Chapter 3
"Attraction is not a Choice"—David DeAngelo
It was an unnatural occurrence for her to be up as early as she was. It was barely daybreak, the sky a shade of soft, sensual blue and stars twinkling fondly, slowly losing the battle against the sun. She stepped gingerly onto the terrace of her pied-a-terre to watch the night turn into day. She couldn't remember the last instance in which she'd witnessed a sunrise, and as she stood watching the phenomenon she wondered why she didn't make this a daily occurrence. She leaned her elbows against the balustrade, closing her eyes and listening to the morning bird song. The breeze rustled the sleep-mussed hair that caressed her shoulders, and the satisfying stretches she did of her back caused the loose ties of her silk robe to fall open and expose the cream, silk chiffon negligee she wore underneath. She enjoyed the feel of the silk against her creamy brown skin; the morning air chilled enough to cause her nipples to awake as the morning sun rose.
Camille watched the day come to life, not ashamed of her near naked form as people around her headed off to their insipid day jobs. She did not envy those people, and observed with satisfaction the glances of disdain the drones reserved specifically for persons like her; people who flaunted their privileged life of luxury. One specific commuter was bold enough to voice her censure. Camille returned her with the sweetest smile and a wish for safe travel. After that, however, Camille decided she'd witnessed enough of the morning rush, and retreated inside to the airy, feminine cheerfulness of her flat. She left the glass, French doors open, however, the breeze rustling the white curtains surrounding the doors.
The flat was simple and charming with a large terrace in the French style, accessible from both the bedroom and the front living area. There wasn't much on the terrace but a few terra cotta pots nursing fragile herbs and two sizable potted bushes – one of rosemary and one of lavender. The breeze mingled the scent of both the herbs, lending a unique fragrance to the delicate complexity of her décor: a bright confection with a fashion edge, defined by a playful yet well-edited use of apple green, watermelon pink and the liberal use of black on all wood accents.
Her bedroom extolled her sense of style, with an ink black Queen-sized bed painting a graphic silhouette against the eggshell white walls. The Chippendale-style headboard and the boldly turned posts evoke American Colonial and yet the antique black lacquer gave the bed a decidedly Modern attitude. The bed was embellished with fine linens shipped expertly from mills in Russia founded by Catherine the Great. The black and white damask floral-patterned duvet paired with the tailored and preppy black and white gingham pillow shams and a soft, cotton quilt with liberal blasts of pink and white on a black background offered a versatile contemporary style to an emphatically graphic garden. On either side of the bed reside identical antique, maple night tables colored in matching black that accentuate the hand-distressing on the top and scoring on the sides of each sturdy antique. Delicate accenting of crystal lamps with white lampshades grace the tops of each night table, while a fashionable silver-leafed starburst mirror hangs boldly above the bed in the middle of the wall evoking 18th century vogue.
She'd kept the walls stark white and the floors a deep chocolate wood throughout the entirety of the apartment, to give the space a city loft appeal. The living room was unique with horizontally paneled walls that etched around until breaking off at the entrance to the kitchen and the French doors of the terrace. A 3-cushion white sofa backs across a small space from the terrace doors. The sofa is hostage between two identical, small tables with a black finish, turned legs and single drawer and the same lamps that adorn her bedroom tables. The coffee table is not one large table, but four grouped together smaller tables finished in black with an inset glass top and slatted bottom shelf. The "coffee table" sits unassumingly upon a black and white hounds tooth rug. On each catty-corner of the couch are placed chairs, the right side holds a simple white Chesterfield, while the left side has a inviting tub chair with spooled feet in a soft jade. Fresh-cut chrysanthemums and white and pink Phalaenopsis orchids scattered about add robust touches of color to the fine sensibility of the room.
The kitchen was her destination, a cup of strong coffee being the ultimate goal. The sounds from the opened door in the bedroom are too muffled for her taste at the moment. The home is too quiet and stark, so passing by the neat living room she switched on her television, letting the morning news fill the silent void. She took the remote with her as she moved from the living area to the breakfast nook, setting the control down upon a rectangular dining table with boldly turned legs, and strangely the only wooden piece of furniture that wasn't stained black. Instead she kept the integrity of the charming maple in a clear lacquer and paired the table with two black comb-backed chairs across the table from the bay window and bench combo, the bench also accented in black.
Behind a swing door a simple kitchen. The only room in the flat she allowed to remain enclosed despite the open floor plan. Two small awning windows provided the only ventilation in the modest two-way galley. This was the only room where black was not prevalent, only angelic white, soft olive and white mingled marble countertops and floral pink curtains over the windows. Every appliance was stainless steel, her cookware olivine, her flatware white, her stemware elegant crystal.
She didn't drink coffee often, but when she did she wanted it to be the best, much like everything in her life. On her last trip to her homeland she'd sneaked through Customs beans from the Ethiopian Yirgacheffe region's award winning Koko mill. Opening the bag was a delight to the senses as the intense, warm aroma blasted the even-tempered kitchen. She took pleasure in grinding the beans down, simple and fine in order to extract as much flavor as she could. She scooped the powder out and placed it into the percolating carafe and let the appliance work its magic. Within minutes the scent intensified and she knew her morning treat was ready. She poured herself a simple cup, the deep chocolate hue appearing almost black and vibrant against the severe white of her coffee cup. She took a delicate sip of the warm brew to taste it free of additions. The flavor was savory with hints of the floral upon start, climaxing into suggestions of citrus and aromatic woods, and ending with a delicious, light frothy chocolate. The addition of the heavy cream she enjoyed simplified the intense flavors but the strong cup retained character and balance.
She floated back towards the dining area, sliding onto the bench, stretching her legs out like a cat reclining. She sipped leisurely, the tang of the coffee reminding her of the charming Vulcan from two nights prior. It was not often that a man made his way under her smooth, mahogany skin. Even Pike, with his lavishing of jewels and dresses and other precious gifts upon her, never made it past the first layer of her epidermis. She wasn't cold or calculating like many women could be nor was she prudish or severe, she just never allowed anyone, least of all men, to get too close. Her friend Gaila affectionately referred to her as Estella from the Dickens novel Great Expectations, a woman incapable of love. Camille was sure she was capable of loving; she just didn't want to take the chance to ever find out. Love was a messy affair; she'd rather keep the business of the personal simple, concise and ordered with a flair for the eccentric when appropriate.
It was in this set of rules that Pike was astoundingly appropriate, though his incessant doting and imagined relationship with her always proved a point of contention. As she stated to Spock, she belonged to no man, least of all Pike. The fierce independence and dogged ambition was what afforded her the finer things in life, like her pied-a-terre, her wardrobe, and days free from office work, which she refused to ever do. Her immense beauty allowed her to be discriminating as people tended to give her everything that she wanted. And her undeniable intelligence and poise gave her a worldliness and ethereal sensuality that men found irresistible. All of the perfect qualities and she could read men like the skin they were printed on. She knew their needs and unspoken desires and gave them exactly what they demanded, a glimpse of life with the perfect woman. She loved her life and its alluring freedoms. Being bound to no one offered her simple responsibility to herself and that was all. Yet, there was Spock pushing himself urgently to the front of her thoughts instead of staying politely in her subconscious where she could remain blissfully unaware of his existence.
The urgency in which she wanted to smell his woodsy scent, and feel his enveloping warmth frightened her to no end. The sensation was not yet anxiety but akin to the annoyance felt when something was Presque vu, almost seen but not easily recollected. She would continue on in her daily routine but somehow in those quiet moments return to the Vulcan's actions, expounded to her fictional reaction, which she desperately played in fantastical detail. Pike, at one point when she'd drifted away during conversation with him, asked her if she was on the verge of a sneeze. Apparently her face at the moment had construed itself into a mask of great torment, her psyche obviously at odds with the roguish thoughts so unfamiliar roaming through her head. She needed a resolution, a simple solution to the problem that Spock had caused. She needed to reconcile her lapse of judgment and confront him with indiscriminant candor and without interruption. Once more, she had to see him again.
A feel of blank relief came over her as she realized what she needed to do. Coming back to her senses, she stared down into the coffee, shaking the cup and watching frothy, light brown swirls and whirls which had gone cold with waiting. Standing from the table she returned her coffee cup to the kitchen and wandered back to her bedroom into the acutely tidy walk-in closet. Surrounded on both sides by her extensive designer wardrobe of ready-to-wear, vintage and modern haute couture from her favorite designers, she thought on the perfect outfit for her confrontation.
The herb-scented, cool morning breeze was gradually turning into the mid-morning waft toasted by the high, bright sun. There were many birds chirping now, and the sky was blue and clear. It was a perfect spring day, one desperate for her Michael Kors citrine chiffon sleeveless dress, which stopped two inches above her knees with modest shortness. She turned to the accessory wall of her closet and chose a chocolate-brown snakeskin belt to better accentuate and separate the empire waist of the dress from the A-line skirt. With the belt matched perfectly the oversized, snakeskin Hermes Birkin Bag and the chocolate brown wide-brimmed sun hat of closely hand-woven sweet grass. The shoes were simple Chanel rounded-toe 3-inch heels, of Italian leather died in soft yellow not as intense of the citrine dress. The jewelry was classic and extravagant canary diamond and iridescent brown pearl earrings and single strand brown pearl necklace. The reflection in her full-length instantly brought a smile to her face as she leaned towards the glass and applied a ruddy brown to her lips and pursed a kiss towards her likeness.
She sprayed a few puffs of her French perfume onto the pulse points of her wrist and behind her ears, the only perfume that she'd personally tailored to her body chemistry on her trip to Nice. She closed the doors to the terrace, placed the sun hat on her head and grabbed the keys to her car.
Lipstick was the name she affectionately gave to her cherry red Audi S5 Cabriolet. It was unknown to all that she owned a car, including the great country of Canada. She'd registered the car under a different name so as to have no ties to it. Inside the glove compartment she kept a passport with the registered name and the other papers needed to make the car legal. She'd never been stopped, mainly because she rarely drove. She could count on one hand the number of times she'd driven since her moving to Montreal. Pike always had a car pick her up. But true to her nature, there was a sense of independence, and she knew that she wasn't going to be getting picked up by white Rolls Royce's forever, so she bought a car. Besides, a lady such as her was not going to take public transportation; Birkin bags and bus commutes did not mesh in the slightest.
It was eleven o' clock when she hopped into her car, starting the beautiful red machine and activating the convertible drop-top. The hat remained on her head as to keep her long locks from flying into frenzy. She wanted to look wind-blown not hurricane swept when she arrived at the Artful Dodger. Within a twenty minute time-span she was pulling into the parking lot between a cream, vintage Jaguar, which she instantly knew was Spock's and an Aston Martin V8 Volante. She took one look at her makeup in the rearview mirror and exited her vehicle, walking with annoyance, anxiousness, and urgency into the multi-colored Victorian store front.
She entered, the bell chimed and was greeted with a very Terran, unrecognizable blue-eyed male lounging behind the front counter. Upon hearing the bell he straightened up and greeted her with a Russian-accented hello. The boy was no older than seventeen and poignantly nervous around women.
"How are you doing today?" he asked his Russian accent thick and intriguing. She didn't remove her hat, only sat her Birkin upon the counter and spoke in smooth, fluid words.
"I need to meet with Spock, is he in?"
"Yes, he is in his office. Let me see if he will has time to come down. My name is Pavel Chekov, do not hesitate to ask if you need assistance," he said before disappearing up the stairs to summon his boss. She waited for only a moment until she heard both men descending the steps. She turned around just in time to see Spock stopping three stairs from the first floor landing and looking at her. She thought a ghost of a smile lit his lips, but it was fleeting. His eyes twinkled, however, which gave her pause. In that moment she realized it had been a bad idea to come to the store. Seeing him in Dior Flat-front slacks, a white shirt, and Yves St. Laurent green V-neck sweater almost made her weak in the knees. She closed her eyes, exhaled and stiffened her resolved.
"Mr Spock," she said as a greeting, stepping towards him and up onto the first step, standing just under him.
"Mademoiselle," he acknowledged, "It is remarkably pleasant to see you again. Did you come to retrieve the book?"
"I did not, I actually came to have an audience with you if you have the time in your busy schedule," she smiled up and removed the hat, smoothing the errant strands of hair down onto her head. He licked his lips as he took her in, a shot of lust passing like lightning over his eyes. He smoothly reached into his pants pocket and glanced at an antique pocket watch, and then just as smoothly replaced it leaving only the delicate platinum chain visible.
"I have a spur-of-the moment lunch meeting with a former client that wishes to discuss urgent matters, it seems. However, your presence breeds necessity and I cannot imagine having this meeting without you," Spock said, walking past her down the steps and grabbing his lightweight jacket from the coat hanger. She turned, following his motions with her eyes.
"I do not wish to intrude," she said, lying, wishing very much to intrude on this meeting that Spock was having. She needed to get some things straight within herself and from him. There was no way either of them could continue on in this manner. She was returned with an arched eyebrow, an expression she'd never known to be so multi-faceted. She watched him check quickly for his wallet in his jacket pocket and heard the jangling of keys in his hand.
"I do not believe that will be a problem. I am confident that my former client will have no protest," he turned slightly towards the exit, signaling to her that he was leaving. Spock did not move, however, until Camille walked stolidly in front of him. With the precision of a gentleman he guided her pace with a firm yet tender palm on the small of her back. The warmth of his fingertips leaked through the thin chiffon of her breezy dress and she felt herself go slightly weak with both surprise and acute yearning.
"Mr. Chekov, please monitor the store in my absence," Spock said, as he opened the front door of the store and ushered Camille through it. Chekov acknowledged him with a squeaky yes and Spock exited the building, almost overcome by the vision that awaited him on the outside steps. The wind fanned the hem of her dress only subtly and also danced wistfully with the errant strands of her loose hair. The citrine yellow complimented her brown skin, almost melting like sugary chocolate in the sun. He caught hold of himself and joined her at the bottom of the steps.
"Your car or mine?" she asked as they strolled towards the parking lot.
"As you do not know the destination, I will be happy to drive," Spock said, walking towards his car and unlocking the passenger side door and holding it open for her. It was instinctual for her to flirt and this was no different. She slid gracefully, leg first and back arched suggestively into the passenger seat. She closed her eyes as their bodies managed to pass without touching, which made the tension all the more erotic. The intake of his breath caused by her closeness and her perfume made her smirk as she made herself comfortable in the plush leather seat.
"Thank you for allowing me to accompany you, I know this is quite short notice," she said, replacing the hat on her head as he started the car and wheeled out of the parking lot. He drove a lot faster than she would have expected.
"I would have it no other way," his voice was sincere with an austere lilt as he shifted into high gear moving briskly through the streets of downtown Montreal towards the more secluded neighborhood known as The Plateau. The neighborhood used to be working class until gentrification took over in the latter half of the 22nd Century. In the ever-growing borough one could physically witness the precarious balance between the old and new. The working-class cottages that once stood as a staple of the laissez-faire were replaced by the modern townhouse and loft apartments interspersed with small shops, lounges, and the occasional café. Spock was grateful that the area was pleasantly desolate at this early hour, generally filling with the art savant and philosophers discussing politics, art, and food and other such Bohemian fairs. It wasn't uncommon to hear rile of a conversation gone too passionate spill out chaotically onto the streets.
Spock drove briskly down the main street of the borough and made a few sharp turns to a more secluded portion of the neighborhood and parallel parked in front of a very small, unassuming restaurant that was housed in one of the original cottages from the earlier days of the neighborhood. A sign proclaimed the name "Le Orchidée" or simply the Orchid. He opened the door and helped Camille from the vehicle, their hands touching, and causing sparks of electric hunger to jolt through both of them. They didn't part hands until Spock opened the door for her to enter the cottage, and only then did he move his hand to the small of her back.
The unassuming exterior of the restaurant gave way to something more surprising once entering the front door. The intimate setting was brighter than any would have expected in a small-windowed cottage. The owners definitely worked quite hard to make use of what little natural lighting that they had, and had done a spectacular job. Bamboo hardwood roamed over the expanse of the whole of the front of the house. White linen tablecloths adorned two-seater café tables, surrounded by cushioned and white upholstered fan-backed chairs. Upon each table a dainty scattering of orchid petals in white and lavender. The place was almost empty, and those that were there were seated in small corners talking in intimate whispers so low as to seem conspiratorial.
At the front, just after entering the door was a small hostess stand and a coat-check for those bitterly cold Montreal winters. Camille was glad that today was not one of those strangely cold spring days, where she could see the frost of her breath in the air. Today was the perfect day for taking a midday luncheon in an exquisitely secluded and intimate bistro. The cheerful atmosphere that had escaped her on her frantic ride to the Artful Dodger returned in full as she and Spock were led past the front of the house and back onto a secluded patio that contained only one table and a plethora of breathtakingly extravagant orchids.
Camille was a connoisseur of the flower and thought she knew every hybrid within its species. She had been gladly mistaken, for there were colors and shapes, varieties great and small that jumped and bounced with great abandoned in pots, jutting over the doors, erected from the ground just to express their radiant colors. She barely caught her breath, falling into her chair with graceless wonder; her eyes trying to estimate the amount of beautiful flowers were housed on the patio. She scanned quickly, her eyes catching with her patiently waiting escort. She smiled charmingly at him and closed her eyes, inhaling. The single table where they were seated only housed two chairs; the space was meant for maximum intimacy, a simple seduction of the eyes. One thing was clear to Camille, there was not going to be a meeting between Spock and his former client.
"You are quite sly," she said, taking up the delicate crystal glass that held her water. She took a small sip, licking her lips. Spock arched an eyebrow at her.
"We can leave if you wish," he added, offering her an out. He wanted her to understand that she was safe. Though she was tricked, she was far from trapped. He would grant her any wish, though he dearly hoped that she would allow them lunch.
"You could have just asked me to lunch, Spock," she said with soft eyes and mischievous smile, eating up the scene.
"It is my understanding that women tend to enjoy spontaneity. However, you are no ordinary woman, so I may have overstepped my boundaries," his face gave nothing away and Camille was finding that she rather enjoyed the crispness of his placid features in the faint natural light. His facial cues, though subtle, were becoming easier to read, especially when she focused on the deep and soulful brown eyes. She realized that it was cliché to call the eyes a window to the soul and thoughts of man, but in reference to Spock never a truer idiom was coined.
"Were there boundaries? I remember quite vividly an expertly-placed kiss that skirted limits. Comparatively, this abduction is tame," she joked, taking a sip from her water. She didn't look at him after she replaced her glass onto the table. She licked her lips and let her manicured nail run over the rim of the glass in circular motions. Spock's eyes caught her movements and he was transfixed with the delicate sensuality. The way the water beaded against the glass and justly against her skin, sliding down her hand in small, slick rivulets that died in synchronized droplets upon the linen tablecloth just before reaching her slim wrist.
"If there were no boundaries, a kiss would have been the least of your vivid memories of that night, I assure you," Spock said the words with a matter-of-fact flair, as if he were explaining how to tie one's shoe rather than touting his expert skills in seduction.
"Boundaries are set for the reason of defense. It is reckless to push too far," the mischievous flirt inside of her emerging with zeal and force.
"Indeed, but boundaries must be tested in order to gauge the level of defensive fortitude. My intent is not to render the queen defenseless..." Spock recognized the change in tone and pacing of their words from simple conversation into verbal foreplay.
"Then what is your intent, Mr. Spock?" she batted her eyelashes and leaned in closer, the front of her dress dropping only slightly lower than what was modest. Spock allowed himself a tiny glance at the smooth skin of her cleavage and allowed himself a quick fantasy of resting his head in solace upon the soft mounds.
"Immunity, so there is no need for defenses," Spock concluded. Any other extensions of the overdone metaphor were to be saved and reused another day, for a small and unassuming waiter placed a static pause in the flow of conversation. Camille watched and listened to Spock as he ordered for the both of them. She was aware that Vulcan diet was vegetarian, and yet he included two orders of the lemon and fennel sole fillets among the vegetable tapas. Spock also ordered a bottle of what was termed as the Special de Chambre. There was a grace and charm to the way that Spock presented himself. He emitted a level of class and intelligence not hindered by the usual classist snobbery or the Vulcan condescension. Spock was incessantly polite, aridly witty, effortlessly pleasant, and once revealed explicitly corporeal. He was the very epitome of not judging a book by its cover; and if Camille allowed herself to be swayed by her emotions, she would have to admit to feeling the luxurious tugs of infatuation.
The waiter conversed more with Spock in French, making simple small talk as the Vulcan was a regular. The waiter gathered the single-sided cream placard that was considered the menu and left the table to retrieve the special wine that Spock had ordered. Camille and Spock sat in comfortable silence, their eyes locked in a dance of mutual lusty thoughts tempered by a deeper need for stimulating conversation. His eyes told her plainly what he'd already spoken aloud – that he wanted her. The slow slope and the errant twinkle in those honey brown orbs not only telling her that he wanted her, but inviting her to let him have her, let him take her, all of her. She watched his eyes as they left contact with her own and wandered to her lips, her neck, to the slope and rise of her cleavage, and to a more abstract place between her legs and then back up to her eyes. Spock neither begged nor bragged, he simply stated fact. The offer was so tempting and too perfect, which was why she could never take him up on it.
The waiter returned with two wine glasses and a chilled ochre-brown bottle that was unlabeled. With trained precision the waiter popped the cork from the bottle, emitting instantly a strong fragrance into the air. Setting down the bottle and allowing Spock to do the honors of pouring, the waiter disappeared as quickly as he'd arrived. Camille took the offered glass and smelled the familiar fragrance. The scent was spicy at first, very pungent, but with a strange, feathery lightness at the edges that allowed one to close their eyes. Despite the intensity of the spicy beginning, the sent mellowed and changed the longer it lingered in the air.
"The scent is so familiar," Camille said taking a sip, closing her eyes to exquisitely mellow flavor that hit her tongue. She was so tantalized by the wonderful taste and its familiarity that she hadn't realized that she'd almost drank her whole glass.
"I see that it is quite pleasing," Spock deadpanned, "I am pleased that I decided to drive as this is quite strong and alcohol does not affect me as it does you."
"It's delicious and so eerily familiar," she searched her brain, slowing her sipping and closing her eyes to think. She could feel the alcohol mixed with the aphrodisiac of Spock and the pleasant scent all conspiring together. Camille took another sip, this time allowing herself to open up her nose and breath, tasting the wine properly. She swirled the wine over her tongue, inhaling deeply and closing her eyes to concentrate. The images she associated with the scent were calming and familiar, like her flat The answer to her longing came over her just as serenely as the taste that lingered over her tongue and lips.
"Cattleya wine," she said, swallowing the smooth liquid and opening her eyes to meet her escorts.
"Indeed. I knew you would deduce the flavor," Spock poured her another glass for her efforts.
"Are you trying to get me drunk, Mr. Spock," she took up the drink and took a hearty sip.
"I pour; it is up to you whether you wish to drink. Moreover, I do not need to get you soused in order to bed you, if that is your implication."
"Is that what this is, a feeble attempt at getting me into bed?" she sat up straight and squared off with him.
"This? No, this is lunch. Likewise, you came to me wishing to converse, I merely provided us with a more pleasing venue than my office," Spock finished his first glass and poured himself another, finishing the bottle. He nodded to the waiter coolly, motioning to the bottle. The waiter acknowledged and disappeared.
"I wish to explain to you my relationship with Christopher so that you understand completely. I do not want there to be any misconceptions. Spock, you are a very charming man. I enjoy our repartee and look forward to much more in the future, however," Camille was cut off by the waiter approaching and removing the cork from another bottle of Cattleya wine. Camille exchanged and awkward grin with the waiter as he sat the bottle down and Spock topped off her glass and poured himself another.
"However?" Spock continued Camille's previous thought.
"I think you know what I'm going to say," her tone was more somber than she truly intended. Spock's eyes hadn't left her face, evident that he was giving her his undivided attention. He narrowed his eyes slightly, took a quick sip of his wine, cleared his throat and began to speak.
"Are you and Pike lovers?" Spock asked plainly. She broke eye contact, the thoughts in her head swirling heavily.
"It's complicated," she finally answered, not really knowing how to explain.
"I have the ability to understand abstract thought," Spock responded in a means to push her towards explanation. She waited to respond, allowing her mind to swing back and forth over the pendulum of things she wished to tell him and those she needed to keep private. When she'd finally stilled her mind enough to speak, she was interrupted by the arrival of their lunch. Thusly, all of her heart's intent dissipated over the aroma of sweet potato compote and fennel sole fillets.
They ate in virtual silence, both fearing what the breeching of the nervous calm would provide on such a beautiful setting. Disappointment always came when the environment was beautiful, Spock mused. There was never a time when the settings mirrored the emotions involved. The complexity of the situation was one of if his delusional happiness in her presence was what blinded him to the fact that this meeting was meant to put an end to their budding affections. He took a bite of his fish and decided to allow the silence to linger.
"That was delicious," she said pushing away an empty plate. Spock finished as well, not responding, but watching her body language carefully. She'd no intention on explanation. The moment had ended.
"I'm glad that you enjoyed it," he responded. He motioned to the waiter to bring the check and Camille made no impression that she was averse to leaving. The check was delivered, Spock pulled bills from his wallet to pay and cover tip, and they stood and walked in silence back to his car.
The ride back to The Artful Dodger was no different.
She waited for him to come to her side and open the door. He allowed her space to step out and he noted that she had her keys in hand, a silent motion of her intent to not linger in his presence any longer. He could not truthfully convince himself that he was not disappointed.
"Spock," she finally spoke, rounding behind him to get to her car that he'd parked conveniently next to. He turned and tried to back away from her, but a hand around his neck brought him in direct contact with her lips. He was a quick learner, and did not hesitate to wrap his arms around her waist to pull her closer and deepen the kiss. She tasted like the Cattleya wine and something that was uniquely her. And as she used her teeth to nibble on the fullness of his bottom lip, he took the advantage of her open mouth and slipped his tongue into hers and lowered his hands from her waist to her buttocks, squeezing the soft, full globes. She did not protest. In fact, she elicited a soft moan from the back of her throat that signaled her need for more intimate closeness.
He knew these feminine cues expertly, and lifted her from the ground and higher against his body. Her legs rounded his waist instinctually. He pulled away only to lower his kisses to her neck and trap her fully between his growing hardness and the driver's side of her car.
"This is crazy," she whispered, inclining her head backward and allowing him further access to a spot that she'd never knew was so sensitive. In response to her words, Spock smoothed his hands under her dress and up her thighs. His explorations of the soft skin ended with a cupping of her sex outside of her thin, lace panties, which were covered in the wetness of her arousal.
"If you do not stop me now, I assure you I will take you in this public arena," he said before he pushed the top of her dress aside with his nose and took a brown nipple in-between his pink lips. She clawed at the hood of her car so hard that she left scratch marks. She was inclined to continue, despite her better judgment. It had been a long time since a man had allowed her sensibilities to be fleeting. She assumed he was much the same. Neither was used to feeling overwhelmed by their passions, and both were playing this dangerous game, daring the other to call an end. They were travelling at the speed of a freight train, both of them blissfully unaware that the track was unfinished ahead. He slipped a finger inside of her underwear and found her clit, the sensation making her grip his head harder and closer to her nipple. He manipulated the small bud of nerves with practiced skill causing her body to shake involuntarily as she neared climax.
"Don't stop," she ordered, and if Spock's mouth had been free to speak, he would have told her that he had no intention of doing so. He slipped a finger inside of her as he continued to work her from outside. She tightened her legs around his waist and thrust her body down onto his hand, gripping his shoulders for leverage. He looked up at her face – mouth slack, eyes lidded but fierce with concentration, her bottom lip between her teeth – and was almost paralyzed by the beauty. He watched as her eyes rolled back, she threw her head back and moaned, climaxing hard on his hand. He continued his ministrations, riding her orgasm out with her until her body only shuddered in minute aftershock. He rested his head against her breasts, listening to her heartbeat, the dull thud a loud stomp in his ears.
It felt like hours before he removed his hand from inside of her and helped her set her shaky legs on the ground. He pulled away from her, despite the persistence of his hardness and licked his fingers of her essence. She was sweeter than the wine and far more intoxicating. She watched him tasting his fingers, and despite the sex-numb fog of her brain, put a hand of warning against his chest and stared him in his eyes.
"I'm sorry, Spock… I can't," she said between shaky breaths. She turned, noticing that her keys were on the top of her car. Thankful that she hadn't dropped them, she grabbed them with intent to open her door and run away. She felt his warm body against her back and an enduring and sizable erection against the crevice of her ass. She closed her eyes and felt the humidity of his breath against her ear before she heard the dark baritone of his words:
"You taste divine, how can you expect me to stay away from you now?" Spock asked in desperation. He ground his lower half into her ass and was returned with a satisfying throaty moan.
"You like that," he challenged, pumping into her covered backside once again.
"You're a Vulcan…" she trailed off as he ground into her once again, her next word becoming a sigh in the back of her throat. Her rational mind was absolutely disappointed in her, and she tried to slake that side of her with protests about how good Spock felt.
"Indeed I am, with the lust of that species as well. A lust you should become acquainted with… just say the words,' he nipped her ear and she backed herself into him, surprised as he grew even harder and larger. She knew that they would be astounding together; evident by how good it felt with their clothes on. But her rationality won the match and she swallowed her lust as deeply as she possibly could.
"We can't," she said, a hitch in her breath belying the seriousness of her intent. She slammed her fist that contained her keys into the top of her car and the slight pain cleared her head just enough for her to pull from his grasp. Without another word, she opened her car, jumped in and sped off quickly, leaving a semi-erect, green-flushed Vulcan standing alone in the parking lot of his business establishment.
Spock leaned down with his hands on his knees, closing his eyes, willing his hardness to subside, rustling all of his Vulcan control to do so. He straightened his clothing and walked toward The Artful Dodger with a slight hitch in his step. He entered the establishment without so much as a glance at Chekov, and passing quickly hurried to his office, locking the door and exhaling
"What the fuck was that about?" Spock was only slightly shocked as he heard Jim's voice behind him. Upon turning around, he noted his friend sitting at his desk with a smug expression upon his face. Jim out-rightly guffawed as he noted the subsiding yet noticeable bulge Spock was still sporting.
"I had an insurmountable urge to be alone in my office," Spock cleared his throat and found a chair. He needed to sit down.
"I would too if I'd just dry humped and fingered one of the hottest women I've ever met in the middle of an open parking lot. Not your wisest decision by the way," Jim praised and chided.
"I agree."
"I'll admit, from this vantage point, she has great tits and looks to know how to handle your jolly green, but I've never seen you so stupid. What is it about this woman, Spock?" Jim asked.
"I wish I knew the answer to your question, Jim."
"Well, you better figure it out soon. We have a team meeting tomorrow and I need Le Chevalier in working order to discuss the next move in our commissioned job," Jim stood and walked from behind the desk and clapped his friend on the back.
"I'll see you tomorrow. Try to get some sleep," Jim exited quickly after that. Spock didn't even watch as his friend left, his mind was too awash with what had occurred between him and Camille. Shaking his head and freeing his mind of those thoughts, Spock decided to flood himself in plans for retrieving the Ruby Pendant.
He sat behind his desk and brought up schematics of Pike's chateau, studying various vulnerabilities in its makeup and assessing areas where blind doors and passageways would be. He spent two hours doing this without breaking concentration, the only thing stopping him was the sound of his communicator. He picked it up and was greeted by nothing but silence. He knew exactly who it was.
"Camille."
"Spock, don't talk, just listen. Our actions of today were a mistake. There are reasons, Pike being one of them, why you and I can never be. I'm sorry I cannot provide you with a better explanation, but that is all I can give you. Please, put everything that has occurred between us… put me, out of your head entirely," before Spock could formulate an answer, he heard the sound of her hanging up and then nothing but dead air.
