by Luna Doerr
Strapless dresses make some women look like time travelers from the disco era but this one is kind of sweet. A pale celery green with ruching on the bodice that gives the illusion of more boobage than I actually have. I am modestly endowed in that area. The skirt of the dress flares out from the waist and stops just at my knees. I spin around to watch it swirl in the mirror.
I wiggle my newly polished toes in the silver sandals. The pedicure turned out to be a good idea, after all. My fingers graze the skin at the base of my neck. What would really finish off the outfit is my mother’s lone piece of good jewelry, a ruby pendant. If I get the job, maybe I can wear the dress again sometime with the necklace.
Of course, maybe I won’t get to keep the clothes. I consider that possibility. They could be on loan in order to make me presentable enough for dinner at the Ritz. He had said casual but come on. Nothing at the Ritz is casual, is it?
“You look lovely, dear,” the receptionist remarks as I leave the spa, my old clothes now tucked into a tiny ball at the bottom of the shopping bag.
I get fewer than ten steps outside the spa when a uniformed man approaches me. “Miss Caterine? Mr. White has arranged for a light tea for you in the tea room. Right this way.”
I follow the man to a small table in a hushed room filled with cozy upholstered chairs, perfect for just curling up in. Jazz music drifts softly from the ceiling. Women in dresses and aprons carry trays of tea and pastries from table to table. My stomach rumbles at the sight. Dinner is still several hours off. Alaric must have realized I’d be hungry before then.
The man disappears before I can thank him, or tip him. A woman immediately sets down a tray of tea, scones and finger sandwiches. A paperback book is on the table, as well. I pick it up. Impulsive by Alaric White. It is not the one he signed for me at the bookstore the night before. I tug at the slip of paper just beneath the cover.
Reading is my (second) favorite way to relax. Enjoy and meet me in the bar at six.
Not much imagination needed to guess his number one favorite way to relax. But I have to admit, after the spa and with a cup of tea in my hand, I’m feeling more relaxed than I have in years. Or, well, ever maybe.
I gaze around at the other patrons in the tea room. They are well-dressed, calm, reeking of money. People who can afford to stay at the Ritz can afford to relax. I sip at the tea for a few moments, then open the book and begin to read. I’m ten pages in when the characters get naked and proceed to …
I set down the dainty china tea cup, for fear my sweating hands might drop it.
Well. No wonder these books are popular.
I read on.
Outside the snow continued to fall. Neither of them cared. His hands slid down her waist and around to the back of her skirt. He drew down the zipper, then pushed her gently off the bed. The skirt fell to the floor, leaving her standing there in nothing but lacy white panties. She turned to face him, her eyes hooded with desire. He pulled her into him and wrapped his legs around her ass, then let himself just admire the little dip at the base of her throat and the way her sternum swelled gently into the curves of her breasts.
"May I kiss them?" he asked.
Last night, they had both been hungry, eager for each other's bodies. Everything had been hard and fast. Tonight, he wanted to take her slow.
"Yes," she whispered. "Please."
He pulled her to him, his lips closing over just her nipple. He rolled it between his lips for a moment, then splayed his palms across her back and pulled her breast into his mouth. He sucked and laved his tongue over her hard little nub while his hand caressed her other breast.
She cried out and he pulled her in tighter against his erection. His hands cupped her rounded ass, then he slipped his thumbs beneath the elastic of her panties and tugged gently.
"May I take these off?"
Assent shone in her eyes. He slid the lace down her long legs. She stepped out of the panties and kicked them aside. God, she was so beautiful. It was going to be hard taking this slow. The urge to toss her back on the bed and fuck her wildly like last night was powerful. But no. He needed some breathing room in here.
She stood there and let him admire her body for a moment. Then she stepped in between his legs again, and began slowly unbuttoning his shirt. She undid each button smoothly, gracefully. There was no clumsiness in her slender fingers. When the last button popped through, she spread his shirt open and pushed it off his shoulders. He watched her eyes become more hooded with desire as they roved over his chest.
He couldn't wait any longer. He needed to taste her. He wanted to feel her legs fall open beneath him, feel her body wet and slick for him. He stood and undid his fly. His slacks dropped to his ankles. He stepped out of them, toed off his shoes, then lifted her onto the bed.
"You're beautiful," he said.
He nipped at her jawline, then covered her mouth with his. He could still taste the cinnamon candy on her breath. She put up no resistance as he pushed his tongue inside, seeking hers. She was open and pliant, ready for him. She moaned into his mouth as he stroked her tongue with his, then reached behind him and tugged down on his hips.
"Mmm," he mumbled, pulling his lips off hers. "Slow," he whispered.
"I want you inside me."
"Not yet," he replied.
He crawled down her body until his face was level with her luscious breasts. He cupped one in his hand and put it in his mouth, wondering whether she was the kind of woman who could come just by having her tits sucked. He circled his tongue around her nipple and was rewarded with her arching her back, pushing her breast harder into his mouth. He felt her legs open wider, her knees pushing against his legs.
"Please," she begged.
He let her breast slip from his mouth, but not without giving her little rock hard nipple one last flick of his tongue.
"Roll over," he said.
She didn't hesitate, pushing her ass up at him. He rocked back on his knees, admiring the outlines of her back muscles and the way her rib cage narrowed into her waist. He brushed his thumb lightly against her opening, picking up some of her moisture.
"I want to take you this way." He leaned over her, pressing his chest against her back and his erection against the cleavage of her ass.
She moaned as he slid inside her. He moved gently in and out, savoring her heat and her wetness.
"You’re so tight," he groaned.
He reached around her hips and ran a finger along her pussy, spreading her moisture until she was nice and slick.
"I want to feel you come," he said. "I want to feel your pussy squeezing my cock."
He rocked in and out of her, as he stroked and caressed her swollen lips. She was breathing hard and rocking her own hips, when he finally allowed himself to touch the nub of her clit with the pad of his thumb. She inhaled sharply, then pressed into his thumb, rubbing herself against it harder and faster. He stopped moving inside her so he could focus on making her come, on keeping his thumb positioned in sync with her grinding hips.
He felt her begin to spasm around him, drawing down on his cock, and he had to fight the powerful urge to begin thrusting himself hard into her. It was skirting the edge of painful, holding back, but he didn't want her to lose the orgasm. He wanted her body racked with pleasure beneath him, hot and melting into him.
Her body clenched tighter around his cock, then let go as she pushed herself back at him, opening herself wider to him, thrusting her ass at him. He continued to stroke her as she cried out.
"Damien … Dami—" He loved it when a woman was so far gone she couldn't even get his name out. As her aftershocks subsided, he thrust into her harder and faster, chasing his own orgasm. When he came, he wanted to shout her name to the rafters but the thundering waves of pleasure were so overwhelming he couldn’t even remember his own.
I have never thought of myself as a prude, nor am I a virgin. But come on. No one has sex like that. Thundering waves of pleasure. Bodies melting. People forgetting their own
name.
Yet, I can’t deny that things are feeling a little hot and liquidy in my own body right now. My experience with sex was limited to college hookups. There wasn’t much unbridled passion in those. I’ve never seen stars or felt my body detonate with pleasure. I really don’t get what the fuss is all about.
It’s books like Alaric White’s that make everyone think sex is supposed to be some mind blowing spiritual experience where men are patient enough to touch every part of a woman’s body and give her four orgasms before even thinking about rolling on that condom.
Yeah right.
In my experience, sex involves the guy touching my breasts until I’m wet enough, grumbling about the condom, then pushing into me until he comes. I’m not even sure I’ve ever had an orgasm. Once, maybe. It had kind of felt like one, or what I thought one was supposed to feel like.
And then some guys, of course, just want blow jobs. I’m actually pretty good at those, thanks to a tutoring session from Zoe that involved cucumbers.
I flip to the next chapter. The story isn’t bad, actually, if a tad unrealistic. A female owner of a bed and breakfast in Maine is about to close up for the winter. She’s waiting for her final guest, a hunky nature photographer, to check out when an early blizzard snows them in. There’s not much for them to do but play strip Scrabble, take nude photographs of each other and have sex fifteen hours a day.
Of course, so far there hasn’t been any oral sex for the female character. Men hate going down on women is my understanding. I’ll point that out to Zoe when I get home tomorrow. Her favorite author doesn’t even give his heroines oral sex, won’t even write about it.
A pair of hands settle firmly on my shoulders, then I feel warm breath against my ear.
“Curled up with a good book, are you? Want me to tell you what happens next?”
“I think I’ve got a pretty good idea.”
“Do you?”
Warmth spreads over my cheeks and neck as Alaric rounds the chair and stands in front of me. He reaches out and caresses my flushed skin.
“I love it when you blush like this.”
His voice is low and soft, intimate, almost making me believe he really does love it.
“Did you get your work done?”
“I did. Thank you for asking, Caterine. And thank you for staying.”
“Oh!” I jump up out of the chair, nearly knocking the tea cup from the table. “Is it six o’clock? I lost track of time.”
Idiot. Way to ace a job interview.
Alaric takes my hand. “It is. But since you lost track of time while reading one of my books, I’ll overlook it.” He smiles mischievously. “Come have a drink while dinner is set up for us. You can tell me what you think of Impulsive.”
6
Alaric
At the bar, I order a glass of chardonnay for Caterine and a beer for myself. I watch as she takes in the well-heeled patrons enjoying themselves after work. She pulled her hair up into a messy bun at the spa. A few golden tendrils have worked their way loose and now curl against her cheek.
I want to be one of those curls.
I run my finger down along the side of her long, graceful neck, following the gentle slope to her shoulder, pale and gleaming in the bar lighting.
She turns to me. “Thank you for the dress and shoes. You didn’t have to do that.”
“But I wanted to. You look lovely in that shade of green.”
She looks lovely enough to eat, in fact. She sips her wine quietly, obviously uncomfortable sitting here with me. I like watching her uncertainty, her innocence. It makes her so thoroughly Erica.
Hiring Caterine is going to be a delicate procedure, one I’ve never had to go through with my other muses. With the exception of the very first one, who was my girlfriend at the time, they’ve all been fans of my work. Women send my agent “resumes” all the time. Their qualifications range from the merely wanton to full-on nymphomaniac. For my previous books, those were the right credentials.
For this one, absolutely not.
Erica is inexperienced, gentle, an old soul with an untouched heart. I suspect Caterine’s heart is untouched, as well. She might very well be shocked by the nature of the job I want to offer her. But if she is truly like Erica, her old soul will be thirsting for experience, for a fuller life than the one she presently has.
“Tell me about yourself, Caterine.”
She looks at me warily. “What would you like to know?”
“Your last name, for starters. You don’t have to share any deep dark secrets with me.” I doubt she has any deep dark secrets anyway.
“Schwartz. Caterine Schwartz.”
“And where did the exquisite Caterine Schwartz come from?”
I follow her blush from her cheeks all the way to where it disappears beneath the bodice of the strapless dress. I harden at the knowledge that there is nothing else between that dress and her skin.
“I’m from Pennsylvania, about an hour south of Harrisburg. I went to college outside Pittsburgh. I just finished my master’s in library science there and now I’m looking for a job.”
“What town, specifically?”
“Oh, you’ve never heard of it. Just a small town.”
“Try me. I’m from Pennsylvania myself.”
Her lovely mouth falls open at that revelation.
“Greencastle.”
“I know of it. It’s right off 81.”
She nods mutely.
“I’m from Harrisburg,” I add. “My family owns White Chocolate. You’ve heard of that.”
She nods again. Of course, she has. Everyone has eaten White Chocolate before. She looks like she is in shock, though, and I haven’t even gotten to the good stuff.
“I grew up with the oompa loompas.”
That gets her breathing again. And earns me a shy smile. This thrills me more than it should.
“My mother loved that chocolate. The bittersweet kind, though.”
“A true connoisseur then. White chocolate isn’t really chocolate anyway.”
“It isn’t?”
“Nope. No cocoa used in it.”
“She passed away three months ago. Ovarian cancer.”
I pull her hand into mine. “I’m sorry to hear that, Caterine. I lost my own mother ten years ago, when I was in college. By her own hand.”
Caterine bites back a gasp. “That must have been very difficult for you.”
“It was. I was very close to my mother.”
I take a long draw of beer, letting her process that information. I need to reveal personal details about myself so she’ll trust me. This is the first part of the procedure, the easy part.
“My father is dying now. I have to drive to Pennsylvania tomorrow, to the hospital.”
“Mr. White … that’s terrible.” Her concern sounds sincere. I’d bet my last dollar that Caterine Schwartz doesn’t have an insincere bone in her body. Not like the highly insincere bone lodged between my legs right now.
“Mr. White is my father. Please, call me Alaric. I’m too young to be called ‘mister.’” My thumb traces feathery circles on the inside of her wrist.
“How old are you … Alaric?”
“Thirty-one. I’m guessing you are twenty … three.”
“Four.”
“I was close.”
“Do you have a father, Caterine?” Preferably one without an entire arsenal of weapons.
Her eyes glance down at her lap before meeting mine again. “I suppose I do somewhere. But I’ve never met him. My mother spent the summer after her college graduation traveling around Europe. All I know is that my father was some Dutch boy.”
“Ah. That would explain this beautiful hair.” I release her hand and push my fingers into her hair, undoing the bun so all her golden strands tumble down about her shoulders.
“This is a rather,” she hesitates, searching for the right word, “unorthodox job interview.”
“Mmm.” I’m still running my fingers through her
hair. “And the job you’re interviewing for is rather unorthodox, too.”
“Can you tell me more about it?” She tilts her head away from my hand.
“Over dinner. I’ll tell you all about it then.”
“Whatever it is, I’m not qualified for a job that pays as much as you said it did. I’m barely out of school.”
“Well, inexperience is one of the things I’m looking for. It’s rather hard to find these days, actually, so I’m willing to pay good money for it.”
She shakes her head incredulously. “No one wants inexperience.”
“I do, Caterine. But I’ll explain why over dinner. I don’t want to get into that here. Can you relocate?”
I pull out my phone and scroll through a dozen or so photos. I turn the phone around for her to see.
“This is my estate in Maine. You would need to live on site. There’s a carriage house where my assistants usually live.”
Although Sim lives in the carriage house, too. Hmm, Sim and my Erica under the same roof … possibly not a good idea.
“Or you can choose a room in the main house.”
Definitely not a good idea to have Sim sleeping in the same building as Caterine. She’ll be fully experienced before the first night is over.
“I could move. I’m in the process of selling my mother’s house anyway. It’s not worth much,” she adds, looking at the small photo of my estate.
I scroll through some more pictures. “This is Sim.” I watch her closely as she takes in the photo. “Sim is my roommate from Princeton. And best friend. He lives on the estate. He’s a writer too.”
“Does he write—”
I laugh softly as I tuck the phone away. “Sim writes dystopian fantasy. Dark stuff. Too dark for me. I’m all about the hearts and flowers.”
She nearly chokes on a mouthful of chardonnay. I laugh again, then pat her on the back. Her bare skin is soft and warm beneath my hand. My dick twitches to life again while I fix a look of mock injury on my face.
