I wonder if he entertains much? He seems like a solitary person, like me.
He walks around quietly, flicking various switches, and the chandelier above the dining table comes to life. The lighting is soft and welcoming, none of that fluorescent shit I hate.
“Your home, Vincent...it’s gorgeous! It’s like I just stepped into a magazine,” I whisper in awe. If only I had the money to make my design dreams come to fruition, then my shop wouldn’t look to juvenile and mismatched. What a contrast to my home.
He scoffs, “No, no designer. Most of the furniture I made, or took from my grandfather’s old loft and office.”
My eyes widen. “You made some of the furniture?” I can’t keep the shock from my voice.
He smiles shyly. “Um, yes. There was really nothing to it. Just collected crates, gave them a wash, and lacquer, nailed things here and there. The dining table was tricky, but I had the wood in the garage at my parents place, and I had the plans. I just followed directions.” He shrugs humbly and walks over to his record player and soon Muddy Waters’ unique and soulful voice fills the space, adding yet more character to his lovely home.
“I’m going to get dinner out of the oven, it shouldn’t take long.”
I don’t know if I can eat. I’m nervous, anxious and excited. But most of all, I’m jittery. I gaze around the room and take it all in.
“Would you like something to drink?” He calls as he makes his way to the kitchen.
“Yes, please. Do you have any bourbon?” I really liked what he gave me Friday, Four Roses, I think it was called. It made me feel steady and calm. It’s what I need right now. I walk forward into his loft and begin taking a closer look at things. The artwork he’s chosen is beautiful and distinct; it helps make the space look less industrial and cold.
He appears behind me with a glass of bourbon, no ice. I’m gazing at a painting by Gustav Klimt that I don’t think I’ve ever seen. This one is of a woman with a wild mane of hair, she is curled up in a fetal position, and her eyes are closed. It looks like a dream.
“Gustav Klimt, Danae. I got that one just recently. It reminded me of someone.” A small crooked smile appears on his lips, his eyes look mischievous. I look back at the painting, framed in gold. It looks so mystical and beautiful.
“It’s beautiful...” I say dreamily. I hear him take a deep breath.
“Yes, she is.” I turn to face him and he’s staring at me intently. Of course I have no idea what else to do, other than blush. I take a big swallow of my bourbon and I have to squeeze my eyes shut. I should be sipping this! Not trying to down it all in one swallow. I open my eyes again and he’s smiling. Oh, will I ever stop being so amusing? He chuckles lightly and takes my hand.
“Slow down, Lenore. I want you to hang in there a few more hours.”
Now it’s my turn to laugh. It comes out brittle and nervous. My heart slams in my chest at the thought of what those few hours will entail.
He walks me to the dining table and pulls out my seat for me. He dims the chandelier. The lighting helps to subdue my anxiety. A quick flash of the Red Room swirls in my mind and a delicious shiver racks my body. Me, in nothing but underwear, pressed against Vincent in his sharp suit. The tension inside of me starts to uncurl. I take another drink of the delicious bourbon. I need to take control of this situation.
“Is there something in particular you’d like to hear?” he practically whispers.
I turn and a cheeky grin spreads across my face. I’m propelled back to the Red Room of The Speak Easy again. Led Zeppelin sounds good right now, but I do need to eat if I’m going to make it through the night. This bourbon is already heating me throughout. I blush, as does he.
“I feel like I can read your thoughts sometimes, Lenore,” his sexy grin makes me blush even deeper. I squeeze my thighs together to get a little relief from the growing ache fanning out inside my body. What this man can do with just a smile...
He walks over to his record player and very quietly “Over the Hills and Far Away” begins to play. I love this song. It’s one of those songs I play on repeat when I’m in a melancholy mood. It lifts me right up.
He reappears with a hot tray of macaroni and cheese as I take another cautious sip. This is not your run-of-the-mill boxed macaroni and cheese. This is something else! It smells incredible. It’s bubbling over with cheese, and a crusty breaded topping.
“Wow! That smells awesome,” I giggle, already feeling the calming effects of the alcohol.
“Thank you,” he flashes his sexy smile my way, and I feel my insides melt. “I’ll just grab the sweet potato biscuits from the warming drawer.” He disappears into the kitchen again. I peak at the mac and cheese. There is smoked sausage chopped in with it, and I can smell garlic and onion. Mmm… My stomach growls, I really need to start eating better. He’s going to think I’m a starved animal, the way I eat when I’m with him.
He places a bowl full of sweet smelling biscuits before us, and proceeds to serve me a plate full of mac and cheese, topping off my bourbon along with a glass of water before he, too, takes his seat. I take a fork full and close my eyes again.
Hija de su madre... This is just too good! The sausage gives the cheese sauce a smokiness that is to die for. I don’t think I’ve ever had anything like this.
“I love watching you eat,” he says in a husky and promiscuous voice. I look up at him; he has an alluring smile on his face. I smile at him, slightly embarrassed.
“I’m sorry. But this is so good!” I laugh lightly, “Is there anything you can’t do?” I take a bite of my sweet potato biscuit. Damn, just as good. It’s clearly been made from scratch.
“I spent a lot of time with our housekeeper when I was young. I was alone a lot after my brother... Anyway, she taught me a few things,” his smile dims, and then vanishes.
Right. His brother. I grow serious after he mentions him. I wasn’t sure if the story was true, until now. I feel so bad, having completely forgotten about it. I was too busy stuffing my face and imagining sexy scenarios. It’s quiet for an unbearable moment. He eats a few more bites.
“Well, bless your housekeeper, because this is very good.”
We both laugh, and the mood lightens, but my curiosity takes over a minute later.
“Why did you choose to share that story tonight, Vincent? With me and with those kids?”
He inhales, and exhales slowly. “I don’t know. It was...Halloween, when we found the Ouija. We were in trouble, and we weren’t allowed to go out that night...” He puts his fork down, and takes a drink of water.
“I had actually made a story up just before I got there, to your shop. Then, I don’t know, looking at all their faces, it reminded me of being their age.”
“What really happened, Vincent?” I know there is something else. I can see talking about it is physically painful for him, but I feel the need to know, to know more about him. After all, he brought it up. Maybe he wants to talk about his brother.
“Walter took some liquor from my father’s cabinet that day. He said he was going to meet this girl at the lake that...he’d liked for a really long time. He said I couldn’t come. He hadn’t been himself for a while and I was afraid to argue with him. Anyway, he was found in the water the next day. He had an injury” he raises his hand to touch the back of his head, “right here. They never figured out what happened. He never met anyone there. According to the girl he said he was going to meet, she was sick and didn’t go out that night. She never even made plans with my brother. Her parents corroborated her story.” He takes a deep breath; his eyes are filled with so much emotion. Then he shakes his head, and he looks far away, closed off, and almost angry.
“They ruled it accidental. He slipped, hit his head, and drowned.” He resumes eating, he tries assuming a nonchalant attitude, but I can see the anger and tension radiating off of him. As if acting normal is going to make me forget what he just told me. He clearly believes that it was no accident, he feels as though his brother
was killed.
“Do you think it was an accident?” My voice is barely audible. He looks up sharply.
“I’m not sure what to think,” he responds. “But I should have tried to stop him.”
“Vincent, it isn’t your fault.” He furrows his brow, and his body goes rigid.
I know this is a no go subject. I’m not even sure why I said that. It isn’t my place. So I change tact.
“You never told me why you went to school for music, and then went the complete opposite way and got into business,” I say with a small smile, hoping this will dispel his mood. And then I remember I still have my cat ears on, I probably looks ridiculous.
He takes a moment to respond, clearly trying to recover himself. After a minute he smiles, his mood visibly lifts.
“I always liked music. But in my family, you need to be more practical and become something. Not a musician, that doesn’t count. Ivy League schooling is a requirement, and well, doing something in the family business is essential. So of course I rebelled. And by rebelled I mean I still got an education, but I pursued what I’m truly interested in, music. But…eventually, I got sucked in,” he pauses, thinking.
“But, it’s still not enough, no what I do, my parents don’t feel it’s enough. I refused to follow my grandfather’s path. I’m not the obsessive workaholic he was. I want…more. I want a life.” He laughs, lightly, though I don’t suspect he finds it funny that he’s a disappointment to his family. “Not that I have much of a life now,” he adds with a sardonic smile.
I nod and try to absorb the information he is giving me.
“My grandfather was a big business man. Our family had old oil money but my grandfather felt like we needed to branch out. He dipped his fingers into a little bit of everything, and well, it was too much pressure to follow suit.”
“Too much pressure? Or is it that you’re not interested in following his path?”
“Truthfully, I wasn’t even mildly interested in business. But I had the knack for it. My grandfather had been taking me under his wing and schooling Walter and me for years. You see—it’s like a game. But I just wasn’t sure if it was for me. I was really hoping Walter would take the full weight of the responsibility for me.”
I incline my head to one side, and study his face. I watch a variety of emotions sweep across his features.
“It can completely take over every aspect of your life if you let it. Making money. Always more…everyone always wants more.” His eyes visibly dim, as if just the thought is sucking the life from him.
“We fought about it, my grandfather and me. And I went off and did my music thing. But when my grandfather was on his deathbed, he needed me. And—well I did what anyone would do for family. I helped.” He shrugs, and the topic is dismissed.
That still doesn’t explain much; it doesn’t make very much sense to me at all. I guess it is a lot of pressure to just walk away and march to the beat of your own trumpet. What did his grandfather need help with?
“Why not your father? Why did it have to be you or Walter?”
He shakes his head, and I know there’s a reason for it. And it isn’t good.
“My grandfather wasn’t happy about my father marrying my mother. There were issues between the three of them. He shared some of those reasons with me, but he didn’t tell me everything.”
He goes rigid as anger and frustration courses through him. I know there is more to this story; perhaps he’ll share with me another time. I’ll give up the inquiry, for now. I want to retrieve the situation and the mood. Like me, he gets tense and angry when speaking of the past, and I guess for him, present circumstance as well.
I continue eating; I can feel him staring at me.
“What about you, Lenore. Why do you have a vintage shop? Why do you sew?” Way to change the subject. I answer as best I can.
“I love old things, I love the quality with which things were made in the past. Things were meant to last. There was more thought put into things, pride and more style. I love repairing and up-cycling old clothing and knick-knacks. I feel like I’m bringing things back to life.” I pause; he shared a little something with me so I suppose I should do the same.
“My mother was really into old, classic Hollywood. We’d watch old black and white films together and recreate some of the clothing and costumes the actresses wore. So in a way I guess I inherited her interests and passion,” I shrug. I’m suddenly hit by how much I miss my mother… A dull and familiar ache fills my chest.
This is growing too serious, and if I want to keep things light, then I am clearly going about it the wrong way. The more he learns about me, and the more I learn about him...
No. In order for me to do this, things can’t get too deep.
I push to my feet.
“Will you excuse me a moment?” I say quickly. He stands as I get up from the table, ever the gentleman.
I take my bourbon, grab my bag from the floor in the kitchen, and make my way to the bathroom. I slide my oxfords off, and my leggings. I’m in my leotard, and my black patent leather heels. I look voluptuous and curvy.
I touch up my makeup, give my hair more volume, and slide on my lace cat-eye mask. The mask matches the cat ears I made earlier today. The black lace is a stark contrast to my alabaster skin. I can already feel myself transforming, ready to take from him what I’ve been craving since I first laid eyes on him.
Taking a deep and steadying breath, I let the rest of the bourbon slide down my throat. It burns, but it’s just what I need.
Chapter 10
I reemerge from the bathroom, and he stands when he hears me. When he sees me, he freezes. His eyes go wide as he drinks me in, head to toe. His jaw tenses and he loosens his tie and starts to come around the table toward me.
“Stop,” I say in the same voice that possessed me in the Red Room of The Speak Easy. It echoes off the concrete walls. “Take off your tie and put it on the chair,” I point to the chair beside him.
He stares at me for a millennium, drinking me in, swallowing hard. Head to toe, and back up again. He looks excited, but also a little afraid.
Good. I smile to myself.
“Now, please,” I command with a sweet smile. He gives me a crooked smile, and does what I ask without further hesitation. Still, he takes his sweet time sliding his tie off; he looks me straight in the eyes as he pops the top button of his shirt. His eyes burn into me; my breath gets caught in my throat as I return his gaze. That new, yet familiar ache begins to swirl inside of me. He looks incredible. Now it’s my turn to drink him in.
“Take off your shirt,” my voice is a soft rasp. The mask helps. Having a mask over my face almost makes me feel anonymous, and I’m able to take charge without diffidence.
Slowly, without taking his eyes from mine, he undoes each button, pulling his shirt out from the waist of his pants. I watch his chest rise and fall heavily. He drops the shirt on the floor.
Oh, fucking hell… My jaw hits the fucking floor.
He is seriously cut and toned. He’s incredibly muscular, and defined. I’ve gone from drinking him in, to blatantly staring. Wow. His body is amazing.
His eyes are burning into mine. I feel like there is fire coursing through my veins, I feel possessed by my desire for him. It’s almost beyond my control. I’m striving to keep myself in check, to keep myself from jumping all over him. With each breath he releases, his abdomen contracts deliciously. I watch in fascination as his muscle gleam and ripple with sexual tension.
He pauses, awaiting my next command.
Good boy.
“Get on your knees.” My voice doesn’t even sound like my own, it’s thick, and rich, and immersed in lust. He does what I ask, taking his time.
I sashay over to him. The record continues playing in the background, “When the Levee Breaks” is thumping out from the speakers, but I can hear my heart over the sound of the music. I watch him struggling to keep himself in check. His chest is literally heaving with each breath he take
s.
I take a moment to relish the fact that I can get him to respond in this way. I intoxicate him just as much as he intoxicates me.
I take the tie from where he left it, and run my thumb across the soft cashmere. I look down at him on his knees and his head tilts up as he regards me; his restraint is evident in the tightness of his jaw, his eyes, they’re luminous.
He is a beautiful sight to behold.
“When can I touch you?” he whispers tightly.
I smile, luxuriating in the soft resonance of his voice.
“When I say you can,” I counter.
His eyes light up, and his mouth curves up at the corner. I make my way behind him, with his tie in hand, and slowly wrap it around his eyes. I tie it tightly. No peeking.
He looks damn good. I tug the back of the tie gently, causing his chin to tilt back. I watch his throat as he swallows. I stand back and admire him. I gently run my hand down his wide muscular back. I kneel down behind him and run my hands over his tight core. His skin is hot. His abs, incredibly chiseled. His chest, so toned... Every muscle is tightly laced and woven together. He is unreal.
I trail my fingertips over and across his back and chest. He groans as I feel his nipples tighten beneath the pads of my fingers and a sharp pang of desire hits me deep down in my core.
I rest my lips against the back of his neck, breathing him in. His glorious and flawless skin is starting to glisten with sweat even though the temperature in the room is more than comfortable. I feel him tense, I think he’s having a difficult time reining himself in, but I’m not sure.
“Relax,” I breathe into his ear. I trace the back of his ear with my tongue, and then the other. I then nip my way down his neck. My hands are on his belt, slowly undoing the buckle, and finally, I slide it out from his pants. I listen to him exhale laboriously. I take his belt and wrap it around his ankles, tightly, but not too tight. He tenses again.
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