Once Upon a Time

by Luna Doerr

  My lovely Caterine. My lovely Erica.

  Then I hear a faint trilling sound, light and delicate and for a minute, I think it’s some delicious new noise my Erica is making. But no. Caterine pushes at my chest and breaks the kiss. She digs into her purse and pulls out her phone. She swipes to answer.

  “Zoe. Hey.” Her voice is breathless. “Yes. I’m fine.” Her lips are red from my kiss. “Yeah, I heard about the snow. I’ll be fine. I have new tires on the car.”

  I pull out my own phone to check the weather forecast. Shit. Three feet expected by morning? I tap Sim’s name in my contact list.

  “Hey,” I say when Sim answers. “Yes, she’s with me. No, I won’t let her drive home in this weather.” Caterine glares at me. I return the glare. “She can stay with me.” Another, harder glare. “Or I’ll get her a room of her own.” See? I was planning to be the perfect gentleman until you asked me to kiss you. “Yeah. See you tomorrow.”

  She hangs up right after I do. The waitress arrives with our soup.

  “I know how to drive in the snow,” she says, dipping her spoon into the broth, not looking at me.

  “Have you ever driven here in the DC area in a really bad snowstorm?”

  She shrugs.

  “Well, I have. And the issue is not whether you know how to drive in the snow. It’s that no one else around here does. People abandon their cars in the middle of the roads here when it snows.”

  She sulks through her steak, then refuses dessert and coffee.

  “You’re still so fucking adorable,” I say. “Even though I want to turn you over my knee.”

  “Let me out,” she says, gathering up her purse and coat. She throws some bills onto the table.

  I add more bills then follow her to the front desk, where the desk clerk tells her there are no rooms available.

  “Fine. I’ll walk to the metro,” she says to no one in particular, definitely not me whom she is pretending to ignore.

  She heads for the front door. I follow. Outside, the snow is falling hard and fast. Everything twenty feet away is obscured in a haze of white. Beneath my boots, the ground is slick and difficult to walk on. Caterine’s boots aren’t snow boots. They are heeled and black and suede and stretch up to her knees.

  An image of her standing in a field of snow wearing nothing but those black knee-high boots swirls in my mind.

  Still she ignores me. Yeah, I get it. She’s pissed that she asked me to kiss her. I’m guessing that wasn’t her intention either when she came to the hotel. She came out of curiosity, most likely, or a desire to show me that she is totally, one hundred percent fine. Completely over me.

  She isn’t over me, though. Just like I’m not over her.

  “Caterine,” I call out to her. “Why are we doing this?”

  “We aren’t doing anything,” she replies, waving her hand in the air, not bothering to turn around. “I am going home.”

  Then she slips and falls. I rush to her.

  “Are you okay?”

  Her wince as I help her up is all the answer I need.

  “You’re staying with me tonight, Caterine.” I press my hand over her lips to quell her protestations. “I will sleep on the sofa. You can trust me on this.”

  Snowflakes catch in her hair before melting. Her green eyes darken as I lift her into my arms and carry her back into the hotel lobby.

  “It’s not you I don’t trust,” she says.

  46

  Alaric

  “So Sim wrote a book?” Caterine stands at the window in the hotel suite, looking out over fifteen stories of falling snow. “All by his lonesome?”

  “Sim has been the beneficiary of a lot of free research over the years.” I pause. How many times have I dreamed of being in the same room with her? Now here we are, and the last thing I want to talk about is Sim. “You haven’t cashed any of my checks.”

  “I have a job now. I don’t need the money.”

  “That’s not the point. You did a job for me and you deserve to be paid.”

  “You overpaid me.”

  I come up behind her, lay my hands gently on her shoulders. “I don’t want to fight with you, Caterine.” I kiss her hair, inhale its sweet vanilla fragrance. “I’ve missed you. And I can’t write without you.”

  “Is that why your book is only part one?”

  “Yes. That’s exactly the reason. I can’t write without a muse. When you left, I lost Erica.” I dare to wrap my arms around her waist and pull her tight against me, her back to my chest.

  “You need to hire a new assistant.”

  I close my eyes and growl in frustration. “I don’t want a new assistant. I want you. I need you.”

  “I can’t, Alaric. I have a job here. I can’t leave.”

  “I’ll come to you.” I swore I wouldn’t beg her anymore to come back. I’ve left dozens of messages on her phone, begging. Pleading. But I’m on on the verge of begging again. “No one else can be Erica the way you are.”

  She squirms out of my arms and sits down on the sofa. “Can I read what you’ve written for part two?”

  “I would love it if you did. I value your opinion, Caterine. You know that.”

  When I return from the bedroom with my laptop, Caterine has shed her boots and tights and her legs are tucked beneath her on the sofa. How was it that she could still look so young and fresh after what Sim and I did to her last summer?

  My other assistants had always looked tired and jaded by the time they left Maine. When my books were finished, they were usually ready to be done with me—and I was always ready to be done with them.

  I can’t imagine ever being tired of Caterine.

  I boot up the laptop and find the right file. Part 2_DRAFT. I’m about to hand over the laptop to her when I’m struck by a better idea.

  “Let me read it to you.”

  She smiles at the idea, at me. “You have to do the English accent.”

  “I do a mean English accent, just for the record. Semester abroad in college.”

  I begin to read.

  Charles saddled up Erica’s horse. It was still a mystery why the horse had thrown her. The groom had been riding her since the accident, but he had noticed nothing out of the ordinary concerning the horse. Charles wanted to see for himself. Plus, he needed to get out of the house, lest he be tempted by his wife, lest he be tempted by the desire to return to the madam’s. And he did not want to return to the madam’s. The last visit had been thoroughly revolting. Even the coachman had suggested he not return for awhile. Charles had, after all, ended the last visit by vomiting his guts out in a filthy alley.

  Only if the madam could procure a new woman for him would he go back. He needed someone less touched, less used. Naturally, all the men at the madam’s wanted that, which made any new woman instantly popular at the brothel and hard to get time with.

  He goaded the horse into a gallop as the house and gardens fell away behind him. Oh why had he ever started that nasty habit in the first place? He didn’t really want a new whore. What he really wanted was his wife. He had ruined all hope for that, however. He needed to stop going to her room. It wasn’t fair to her, forcing himself on her when he knew she was too kind-hearted to send him away. And it was too hard on him. The more nights he spent with her, the more he wanted from her. The more he was desperate to be the one thing he could never be—a good husband to her, the kind of respectable man she deserved.

  If only he had died in the war. Then she would be free to marry again.

  He slowed the horse to a stop at the stream and dismounted so she could drink. He and Erica had ridden to this stream many times before their marriage, before the war. The memories of those lovely, peaceful afternoons had sustained him through many a dark night after battle. He should have abandoned her when he returned home—before consummating their marriage—so she would still have her purity to take to another man. But he had been too selfish to do that, and now they were both stuck. He was trapped by his desire for her.
She was trapped by her awakened needs.

  Maybe he could find someone for her. The coachman was unmarried. Perhaps he would be willing. But the thought of another man, even a man he trusted, touching his dear Frederica—spreading her legs and kissing her most secret spot—made him want to kill something.

  Maybe even himself.

  I pause, looking across the sofa for Caterine’s reaction. She is wearing a perfect poker face, thoughtful but giving away nothing. It worries me. Normally, I don’t give a shit what other people think of my books. As long as my readers like them, I’m good.

  My sister has always been clear on what she thinks of my writing. Trash. Filth. A waste of time. And I don’t care, as much as I love my sister and value her opinion on other matters.

  Nor have I ever cared what my other assistants thought of the books they were helping to write. But I care desperately what Caterine thinks.

  I resume reading.

  He returned to the house, no closer to understanding why the horse had thrown Erica nor any closer to reconciling what he wanted with what he should be man enough to do. He left the horse with the groom and went inside. In his room, he collapsed onto his bed, intending to take a quick nap. Instead he found himself unbuttoning his trousers, pulling out his cock. This was what he had to be content with at home from now on. No more going to Erica’s room at night. If he needed to relieve his desires, he would do so alone.

  As he stroked his cock harder and tighter, he allowed himself to think of her, though. But not to think of her in her bed, with him touching and entering her from behind. No, he wanted to imagine making love to her face to face so he could watch the pleasure in her eyes, in the flush of her cheeks, on the cusp of her lips while he was inside her. He wanted to watch her as she cried out his name over and over, her body rolling and shuddering beneath his body—because of his body. He wanted her to see the pleasure on his face as her body sent him spiraling toward the heights of desire. He wanted her to hear her name echoing off the walls and ceiling of his room—of their room—as he emptied his love into her.

  I close the laptop and look hopefully at Caterine.

  “Your accent’s pretty good, for one semester,” she jokes.

  I smile back at her. “So are we friends again?”

  “Were we ever friends?”

  My breath catches in my throat. Had we been friends? It isn’t a term I would have applied to any of my other muses. But to Caterine? I feel that we had been friends.

  Weren’t we?

  I set the laptop onto the floor next to the sofa, and scoot closer to her. I take her hands in mine.

  “I thought we were.” I lift her hands to my lips and kiss each knuckle tenderly. “Before …” I let the unspoken words hang in the air. Before you learned how much I lied to you.

  Caterine’s face is shut down, giving away nothing, but she doesn’t pull her hands away from my lips. There might be hope for me yet.

  “I never got the impression that you looked at your assistants as friends,” she says.

  I kiss the final knuckle, then start all over again. “I didn’t, Caterine. But surely you know by now that you are not just an assistant to me. I never made love to any of them. Never spent a night sleeping next to them. Never let them write even a single word of any of my books.” I tug her onto my lap. “I never wanted to be friends with them. But I want that with you.”

  “Maybe it’s just that Erica means more to you.”

  I shake my head. “I know Sim believes that. But I don’t. This book does mean a lot to me, but I know the difference between fiction and real life.” I pull her head down close to mine. “You are real life to me.”

  My lips touch hers and she responds so sweetly, it stuns me. She is torn about this too, I realize. Torn about me. We both are. The feelings she provokes in me are ones I haven’t felt in years—haven’t allowed myself to feel in years.

  And I can guess where her ambivalence is coming from. I’m surely not the sort of man Caterine has probably ever envisioned for herself. I’m definitely not the sort of man she deserves.

  Like Charles, I have squandered my integrity on whores without ever considering that there might come a day when I would want that integrity back.

  I allow the kiss to break, and stare deep into her lovely emerald eyes. In them, I see desire and hesitation, concern and distrust. I wish I had saved myself for her, and the thought is like a kick in the gut.

  A year ago, I would have laughed at the notion of saving myself—my body, my sexuality—for another person. I would have thought it a waste, an antiquated notion, mere outdated morality. Why deny yourself pleasure? I was all about the immediate gratification.

  But to have explored sex and pleasure and passion for the first time with Caterine … the idea takes my breath away and makes my heart burn with regret. To have been able to come to her with a pure heart and a pure body … she deserves that from a man and I will never be able to give it to her.

  Worse, Sim and I had taken some of that purity from her—and for what end? A book? A made-up story about made-up people?

  I close my eyes so she can’t see the fear and anguish warring there. All my life has been made-up stories and made-up people. Every time I could have gotten close to someone, could have chosen a different life, I had run away to my made-up stories. And blamed my father.

  I suck in my breath as her finger begins to lightly trace the curve of my eyebrow. I’ve never felt anything so erotic in my life, the way I can feel her finger gently move every hair, feel every tiny surge of movement against my skin.

  When she reaches the end of my eyebrow, I whisper, “Do that again.”

  She obliges me and my body is suffused with lust and desire for her. I am hard but for the first time in my life, I’m not focused on that.

  Every nerve ending in my body is pulsing just from the touch of her fingertip on the tiny hairs of my eyebrow. I swallow hard. She is taking my body to a place it’s never been before and, as much as I fear going there—fear I might never want to come back—I need it all the same.

  “Make love to me,”I say, my eyes still closed against the likelihood that she will refuse. I have no right to ask this from her, only blind hope. “I know I don’t deserve it. And you don’t have to forgive me for what I’ve done. But no one has ever made me feel the way you do, Caterine, and I don’t want to die without knowing what it would be like for you to make love to me.”

  She traces her finger along the ridge of my nose. “Are you planning to die soon?”

  “In about three seconds if you don’t kiss me.”

  “Well. That would be a hard thing to explain to the front desk, now wouldn’t it?”

  Her kiss sends my heart into freefall and I let my body sink back into the soft cushions of the hotel sofa. Her lips are like a whisper over mine, exploring and tasting, then slipping down along my jaw and into the crook of my neck.

  I think I’m going to faint from the pleasure.

  She kisses along my neck and my Adam’s apple. She gives the indentation at the base of my throat a soft lick and I groan.

  “Do whatever you want with me,” I moan as her fingers tug gently at the neckline of my cashmere sweater.

  She slides her hands beneath the sweater and pulls it over my head. The static energy running through my hair matches the electricity running through the rest of my body. I watch the top of her blonde head as she presses kisses over my chest, sucks my nipples into her mouth, dips her tongue softly into my navel.

  She sits back on my knees and runs her palms down over my chest, then her fingers settle gracefully on the button of my jeans. She smiles wickedly at me before popping the button through and slowly—god, could time move any slower?—lowering the zipper.

  I thrust my hips toward her, begging for what I know will come next. I see the fire in her eyes grow hotter as she spreads my jeans open over my bare skin. She eases my hard cock out into her hands.

  I remember the first time she did this,
in this very hotel. That was the beginning of the end. The first time I’d ever let one of my assistants take charge of her interview, the first time I had slept in the same bed with one.

  I watch as Caterine’s soft pink tongue emerges from between her lips and, as if in slow motion, licks me from my balls to the head of my cock where a tiny bead of moisture lies. She flicks it into her mouth, and the thought that I might burst into tears from the torture of her touch—and the sheer joy that she is here—occurs to me.

  If I start crying like a baby, so be it. At the moment, I don’t care about anything other than Caterine’s hot mouth on my cock.

  Her fingers curl around the base of my cock, then she closes her mouth over me. She takes me deep, sucking long and hard.

  It was so fucking good. There is nothing like this in the world, nothing like my Caterine nearly swallowing me whole.

  I feel an orgasm building along my spine and I want it, crave that release like it’s a drug. How could I have spent such a short period of time with her and yet be so completely addicted to her?

  I thrust into her mouth and she allows it a few times, then lets her lips pop off me. I groan in frustration. But then she kneels on the floor and unlaces my boots. She has more planned for me. She strips off my jeans and socks, shoves them aside. Then she stands and turns away from me.

  “You can’t leave me like this,” I beg.

  She grabs the hem of her dress and pulls it over her head. Fuckfuckfuck. The sight of her standing there in just her bra and panties is going to give me a heart attack.

  “I promise I won’t leave before you come.”

  “Or before you come,” I growl in response.

  She shrugs, then reaches behind her back to unhook her bra.

  Hurry. Dear lord, hurry.

  When the bra joins the dress on the floor, she shimmies out of her panties. Only when she is completely undressed, does she turn around and let me see her fully.

  “So beautiful,” I breathe. Why did I ever let a man like Sim get near her? Touch her, kiss her, push himself inside her? I knew she was different from the very minute I laid eyes on her and yet, I had allowed Sim to have her. “I don’t deserve you.”