Exiled (A Madame X Novel)

by Jasinda Wilder

  You advance on me. Stalk toward me, predatory, hungry. I back away, gripping the edges of my robe and tugging them more tightly closed. I back up until the wall of the elevator bank is at my back, and I can back away no farther. You stop, inches from me. Hands at your sides. Chest heaving. Eyes burning into mine. You spoke of me radiating sexual energy.

  In that moment, you radiate thus. You burn, you hum, you are a living conflagration of sexual need.

  Tears prick my eyes. My stomach twists. My heart is spiked through.

  Because my body . . . it reacts.

  Comes alive.

  I thought I was past this, but I am not.

  I never will be, I do not think.

  “You cannot deny it, Isabel,” you whisper. Your lips brush against mine, a feather-light, not-quite touch, not-yet kiss. “You cannot deny that I . . . own . . . your . . . body. I own your past. I own your soul. And you know it.”

  You take my hips in your hands. I feel you erect between us.

  Again.

  Here I am, again. Facing you. Facing myself. Battling the demon that is my body’s instinctive reaction to you. And I must face that it is not just my body, but some powerful portion of who I am that is reacting thus to you.

  But I cannot do this again. I cannot. I cannot.

  Will not.

  “But you do not own my heart, and you do not own my future.” I find it hard to breathe as I say this. Indeed, the words are gasped. Squeezed through the slivers of space between my tight-clenched teeth.

  A breath leaves you. A single sigh.

  I force myself to look at you. To meet your gaze. To know viscerally and down to the pit of my soul the gnashing pain in your eyes as you absorb my words.

  Your shoulders lift. Brows lower. Your jaw flexes. Dark eyes go molten with . . . sorrow? Rage? Some potent conflation of both?

  Your hand rises up from my waist.

  Fingers curl. Fingers tighten around my throat. Your eyes on mine.

  My airway is constricted. I cannot breathe. Stars burst behind my eyes.

  “You . . . are . . . MINE.” This, from you, is a snarling hiss.

  I am lifted up, off the ground. My vision narrows.

  I do not fight you. This is the price I must pay. You gave me truth, finally. I believe every word you said, and more that you didn’t say, the word writ large and bold and bloody between the lines.

  Your chest heaves. A sound emerges from you, a feral growl emitting from deep in your gut.

  I feel oxygen rush through my teeth, into my lungs. Your fingers unclench. Slowly, ever so slowly. As if some invisible force is prizing each of your fingertips from my throat.

  My feet once more touch the floor, and I collapse to my hands and knees, gasping, clutching my throat.

  Watching through tear-blurred eyes as you back away. Hand still raised, as if still wrapped around my throat. A step back, another. A third.

  A moment passes, in which I attempt to breathe, and you merely stare at me, jaw flexing, eyes narrowed, a blaze of emotion bleeding through your normally-flat brown gaze.

  And then you reach into your pocket. Bring up your cell phone. Dial a number. Hold the handset to your ear. “It is time.” And then you end the call, replace the device in your pocket.

  A tableau, then. You, staring at me, hands fisted at your sides. Me, on my knees, robe coming open, hair in my eyes, breath rasping painfully through a bruised windpipe. Staring back at you.

  Hands lift me to my feet. Pull me away. I do not take my eyes off you as I am drawn onto the elevator.

  I see you, as I so often have, through the narrowing perspective of the closing elevator doors:

  Tall, straight. Broad shoulders. Night-black hair swept back. Tailored suit clinging perfectly to your godlike physique. Hands at your sides, fists clenched. I see them trembling, see the way your jaw muscles flex and tense. Your brow is furrowed. Your gaze is rife, fraught, wild, molten brown.

  You are a god.

  You have been my god.

  And I am walking away from you.

  I have turned away from you. Denied you.

  Chosen my future.

  I put my palms on my belly, cup the slight bump. You see this gesture, and you flinch. Your head rocks back on your neck. The doors close, and I catch one last glimpse of you.

  I cannot be sure, but it seemed as if you were falling to your knees, head drooping.

  I do not believe that, though.

  I close my eyes and I see you. Standing tall. Imperious. Gorgeous, perfect, cold, a statue carved from living marble. A Roman god made flesh.

  You are my god no longer.

  FOURTEEN

  The helicopter flares with sickening abruptness to hover twenty feet above my rooftop terrace. A man kneels in the open doorway, holding a rifle with a scope butt to shoulder, scope to eyes. Trained on Logan, who stands on the rooftop, effortlessly withstanding the battering down-blast of the rotors.

  There is a winch, thousands of yards of thick rope, and a sort of foothold attached to the dangling end of the rope. A harness made of rough webbing is fastened around my torso and thighs. The rope is lowered a few feet, and a second man gestures. I am meant to climb out of the helicopter and cling to the rope, bare feet on the round metal as I am lowered to the ground.

  The man, wearing a black helmet that obscures his features, clips a hook connecting my harness to the rope.

  With steady hands and a thundering heart, I inch on my bottom to the edge of the doorway. Touch the soles of my feet to the cold skid. Stand up on quavering knees, grip the rope in both hands. Breathe in, hold it, and out. Twice. And then step away from the safety of the aircraft to stand on a tiny circumference of ridged metal. Despite the hook and harness, I am terrified. But there is no time for fear, because the winch whines and I descend rapidly downward. My heart is in my throat, and I squeeze my eyes shut to block out the sight of the rooftop growing larger and the helicopter smaller.

  Down-blast buffets me, sends me swaying side to side and spinning in circles.

  My gut rebels, and I clench my teeth, swallow hard, breathe through the nausea.

  And then warm rough familiar hands clutch me: Logan. I can only shake and shiver as he strips the harness off me with the ease of practice. A moment of noise and howling downforce, my cheek to Logan’s chest, his heartbeat under my ear. The helicopter ascends, the wind dies down, and then we are alone.

  And I weep.

  Shoulders shake, tears flow.

  Logan scoops me up in his arms and carries me up the curving staircase and into our bedroom. Lies down with me, pulls blankets over us. I focus on his heartbeat as the only real thing in the world:

  Thrum-thrum . . . thrum-thrum . . . thrum-thrum.

  “Isabel?” Logan’s voice, low and warm. “Did he hurt you?”

  I don’t know how to answer. I can only weep harder. But why am I crying? Being kidnapped? The fear of the descent? Relief at being home? That I passed the final test, won the final battle against my need for Caleb? That I finally understand myself, my past, how it all fits together? For the haunting torment so visible in Caleb when he released me, sent me away?

  All of it.

  And I cannot put it into words.

  “I’m here, Logan.” I whisper it to the cotton of his T-shirt; it’s all I can manage. “I’m . . . okay.”

  “What happened?” This is a low rumble, rough, unsure.

  Perhaps someday I will be able to tell him all that Caleb told me. Perhaps. But not now. Not today.

  “I chose you.” My voice breaks on the last word.

  Logan rolls me off him, and I open my eyes. Stare up at him.

  One blue eye blazes with love. Azure eye. Deep-blue-sea eye. An eternity of blue.

  Delicate touch to my cheekbone, tracing down. He brushes aside
a lock of my hair. He is levered up on his elbow, leaning over me. He touches the scabbed red dot where Caleb’s knife nicked me. His eyes ask the question.

  “I was gagged,” I answer in a whisper. “He cut it off.”

  He traces a line across my jaw. Down to my throat. Touches with a tender fingertip five individual points on my throat, four on the left side of my windpipe, one on the right.

  I shake my head. I can’t answer that one. “I’m fine.” It’s all I can say.

  “He put his hands on you.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Isabel.” Harsh, a scold, angry.

  I curl my palm around the nape of his neck. Gaze up at him. Let him see the pain in my eyes, the confusion, the relief, let him have it all, have everything I can’t say.

  “Just love me, Logan.” I whisper this as well, to hide what I suspect is a hoarse rasp. To speak too loudly does hurt; Caleb’s fingers left marks deeper than the bruises.

  But Logan, Logan: You are my comfort.

  I want to replace everything in my whole life with You.

  Paint You over the scars on my soul. Wrap myself up in You, curl up in the warmth of You. Soak You into my skin, into my heart. Drink You, to slake my thirst. Relive each nightmare, each hazy memory, and sear You over each one. I need You, Logan. I want You in every crevice, every pore, I want to let the light of Your love blast away the shadows.

  I won.

  I walked away.

  And it feels like I lost, somehow.

  It feels as if I have ripped myself open to get away.

  And more than anything else, it feels as if Caleb ripped me out by the roots.

  Logan descends upon me. Presses his soft warm wet lips to mine and the kiss . . .

  this kiss,

  our kiss,

  You kiss me as if there will be no tomorrow, as if there was no yesterday, as if You have never kissed me, Logan, as if You have never made love to me, as if I might vanish, as if I am fading away right now and You must cling to me and clutch me closer and kiss me to keep me.

  Kiss me, Logan.

  Keep me, Logan.

  I do not speak these words, but You hear them anyway, Logan.

  His fingers delve into my hair, and his body presses down on mine. I relish the weight, savor the tang of his tongue clashing against mine. His lips break away from mine, and we both gasp, breathless. And then he kisses me again, and again it is freighted with desperation, given tectonic power by the unspoken plea in my eyes, dripping silent from my lips. The plea is in my fingers as I work the cotton of Logan’s T-shirt up his back and rip it away, breaking the kiss for a wild frantic second. The plea is in the way I fumble with his jeans, in the way I tear at the knot of my robe, needing both of us bare, needing skin against skin more than I ever needed anything in all my life. Were I starving, I would need this more than food; were I about to succumb from thirst, I would need this more than water.

  I need it more than I need to breathe, because I can breathe Your oxygen, fill my lungs with Your breath and never need to breathe again.

  Somehow, someway, Logan’s clothes are tossed aside, and he is above me, magnificent chest bare, pectoral muscles scribed into his flesh as if by a razor, abdominal muscles grooved and ridged and cut with the same blade. His shoulders are broad, wider than the earth, blocking out the heavens and the stars. His eye is the sky, his eye is the sun. Warming me, giving me life. The patch is one I’ve not seen yet, rich supple white leather, hundreds of individual strands woven in ornate, interlaced knots. It is a work of art. His hair is loose and long and the color of honey, the color of ripe wheat, curling around his shoulders, strands catching in the stubble of beard on his chin. His lips are reddened and swollen from kissing me. His hands, rough, work-worn, scars on knuckles, callused, touch me. Trace my curves. Breathe heat and need into my flesh. Cup my breast and then my cheek with equal passion. I breathe and gaze at him and give him my soul. My will. My body.

  He presses his palm to my belly, to the bump wherein a life grows.

  I smile at him, and he kisses the tear tracks on my cheeks.

  And now his palm descends to tease my core, closer, closer, closer . . . and then to my thigh, teasing. Kneading the muscle of my upper thigh, up to cup my well-padded hip bone. I have gained weight. Pregnancy suits you, I must admit. It adds a softness to your already full figure.

  I banish that voice. It has no place in this moment.

  No place in my mind.

  No place in my life.

  Not any longer.

  I breathe in and will the voice to vanish, breathe out; and there You are, Logan. Kissing the corner of my mouth, Your eye on mine, watching me, knowing the battle I fight, and letting me fight it myself, so that I may know the sweetness of victory and come back to now, to here, to You, to us.

  And I do.

  There is only silence, only Your breath and mine, and the whisper of Your hand on my skin. The slight wet sucking sound of Your finger delving into my core, into my heat, into my wetness. Then the gasp from my lips as Your touch draws lightning out of the heavens and into my belly. Into my core. Your touch, Logan, it is everything. I feel it with every atom of my being, the way You touch me. The way Your lips graze my throat, kissing each bruise. The way Your lips then descend to kiss the swelling slope of my breasts, swollen with pregnancy. You lap at my nipple with the flat of your tongue, flick it erect with the tip.

  I spread my thighs wide, draw my heels up to my buttocks, let my knees drape aside, open myself for You. Clutch at the supple muscle of your back, the cool hard bubble of Your beautiful backside. Murmur in delight at the way the smattering of golden hair on Your chest rubs against my belly and then my thighs. Whimper in abandon as Your nimble tongue finds my folds and scours them for every drop of essence, every drop of pleasure. My hips roll and writhe as You tongue me to climax, and I give full voice to my orgasm, cry out loud. And then I tangle the fingers of both hands into Your hair and haul You roughly up to my mouth, and I lick at the corners of Your lips, lick away my own taste, and then kiss Your mouth with such fierce fervor that You moan, and I bite Your lip until You grunt in surprise and I taste blood.

  Oh, Logan, my Logan, my love, I feel You now. Here, against me. One hand still tangled and knotted in the wild golden mane of your locks, I kiss You, and with my frantic other hand I seek Your hardness, and find it hard as steel yet soft as velvet and thick and springy and slick. Wetness beading at the tip. Heavy down under the root, tight to Your body with need. I grip You and stroke You and caress You until Your kiss falters, and then I bring You to me. Pull You away from the kiss by my grip on Your hair, and gaze into Your eye, my own filled with tears of love and passion and too many millions of other manic boiling potent emotions that all I can do is ride out the maelstrom of them and hope You’ll be there to kiss me back to life, be there to hold me until I gentle from the hurricane.

  For in this moment, I am a hurricane.

  I guide You to my slit. Lift my hips and grip You at the root and spread myself open with the thick broad head and pant and moan as I slide You into me.

  “Logan . . .” I whisper Your name. A benediction. A plea.

  You move, root Yourself deep. Rut into me.

  I retain my grip on Your hair, and now I jerk You down to my mouth, kiss You. Mouth to my mouth, hips to my hips, hearts beating in unison, in parallel, in syncopated rhythm.

  I glut myself on You.

  Beneath You.

  You lift up, lean back, rise up to Your knees. Tuck my feet into the crooks of Your arms, and You begin.

  Slowly at first. Never looking away from me.

  Then harder, and faster.

  I feel my breasts swaying and bouncing with the vigor of Your love. I cup one, pinch my own nipple. You watch, and move all the harder for it.

  And then I touch myself. Fit the fingert
ips of my middle and ring finger to my core, to my clit, and I rub. I find that rhythm, that quick rough circling motion unique to the way I touch myself. You watch this too, my fingers at my core, fingers pinching my nipple, the other hand raised to brace back against the headboard, so I have leverage with which to push against You.

  Because no matter how hard, no matter how deep, I always want You more, want You harder, want You deeper.

  Frantic and furious, You fuck me with such wild love that I could cry with the beauty of it, the perfection of it. To love, to fuck, they are the same with us, in this moment. There is no definition in connotation or context or meaning.

  “Isabel . . .” A breath, as You falter, gasp, and fuck harder, slower, deeper, as Your climax rises within You.

  “Love me, Logan,” I moan. “Oh God, Logan, I need you.”

  “You have me, Isabel. Forever. All of me.”

  My eyes fly open, and I feel myself losing all control, losing everything, losing my grip on sanity as we move together, as we find that space in the moment of oneness wherein my soul and Yours tangle and collide and mesh, when the fabric of me and the substance of You plash and twist and mate, as conjoined one to the other as my body is to Yours in this moment. I feel that unison, and I drown myself in it.

  I orgasm, and feel myself tighten around You. Core gripping your slick length, clamping down with all the power I possess, I writhe against You and scream Your name. You come explosively, and I feel it unleash inside me, feel Your seed fill me and drip out down my thighs. And You are still coming, falling forward to press Your face into the hollow of my throat, kissing my jaw as You flutter Your hips with quaking aftershock thrusts, each of which sends a flutter of ecstasy through me.

  “I love you. God, I love you.”

  “How can it be that every time we make love it’s better than the last time?” I ask.

  “I don’t know. But it’s true. It should be impossible, but it’s not.” You lift up and off me, pull me back into the sheltering cradle of Your arms. “If it’s that incredible now, how will it be after twenty years?”