by Avery Aster
She turned and her eyes fell on the door. The carved figures were immobile, locked in their chaste embrace. An irrational wave of self-pity washed over her. At least they had each other. Shaking her head, she closed the door softly, the latch clicking shut behind her.
Slowly she undid the buttons of her dress, remembering how she’d felt that afternoon, as she’d unbuttoned the dress under Sebastian’s heated gaze. Excitement had swirled through her as she revealed herself to him, as he’d drunk her in with his eyes, his arousal fueling hers. Now her fingers were stiff and cold as she pulled the dress away from her body. The bra and panties followed, landing with a satiny whisper on the floor.
She was bone weary, suddenly overwhelmed with exhaustion. It even seemed like too much trouble to find a nightgown in the drawers of the giant wardrobe. She climbed into bed naked, blew out the candle, and pulled the sheet over her shoulders.
Leila’s mind was in turmoil, desperately trying to reconstruct what had happened that afternoon at the arbor, to make some kind of sense of everything. She drew a deep breath, resigning herself to a sleepless night.
But as she lay in bed, watching the moonlight trace a silvery path across the floor, her eyelids drooped, grew heavy, and slowly closed. The moonlight still played across her bed, but Leila was already in a deep sleep.
The sound of the door opening pulled her from that sleep. Leila opened her eyes, her heart racing. Moonlight flooded her room and in the soft light, she saw the outline of a tall man in the doorway. Her heart leapt in her chest. Sebastian had come back to her.
She eagerly pulled back the sheets as he walked across the room, her body already coming alive with anticipation. But as he came to sit on the edge of the bed, Leila pulled back in alarm. It wasn’t Sebastian.
But something about him seemed oddly familiar, almost as if she recognized him. Then it hit her: he looked like the man from the carving on her door. A shiver ran through her, her mind going back to the night she’d watched him…with her…on the door.
“What do you want?” Her voice was just a whisper.
“I want you, Leila. Ever since the first time I saw you, I’ve wanted you.” He leaned across the bed, placing his hand on her bare leg.
“But…you’re not real.”
“I’m as real as you want me to be, Leila.”
The man shifted on the bed and Leila realized he was naked. Her eyes widened, and in the moonlight she let them travel over his body. He was lean and chiseled, and as her eyes moved lower, she saw he was obviously very aroused.
A surprising thud of deep and dark hit her low in her belly, and the entire episode she’d witnessed replayed in an instant, the primal way the man had taken the woman—her—the heat and fire she’d felt by just watching. Leila wanted him, wanted him to take her just as he had before.
As if reading her mind, the man climbed onto the bed, resting on his knees beside her, his eyes locked with hers. She tried to hold his gaze, but her eyes flickered away from his face, down past his chest, and she drew an involuntary breath, eyes widening. His erection was large, rising along the flat plane of his stomach, straining upward. Another deep thud hit her.
She lay back, letting her legs fall open, one hand straying to her breast, fingers rubbing her nipple. It puckered at her touch, hardening, growing exquisitely sensitive. She pinched it, an electric jolt shooting through her, going directly to her core.
The man watched her for a moment longer, then his eyes slid slowly down her body as she lay waiting for him, aching for him. She shifted, her legs moving further apart.
Even though she’d written the words before in her story, she never really believed they could be true, but in that moment, she could actually feel his eyes caressing her body as she lay on the bed.
His eyes met hers again. She waited, but instead of coming to her, he shook his head. Her brows drew together in confusion, but then it was clear. She knew what he wanted.
Under his intense gaze, Leila rose up to her knees, then turned, her back to the man. Looking over her shoulder, she saw him nod, his lips curving into a knowing smile.
He moved behind her, his hands caressing her hips with such familiarity, as if he’d touched her—made love to her—a thousand times before. She leaned forward, hands braced on the headboard of the bed, spreading her legs for him, willing to do anything for him.
His caresses stopped as he dug his fingers into her skin. Pressing his body against her, he rubbed himself slowly back and forth, his erection hot and hard against her skin.
Anticipation welled inside Leila, her breath coming in short gasps. As she turned her head again to look at the man, he reached forward and grabbed a handful of her hair, jerking her head back. At the same instant, he drove himself into her, filling her with one stroke.
Leila cried out, every nerve in her body reacting as the man thrust into her. Just as before, the man thrust quickly, his moans deep and masculine. Then Leila heard herself, as if from a distance, her high, sharp cries mixing with his. They startled her; she’d never made noises like this, wanton and wild and uncontrollable.
What he did to her was brief and fast and utterly primal. He drove himself deeply into Leila, over and over, pulling her head back, his breath rasping in her ear. And then with a deep moan, he buried himself completely, held himself still inside her, his body trembling fiercely. As before, she knew he was close, so close she could feel it in every shudder and movement of his body against her, inside her.
She was so close, her body trembling on the edge, aching for release, waiting for him, knowing this was how it was supposed to happen. He tensed briefly, fingers digging into her hips, and then he thrust forward quickly, sharply, his voice rising as he came. As his heat filled her, Leila cried out, shaking and jerking, her orgasm taking over her body, igniting her from the inside.
Her climax spiraled on for what felt like an eternity, carrying her higher and higher, her body shaking, out of control. It was more than she’d ever experienced…and everything she’d ever wanted.
The man finally released her hair and she fell forward, catching herself on the headboard. The man moved away from her and for a moment she hung there, gasping. Sinking to the mattress, she brushed the hair from her face.
“Leila.”
Leila lifted her head.
Sebastian stood just inside the open doorway. The man was gone, and she was alone on the bed, naked, gasping, body still trembling with the aftershocks of her powerful orgasm. The look on his face told her everything, told her he’d been there long enough to hear, to see…to know.
“Sebastian…I can explain.” But could she? She wasn’t even sure what had just happened, who had just been there in her room, in her bed.
Without a word, Sebastian turned and walked out. Leila scrambled off the bed and rushed into the hall.
But the hall was empty. Sebastian was gone, again.
Leila turned back to her room. She avoided looking at the figures on the door, afraid of what she might—or might not—see. Closing the door behind her, she climbed back into bed.
The last image on her mind before she fell into a restless sleep was the look on Sebastian’s face, the knowledge…the hurt in his eyes.
Chapter Eight
Leila blinked once, then her eyes flew open. The room was dim, the light subdued, and for a moment she was disoriented. She turned to the bedside table, picked up her watch, and squinted. It was past breakfast. Then a flash of lightning lit the room, a boom of thunder following a moment later. She sat up as the heavy raindrops hit the window.
Her heart sank; she’d probably missed her critique with Cheryl. The last thing she wanted—needed—was to disappoint the woman who’d given her this amazing opportunity.
Throwing back the sheet, she grabbed the robe from the foot of her bed and ran to the door, flinging it open. On the silver tray was an envelope, thicker than yesterday’s. Leila let out a sigh of relief. It was a written critique. She snatched up the envelope, turning
back to her room.
Her eyes fell on the door and her heart sank for a moment, her dream coming back to her. She glared at the figure of the man, the image of Sebastian’s face impressed in her mind. It was just a dream, but it felt so very real.
The critique from Cheryl lifted Leila’s spirits. She read the pages eagerly, rereading certain pages and passages. Cheryl thought the conflict scene was particularly well written, the emotions between the couple deep and authentic.
Cheryl then gave Leila her last assignment, bringing her characters back together and giving them a happily-ever-after ending. She encouraged Leila to keep the pace of the story moving, to make the reunion realistic and believable and then leave the reader with a well-planned final scene showing her characters together.
The last page wasn’t part of the critique. It was a note from Cheryl explaining that the next day would be Leila’s last. Cheryl asked to meet Leila at breakfast for one final critique of the final scenes of the book, the scenes bringing her hero and heroine back together. Then the seaplane would take Leila to Miami, the charter flight returning her to New York.
Leila finally set the pages on the bed, leaning back against the headboard. She was excited to reunite her characters and finish her manuscript.
But she was sad to think she only had the rest of the day and the next morning on the island. Her time with Cheryl had flown by and even though she’d felt she’d learned so much, she wished she could stay longer.
But what broke Leila’s heart was the realization she would never know for sure who—or what—Sebastian was.
With a sigh, she went to the desk to retrieve the writer’s box and a supply of paper. Curling up in the bed, she stacked the pillows behind her back, setting a fresh piece of paper on the top of the box.
Leila was going to bring her characters back together, come hell or high water. She paused, listening to the rain, chewing on the end of her pen. Then it came to her and she began writing.
Everything came together, the idea for the reconciliation, the way it happened. Leila outlined every scene carefully, wanting to save the best until last. She went back, adding details, filling in the dialog, layering emotions and feelings.
She finally came to the last scene, anticipation rising. For the first time, Leila was completely confident in what she was writing, how the scene would go, the exact words that would convey exactly what she wanted to say.
And then she was done. She sat back, drew a deep breath, and exhaled. It was finished. Her hero and heroine were reunited, the conflict resolved, their future secure. She had the happily ever after ending she wanted, the ending her characters deserved. Her story—their story—was finished.
Leila stretched, working the kinks out of her neck and shoulders. She felt exhilarated and exhausted at the same time. But it was a hard won exhaustion and a deep satisfaction, knowing she’d written something pretty amazing.
The storm was still raging outside, rain pelting the windows. She folded the pages, opened the door, and set them on the silver salver. Sitting beside the tray was a pot of coffee, a pitcher of juice, and a tray of pastries.
It was long past breakfast, but Leila found she was ravenous. She took the tray back to bed and devoured the pastries, bypassing the cold coffee for a glass of juice.
Finally, she sat back, licking the last of the pastry filling from her fingers. There was nothing more to write. It felt strange to have nothing to do, no more story to tell.
The rain had stopped, the pale yellow sun filling her room. A walk would do her good, maybe lift the funk she was in. She took a shower, lingering beneath the fall of hot water.
The wardrobe yielded a long dress, flowing and floating and utterly romantic. She pulled it over her head, letting the billowy fabric fall to the floor. The image of Sebastian came to her unbidden, his hands on her, tearing the dress from her body, exposing her breasts, leaning down to kiss them.
His face was etched in her mind. She’d memorized every feature: the green eyes, the startling ring of blue around the iris. The way his mouth turned up just at one corner.
She shook herself. Fantasies like that weren’t going to do her any good. If the day were to play out like the previous one had, Sebastian wasn’t going to appear. She’d written the scenes and, for the most part, he’d followed them. Now she’d written the conflict, the scenes that tore her hero and heroine apart. They were no more. She and Sebastian were no more.
Leila walked down the stairs and out the castle’s front door. The grass was wet, the world alive with the sounds of water dripping from the leaves. For a moment, she stood on the wide area of grass at the base of the first set of steps.
The lush garden, where Sebastian had last come to her—last made love to her—lay just ahead. But as much as she wanted to go there, she knew he wouldn’t appear. She’d done too good of a job on her novel, written the scenes too well.
She knew in her heart—whether he was real or imaginary—there would be no more visits from Sebastian.
Chapter Nine
Leila’s alarm went off early, jarring her out of a dreamless sleep. She stretched, looking up for the last time at the underside of the canopy. Reluctantly, she climbed out of bed, heading to the bathroom for her shower.
She realized she’d need to wear the clothes she had arrived in. Somewhere in the time she’d been on the island, her clothes had been laundered and hung in the wardrobe. As she slipped into her slacks and blouse, it was like slipping back into her old life. She really was going home to New York.
Cheryl was waiting in the dining room. She rose, kissing Leila’s cheeks.
“Leila, dear. Our last breakfast together, and your last critique. It’s been quite a week for you, hasn’t it?”
Leila set her bag on the floor then sat at the table. Dominick appeared at her elbow, pouring her coffee. As she stirred in sugar and cream, Cheryl watched her over the rim of her cup.
“I must say, Leila, I’ve been very impressed with your work. You’ve created a fresh story, with vibrant characters and a compelling relationship between them. The conflict was believable and heart wrenching, and your ending is satisfying. Even your secondary characters have life and depth. That’s not always easy to do.”
“Thank you, Cheryl. It means a great deal to hear you say that. Now what? What’s the next step?”
“You have a manuscript to be proud of. I suggest you set it aside for a few weeks, let it rest in your mind. Then give it a very good read through, looking for any typos or missing words, plot holes, inconsistencies.”
Cheryl smiled. “I must admit, I’m notorious for leaving out words in my first draft. My brain goes much faster than my fingers can. And then, well…you’ll submit your manuscript.”
Cheryl reached for a small card, sliding it toward Leila. “This is the contact number for my agent. I’ve let her know about you.”
Leila was stunned. She accepted the card from Cheryl, a broad smile on her face. “Oh, Cheryl, thank you! I can’t tell you how grateful I am for this.”
Cheryl held up her hand. “Please, Leila. It’s my pleasure. But your manuscript will have to stand on its own merits. My agent isn’t taking a look just because I’ve been working with you.”
“I understand. And I appreciate that. I really do.”
“It’s what writers do for each other. Someday, you can help someone else.”
“So this is it, then?” Leila sat back. “I’m headed home.”
“You are. And you’re ready. Believe me, it’ll be work, but you can do it, Leila. Here.” She slid a thick envelope across the table toward Leila. “Your manuscript. The original.”
Cheryl rose. “Come. Dominick will walk you down to the dock.”
Leila followed Cheryl down the hall to the front door. Dominick was waiting, holding her overnight bag. Leila turned back.
“Cheryl, it’s been an honor. Thank you again.” Leila extended her hand, but Cheryl ignored it, drawing her into a hug.
She pat
ted Leila’s back briefly before holding her at arm’s length. “Dear, you’ll be just fine. Work hard, don’t hold back…and be authentic, write the truth. That’s all I ask.”
Leila held the envelope and the card in her hands. Dominick opened the door, holding it for Leila. She walked out into the bright morning sunlight.
They walked to the dock in silence. At some point, Leila became aware of the drone of the seaplane. She looked up, shaded her eyes, and watched as it circled the island, dropping below the trees.
“She’s right on time. You’ll have no trouble in Miami meeting your charter.” Dominick turned, smiling. “Your return trip should be trouble free.”
They reached the small beach. Leila watched as the plane came slowly toward them. Dominick repeated his earlier performance of grabbing the strut and guiding the plane against the dock. Joely cut the engine and Dominick opened the door to the plane. He called to Leila.
“Ms. Connors? If you’re ready?”
She wasn’t, but it was time to leave.
* * *
She watched the castle through the plane window as they circled the island. Then Joely turned the plane across the ocean, and the island slid out of sight.
Leila was silent as they flew toward Miami. She had no questions to ask Joely on the return trip, at least none she could possibly answer.
They landed smoothly. Leila thanked her and quickly climbed out of the plane. She was met by Mr. Hayward, just as impeccably dressed as he had been when she first met him. He escorted her into the terminal. Instead of the calm, ordered space she’d seen last time, there was a noisy group occupying the waiting area.
“Welcome, Ms. Connors. I trust you had a pleasant visit.” Mr. Hayward raised his voice over the noise of the group, in particular a blonde girl with a loud voice, currently with a cell phone held to her ear.
“I did, thank you, Mr. Hayward.”
“Excellent. Your charter is waiting.” He hesitated, his cheerful façade fading for an instant. “There is, however, a small, shall we say, alteration in the plans.”
