It began, as it so often does, when he couldn't sleep (as if he ever could). That night, he had been compelled to rise from his too-comfortable new bed and traverse the halls, hoping his rhythmic footsteps might lull him into relaxation. Somehow, he doubted it.
It had been only a matter of weeks since he had accepted her offer to come and work for her, keeping an eye on Tommy and the grounds. He knew his skill and his arsenal of weapons had served a role in her interest, but couldn't help but hope that a part of her had desired his mere presence in the house, as well. They had never been close; she distrusted his intimacy with her son and the wife she would have preferred not to acknowledge, while he resented her for her insistence on removing all memory of Angela from their lives, from Tommy's. But he had not hesitated when she had laid her offer on the table, knowing full well that he could use his closeness to Tommy, and to Jimmy, to his advantage. Gillian Darmody was not the only one capable of playing games.
In hindsight, he couldn't be sure what had drawn him to her room that night. He knew somehow that he would find her awake, and halfway through a bottle, most likely with tears streaming down her face for her poor, lost child. Tommy was a painful reminder of his father's absence, but even after the boy had been tucked into bed (by Richard, always by Richard), Jimmy's ghost filled the shadows of the old mansion and threatened to suffocate its few occupants with each passing breath. It was still only the three of them here, while Gillian made arrangements and Richard made repairs. In the daylight hours, she was consumed with her beloved brainchild, a gentleman's club with the class and sophistication that so many brothels lacked; but here, in the dark and the quiet of the waning evening, there was nothing to keep Jimmy's memory at bay. That's when they needed each other most.
He raised his hand to knock, but thought the better of it. Instead, he slowly turned the handle and sidled into the doorway.
"Is that you?" she said thickly, through a fog of tears.
He hummed in response.
"Come in, then. And close the door." It was as if she had been expecting him, though he couldn't for the life of him figure out why that might be.
He shut the door softly behind him, though there was no one on this floor he could wake up. "Are you. All right?" he asked softly.
She dabbed her eyes with the back of a girlish hand and struggled to regain her composure. "Richard," she said, thrusting her chin up in feigned confidence, "may I ask you a question?"
He nodded, acutely aware of the way her silk kimono drooped to expose an inviting shoulder.
"Do you find me attractive?"
He looked away, half of his face burning scarlet while the other remained hidden safely behind a strip of painted tin.
"Is that a yes?" She had risen from her seat and was sauntering towards him now, a pungent layer of rum on her breath. She was ever so close now, taking his hands from where he had clasped them nervously before him and placing them on either side of her delicately tapered waist. He was powerless to stop her from unbuckling his belt, from digging deep within his trousers to find the part of him that wasn't quite so timid, which she met with a gasp and a smile.
Her touch was like velvet, her grasp steady and rhythmic. He could feel his mind fogging over as he stared into her lovely, if bloodshot, eyes. She steered him to the bed, pushing him backwards as he tripped over the pants around his ankles, and straddled him, dominated him, her hand still fastened tightly around him.
"Have you ever been with a woman before?"
He nodded quickly, swallowing hard.
"But not often, I take it."
What had he come here for? Each deft stroke brought him ever closer to the precipice, yet his heart sank at her touch.
"There's nothing to be ashamed of," she admonished, reading his thoughts. "Think of this as…a lesson."
She eased him inside of her without another word, letting her eyes flutter closed as she accepted him hungrily within her. His hands were frozen on her hips as she gyrated, each movement the practiced choreography of a professional. She read his reactions like the pages of a book, lifting her hips when he neared release and bucking them forward and back to facilitate her own. Each skillful orbit brought tears to her eyes.
She did not kiss him, not when he could feel her body succumb to the tremors of her climax, not when she released him just as he felt the overwhelming rush of his own. And after, as she wiped the viscous, pearlescent liquid from his abdomen with a warm cloth and no trace of a smile, neither dared breathe a word.
He had settled back into bed that night, aware that a line had been crossed, aware that he was eager to cross it again, and the slumber into which the night's activities ushered him eagerly were for once free of terrifying visions of the past. When the light of dawn coaxed him awake, it was her face that filled his mind, leaving him more than ready to take on a day of insults and belittling jibes for another night of desperate escape. He needn't ask her if she agreed; he would simply return to her that night and let her lessons continue.
