by JR King
Carla was waiting in the hallway outside and, as I passed her, I smiled at her, making sure she noticed the glimmer of satisfaction in my eyes.
While the tub was filling, I went to the wine room. I had no idea what I was looking for. Picked up an overpriced Château d’Yquem. It was flat on the tongue, but crisp and citrusy with an intensely sweet aftertaste. I almost gulped down an entire glass, it was that good.
Back in the bathroom, I fumbled with the iPod and selected a playlist I’d concocted a few nights ago. 3 Doors Down started crooning something sad. After replacing yesterday’s gutted candles, I topped off my large glass and dropped down in a comfortable vanity armchair, nursing my bravado with more wine. Thing is, I was looking for a fight.
Why?
I wanted Alexander to hurt me. With his hands, a flogger, a crop, a paddle, a cat o’ nine tails—it didn’t matter.
He was losing interest in me.
“Excellent choix, ma chérie,” Alexander’s thickly accented drawl announced as he came in and appraised the scene.
“Are you attracted to Carla?” I nearly choked on my words. I was being ridiculously unreasonable, but the wine had fortified me, so I gamely continued. “I saw you.”
“Did you now?” He kept his voice casual.
“Don’t play the good boyfriend with me. She was practically on her knees and you loved every second of it. I noticed how hot she is. Why is she here? Who the fuck is she?”
His lips thinned, his face turning furious. “God, what made you such a fucking cunt, Elena?” I couldn’t remember ever shocking him into a fury.
But, at the moment, horniness was overriding all fear, and the alcohol in my bloodstream assured me I would have no greater use than to be a sexual object. Optimistically, I gave in. “I don’t like her flirtatious, snake-charming ways,” I retorted. “I don’t like her touching you. Don’t like seeing you enjoy it. I saw it all. It’s kinda squicky. You wanted to do her right there on your desk.”
“You don’t say.” Armed with a Cheshire cat smile, he murmured, “I’m attracted to her—is that what you’d like to hear?”
Feeling wounded and unsure, it was my turn to be furious. I knew better than to try and respond to this type of rhetorical question with a null hypothesis. But even that didn’t stop me from jumping to my feet. A mistake, but—oh shit—too late. I swayed embarrassingly and fell against him as I tried to hit him. I realized I fell right on the spot where Carla’s naked arm had rested prior to this moment, and so I tried to punch his chest with great force. In reality, my attempt must have felt like a friendly pat; he hardly budged, observing me with half-slitted eyes.
Reining in my indignant behavior, I righted my spine and looked him in the eyes, unafraid of his gaze. It was his sadistic gaze, the one that surfaced just before he did delicious, evil things to me.
“Are you drunk, Ms. Anderson?” He grabbed both my wrists.
“I most certainly am not, Mr. Turner,” I answered calmly, proud to discover I didn’t fear him.
“I want Carla,” tumbled into my ears. “You should have checked out her erect tits. Oh, you have no idea how it made my mouth water.”
I gasped, not recognizing a dare maybe, but I recognized my voice slurring, burring, doling out a hideous, whiney nag. “You, Alexanderrr, are a w-whore.” Being close to the point of no return, I couldn’t stop. I knew I was going to regret my actions; I was on the train to willful self-destruction. “You’re never ever going to be monogamous, are you?”
“Whore doesn’t apply to a man,” he said quietly, and expressionless.
Why was he still assessing the situation? Why wasn’t he overpowering me? Why wasn’t I feeling the impact of his palm on a butt cheek?
Having placed myself in a pathetic situation, all logical thought disappeared. “Eric?” I squeaked out.
His lips twitched into a smile, and with that I felt like I could breathe again. He pressed me against a wall and tightened his hold on my wrists, crowding my small body with his own. “Yes, Ariel?” he murmured, nuzzling my ear.
Inhaling his Fougère Royale scent, I became lost. “I’ll take anything,” I whimpered. My voice was almost decisive and adorably childlike, yearning for the inexplicably wonderful dominant in him. If I heard any woman speak like this to a man, I’d tell her to check into a psychiatric unit.
“Not when you’re drunk,” he whispered against my hair. “Let’s take a bath, pretty siren.”
“You won’t h-hurt me?” I stammered, my heart hammering.
He stroked my hair, his tone mocking me. “What do you think?” I sensed some kind of stress on the words, as if he was testing their soundness. “Never like this.” He grasped my jaw and made me stare up at him. His smile turned hard. “At a young age, I found a unique way of coping with the rage that brews up in me. S&M is a smart means to an end. You’re young, and developing. I’ve noticed that every time you’re stressed out or nervous about something, you either completely ignore me or pay too much attention to me, to the point of unjustifiable jealousy. We’ll find a way to give each other what we need—to correctly feed off each other. There has to be meaning, not senseless violence. Taking advantage of a woman’s vulnerability is sexual assault and abuse, however pacified it may be. These things shouldn’t be ancillary to BDSM, but they are because people interpret kink the wrong way.”
Past the wine, logic poked at me. “I’ve made a mess.”
He briefly ran his tongue over my lips. “The silt of imperfection is part of the human condition, kitten. The effects of the wine will dissipate faster after a hard fuck. Let’s make the most of this early afternoon.” Putting his arms around me, he cupped the back of my head, loosening my hair from the knot so it tumbled down. His lips were firm and demanding, his tongue stroking along my bottom lip and into my mouth. When he went down on me, I closed my eyes and let the heat of his mouth become the focal point of my existence.
*
I kept pulling the dress’s corset up to make sure I wasn’t flashing too much cleavage, which prompted Alexander to ask me point blank if I didn’t like what I was wearing. My champagne silk georgette Gucci gown had a waist-cinching corset bodice that was beaded to the hilt with tassel fringe.
I dipped low so he could see my cleavage. “Just making sure.”
He blew out a large breath before pressing a kiss to my forehead.
A sleek vintage Bentley pulled up in the driveway and Hamilton got out. He ushered me into the back seat, and Alexander went around to step in from the other side. As fascinating as the car’s interior was, I only had eyes for the man seated beside me. He was born for white tie. Then again, he looked pretty amazing naked too.
The minute Hamilton released the break and drove away, Alexander slid a hand beneath my gown and gently ran it up the back of my leg. He brought his mouth close to my ear and whispered, “I can’t wait to fuck you while you’re wearing this dress. I’ll tear it to pieces, little by little, revealing every inch of your skin to my gaze.”
The whimper I emitted was a combination of lust and appreciation.
At Tony’s, Alexander handed over his wool topcoat and my long coat.
A smiling waiter in a stiff black jacket asked us to follow him. Inside, the ballroom decoration was based on a European palace. A huge, red-carpeted staircase with an ornately carved balustrade wound its ways up to the second floor. Two stories and a large dance floor, the walls hung with 19th century oil paintings of the scions of royal families. Stern looking viscounts and Rubenesque countesses with stained teeth stared down at us in their layered silk finery and powdered wigs. Christ, they must have been smelly underneath all the fine clothing and caked makeup. Sara and I always joked when we watched historical series, marrying each inaccurate infraction to a fruity vodka shot.
Men were gentlemanly dressed and some women had gowns with bustles and hoopskirts. Tony welcomed guests and gave a melancholic speech, which was followed by a sort of vin d’honneur. Bottles of the finest champa
gne sat half-consumed on highboy tables. Lifelong friends caroused, mingled with out-of-towners and socialites, defended their favorite private institution; the wealthy elite of New England had the best options for schools in the country.
Alexander and I broke up to say hello to friends and family. Once I’d greeted Sara and my grandparents, he introduced me around. Hughes Dong, Harry Johnson, and Georges Weiner were but a few of the nicknames he’d given his classmates.
Sipping my second glass of champagne, “Getting bored, pretty one?” his murmuring hit me.
Most of the discussions revolved around stocks and investments, market trends, and the perils of going public. “A smidgen—a teensy little bit,” I smiled at him. “I don’t like the majority of the wives,” I said softly so others couldn’t hear.
He grinned and stroked my hair. “They don’t like you either. How can they when you look like you do?”
We had seats at the head table. I was pleased to see that we weren’t the first to arrive at it, nor the last. Four men stood up as we approached. Classically, Tony and Aidan, just like Alexander, wore distinguished versions of Barocco Cavalli masks.
Alexander gave them a wide smile. “Look at what the cat dragged in. Cute as a button, isn’t she?” His hands flew to my hair to tuck a wayward lock behind my butterfly mask.
One by one, I greeted Tony’s younger twin brothers, and they stooped to kiss my cheeks.
“I’m sure my mask is the one you like best.” Tony said this with a ghost of a flamboyant smile.
“She likes mine better,” Alexander stated in a syrup-slow drawl.
“She likes mine better,” Tony echoed back in a mocking voice just shy of a woman.
“Trust me, she loves it. Can’t get enough of it,” Alexander continued.
“Trust me, she loves it. Can’t get enough of it,” Tony countered with an effeminate, high-pitched whine, rolling his eyes.
“Ohmigod. How old are you guys?” I covered my lower face with both palms, fingers splayed. I was wholly ignored.
Aidan dialed up the octaves. “Don’t make me say where you guys need to stick those substantial schlongs.”
Both gasping, Alexander and Tony placed their hands on their muscular behinds.
A woman with a Colombina Ciuffo mask approached, and squeezed Alexander’s arm. “It’s in the bag or not? No bad blood?” Carla Ford had a slight lisp.
Moving his head from side to side, “I haven’t decided,” he told her, at which she stared at him with a sour face.
“Why are you two swapping riddles?” I asked moodily, feeling confused.
“Rib me all you want, champ. She’s my future wife.” Aidan was struggling to keep a robust grimace off his face.
“You two are dating?” I stared at Aidan with a crinkled brow.
“We’re in love,” he declared. “She grew up with the Turners. Wants their blessing. Or perhaps I should say, she wants your asshole boyfriend’s blessing.”
The gaiety in his voice buoyed my spirits. I couldn’t suppress my damn grin. “I’m so happy for you guys.”
“El,” Michael’s faux-jovial drawl alighted on me.
I turned around so he could look me in the eyes as he started the tongue-lashing. “There will be hell to pay if you stand me up again.”
I perked up. “I’ve a salient excuse.”
“Don’t tread on me, kiddo.”
I decided to make waves, jokingly. “Loose lips sink ships—ahem—take it up with your boss, he’s the one who spiked the punch. I was tied to his office chair during lunchtime yesterday.”
Everyone laughed, attracting attention.
For the meal, the gender imbalance at our table was obvious. I quickly figured that Sara, Carla, and I were at the head table primarily for adornment. Far from being offended, I was rather flattered, and shook each of the tablemates’ hands in turn. I accepted the chair that Tony held out, which he pushed in as I sat down.
“I’m glad you’re finally at my table,” he said.
Elena Anderson
The Kiss of Betrayal
The ball was a huge success, totally off the hook. We laughed and danced, created unforgettable memories. Toward the end of it, Alexander was reading on his iPhone. He ran his finger around the rim of his tumbler, something he always did when he was thinking.
His eyes met mine. “I feel like a nightcap, don’t you? Savor this august evening a little longer?”
“I do, sir. I’m old enough to drink this time.”
“I’ll be back in five minutes with something special.”
With almost the weariness of someone who had an essential but unpleasant job to do, he stood up and wrenched his way between the busy tables. Reaching a vacant corner, he answered his phone.
Who was calling him—interrupting us so late?
With bursting virility and the athletic grace of a handsome alpha male, he ran up the stairs. A wispy cloud of suspicion hovered about.
I excused myself, saying I had to go to the bathroom, and trekked to the second floor. Once upstairs, I took a calming breath before stepping into the elegant, brightly lit hallway. I stopped abruptly at the sight before me. Just down the corridor, Alexander stood beside a door, his hands holding the face of a beautiful woman. Certain that this couldn’t be real, I blinked several times, hoping a different view awaited me each time I opened my eyes.
My mind told me there had to be an explanation, there was no way this could be what it appeared to be. I shook my head as numbness crept all over me, gripping me. There’s a viable explanation, stop imagining the worst, I reprimanded myself. I hadn’t realized I’d moved closer, now standing in their line of sight.
Alexander stood before an attractive, fortyish woman who wore a Gattina mask. She was chatting away familiarly with him, stroking his arm, laughing. Her free hand dabbed at tears of happiness, smiling adoringly at him. Confronted to his profile, I couldn’t see his expression, but I was sure he’d smiled back at her because she leaned in to him. Brushed at his crumpled jacket. The way she whispered in his ear almost seemed like she was licking it. Strawberry blonde curls, long legs bared by a high split, a svelte body she obviously worked hard at. She was dressed in what looked a lot like Valentino to me.
They murmured to each other and I watched as he brought her left hand to his mouth, placing a single kiss on the back of it. She went for a hug. His arms wrapped sans protest around her, their bodies rocking back and forth in the quiet hallway, oblivious to me or anything else, their profile striking against the glow of the yellow lights. My vision clouded as I watched the tender embrace, the way her hands moved through his hair, and how she buried her face into his neck.
Beware, this wasn’t the worst part.
Horror mounted in me when she indelibly stamped him: her lips pressing on his felt like a razor cutting into mine. My heart went cold and I felt dizzy. Standing weakly, I took a step backward, but my knees buckled. I caught myself, leaning against a wall. My mouth felt like it was stuffed with cotton wool. I took deep breaths, tried to fight off the anxiety ambushing me. Losing the fight, I simply fell to my knees, unmindful about scuffing my gown.
I couldn’t wing this.
Then came the anger, slowly rising in temperature, until it reached a boiling point. Its tenfold increase rose to epic proportions, burning my skin like a rainfall-ridden prairie on fire. I was perilously close to moving in and slapping the woman with an open hand. A closed fist was far from being worthy of her. My gut clenched. This was a pivotal moment to make a good decision. Did I possess enough flawless grace to hide my budding conniption?
NO.
I bundled off in a rush. Later, I might regret having embarrassed myself by running through the ballroom, but at the moment, my only goal was to find a powder room or a deserted bedroom or any room where I could sit long enough to figure out how to survive this. Leaving the hum of the activities behind me, I sighed.
Several socialites; at least three whom I recognized, were congregating j
ust outside the restroom lounge. I hastily turned to my left. It hardly mattered where I’d end up, I just needed to be alone. This was certainly the right way, no one was milling around. I’d been to Tony’s a few times. On my first visit, he’d given me a full tour, so I knew my way around the mansion. The prospect of a moment of solitude glimmered before me as I moved in what I assumed was the direction of a guest room. I strode purposefully, not looking at staff members for fear they might stop me. My mission, the determinedness of my steps, and the clicking of my heels on the floors were strangely comforting. As long as I focused on myself, I didn’t have to grapple with the thought of Alexander having a mistress.
I smiled when I caught sight of the unoccupied guest room, and then audibly groaned. I opened a set of sliding doors on the side, which gave way to a walk-out balcony. Insofar, it was the quietest place on the large grounds. I pulled out my small Dior compact kit and squinted at the reflection I saw in the mirror. My jawline looked too pale, ruby lips trembly like water, inarticulate sounds floating out of them.
My reflection blurred as I watched hot tears collect in my eyes. All I could see was Alexander kissing another woman. I closed the kit and buried my face in my hands. The flow of tears felt good. Crying had always been quite cathartic for me, and now, it felt like I was finally catching my breath. Each muffled sob was a gasp of fresh air, and each shudder seemed to invigorate me a little. I stole a few more bracing moments. I was aware of the time passing, of the fact that Alexander might be looking for me.
Just as I was beginning to relax, anticipating and preparing for the confrontation with Alexander, I heard a cool voice say, “Miss?”
A man was holding out a silk handkerchief at me. I thought he sounded familiar. Simply my imagination. Accepting the hanky, I tried not to picture my tear-stained, mascara-smeared face. “I’m fine.” Holding my mask down, I wiped my eyes gingerly so as not to wreck my makeup further. “I’m totally fine,” I repeated with a small laugh. I dabbed away the last of my tears and looked at the handkerchief somewhat impatiently. It was monogrammed: JMH.
