’s identity. And I do not possess that information.
Who is she?
How would he answer that?
Am I his girlfriend? Are we an item?
This is utter foolishness. Appearing in public, with Logan, where there is media, press. Cameras. Questions.
Former clients, even, perhaps.
In the theater lobby itself, there are more cameras. More posing.
I barely put on makeup.
I’m not wearing panties.
I did my hair hours and hours ago, and I only ran some light mousse through it, finger-styled it. Not expecting to go anywhere, to meet anyone, much less appear at a very public event where I would have my photograph taken a hundred and fifty times per second.
I’m panicking.
Grip Logan’s arm with all the strength in my hand, and force breath into my lungs. Force myself to breathe. Expand chest, contract. Breathe in, breathe out.
“You’re okay.”
“What the fuck were you thinking, Logan?” I hiss this, nearly sotto voce.
“Fake it, Is. You’re gorgeous. Flawless.”
“I am utterly unprepared for this. What if someone recognizes me as Madame X?”
“We’re together now, Isabel. Your name is Isabel de la Vega. That’s all that matters now. I won’t let anything happen to you.”
I feel the back of my neck prickle. Turn, and there is Jonathan. A former client, and sort of friend. Tall, handsome, in a perfectly tailored tuxedo, with a stunning blonde clinging possessively.
A shocked expression mars Jonathan’s handsome face.
Moves to stand in front of Logan and me. Mouth works, but no sound comes out.
“Hello, Jonathan.” I smile. Pretend to be at ease. Fake it till I make it.
“Madame—”
“I go by Isabel now.” I speak over Jonathan.
More shocked silence. “Isabel.” Extends a hand, ingrained manners taking over.
I take the proffered hand, intending to shake it, but Jonathan turns my hand palm down and kisses the back. It is an archaic gesture, strange, and out of place. But the way Jonathan does it, it comes across gentlemanly, respectful. I am impressed.
“Pleased to meet you, Isabel.” This is said with a dash of irreverent humor.
Jonathan’s date is confused. “Jon? How do you know her?” Jealousy, barely restrained, a French accent.
“Isabel and I are . . . former business associates.”
“Oh.” The blonde relaxes, jealousy assuaged.
True enough, I suppose. Our true relationship to each other would be nearly impossible to explain, even if either of us were inclined to discuss Indigo Services.
Jonathan remembers his manners, once again. “Oh, sorry. Isabel, this is my girlfriend, Brigitte.” He says it Brih-ZHEET.
“Pleased to meet you, Brigitte.”
“You as well.” I am still receiving a cold stare from Brigitte, despite the gorgeous man at my side, arm around my waist, scanning the crowd.
Jonathan extends his hand to Logan. “I think we met, a while back. At the auction.”
Logan shakes, firmly, briefly. “Yeah. Logan Ryder.”
“Jon.” Just Jon. No last name, none of the pretense I saw when Jonathan was my client. He is at ease, confident. Well dressed, polite.
A success, then.
Jonathan and Logan are discussing something to do with business. I’ve tuned out, thinking about Jonathan when we last met, the arrogant posturing and callow shallow hubris, now turned into pride and confidence and an attractive charm. How I did that. I taught him that. Perhaps Comportment will be a success after all. I vacillate often, sometimes thinking it will be the best thing I’ve ever done, and other times that I should just give it up as impossible.
I let Logan lead me to our seats.
The opera is not what I expected. It is beautiful, rapturous. Transporting. Logan, however, is impatient.
And even as much as I enjoy the music, the spectacle . . . seeing Jonathan shook me. Gave me pause. Reminded me.
So I am distracted.
It is over before I know it, and I am following Logan through the crowds, down the steps, to our limousine, which is waiting for us, door open, driver with a hand on the door.
The ride home is quiet. Silent.
Neither of us speaks.
Logan’s hand rests on my knee. The closer we get to home, the higher up my thigh his hand goes.
When the driver halts outside Logan’s home—our home—he is nearly touching my core.
And I am in a fit of confused, weltering emotion.
Aroused.
Aware that I am—that I might be—
I can’t even think it, can’t even think the word. Don’t. Won’t. Can’t.
I push that aside. I know I have to face it, but not now.
I’m thrown off by Jonathan. Seeing him with Brigitte, a stunning girlfriend who is clearly possessive of him. Not by Brigitte, but more just . . . Jonathan. By all he represents. The only one of my clients I’ve ever really cared about. I’m not even sure why Jonathan’s presence tonight has thrown me off as much as it has.
I feel dizzy.
As if life is whirling around me, as if the entire world is rushing in crazed circles just beyond my reach, and I cannot quite find a way to join the frenzy, stuck somewhere in a silent, lonely bubble, at the eye of a hurricane.
Even Logan seems . . . distant.
As if our connection has faded, or changed.
Lessened, or vanished.
Been broken, perhaps.
We are inside now.
I don’t remember coming inside.
Logan is in front of me. Looking down at me. “Isabel?”
I blink. Look up at him.
I am afraid of losing him. I’m afraid I’ve ruined us. That my weakness for you, Caleb, has broken whatever potential Logan and I may have had. The thought of having to make my way without Logan is . . . impossible. Too painful to consider. I couldn’t do it.
And the way he’s looking down at me, as if I’m . . . delicate—it makes me panic.
Like he doesn’t know me.
And if Logan doesn’t know me, who does?
Who am I?
Isabel.
I’m Isabel.
Am I pregnant?
The thought strikes, just as Logan speaks again. “Talk to me, Isabel.”
“I—”
No thoughts come. No words.
I can’t tell him. I don’t even know yet.
“I—I feel lost, again.”
“You’re right here. With me.”
“But I feel like . . . like there’s an ocean between us.”
He presses up against me. “I know I said I needed time. And I did. I’ve had time. That’s what this afternoon was about. I’m okay with it all. As okay as I can be. We’re here. We’re together. We work, as a couple. Even without sex, you and I work, as a couple. Even without sex, I enjoy your company.”
“But I feel like there’s space between us.” A dam is cracking open, words pouring out I hadn’t known existed within me. “Like the connection we had is . . . not gone, but—different. The way you look at me, the way you touched me this afternoon. It was . . . different. And I just feel . . . off. Everything feels off, ever since Caleb let me go.”
“Isabel—”
“Nothing is right.”
“Isabel—”
“And there’s so much I—so much I need to say, but I don’t know. So much I need to do, but I don’t know how. I need an identity, Logan. Even just legally. I’m not really a person, legally. And . . . inside, I’m just—I’m a mess. And I don’t know how to fix it. I love being here, with you. Living with you. Sleeping beside you. Eating with you. But tonight—it was . . . I don’t know.”
“Listen, Isabel—”
“I feel like there’s so much in the way between us. Caleb is between us. My weakness, where he’s concerned. What happened. The fact that he shot you. Almost killed you. Cost you your eye. That’s my fault. You can say what you like, but that’s how I feel. And that scares me, that there’s so much between us, so much inside me I don’t know how to express, even to myself. I want us. I want you. I want how easy it was, before. I’m afraid I—I’m afraid I ruined things.”
“Goddammit.” This is under his breath.
And then he kisses me. Abruptly, almost violently. He takes my face in his big warm hands, and his lips crash against mine. His tongue steals between my teeth.
Heat suffuses me.
I collapse forward, and my arms wind around his neck. I cling to him. Just touching him, thus, it centers me.
I have to touch him. Feel him. Feel us.
I am pushing at him. At his clothes. At his tuxedo jacket. It softly thuds to the floor in the foyer. His back is to the door; the alarm is beeping. Logan reaches past me, jabs at the green-lit buttons, and the alarm goes quiet. Cocoa is whining, barking.
Nothing matters.
I am obsessed. I need him. I need his skin. I need to know that this, the physical, mental, emotional connection that binds us, I need to know it still exists. And right now, the only way I know how to find that is by touching him. Filling myself with his body, his scent, his heat, his hardness. To feel him. To know. To relearn him.
I have his tie untied. Tossed away. Tear at the buttons. I hear one pop and clatter on the floor.
“Whoa, Isabel, honey, slow down a second—”
I kiss him silent. Shove the shirt off his shoulders, and he fumbles with the cuff links, shoves them in his trousers pocket. I have his belt gone now, the buckle jingling onto the floor at my feet. The double clasp and button closure of his trousers, the zipper. He kicks off his shoes and he lifts his feet free, and now, finally, God finally I have him bare, naked in my hands. His abs, his broad back, his hard round ass, the hot rigidity of his cock. I caress him all over, just touching him. Lean in, and kiss him. His shoulders. His throat. His tattoos. His scars. Fondle his erection, grasp him. Stroke him.
Logan gently but firmly pushes me back, stares at me, confused. “Isabel, babe. What’s going on?”
“I need you.”
I don’t think, don’t hesitate. Unzip my dress and step out of it, nude now except for my heels, earrings, and necklace. A moment, as he stares at me. Nipples peaked, core wet. I can smell my own desire.
“Logan, I need you,” I repeat.
“Why do you seem so . . . desperate?”
“I don’t know why, but I am. I’m desperate for you. I need you.”
I reach for him, cling to him. Kiss the shell of his ear. His temple. Tug his hair free of the ponytail and spear my fingers through his blond wavy hair. Drag his mouth to mine. Kiss him with every molecule of my being.
“Is this good-bye, Isabel?”
“No,” I breathe. “Fuck no. It’s—It’s . . .” I pull back but don’t let go of him, cling to his hair and his cheek. “It’s me saying, ‘Love me,’ Logan. Love me. Please . . . just love me. Show me. Remind me. I need us. I need us.”
He bends at the knees, grabs the backs of my thighs, and lifts. I wrap my legs around him, lean in and devour his breath. Touch my forehead to his as his back hits the door. We groan in unison as he fills me. He moves to kiss me, but I steal it from him. Take the kiss from him. Bite his lower lip as he impales me, seats deep, sunk to the root. Hips to hips. Mouth to mouth. Heart to heart.
“This is what you need, Is?”
“Yes, God yes.”
He moves. Carries me to the kitchen, sets me on the island, buttocks right at the edge. Grabs my hips, and pulls. Fills me with a thrust. Breathes onto my lips, groans, and kisses me. Pulls back, his one brilliant blue indigo eye on me, staring at me. Letting me see into him, as he always does, when we’re like this. When he’s inside me.
Still wearing my black high heels, I use my feet to pull him against me. As if he could get closer, as if it were possible to go deeper. It’s not, but I try. As if him being deeper will unite us more. As if feeling more of him, as if being filled more completely by him will bind us more tightly. As if to love him thus—wildly, desperately, furiously—could erase my sins, could cure my addiction.
It won’t, but I try.
Oh god, God, gods—I try. To erase, with Logan. To cure, with Logan. To remake myself, with Logan. He is inside me, but yet I am in him. Wound up, delved deep, tangled up, woven in. I writhe then and feel his cock slide through my stretched and burning and aching core, and I lean forward. Collapse against his chest, lips to his breastbone. Curl my hand around his ass and pull. Urge him.
“Love me, Logan.”
He moves then. Thrusts. Pulls me closer. I lean back, close my eyes, push my hips against his, angle away. Hook my high heels around his calves and clutch the cool hard round bubble of his muscular buttocks and let him move. Just feel it. Feel him move. Feel him fill me.
But it’s not enough.
I push at his chest.
He lifts me, pulls out of me, and sets me down. And now I push him again, shove him to the couch. He falls backward to the cushions, and I fall onto him. Straddle him. Kneel over him. Drape my breasts against his face, drag my aching nipples against his mouth. Reach down between us and guide his cock to my entrance. Don’t waste a moment, not a single second. Impale him into me. Sink down on him. Grip his shoulder with one hand and the back of the couch with the other. Knees in the back of the couch, taking my weight. Lift up, sink down. God, so deep. So full. So thick. So much. I lean back, stare down at our bodies as I rise, watch his shaft slide out of me, gleaming and wet and slick and wide, and watch as he thrusts up and buries himself into me, watch as that thick beautiful erection disappears into me. He has my breast in his mouth, tongue lapping at my nipple. Licking my tits. I arch my back and beg him without words to never ever stop doing that.
I ride him, frantic, frenetic, and wild. He grunts, moves with me, but this is all about me. I’m taking this. I need this. This is mine. I cling to him, both hands now. On his shoulders, almost gripping his throat. His hair is loose and wild, in his face. I leave it that way, obscuring him. The patch is black through yellow strands, his eye i
s ultrablueblueblue. His skin is golden, his hair the color of the noonday sun. Body hard and lean and strong and perfect, and all mine.
I kiss him, quickly. “You are mine.”
He laughs. He laughs. “Yes, Isabel. I am yours.”
His hands grip my hips and urge me to move harder, faster, to sink him deeper. And this, his hands thus on my hips, it is him saying without words—and you are mine. He doesn’t need to say it, and if he did, I would hate it. I’ve heard those words far too many times from someone not him, and I cannot hear them again, not from Logan. He knows. He sees. So he says it another way, he tells me with his hands. He slides his big rough palms up my torso to cup my big, heavy, bouncing breasts. Mine. He brings one breast to his mouth, kisses it, devours my nipple, the areola; mine. The other; mine. Hands grazing now down my sides, cupping up under my buttocks, gripping them, lifting me, letting me fall down to bury him deepdeepdeep, so deep; mine.
Then—while we move, while he drives up into me, while I sink down on him, while my tits sway and bounce in his face, while he stares into me with his one good eye, the one eye now more arresting and piercing than ever—he puts a thumb to my lips, a palm to my cheek, his fingers through my hair; mine. Grips my hair in rough fistfuls, suddenly, and kisses me so hard I forget to breathe, and thank God for that because in this moment with Logan Ryder I’d rather kiss than breathe, need his kiss this kiss more than oxygen, more than life, more than anything, however elemental.
Because this, us, we are elemental, thus. Bonded, connected, soul to soul;
MINE.
A jealousy, a possession going both ways. Ownership freely given, rather than taken.
I will myself to him. I would with all my soul belong to him and only him forever.
Our movements become ragged. Mine, his, ours. I feel his breath come as gasps. His grip in my hair and on my hip goes bruisingly beautifully rough. If I was loving him—not just moving, certainly not fucking, but loving him—wildly before, now I am primal. Feral. Mad. I even make sounds that aren’t quite human. Sounds of need, sounds of utter abandonment. Bliss. Perfection. Beauty. Raw love being created between us.
He is growling.
I am whimpering and whining and snarling and clutching at him everywhere.
Exiled (A Madame X Novel) Page 8
