Disclaimer: Twilight belongs to Stephenie Meyer. Anybody wanting to be a thief and plagiarize this story, please go and play somewhere else. It's just bad manners.
Rated M. Younger readers shouldn't be here.
oOo
Author's Note 20th August, 2011:
Songster is my beta and SpringHale and gkkstitch are my pre-readers. These women are brilliant and good friends to me.
*Peeks out from the naughty corner...*
Dear Reader, I know... it's been eight months. EIGHT! I can't believe it. RL has continued to be challenging. I know a lot of you have been frustrated at slow updates, but I have been abroad helping a friend who is in the final stages of a horrible illness. Many of you have asked if I have abandoned the story. The answer to that is that I couldn't and I wouldn't. That would be just plain unfair to you, and to Bella and Tubeward. I hope this chapter goes some way to reassure you.
I continue to be amazed by the generosity and encouragement of you, dear Readers. The DMs you send encourage me no end. I especially want to thank eesti, dazzelmenow, UrGallina, calbers and DutchGirl01. Meadowgirl552 has been wonderful and I think has tirelessly DMed me every month to let me know there were people out there wanted more from this little story. Sincerely, thank you all.
The next update will not take so long. Meantime I have written a short two chapter story called New Year's Eve Tale.
Enough from me. Let's get this show on the road. To recap where we have got to... After another encounter with her boss, Bella has tried to decline having dinner with him. Unfortunately, he seems to have other ideas and has brought her to his house. Now the two of them are alone...
oOo
A thing of beauty is a joy for ever:
Its loveliness increases; but still will keep
A bower quiet for us; and a sleep
Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.
from: A Thing of Beauty
by John Keats
TUESDAY EVENING continued…
I am reeling from his mood swings.
This is why you need to avoid him. He's your boss and shouldn't be acting like this.
For once I am listening to my inner voice.
I try to pull my arm out of his grasp. He looks down to where he is holding me but doesn't let go. It serves to make me more determined to speak my mind.
"This... This is exactly what I'm talking about. Who the hell do you think you are?"
My voice is clear and strong, leaving little doubt that I'm not going to play his games. Frankly I'm as surprised as he looks. I keep going while I can, "You can't treat me like a child, order me around all the time and be angry at me for no good reason."
"I have a reason."
"What is it?" I'm practically shouting.
"You're not wearing what I sent you."
I throw my free hand in the air. "There, right there, is what I mean. Just because you send me something that you'd like me to wear, doesn't mean that I have to."
I can see a frown forming, eyebrows pulling together. He genuinely looks as though he doesn't grasp what I'm saying.
"You do know what I'm talking about. Don't you?"
"I know you've enjoyed what we do." I hate that he has read me so easily. "Are you telling me you don't like it?"
I think about lying. I have already admitted to myself how much I've enjoyed it, but do I want him to know what an effect he has on me? The best tactic I can come up with here, on the spot, is evasion and distraction.
"It's not about that and you know it." I try to move past him, to leave, but his hand is still gripping my arm.
"Let me go."
He doesn't.
"I mean it. Let me go." The heat of my anger seems to give me strength as I yank my arm away from him the moment I feel the pressure of his grip lessen.
"I'm going home now."
"No, you're not."
"Watch me."
I try to move around him and he steps to the same side blocking my path to the door. I step to the other side and again he does the same.
He leans down towards me and, in a low voice, says, "We can continue to do this as long as you want, but you're not leaving yet. We haven't finished here." The timbre of his voice is dangerous and I feel a brief flash of fear, closely followed by the all too familiar warming sensation of arousal running across my body. I'm determined not to act on it this time; I'm too angry with him.
"What are you going to do?" The challenge is out there before I can stop myself and sounds more combative than I expect.
"I promised you dinner and you're not leaving until you've had it."
I want to scream at him. He is beyond annoying. I want to get away. I purse my lips together, contemplating ways of leaving the house.
"Stop planning your get-away. You're having dinner here," he repeats, "and that's final."
He is still leaning towards me, too close. I wonder again at his lack of perception about personal space. I try to step back but he follows me. I want to keep my head and I know I won't be able to if he touches me. I know from experience where it will lead.
"Stay away from me, please."
"You haven't minded before..."
As if I need a reminder. But my resolve stays firm. I shouldn't want this.
"Stop. Please stop it."
My voice fades because as I say the first word he steps away from me and gestures towards the couch. It might be a long way from the door, but it seems as though he'll allow me to move that far away from him. I jump at the opportunity. The more distance between us, the more rational I am able to be.
"You still haven't answered my question," he says as he settles on the couch across from me. "You enjoy what we do, don't you?" He tilts his head. There's that puzzled look again as he waits for an answer.
As if he needs it.
Maybe he does...
At this point I'm siding with my inner voice; it's got to be plenty obvious that I've enjoyed myself so far.
He's got another thing coming if he thinks that I'm going to discuss my newly discovered predilection for yielding to strange men on subways and at work.
"You don't know anything about me. You have no idea what I want or don't want. You haven't had the decency to find out." I can hear my voice rise. Clearly I haven't calmed down as much as I thought I had.
There is a pause.
"So, what do you like?"
"You are beyond infuriating…" I am definitely yelling again now. "This isn't twenty questions and then you claim to know me. And anyway, even if you did bother trying to act like a decent human being," I watch as, for some reason, his lips curl upwards into a half smile, "whatever has been happening between us isn't going to continue. You. Are. My. Boss."
This is probably where I should shut up. And I do so.
He runs his hand through his hair and looks back at me as if he is slightly lost. This is a very unusual look for someone who has always been so calm and in charge of every situation I've ever seen him in.
A thought stirs in the back of my mind, but I can't seem to get hold of it. It slips away when he replies quietly.
"I was telling the truth when I said that I don't think our positions make a difference. You might report to me, but your research is for you to conduct as you see fit. As long as you stay within the brief and let me know your findings. Otherwise there'll be no interference on my part."
"This isn't just about that. Any involvement between the two of us will only serve to undermine my discoveries by critics. They won't see past that." The ugly face of Laurent rears into view. He would have a field day if he ever so much as suspected something between me and Cullen.
"Nobody need know."
I start to shake my head. As I do so I feel his hand back on my arm. This time his touch is gentle as he tentatively reaches across the coffee table.
"They won't know," he says more definitely, "and it might be foolish on both our parts, but I do want to know you."
His hand runs down the length of my arm. The tingle that seems to accompany his touch is back in force.
He continues, "Will you let me?"
He's asking my permission? What is going on? I blink at him unsure of whether I can really trust him. He's mood-swings are spectacular to behold, but there is something about the way he is now... I know I should avoid any involvement with Mr. Cullen. I never know where I am with him.
I have a strong suspicion that I won't succeed.
oOo
We are still sitting on the couch. He is on one side of the L shape and I am on the other. I have tried to make my excuses and leave again, but he made it clear in his brusque and direct way that I couldn't yet leave. He has reminded me that this is the only time he has available before he flies out of the country tomorrow, also citing the fact that he still has to give me a copy of my contract to look over and sign. When I'd asked for it, he simply replied, "After dinner."
What else could I do but relent? He is still my employer, and for all that being alone with him puts me on edge, I want my job.
Well, that's what I've been telling myself.
So here we are. Sitting. There has been more silence that there has conversation. My anger still has a hold of me as it refuses to subside. It seems to grin back at me when I decide to break the uncomfortable silence. I'm not going to make things easy for him.
"You must have known who I was."
If he is going to make me stay for dinner, he has some accounting to do. This seems like a good place to start.
He looks back at me. If I didn't know better, I'd think he was feeling uncomfortable.
As it is have you ever seen him look ruffledand am about to dismiss the thought when it suddenly occurs to me...
That's not entirely true. You did see it once… in Riley's office.
It's true. I'd forgotten about that moment when I'd spied him with the first box I'd returned.
This is what I'd been trying to remember before. I decide to park that thought for the moment and continue my current line of questioning.
"Well? How?"
Still a pause from him before he answers. He seems nervous. Maybe I have misjudged him.
"The grant application files."
It's true. I had to submit a photo along with my application a year ago.
"Why not tell me who you were?"
Another moment of silence from him until he answers my question with one of his own.
"Would you have gone there if you had known who I was?"
We both know what he is referring to. I answer truthfully.
"No. I wouldn't have."
I look down at the pea green carpet beneath my feet. Memories flood my mind and tumble me into another bout of self doubt. Honestly, how could I so easily let myself follow a stranger's kink?
His voice brings me back to the present. It's so quiet I can hardly hear his words.
"I wanted to get to know you in that way before other things distracted both of us."
I look up and am captured by his eyes. They seem boy-ish, almost vulnerable. It's strange to see him like this. He is normally so forthright. Yes, this is definitely the look I saw in Riley's office.
In a whisper I ask the question I really want the answer to.
"Why?"
He stands up. His eyes drift down to focus on my mouth. The next time he speaks he seems to be addressing it. Is he avoiding eye contact now?
"Come. Would you like something to eat? You're apparently not well and I did promise you dinner."
He holds out his hand to me.
I know he is avoiding the question, but this is probably the most 'normal' thing I've heard him say. And the only time he's actually asked me what I want without telling me.
I put my hand in his.
He leads me behind the Chinese screen in the corner of the room and into a modern kitchen. It is similar to the main room as this too is all white. The only thing that breaks up the starkness of the counter and cabinets kitchen is a big oak table in the centre of it that is surrounded by six matching chairs. There is a vase with a large sprig of Forsythia on it. The yellow brings a welcome touch of color and Spring into the relatively bare room.
It looks as though the Cullen brothers don't do a great deal of cooking. Everything is pristine and new. On the other hand, knowing what I do of this particular Cullen brother, OCD wouldn't surprise me in the slightest.
He pulls out a chair for me and once I am seated he heads to one of the ovens. He takes out two plates and places them on the table before turning and pouring two glasses of red wine. Taking one of the glasses he raises it to his nose, inhaling deeply. He reminds me of the sommelier at Un Souvenir Léger, and that thought takes me back to a different meal, with a very different man.
It seemed like an age ago. James and I had arrived in Chicago for a conference and he had surprised me on that first evening by making reservations for this most exclusive restaurant. I had never been somewhere that had a sommelier before and was excited about the new experience.
I suppose in the back of my mind I was also wondering if this was it, if James was going to propose. It had honestly not crossed my mind before, but my girlfriends had been speculating about it. The evening had been lovely, but drawn to a close with no such declaration. I remember being vaguely disappointed, but also knew that I was being ridiculous. I was only feeling that way because of an idea other people had had. I was happy as we were, secure and in love and about to give the paper that would put our names on the international research circuit.
Of course, no-one has foresight. It was the very next day that my world came crashing down and I was forced to re-evaluate everything.
I snap out of the memories when Mr. Cullen gives an appreciative hum before setting the glass down again and sits next to me.
"Beaujolais," he says.
I look down at the plate he has placed in front of me. The food on it is elegantly arranged and as minimalist as the room around me. I've never been one for style over content when it comes to food. Despite my misgivings however, my mouth is already watering at the smells rising from the plate.
Handing me a fork he says, "Please. Eat."
At the first mouthful I can't help the hum of approval that escapes me. It's a warm salad of grilled halloumi on a bed of wilted spinach and sweet grilled cherry tomatoes. The plate has been elegantly drizzled with a thick balsamic sauce - the flavors contrasting, yet complementing each other perfectly.
Watching me closely he asks, "How do you like it?"
"Did you make it?"
He almost chokes on what he is chewing and grimaces. He coughs slightly as he wipes his mouth with a napkin before recovering.
"No. I'm no good in the kitchen." He laughs softly, "In fact I can safely say that I haven't been in a kitchen since I was a teenager."
"Well, it's delicious. Thank you."
"Try it with the wine. I hear it brings out the flavors more."
He continues to watch me as I raise the glass to my lips and sip. His eyes don't move as I lower my glass and when I lick my lips. I am not displeased at the fact that I have an effect on him. It makes me feel a little better about how I react to him. At least it's not one sided.
I try to focus back on the meal. The disadvantage of nouvelle cuisine is that although beautiful to look at, there is very little actual food on the plate. The delicious flavors I've been experiencing are over too quickly.
Before I have time to be too disappointed another plate is placed on the table. I look over to where he is sitting, looking at me expectantly.
"Where's yours?"
"Oh, I had a big meal earlier," he replies with a sly smile, almost as if there is some joke that I'm not getting. "It was also venison as it happens."
I turn back to the plate which seems to be in front of him rather than me. I'm just about to ask him why when I suddenly feel my chair moving. I yelp and grab the table to balance myself, looking around to see what's happening. That's when I see his foot hooked under the front leg of my chair slowing pulling me towards him. I am now sitting so close to him that his knee touches the side of my chair.
"What are you doing?" I don't think this is an unreasonable question.
He says nothing and I watch him cut the seared-rare meat into slices. With great care he then skewers a hunk of meat, adding some sauteed potatoes, greens and some of the blood-red plum sauce from the plate. He raises the fork laden with food, looks at me and waits.
"Dear God, please don't tell me you expect to feed me."
I can't help the sarcasm, but why does he do these things?
No reply. I can see that sly smile returning. It only goads me further.
"Are you even sure that thing is cooked?"
To be honest I have no problem with meat served rare, but there's no way he can know that.
He frowns at me.
I glare back.
I am not going to be a push-over. Why would he assume that I'd just eat whatever he puts in front of me? I know I'm being rude, but I can't stand the way he is so presumptuous all the time.
For the next few seconds we are at an impasse. His eyes bore into mine and I suddenly feel as if I am fourteen again and at my father's house being told off for climbing trees with Jake.
A beat longer and he relents. The frown is gone and replaced by a sincere look as he says, "I'd just like to do this for you. Won't you let me?"
I blink at him. I'm so surprised that he's asking my permission that I momentarily forget that he is waiting for an answer.
"Why?"
The question du jour comes out in a whisper.
He tips his head to one side and gazes at me.
"It's a small thing that I think will please you."
"I'm not sure I understand."
"Are you telling me, Dr. Swan, that no-one has ever done such things for you?"
He is terrifyingly astute; no-one ever has. It fills me with a sudden sadness. I don't want to dwell on it.
"Why do youwant to do that for me?"
He looks at me for a moment before asking, "Do you question everything?"
He says this with a faint smile on his lips.
"It's one of the reasons why I'm good at my job." I can't help the retort, but I'm smiling too as I say it.
"Of that, there is little doubt."
I'm still not about to be spoon fed.
The fork continues to float in front of me. "Don't be stubborn, Dr. Swan. Besides, I think you'll like this."
I continue studying his face. It's captivating, although he is still infuriating. The difference here is that there is an underlying playfulness that I can't help responding to.
I close my eyes and open my month.
Nothing happens.
I crack open one eye to see him completely still and staring at me; more specifically at my mouth. Again. I raise an eyebrow and he blinks back at me, caught out.
I lean forward the extra inch and take the mouthful of food. It seems to melt on my tongue. I can't help but close my eyes, but immediately open them again when I feel something brushing my lips. I instinctively move back to see what he is doing. There, resting on the pad of his thumb, is a perfect drop of red sauce against his pale skin. It looks like a drop of blood. He is staring at it with such an intensity that it would look positively creepy if it were anyone else. However, Edward Cullen, peculiar in so many ways, is too beautiful to be creepy.
He slowly lifts his thumb up to my mouth. I know what he wants me to do.
His golden eyes are the color of treacle as they meet mine. His gaze doesn't falter. My mouth starts to water. I remember all too well the taste of his skin from when we met in Storage Six.
Before I can think too much about it, I open my mouth and lick his thumb. The tangy flavors of the plum sauce mingles with the sweetness I recognize – delicious and decadent. I want to savor it, but all too quickly he pulls his hand away and clears his throat.
"More wine?"
I shake my head, disappointed that he has pulled away. I try not to let it show. "No thank you, Mr. Cullen."
He clears his throat again says softly, "Edward, please." I open my mouth to reply when he quickly adds, "At least in private."
He picks up the fork again and begins to load it with more food. I fight my instinct to break the charged air around us; I'd be lying if I said I didn't enjoy what we shared a moment ago.
Just as he is about to raise the fork, a phone starts ringing in another room of the house.
He looks torn.
"Shouldn't you answer that?"
He says, "Excuse me," and gives me a curt nod before leaving the table.
Proving that I can feed myself, it doesn't take me long to finish the rest of the dish on my own. He still hasn't returned so I take my plate over to the counter opposite and rinse the dishes before I put them into the dishwasher. I have no idea why I rinse them. Ordinarily I wouldn't, but it seems rude to leave anything messy in this immaculate kitchen. Even the dirty dishes.
I wonder what I should do now. I don't know what the time is – my cell is in my purse in the other room. I go past the Chinese screens back into the large living area and make my way over to where my purse is on the couch. I can hear him talking softly in the hallway beyond.
It's 8:30. I could probably make my excuses and leave.
"Stop it. I told you it's under control."
His voice is suddenly loud as he comes through the door of the living room. He stops as soon as he sees me.
"I have to go," he says and snaps the phone shut.
We stand looking at one another across the room, his hand gripping his phone and mine in my bag. I must look like a thief, a deer trapped in headlights. I tense up waiting for him to accuse me of trying to leave.
Instead he surprises me as I see his shoulders slump. He glances at my handbag and then to the box that is on the coffee table where it was left when I first came in.
The silence stretches uncomfortably around us. I feel a tug of guilt at how ungracious I have been throughout the evening. This is not how I want to be. I decide to try and be civil.
"Dinner was lovely, thank you."
He nods but makes no other move. This makes me feel bolder... My inner voice substitutes bolder for rash.
"What is it you want?"
He knows what I'm talking about and calls me out on it.
"You know. I've told you."
I shake my head. "And how exactly would it work?"
His shoulders straighten at my question and immediately says, "We will be discreet."
There is not a trace of doubt in his voice.
"You don't even know me."
"I want to know you."
My skin tingles at his words. He walks slowly without taking his eyes off me. I can feel myself flushing as he gets nearer. How is it that he can have such an effect on me?
"Would you like me to get to know you?"
My cheeks are on fire and I can just imagine what I must look like – two red hot patches of color staining my face and spreading southward. In no way can this be a good look.
I glance away wanting to catch my breath and cool down, when I feel his hand sliding up the side of my neck. A finger strokes my cheekbones.
"I like this," he says quietly, and I feel the heat escalating instead of fading.
He is standing in front of me and leans down brushing his lips high on my cheekbone. Soft, cool skin against burning heat.
"Now, I'd like you to do something for me."
"What?"
Taking his hand away, he turns to the coffee table and picks up the infamous box.
He says nothing. He doesn't need to. The expectant look on his face is more than enough to tell me what he wants.
I look at him incredulously. What is it with him and these boxes?
He must really want to see you in whatever is in there.
Yep, my cheeks are on fire. I can only imagine what sort of items might be held in within the red container.
His eyes haven't left my face. He is waiting for an answer to his unspoken request. He must want this. Badly. And I can't say that I'm not intrigued myself.
I reach across the table to grab the box, but before my hand gets to it, his cool fingers wrap around my wrist. My eyes meet his. They seem to be darkening with each moment that passes and light gold to hazel to brown… His tone is surprisingly sincere when he softly says, "Thank you."
From the main room he leads me down another corridor towards the back of the house. He stops at a closed door.
"You can change in here. Only wear what is in here." His voice is low but firm and I feel my desire start to bloom in earnest at his instructions.
He hands me the box.
"Come back into the main room when you're done."
I close the door behind me and am suddenly very nervous. I have no idea what I've gotten myself into. What I do know is that I'm more excited about this than I probably should be.
The red box is lying on the black marble counter of the wash basin. I slowly lift the lid.
oOo
When I return the main room is darker than when I left it. The only light in the room comes from the fireplace and three tall pillar candles that now stand on the coffee table. Classical music plays in the background and I don't recognize what it is. I can't see him anywhere.
I wander closer to the table and couch. All I can hear is the soft slapping sound of my bare feet on the whitewashed wooden floor. Well, he was insistent on not wearing anything else. I've followed his request to the letter.
No shoes.
No undergarments.
Just the floor-length red silk wrap dress.
I feel brazen and exposed and powerful. The concoction of clashing feelings makes me lightheaded. I'm more than a little turned on and very glad that I painted my toenails over the weekend.
The tiles feel a lot warmer under my feet than they should. I vaguely wonder if there is under-floor heating. Strange when there seems to be a cold draft coming from somewhere…
I shiver and move closer to the warmth of the fire. In front of me is the picture I glimpsed when I first came in and I look at it more closely.
A young woman is stretched across a bed, back arched and head thrown back. Crouched on top of her is a gnarled, goblin-looking creature who is looking around furtively. Through the heavy red drapes around her, what looks like a horse peers out at what is happening on the bed. The whole composition has an oppressive quality to it, and is frankly disturbing. It's malevolent and dark mixed with the woman's open and somewhat sexual pose. The more I look, the more I can't tear my eyes away, even though it makes me feel uneasy. This is not what most people would have hanging on their living room walls.
"It's an extraordinary picture isn't it?"
I'm so startled by the voice coming from behind me that I jump forward and only just manage to stop myself from stepping into the fireplace. I look over my shoulder at him and am shocked by how close he is to me, no more than an inch away.
"There's certainly something... different about it."
"It's called The Nightmare."
Well that's appropriate.The snarky voice is back.
"The artist was more insightful that he realized when he painted it."
I look back at the picture. "What do you mean?"
"Don't you ever wake up and think that the things of your dreams are more real that just being a figment of your subconscious?"
"I suppose." I am frowning as he carries on.
"He captures that here don't you think? Is the incubus on top of her part of her dream, or is he a monster preying on her?"
It's true, there is definitely a surreal aspect to the picture, a blurring of lines, but this still doesn't answer my question.
I start to turn to face him in order to ask him more, but before I can say anything he tuts at me. It's a sound that is becoming all too familiar. He says quickly into my ear, "Dr. Swan, you should know better by now. Eyes forward."
Ah, yes, in this instance I know exactly what he is referring to as the tone of his voice goes through me.
I barely hear him say, "You look breathtaking."
I stand there as still as I can. This reminds me of the anticipation I felt in Storage Six, and this time it's no less diminished.
Time stretches but can't be more than a couple minutes when I hear him say, "You look delicious."
His voice is still behind me but seems to be coming from the far right of the room. How did he get there without me hearing him move? It takes every effort to stay still and not look around.
"Good. Turn to your left and sit on the end of the chair over there please."
I do as he says and find myself opposite the vintage white leather Eames Lounge Chair I hadn't noticed before. I don't get a chance to admire it as I see him moving in my peripheral vision. He is walking towards me and comes to sit down in a traditional wooden-backed chair opposite me.
He looks like a dark angel sitting there looking at me. All I want to do is fidget but can easily imagine the reaction this will elicit from him. Humm, maybe you should give it a go…
I lower myself onto the white leather and lean back into it.
I wonder since when have I begun to feel this bold. This whole situation is certainly out of my comfort zone. I soon forget this line of thinking when I hear his next words.
"Undo the tie."
He smirks at me. I know that look. He's testing me, thinking I won't rise to the challenge. I'm not going to give him the satisfaction. On the other hand, I'd be lying if I didn't admit to the indignant side of me that doesn't want to do what he says. I hesitate.
I hate this power he has over me…
No, the thing you hate is how you actually like it…
No, I hate that I tie myself up in knots over what I think about him.
Worse than all these thoughts is the fact that I suspect he somehow knows these things, and how much I want to do as he says.
He sits there quietly and after a minute simply raises an eyebrow.
I breathe in slowly through my nose hoping that this will calm me. I can feel the silk against my skin, cool and light. I fidget, and the movement causes the high slit at the front of the skirt to slide over my legs exposing my very white thigh. Looking down I move to pull it back into place.
"Leave it."
His eyes are fixed on my skin; his gaze so intense that he might as well be touching my skin for the shivers that are making their way across my body. How can he turn me on like this?
Slowly he looks from my legs, up my torso, across my neck and lips until he is looking me in the eye. They look so dark in the half-light of the room. The hungry look I remember from last week is back in full force. My breathing picks up.
"Now show me."
I know what he is asking. I'm not sure I can do this. He sits there patiently not moving, waiting, as if he knows that I will eventually comply.
I can feel every part of my body responding to the thought of exposing myself. It's not necessarily a bad feeling. But there is still something holding me back. It's partly that indignant side of me that doesn't want to be too... easycombined with my reservations about getting involved with my boss.
He must sense my warring emotions because he asks, "What is it?"
"I don't want to sleep with you," I blurt out before I can stop myself.
"Who said anything about sleep?"
"You know what I mean."
His smile is too mischievous for my liking as he replies, "Alright. I'll go one better if it'll reassure you. I promise not to lay a finger on you tonight."
Why do I feel so disappointed at his words? I've been the one to ask for this boundary.
He must see this in my face because his smile widens.
"Now. Show me," he repeats.
I don't know if it's the fact that he has said that he won't touch me or just my body making it's own mind up, but this time, I move my hand and clasp the edge of the tie and pull it out to my left. The material smoothly unfolds itself but hangs loosely enough to not reveal anything. I'm beginning to feel shy and vaguely think about putting a stop to things here. Although things have happened between us in the past, it's always been snatched intense moments, and always accompanied with the anticipation of getting caught. This feels much more intimate, personal. I feel as if I'm about to expose myself and not only in the literal sense. It's almost as if I'll be baring my soul to him. I can't explain it, even to myself.
"You know what I want."
I close my eyes at his words and bow my head. Excitement and embarrassment collide and I feel weighed down by shame. I'm not sure if I can do this.
"Look at me."
I take a peek at him. He is leaning forward and looking me in the eye, he says, "Please".
He is not a man of many words, but it gives me enough courage to move. My hands clasp each side of the material and I feel the silk tickling my skin as it moves over it. I look down and see my nakedness enshrined by the blood red of the dress. My pale skin seems to clash dramatically with it.
He sighs and says, "You are very beautiful, Dr. Swan."
Dr. Swan. The name reminds me of who I am, of who he is and all that I have to lose if this works out badly. It pulls me out of the bubble I've allowed myself to be wrapped in and I'm suddenly self-conscious. My arm automatically responds and moves to cover my exposed body, but as it does he quickly leans forward and says, "No, Isabella. Don't."
I find him looking at where I am covering myself with a look of such obvious disappointment that it gives me the courage to lower my arm. As I do so his face relaxes into one of sheer appreciation. I have never been looked at in this way before, by anyone. It makes me feel powerful. Desired. There isn't one part of my naked body that he doesn't take in.
When he finally looks me in the eye again it is not with smug, self-satisfied glee, but a somewhat tentative expression. He seems hesitant, as if he doesn't know if his next request will push me too far. He glances down at my legs again.
"Would you open your legs a little more."
It is said as neutrally as possible, but the fact that he asks rather than tells me gives me the sense of control I need. My feet slip to either side of the seat. The leather is cool against my thighs as my legs spread open so that I'm leaning back into the chair, feet planted on the floor either side of the seat. I feel more exposed than I ever have before.
His reaction is immediate. He takes a deep breath and seems to hold it; his eyes fixed at the point where my legs meet.
My response to him is equally strong. To feel so potent over someone else's desire is stoking my own. Despite my shyness and reservations I am turned on by the position I'm in. The music that has been playing fades and a haunting operatic piece starts. There is something bittersweet and sensual about this music. It is seductive and makes me want to be a part of it too.
He is still absorbed at what he is looking at. He is clearly a voyeur. Maybe you should give him something more to look at?
My snarky inner voice has suddenly decided to engage in the situation. I vaguely feel as if I should be worried about this turn of events. I close my eyes and try to still my thoughts as they begin to race. I have chosen to be here. My lust wantsme to be here, badly. I should go with it.
Listening to the soft ebb and flow of the music I run my right hand along my collarbone and along the side of my torso.
There is an odd cracking sound from Mr. Cullen's direction. Startled, I quickly open my eyes and sit up. He is standing in front of the chair he was sitting on, looking no less intense than he was a few seconds ago.
I'm about to ask him what's wrong when he says, in a half groan, "Don't stop."
I'm thrown for a second before I realize he is openly staring at my hand.
Ah, he wants a show.
Yep, inner voice has found it's snark again.
My hand is resting on my right thigh and I move it tentatively up to my hip bone and stop. His eyes follow every move, but I'm unsure about what to do. I'm in no way confident enough to give him 'a show', although spread out as I am, he is certainly getting something I'd never thought I'd ever do.
I look away, embarrassment seeping in again.
"I promised you I wouldn't touch you," his voice is strained, "but I'd very much like it if you did."
He isn't telling me what to do, although he is telling me exactly what he would make him happy. In a strange way I trust him to keep his word and this makes me secure in what I find myself doing.
I close my eyes again. It helps me feel less self-conscious about the roles we are playing tonight; voyeur and exhibitionist. Now there's something I'd never have described myself as in a million years. I close my mind to that thought too.
I move my hand to the side and then lower. I am lulled by the music and my fingers move in time to the pulsing beat of the opera music allowing it to fill my mind. It envelops me between the harmonious voices singing and the oboe that accompanies them.
I am shocked when it takes me almost no time at all before I am arching into my fingers. I feel my mouth open, catching a breath and holding it. I'm almost at the edge, the music reaching it's peak, but my peak seems to elude me. I wonder if it's because my legs are so far apart, I want to close them; to clench them together, but the seat is in the way. I need something... I need...
And then I hear what I need, a lustful half sigh as he says appreciatively, "Look at you."
And with that, my whole world explodes.
oOo
End notes:
Bella's dress is a cross between http:/www (dot) net-a-porter (dot) com/product/114783 and http:/fashionistabarbieuk (dot) com/?p=11771
The music that is playing in the background is http:/www (dot) youtube (dot) com/watch?v=u3H8-bnYtE0
The picture that is hanging above the fireplace is The Nightmare by Henry Fuseli. You can read more about it at http:/en (dot) wikipedia (dot) org/wiki/The_Nightmare
The lounge chair that Mr. Cullen directs Bella to sit in is http:/en (dot) wikipedia (dot) org/wiki/Eames_Lounge_Chair
oOo
The two homages in the previous chapter, as many of you spotted, were:
The University of Edward Masen by Sebastien Robichaud – from whom I borrowed Bella's kindly neighbor, and
Master of the Universe by Snowqueens Icedragon – from whom I borrowed Taylor and Bella's glass of Sancerre.
Both stories are no longer on ffn, however, fear not, as both have now been published as Gabriel's Inferno by Sylvain Reynard and Fifty Shades of Grey by E. L. James, respectively. If you haven't read them I can't recommend them highly enough.
Well done to idgaHoot and, one of my favorite authors, Anais Mark for spotting them first.
There is another homage in this chapter for you. See if you can spot it.
oOo
You can find me at times on Twitter as ElleNathan