"Miss Waldorf?"
His hand is awaiting mine, the breeze kissing my shoulders and neck. I unfold my arm and he wraps his hand around mine, helping me out of his spectacle of a car.
Secretly, I'm placing my bet on ice cream.
I cast my eyes towards the floor as I balance myself in my heels, glad the streets are practically desert. But they get lost midway. Those dark blue jeans… They fit him in all the right places. My gaze is temporarily stuck in his long legs, more precisely in his nicely developed hamstrings – which the straight-fit jeans emphasize with every step he takes.
Suddenly, he turns around and stops. I nearly collide against his chest, my mouth hanging open only a few inches from his chin. And, no matter how spirited the breeze gets, his tantalizing fragrance never fades away.
"Do you trust me?" his question surprises me. Bu the answer didn't require thought.
"Yes," I reply, meeting his wide-eyed gaze.
"Turn around."
I do as I'm asked and stand still, waiting for whatever he has in store. And then I feel something soft and gentle tracing down my temples, down the apples of my cheeks – his fingertips. My scalp tingles as an unavoidable wave of shivers makes every hair on my body erect.
"I love these," he whispers, tracing an imaginary line down the helix of my ears. "Very much."
Before I can guess what he's referring to, his fingers hook on my headband and pull it down my hair, until it slips out. I'm mystified. Why the hell does he need my headband? I want to ask, but I'm far too lost in my guesswork to remember how to speak. His hands rest on my shoulders and I want nothing more than to melt against his touch, well aware he's standing right behind me.
"You need to set yourself free, Blair." The way he says my name… I'd swear it's the only thing capable of making the whole world stop.
He presses my headband against my forehead and then I see nothing at all. My imagination goes haywire the second I find out what his purpose for my headband was. It's a blind ride… but why? What hides inside that tall building? Is it truly there he's taking me?
"After you," he murmurs before both of his hands claim my waist. My breath hitches momentarily, and I swallow. It's safe to say I'm astoundingly more nervous than when I arrived in Chicago. My legs, graced by the longstanding breeze, are cold-sweating – the most hazardous they've ever been. But, still, and although shaking, I persuade them to carry me where his hands direct me.
I occupy my mind with whatever pops into my head, instead of focusing on the heart-pumping effect of his hands on my body – as if they hadn't been in more dangerous places before. I shake those memories away. I should try to figure out his game, so I can get ahead. I don't want to lose it, but, after these many transgressions from his side, I believe I just might.
"Careful there," he warns me and I stop in my tracks. "Lift your feet."
I do as ordered and I'm met with the doorstep. My hands leave my sides to notify me when I've reached the door, so I don't bump against it and make a fool of myself. The jiggling of keys startles me when I touch a steel surface. So this is his property…
He unlocks the door and leads me inside. I try to maintain my composure, but now I have no idea what surrounds me – I'm in the complete dark. My heels clink against the floor and echo throughout the room, which tells me it's either a very spacious room or is practically empty. Maybe even both.
"Stop here," his voice is a sensual whisper against my ear, as his fingertips dig into my waist. I shiver and obey. And then I hear a sudden smooth sound – elevator doors. So we're really going up…
Every footstep my heart pounds twice. He leads me forward and then spins me around. I hear the doors glide shut and I stand, paralyzed, as the elevator whisks us upward like we're in some sort of ascending rollercoaster. As his fragrance becomes intoxicating again, I feel as though I'm heading towards the sky – except not even that is the limit when I'm near him.
Absentmindedly, I clutch his leather jacket. This time I feel his hair caressing my neck before his voice pours directly onto my ear.
"Don't be afraid to fall… Or to rise as high as a shooting star." I fight against the shiver he creates.
"Some cultures believe that a shooting star is a soul being released from the purgatory, on its way to heaven."
"Let's hope they're right."
The ascension stops with his last word. I reach for my headband.
"Can I take it out now?" I ask, praying this blind ride is over now.
"Patience, Miss Waldorf, is the key." I roll my eyes, feeling grateful – for the first time – that my headband is covering them. "Plus, you have no idea how beautiful you look right now."
Beautiful? I lower my arm as I try to picture myself. My best bet is that my hair is a blown-out mess and my bangs are anything but in their right place.
"You're right – I don't."
He chuckles behind me. But that smile – that grin –, reaching his captivating eyes, lightening the mood, I can easily picture.
"Then you'll have to really trust me," his voice is serious now. I hear his footsteps again, as he circles my body. But they betray me – they don't meet their end before me, they wander off into the distance. Where is he going? "You need to let yourself loose. Only then you can truly soar."
I try to move my legs, but my fears stop me midway. What if I trip over something? What if I fall? Oh my God…
"Follow my voice," he instructs, softly, sounding even further away. "You can do it."
With an anguished heart, I take a very-slow step forward. Okay… Solid ground. Good.
"You're too much in your head," I hear him closer now. Behind me. "Don't overthink it." If I had a dime for every time I've heard that…
I spin around, mentally begging him to grab my arm and help me out. But he doesn't.
"It doesn't help when you keep moving!"
"Walk forward, like you were doing before."
I turn back around. After a few, long and silent breaths, I decide it's best to face my fears. It's better than remaining here, stranded on an island surrounded by the deepest of waters – at least, that's what I imagine. In a very frustrating way, he's right. As usual.
Walking blindfolded, in a foreign ground, is just like walking on thin ice. Every step is critical, but I keep my focus forward and my head up.
One step.
Two steps.
Three steps…
"Stop," he instructs and I come to a halt. I count every breath I take until his voice returns from exile. "You did it."
I shudder again, harder. He's standing right behind me and I don't know my position whatsoever. I just know the breeze is blowing more ebulliently against my skin. Like I've flown out into the sky. He peels off my headband and I believe I have.
The very moment my sight is freed all I see are glinting rooftops and an ocean of the most electric of blues. And I'm floating amidst it.
"Oh my God…" I grab onto the first solid object I find – the steel railing impeding me from tumbling down and freefalling a thousand feet to my death.
"Shh… I got you," his voice travels over the clouds, all the way to the other side of Atlanta and returns, like he owns this city. And he just might.
A dashing rush of air pervades me and I lose my equilibrium. Like a fragile boat, I waggle forward, coming face to face with the streets below that are now the size of my fingers.
"You're safe," he assures me, and I believe him the second I feel a tug at my waistline which hales me backward until I take a step back. "Breathe, Blair." As I take in as much fresh air as my lungs allow me, I pray the game is finally over. "This was just the warm-up. The game hasn't even started."
What?! With my screeching inner cry I bet I've managed to wake up my little angel. Appalled and fearing what on Earth is the mysterious game I got myself into, I turn around. Bass releases the belt of my trench coat as I do and meets my eyes. There's an underlying emotion in his which he is barely able to contain – pride.
"Come along, desert is waiting."
I take the hand he offers me and follow after him through the scattered lounge chairs, somehow feeling significantly more prepared to face whatever he has in store. I guess his little "warm-up" really loosened me up…
Jazz notes ballet in the soft breeze, more present with every step I take. Abruptly as ever, he stops and regards me with brimming eyes. I feel like honey in the sunlight as I anticipate his next move. Given his hesitation I think – and hope – he's going to kiss me.
Finally, he moves – only to reveal a staircase. But not a regular staircase – a curved granite staircase, leading up to a private, suspended dining area. A waterfall of LED lights beams underneath each pearl white step, leading us to the tiny rooftop floating over the rooftop, which is framed by perfectly-trimmed Juniper bonsai trees on glowing, square vases. I notice the table at the very center is lit up with scented candles, looking like something straight out of Serena's favorite reality show – The Bachelor.
I take the last step and have to stop to take it all in. But it's in vain – every second that passes me by I'm as wonderstruck as the one before. So I try closing my eyes. That only makes it worse, because, when I open them, I'm now sure I'm dreaming or in another universe. I have a full, 360 º view of the city, with SkyView Atlanta – the Ferris wheel located at the perimeter of centennial park – and the Bank of America glowing and drawing my attention at the distance. A reachable distance, it seems.
I feel invincible.
"Magical, isn't it?", his voice brings me back from my momentary trance. I nod my head.
"Is this building yours?"
"No. It's a friend's." I glance over my shoulder – he's openly smiling, surely thinking of the same thing. "I mean it this time."
"Okay."
"This used to be a nightclub, but he shut it down a few months ago, because he wasn't a fan of the rooftop lounge. It's "too romantic" – he said. Now he's truly devoted to his newest property – Elysium."
"He owns Elysium?" Out in the open, my awe is unable to be disguised.
"Yes."
That's probably why Charles was there. Although I like to think that because a part of me doesn't want to imagine him being the clubbing type – because that usually involves too much booze... and an ever-changing collection of women.
"What about you?" I ask before I realize how bad my question sounds.
"I'm settled with the hotels…" he frowns, pensive. "For now."
I meet his eyes again, which eagerly break the connection to scan my body from chest to toe. A torrid and ruthless desire clings onto my every cell. He's checking me out like a predator; like he wants to devour me alive. And, for the first time – I realize – he's the only man I don't mind having his eyes linger on my body. On the contrary – I have this fierce need to comply with his darkest wishes and offer myself to him. Fully.
"Show me your wrists," his words puzzle me as his gaze returns to mine, tossing my awestruck revelation behind me. I swallow dry. What does he mean?
"Are you going to imprison me?" I chuckle, although I'm actually considering that might be his plan.
"Something like that."
"I thought you wanted me free. Isn't that sort of a paradox?"
Like a last-minute decision, he leans over, whispering in my ear:
"Sometimes bound is the freest you can be." His words tantalize me. I'm sure, now, there's something more to them – something darker and arcane I haven't yet learned or discovered. But I hope I will.
I hold out my hands, revealing my wrists. He stares at them, unblinking, and then my headband is between his fingertips again, swinging in the tortuous distance that divides us.
"Unite your wrists," he asks. But before I can obey, he's instructing me with his hands, too. "Just like that." I shiver with his tenderness against the delicate skin of my wrists and watch as he hooks the red fabric around them, twisting it around until I barely have space to move them. Me and my tight headbands… He flicks his eyebrows, regarding me for an instance. "Who knew how multipurpose these could be?"
I sure didn't.
Bass positions himself behind me and one of his hands find shelter on my waist – their new favorite place, it seems. He only releases me to pull out my chair.
"Miss Waldorf," he gesticulates. I sit down as gracefully as I manage, laying my hands over my lap like I can still come off as lady-like with my wrists bound at my front. To my great relief, he sits down across me after undoing his jacket.
I survey the Parisian-style bistro table, covered with an immaculate white towel. Over it lies two desert bowls, designed with a curve to allow easier access to the… Ice cream. I've never seen bowls quite like that, but that's the last thing that troubles my mind. I raise my eyes from the table, concealing a smile. He's watching me intently; examining me.
"How am I supposed to eat anything with my hands tied?" I ask the inevitable question.
A timid smile grows on his lips, reminding me of how terribly I long to kiss them.
"I'll help you."
I stare at him, clueless. Why would I want him to help me? And how can he help me if he's sitting on the other side of the table?
"But first," he adds, lowering his head. I watch as he rises from his chair and walks to the edge of the platform. He stops there – in front of the bonsais – and bends over one of the tall vases. As if by magic, on his hand appears a book – a hardcover. I still myself not to gasp. "The game."
"It's a book?" I voice my thoughts.
"Miss Waldorf," he tilts his head as he returns to the table. "You of all people should know the power of books."
I goggle the smoky gray book, trying to decipher its content or genre, but his hands are too large for me to even see the title. Is he reading me the Holy Bible? Inwardly, I laugh so hard I feel like I might fall off my chair.
"And what is it?" I challenge with my eyebrow. He sits down again, but not before pulling his seat closer to mine.
"A book has the power of knowledge… Of introspection… Of bringing you new sensations…" he drawls, flipping through the pages. And when he finds what he was searching for, he raises his eyes to me. "Don't you agree?"
I limit my response to a nod. The tone of his voice has me in a daze, so much my reasoning begins to shut down.
"Here," he points toward one of the lines, positioning the book before me. "I want you to read this out loud."
"Why?"
"I thought you trusted me. Actually, you've made it pretty clear." I try not to get infected by his dreamy smile.
"You didn't answer my question."
"Because I want you to discover the full power of a book," he tells me. "I'm just here to lend you a hand."
After giving him a suspicious look for longer than I should, I clear my throat and begin:
"I'm sorry."
I pale.
He's got to be kidding me… I lift my head and find Bass displaying the most vainglorious smile I've ever seen in my whole existence. Was this his brilliant idea of making me apologize? Oh my God…
"See? It's not hard to be polite."
I can tell how ecstatic he is, and his happiness shouldn't make me want to quit any revenge plots simmering in my mind. But… maybe I can postpone that. A rush of wind blows my astonishment away, and so does his mouth. Yeah, I might just do that. My head falls back with a will of its own the moment his soft lips capture mine. His tongue takes no prisoners to venture inside my mouth, sliding against my upper lip in the process. Sadly, his kiss doesn't last long, although it's enough to take my breath away.
"Victory tastes so sweet…" he murmurs against my lips.
I bite my lip, staring down at my hands. My insides are twisted upside down and I feel way too many things at once. I should be angry – I am, a little bit – but mostly I'm just in awe. In awe for this man, who always has me on my toes, clueless and tangled with the most fervent of sensations.
"Don't look so sad… I'm feeling generous tonight" he says as he grabs the desert spoon and cuts through the cherry sauce, a darker shade of magenta dripping over the vanilla spheres. "Open your mouth."
Hesitantly, I part my lips and allow him in, not quite believing the fact that Charles Bass is feeding me. Our eyes are locked in each other's', hypnotized as I let the spoon exit my mouth and the ice cream pool cold in the tip of my tongue until it melts. My chest vibrates in delight. The cherry sauce has a tart flavor, contrasting with the sweetness of the vanilla ice cream, which is the densest and silkiest kind I've ever tasted. It's a surprisingly delicious combination.
"What is this flavor?"
He lowers his hand, grabbing yet another spoonful.
"It's called gelato all'amarena. It's a black cherry gelato."
"Let me guess… Italian?" is what my gut conjectures. His eyes sparkle, reflecting the stars above.
"Just like me."
Oh. Dang… I open my mouth just as the spoon approaches. This time he's gathered two of the black cherries on the topping – these are sweet."Now, it's time to claim my prize. Your panties," he commands.
I swallow and cross my legs harder at the reminder that I'm bared to the world underneath this tight dress. God… Is it so bad that I've gotten accustomed to being without them this quickly? Something that wasn't even a question before is now a habit – a bad one – if he so little as demands it.
"What do you want them for?"
"You'll see." This calls for an opportunity…
"Okay, then, untie my wrists," I request. He glances at my hands, surely seeing what I'm seeing.
"Your purse is right on your lap."
"But I can't give them to you, otherwise."
"Don't worry," he smiles. Wait – smirks. "My hands can move."
I huff in my spot and, praise the Lord, a harsh breeze spun around us in that exact moment. Even against my will I comply. I just want this game to be over, so we can forget all about the rules and skip to a more pleasurable action. Like his mouth… in my lips… and my neck… A frisson of exhilaration runs through me at the memory. At the possibility.
Unzipping my bag, I fish out the damned panties. He eagerly takes possession of them and places them on the table. What? Is he obsessed with them or something?
"Good. Now, keep going," he nods towards the book to give me a clue, preparing yet another spoon of ice cream. I wonder why he doesn't touch his, but his movements don't let me linger in my mind's businesses. I swallow the fresh ice cream as soon as it melts and proceed, hoping his generosity doesn't stop here.
"I'm profoundly sorry," Again, and with as much fervor, I want to roll my eyes at him, but refrain. "Said Roslyn."
Wait.
These are my notes.
From my book.
"What is this?" I'm aware of the rhetorical nature of my question, but it's the first thing that comes out of my mouth.
"It's your work of art," he confirms my assumption with a broad smile. "Although, as you can see, there's still many pages left to write." I goggle as he leafs through the book. The pages are all blank; all but the one he asked me to recite. He finds it again.
"You read my notes," my anger surfaces and I allow it. It's only fair, because what he did isn't. By any means.
"I figured you'd finally see your potential once it was on paper. Real paper."
"Why would you craft an entire book if there's a single page to read?"
His eyes brighten when he gazes at me, with the same burnished copper highlights which glint his hair.
"Because I believe in you," he murmurs, the huskiness in his voice making me forget all about my crimson emotions. "And because I want to help you write it."
What?
My little angels are now on full alert mode, looking wide-eyed side to side, as if there's a chance I heard him wrong. But I didn't.
"How?"
"There's a principle to art I'm not sure you're aware of… Books are no exception."
"What is it?"
"You can't write about life if you're not alive," he says. "Just like you can't write about passion if your heart isn't on fire."
I still, as the words echo in my head. Over and over. He's right – as usual. Goddamn…
"I know it is when you're with me. My heart tells me, because it's the biggest, most ruthless, all-consuming kind it's ever experienced. It torments me, as well as elates me. It renders me absolutely speechless by the fact that I never want it to stop."
Oh my sweet cherries…
He averts his eyes, only to find another page that's written – in a sparkly bronze paper.
"I'm a mad man," he shakes his head to the defeated sound of his voice. "So much I want you to read this." He turns the book towards me again, pointing at his own name typed in capital letters at the top of the page. "I know you're afraid, but I hope this can make it go away."
"Her skin," I begin. "Her soft, tender skin… The color of marble, yet warmer than August. It presented itself to me on the same couch she lied the whole stirring night. My hands suffer from the same disease as my eyes – the one called "wanting more than one should". Still, I pretend it isn't true and wonder what it would feel like to explore her, one inch at a time. Would she let me? Would she slap me and tell me I'm crossing far too many boundaries? God, I know I am. But her skin… Lord help me. Her warm skin… at my mercy… that's what a miracle would be. If my prayers were heard and my wishes become true, will she let my dirty hands habit uncharted land? Claim it, even? As my own? Or have I truly lost my mind?"
I pause. I have to. My throat is tightly bound, just like my trembling hands, and my heart has surely never endured this much weight in its existence. But Bass… He's the most tranquil I've ever seen him, gazing out into the horizon, as if I hadn't just found out how much I affect him.
I resume my reading:
"Either way, I don't mind. I find myself in her neck and she's receptive to my experienced touch, wherever it flows, parting her lips and leaning against me for more. The feeling is a thousand times better than I anticipated. And so I take my time, maybe even more. She's a Goddess in flesh, the reason I can feel again. And not like before. No… It's worse. Better. It's like I'm on crack every damn second. The moment my hand slips down her bared back to her delicate waist and she shivers against me, I believe I've experienced a mini orgasm."
I flush and pause again. I can't believe I just said that out loud! I can't believe my eyes… my words! And that's what he felt that morning in Chicago… I'm the reason.Since he hasn't yet shifted his gaze to me, it's easier to proceed. As embarrassed as I feel reading this in his presence, I can't possibly not know all that went through his mind.
"My sweet Rose… Have you ever had one? I attempt to shake these lecherous thoughts away, but I'm curious about anything that regards her. She might be irresistible but her body doesn't fool me. I can tell – feel – just how strange these sensations are to her. How hard she's been fighting my advances, although her whole being burns for more. From the day I first saw her in her flowy off white dress I knew how virginal she was."
Oh my God… He. Knows.
He knows!
And he's still here.
"So responsive… So sensitive. That's why I'm this gentle with her. Still she won't admit it. Not even when I touch her breasts. I ask her once more to tell me what she wants – what she really wants – but she's one stubborn woman. And a real tease, as likely as she isn't aware of it. But so am I. Succumbing to my desires, I grope one of her tits."
My face… I'm sure it screams shame. However, my body is enjoying this. Far too much, to my disgrace.
"Her eyes fall shut and I bet they roll all the way back. She's undeniably turned on – all from mellow touches. Oh, if only she knew how rough I'd like to be… To pin her hands down, yank her bottoms off and go to town… I harden at the idea. I'm sure I'd find her wet and ready; ready for all of me."
Jesus…
My cheeks grow even hotter – heck, my whole face! But, somehow, reading filthy thing after filthy thing has granted me a larger embarrassment threshold. And I can't stop.
"But one could never be this cruel. Instead, I would drop my hand between her legs, accommodating there in her womanly warmth, and run my fingers across her sex," my voice falls down an octave, nearly to a whisper. "Like I did to her lips. Over the thin fabric of her bikini bottoms, even. From her clit to her opening… And again. Until she's driven fucking crazy. Oh, if I could tell her how I plan to worship her once she gives me permission… To create an ocean between her legs… I wonder if she's ever touched herself."
Something awakens in the most recondite parts of my body. It's the same sensation I felt when we were in the pool together… and when he explored my chest with his hand that very next morning. But this time it's different – it's raw and agonizing – because he isn't touching me at all.
"Have you never had the curiosity to discover what it feels like? Am I the first intruder? Or have you, by any chance or reason, one night locked the door of your bedroom and touched yourself with your dainty fingers? Why wouldn't she? If I could, I'd bury mine inside her and only leave once she can't take it anymore. Christ, she must come so easily… I would give her at least three orgasms in a row. I will – it's a promise. But everything in its time."
By the time I finish, my angels are gaping at me with their chins touching the ground. And so am I – figuratively. I'm completely, utterly, positively knocked off my feet.
I peek at Bass like a shy little kid – now his eyes are an ocean full of waves, zeroing in on my mouth. Much against my will, I force myself to hold his turbulent gaze. Now I know how he feels… I've read his mind. And it's too much to process in one night.
"Have you ever read erotica, Miss Waldorf?" With the array of questions he has about me – that I've listed – this was one I never saw coming. It's a simple one, however. I can answer this.
"No."
He exhales, and it sounds too loud to my ears in the quiet night. If anyone was to walk in during my reading, I'm sure they'd hear it all.
"So, it's not your type of book?" he half-states.
I shake my head.
"Were you never curious?" he raises one speculative brow. I get the strange feeling his question has a double meaning.
Again, I shake my head. Liar… my little devil bites.
"What would George and Roslyn do once they declare their eternal love for each other?"
I don't want to answer him. I really don't – because I don't know it myself. But my mouth urges me to.
"Get engaged, married…" I shoot. But he isn't nowhere close to stopping.
"And what happens when two people get married?"
"They have babies." If they want to.
"And how are babies made, Miss Waldorf?"
Yup… I dug my own grave.
"Why are you asking me these questions?"
"Because they're important," he leans closer and I can smell his intoxicating fragrance again. "Especially for you. So…?"
For some reason, I find myself staring at my panties, thinking of how much trouble they got me into.
"You know how."
"Miss Waldorf, if you can't answer me I'll have to become your teacher."
Why does that sound so… hot? I press my thighs together, fighting off the heat irradiating from him and spreading to my whole body.
"I've given you an answer, professor."
"So I shall teach you…" he whispers, getting too close to my dry lips. "And something tells me your first lesson will be Obedience." His fingertips trail down over the lapel of my trench coach, until they stop at the belt. "I've told you and I mean it: Do not hide from me."
One tug.
Two tugs.
And, just like that, my trench coat is undone.
"Look at you…" he scans my body, barely hidden underneath my tight dress, his eyes hypnotizing as ever. My chest wavers under its inspection. "So perfect... So eager to learn..."
I ball my hands when his face drops to the crook of my neck. He kisses me there, impossibly sweeter, and I let my head fall back. The night has begun to fall in Atlanta, the moon coming to full display in the endless sky, but my previous plans to watch it have been swept away with the wind.
"We can skip your lesson tonight. There's something crucial you have yet to experience, beforehand."
"Which is?"
"Real, unrestrained pleasure," he says, his hands back on my body – this time over my thigh, pressing gently. "And given you're in no condition to do your work alone, I'll have to help you with it."