Notes: It's Day Two of klarolineauweek, and here's my contrubutions! Head over to everythingisklaroline dot tumblr dot com for more! The days recap post will be up shortly. Hope you enjoy!
An Afternoon's Discoveries
(Prompt from lynyrdwrites: "impoverished lord and rich American heiress." Inspired by the historical romance A Lady Awakened by Cecilia Grant. Smut.)
Caroline bites the inside of her cheek, fighting not to move, not to react, when Mr. Mikaelson moves inside of her in a particular way. It sends ripples of sensation, cascading through her body, and it takes a lot of control, not to make a sound.
She's not to enjoy this, Caroline scolds herself. It's not proper, what they're doing, and she's onlydoing it because she must. Denying her body's wants, the instinctive urge to move against him, with him, as hard as it has become, is what she has to do.
It's foreign to Caroline, the idea that this act can be pleasurable.
But sometimes she feels things that she'd not known her body was capable of, despite the mutterings of her lady's maid, and her own tentative explorations in the bath. She wants to hitch her legs higher, to chase the sparks he causes, wants to see if they can feel even better, with a little effort.
Marriage had not prepared her for this. A wife, for nearly four years, and relations with her husband had only ever been uncomfortable, truly the duty she'd always been told they would be. Her late husband's hands had been cold and perfunctory on her skin, shifting her body where he'd wanted it, brusque and dismissive of her wants. He'd always smelled of liquor, the day's sweat, and cigar smoke, when he'd visited her bed twice a week, in hopes of begetting an heir. He'd snuffed the candles, when he'd come in, likely so he'd have an easier time imagining another woman, a woman slighter than Caroline, with darker hair. Each time Damon had muttered, 'Elena,' right before he'd stiffened and quaked, then rolled off of her, leaving her alone in her chamber, without another word.
She'd felt cold and confused, after Damon's attentions, curling up until a maid had bustled in with warm water and a change of sheets. The maid's faces had been sympathetic, and Caroline hated pity, so she'd forced smiles before cleaning herself up, and retiring to sleep.
It's different, with Mr. Mikaelson.
From the beginning, he'd touched her gently, with care and something close to affection. He'd tried to kiss her, before she'd told him that such niceties weren't required, that she preferred to keep things businesslike. She needed his seed, he wanted her money. Best not to blur the lines by playing at romance, Caroline thought.
It's become harder and harder, to remember why, as the hours they've spent together have multiplied.
He's not at all what she'd imagined, Mr. Mikaelson. His father, a Duke, had sent him to rusticate in the country, during the height of the London season. Caroline had assumed his vices had caught up with him, drink or gambling or a scandal with a debutante, or perhaps a married lady.
She gets gossip sparingly, cloaked in mourning colors as she is, all of her friends away, enjoying balls and musicales. She'd written to Katherine, mentioning that Mr. Klaus Mikaelson was in residence, at the neighboring estate, knowing that her friend would be a font of information.
She hadn't had time, to wait for Katherine's reply, and so she'd plowed ahead with her proposal to him. A child that she could pass off as Damon's, was the only thing that would allow her a modicum of freedom. She'd needed a man, who would accept her offer, and Klaus had seemed a likely candidate. Additionally, upon meeting him, she'd realized that his light hair and blue eyes would mean that any resemblance could be passed off as the child simply favoring Caroline's own coloring.
So she'd issued an invitation to tea, under the guise of welcoming him to the area. She'd been taken aback, by how handsome he'd been, finding herself watching the grace of his hands, but had quickly reminded herself that beauty meant nothing. She'd been beguiled by Damon Salvatore's lovely eyes and pleasing features, as a green girl, enough to be fooled when he'd feigned interest in her dreams and hobbies.
In the end Damon had only been after her money, and Caroline would be a fool to believe that another man would be different.
Mr. Mikaelson had listened to her offer, dumbfounded, tried to talk her out of it. He'd been incredulous, but Caroline had been persistent, and eventually a bargain had been struck.
Mr. Mikaelson had proven to be intelligent, amusing, a witty conversationalist, though he probably would be considered crass, by the matrons of the haut ton. Caroline had always found them rather stuffy, compared to the lively dinners and parties her parents had thrown. Her father had made his fortune, penny by penny, with hard work and clever thinking, and he respected people who did the same, regardless of their last names. He'd invited rich industrialists, visiting aristocrats, up and coming inventors to dine at his table, without care for their station or sensibilities.
Coming to England, with all of its strict rules and protocols had been a shock. But her mother had wanted Caroline to be a princess, though in the end she'd reluctantly settled for her daughter being a marchioness.
Honestly, Caroline thinks she would have been happier, had she stayed at home, and married one of her father's business associates. At least then she'd never have had to smile, in the face of insults, about how coarse and common and American she was.
But she hadn't stayed there, and there was no use on dwelling on what ifs. Caroline had a small window, of opportunity, to craft her life into something bearable. Giuseppe Salvatore and his younger son, Stefan, had been convinced that she needed privacy, to mourn, and as such were spending a few weeks in Newmarket, leaving Caroline alone with a bare minimum of servants. They were waiting, to see if she quickened with child, and she had no illusions about what would happen if she did not.
Caroline would once again become a pawn, and she refused to allow it.
Giuseppe would attempt to marry her off to Stefan, despite the fact that he was also desperately in love with Elena Gilbert (who, as the daughter of an impoverished viscount, was a poor choice for a family that, before Caroline's dowry had come along, had barely been managing to stave off creditors). She's thankful that her father had been crafty, negotiating marriage settlements that put a great deal of money at Caroline's disposal. And with that money, more power than most women could yield. Her dowry had been enormous and her husband granted a generous annual allowance. But Caroline's portion was greater, and her father had let her know that she need only write, and more would be provided. It's the very weapon Caroline had used, to get the Salvatore's to leave her be, if only for a month. She'd provided Giuseppe with the means to gamble, a pastime he was very fond of, despite a lack of skill that had caused the Salvatore's dire financial position, and he'd been happy to fall into her trap.
She could go back home to her parents, but Caroline doesn't trust her mother not to try for another aristocratic match. Elizabeth Forbes would not aim so high, on the second go around, because at three and twenty, having lost the bloom of youth, Caroline wouldn't be quite so attractive a commodity. But a baron, or perhaps a viscount, with pockets to let, was certainly possible.
Caroline had carefully considered her options, before deciding on her current path. A child was the best solution, for it's not as though she hadn't wanted one. A boy, hopefully, to inherit Damon's title. And if it was a girl, then Caroline would love her daughter, and would at least have bought time to formulate a new plan.
Klaus drops to his elbows, pressing his chest to hers, changing the angle of his erection inside of her, and Caroline isn't quick enough to bite back a gasp, can't help the arch of her hips, as he rubs against the exquisitely sensitive little nub of flesh at the apex of her thighs. He pauses, the motion of his hips stilling, looking down at her face, eyes wide in wonder.
"I'm sorry," Caroline apologizes, turning her face away, forcing her body to go limp against the mattress. "Please continue your… exertions."
Klaus groans, the sound different from the soft noises of pleasure he usually makes, almost frustrated. He withdraws abruptly, sits up, rolling to the side.
Caroline gathers the sheets, clutching them to her chest, despite the fact that she still wears her shift, "Is something the matter, Mr. Mikaelson?"
He scrubs a hand over his face, staring bleakly at the ceiling, "Just give me a moment, sweetheart. It's difficult for a man to feel inspired, when the lady would rather be mucking stables, than underneath him."
"Oh," Caroline replies, she hadn't considered that. "I'm sorry. My husband never seemed to mind, that I didn't want him in my bed."
He turns to her, a brief flash of anger crossing his features, "Don't apologize, love. Not for that. I'm rather glad your husband is dead, because I don't think I'd be able to resist the urge to soundly beat him."
Caroline doesn't know how to respond, though his vehemence warms her a little, adding to the respect and tenderness she's begun to feel for Mr. Mikaelson. She's careful to keep it hidden, of course. But it's there, nurtured by the conversations they've had, between couplings, by the little sketches he surprises her with, by the way he watches her, as if he's checking to ensure that she's comfortable, before proceeding, despite the fact that she's been allowing him liberties with her body for weeks.
He turns to her, plumping a pillow under his head, before he speaks, soft and entreating, "May I ask you something?"
"You may," Caroline replies, cautiously.
"Why do you fight yourself? Fight the things you feel, when we're together?"
"Because it's wrong," Caroline tells him, though he should already know, "A woman's duty…"
He makes a noise, low in his throat, derisive and wryly amused, "Don't just parrot the things the insufferable old crones in London told you to prepare you for your wedding night. Tell me the truth. Your body reacts to me. I've felt it. Lord knows I react to you," he nods downward, to where he's thick and hard, unashamed of his nakedness, inviting her gaze.
Caroline feels herself blushing, as her eyes track down his body. He still wears his shirt, but his coat, breeches, boots and undergarments have been discarded at the end of the bed.
It's not a conscious decision, to reach out, but she's curious, about what he would feel like. Realizing what she's doing, she makes to snatch her hand back, before it's breached the distance between them. But Mr. Mikaelson is quicker, grasping her hand before she can withdraw it, "Do you want to touch me, Caroline?"
Her eyes fly to his, at the use of her name. She's not given him leave to use it, has persisted in calling him 'Mr. Mikaelson,' despite his protests.
"Because you can," he tells her. "I want you to. Nearly as badly as I want to touch you."
She twists her wrist, and he immediately lets go. She watches his face, as she reaches for him, resting her palm on his belly, beneath his shirt. His eyes widen, and his lips press together, but he doesn't look away from her, even an she lets her fingers wander down, along the trail of hair there, a shade or two darker than the curls on his head.
His breath hitches, as she wraps her hand around the base of him, and his throat bobs with a harsh swallow, as she strokes upwards, marvelling at the heat of him.
"Is this right?" she asks, because Damon had preferred to touch himself, to make himself ready, and so she'd rarely been made to assist him.
Mr. Mikaelson reaches down, wraps his fingers around hers, tightening her grip, "It's perfect, love. Just a little tighter, I won't break."
She does as he instructs, watching his eyes flutter shut, his face tight with strain. He lets out a curse, body jolting, when she rubs her thumb over the tip of him, then down the pulsing vein along the underside.
She's about to do it again, likes the reaction she'd pulled from him, when he gently brushes her hand away. She looks up, puzzled, because it had seemed as if he'd liked what she'd been doing, very much.
He answers her unspoken question, "You did nothing wrong, and everything right. Too right, and I'd have spent, far too early."
She nods, because she thinks she understands. And then she takes a deep breath asking uncertainly, "Do you still want to touch me?"
"Yes," he tells her, as soon as the words are out of her mouth. "Very much so. But not if you're uncomfortable with the idea. Not if you think it's wrong."
"I suppose it's only fair," Caroline murmurs, looking away from him.
But he's unwilling to accept that, shaking his head, and inching closer, cupping her cheek, his blue eyes dark and solemn, "I don't give a damn about fair, Caroline. What do you want?"
She bites her lip, wishing she could turn her face away, afraid he sees too much. Finally she nods, hoping that's enough, because she's not brave enough to say the words.
He surprises her, by sitting up again, striping of his shirt and climbing out of bed. He goes to the windows, throwing back the heavy drapes. They're on the highest floor of the estate, so no one will see them, and late afternoon sunshine fills the room.
He motions for her to follow him and hesitantly, Caroline crawls to the edge of the bed, before padding over to meet him where he stands, in the centre of a thick carpet. He rests his hands on her shoulders, before he slips behind her, and she feels his hands wind into her hair, slipping down to the end of the thick braids she wears.
"May I let your hair loose, Caroline?"
She nods, helpless to the low, smooth tone he uses. His hands are careful, not pulling, and he massages her scalp where the pins had dug in, and she leans into him, closing her eyes in contentment at the unexpected, sweet, caress. Soon, long curls are spilling down her back, and he runs his hands through the length of her hair reverently, letting out an appreciative hum, "Beautiful. Just like I'd imagined."
He wraps an arm around her waist, pulling her back to rest against his front, presses a kiss to her temple. "Now, I'd like it if you removed your shift, love."
She stills against him, the nerves that he'd coaxed away flooding back. He runs his hands down her bare arms, presses his face into her hair, "Please, Caroline? Trust me, if only just for an afternoon?"
She does trust him. Has every confidence that he has no desire to hurt her. Believes him, when he calls her beautiful. And what's another sin, on top of all the others?
Caroline brings her own hands up to the neckline of the shirt, works the tiny pearl buttons through the holes, and he rewards her, applying his lips to her neck, sucking kisses and the edge of his teeth leaving heat pooling low in her stomach.
She shrugs her shoulders, letting the cotton fall to the floor. He urges her to step out of it, drawing her backwards, towards where she knows the bed is. His skin against hers is a new feeling, novel but nice, and she sort of wishes to pause, to further absorb it. But then he stops, when they're right up against the bed, coming around to face her.
He tilts her chin up, gaze intent on her face for several long moments. Whatever he finds seems to please him, for he sits on the bed, moving backwards so he sits propped up against the headboard. When he's situated, he reaches for her hand, urging her to climb in next to him. She sits, curling her legs to the side, using an arm to shield her breasts from his view.
He smiles, and shakes his head, cupping the back of her neck, "So modest, love. I hardly expected it, from the woman who so blatantly propositioned me."
Caroline looks down, her hair falling in front of her face, hiding her embarrassment, "I'm…"
But he cuts off her apology, pressing a fingertip to her lower lip, "No. Don't say you're sorry. You shouldn't be. You're a complicated puzzle, Caroline Forbes, and I quite like trying to put the pieces together."
He runs his hand down her back, leaving a trail of goosebumps in his wake, pulling her insistently towards him. She catches herself, with her hands on his chest, "Put your knees next to my hips," he instructs quietly, "I expect it will feel odd, for a bit, and I curse that thoughtless bastard you married for that."
Caroline's sure her complexion has gone from flushed to beet red, but she follows the gentle directions of his hands, until her center is pressed to his abdomen, and his face is level with her breasts.
She's about to ask him if she's positioned herself correctly, but when she looks down he's focused on her breasts, looking like a starving man at the most lavish of feasts. Her nipples tighten, at the attention, just beginning to ache. He leans his forehead, on her chest, and when he mutters, "Beautiful," Caroline's not sure if she'd been meant to hear it.
His lips drag down the slope of her breast, before his lips close around her nipple. Caroline digs her nails into his shoulder, her eyes widening at the feeling, as he worries the peak with lips and tongue and teeth. Her head falls back, hips shifting forward, offering him more of her, demanding more of him.
He pulls back with a pop, switching breasts, but bringing his hand up to tease where he'd left. Caroline's hips shift, without her permission, seeking friction where she's pressed against him. His hand on her back pulls her into him, helping her rock, until her breaths are coming in short gasps, and she feels sweat beading along her hairline.
She feels his hand on her thigh, sliding higher, and it's him who moans, when he touches the heat of her. His thumb parts her, circling where she is most sensitive, before sliding lower to dip inside, gathering some of her slickness. He sinks a finger into her, his thumb returning to rub and tease. She's not thinking, and it's glorious, moving against his clever fingers with abandon, letting out gasps as he finds new ways to touch her, to drive her pleasure higher.
"That's it," he coaxes, voice rough, "feel it, love. It's good, isn't it? Just a little more. Let go, and it'll be even better. I promise."
His fingers crook, inside of her, his thumb pressing hard, and Caroline lets out a sharp cry, slumping against him, as the tension snaps and her limbs seem unwilling to obey her commands, pleasure thrumming through them.
It takes a while, for her mind to clear, and when it does she's pressed against him, and he's stroking her hair, his arousal solid and evident between them.
"What was that?" Caroline asks, pulling back to look at him, feeling light and content.
"That," Klaus tells her, his voice a low rumble, "was something you should have experienced before now, sweetheart. And it's practically criminal that you have not, in my opinion. There's so much passion in you, so much you could experience."
"Will you show me?" Caroline blurts out, impulsively.
He smiles, slow and delighted, "It would be my greatest pleasure. But I want two things, in return. First, I want you to kiss me."
Caroline brings her hands to his face, runs her palms over his stubble, before she leans in. He's patient, opening his mouth, softly encouraging her to do the same, brushing his tongue over hers teasingly. She's breathless when she pulls back, but fighting a smile of her own.
"And the second thing?" she asks expectantly, without any wariness or fear.
He flips them, unexpectedly, and Caroline lets out a squeal that melts into a laugh. He braces his hands on either side of her head, settling his body between her thighs, "The next time you come apart like that, I want you to say my name. Klaus, not Mr. Mikaelson. Can you do that?"
She pulls his head down, pressing his mouth to hers once more, craving another taste of him, in lieu of an answer.
Meet You There
(A combo of prompts – from klarolineforevermine: 1920's AU where Klaus is the head mobster in Chicago and Caroline is his club's newest lounge singer. From an Anon: caroline as a jazz singer set in the 1920's in chicago, caroline was turned sometime in the 1900's and met klaus in chicago in the 1920's. Title from 'Singin' My Soul by Gin Wigmore. Smut.)
The boy looks nervous, as he approaches Klaus' table, which proves he's smarter than most. He's young, both in human years and to vampirism. He's not unbearably cocky, a refreshing change from the last one that'd brought Klaus news, the one who'd barely made it through the conversation with his heart in its proper cavity. Both belong to the group of vampires Klaus has turned and compelled in Chicago. A smallish group, only a dozen or so, who serve as an early warning system. They're useful, for information, keeping their ears to the ground, with strict instructions to come directly to him, with anything out of the ordinary. And, if need be, they'll distract Mikael long enough for Klaus to haul Rebekah and the rest of his siblings out of the city.
Klaus has been running for a nine hundred years, and he's learned that buying a few extra minutes is sometimes all he needs. The boy stands at the entrance of Klaus' booth shifts uneasily, avoiding eye contact, and Klaus makes a gesture for him to just get on with it already, "There's a new vampire around," the lad stutters, avoiding eye contact. "Pretty bird, wants to sing."
Klaus finds he can't remember this one's name. Claude, or Clyde? Perhaps Clarence? No matter. Above average brains or not, he's still disposable, "Send her to me," Klaus demands, with a lazy flick of his wrist.
He doesn't have to wait long, for his demands to be heeded, another point in the boy's favor. He escorts a woman through the crowd. Klaus glimpses blonde curls pinned under, to give the illusion of the short style women of this decade favor, and bare shoulders, though her face is turned away. The pair of them stop before Klaus, and she yanks her elbow away from her escort, lips thinning in annoyance, tipping her head to the side, and speaking to him, "Manhandled and no one even offered me a drink? Has no one ever explained to you gentlemen how to show a lady a good time?"
The boy looks scared, edging away, as if he's afraid to get blood on his suit. But luckily for the blonde with the mouth, Klaus is in a good mood. And, now that she's right in front of him, he can see that she's lovely enough that it really would be a shame to separate her head from her body, without a very good reason.
"Apologies, love. For my startling lack of manners," Klaus pats the seat next to him in invitation. "Join me, for a drink? Or would you prefer something more refined. Perhaps champagne?"
"Whatever you're having is fine. I'm not as delicate as I appear."
She picks up her skirt, sliding in gracefully, though she keeps her distance, leaving more than enough room for another person between them. Holding his eyes with hers, she reaches past him, and snatches up his glass. Klaus raises an eyebrow, and she takes a dainty sip, a taunting smirk on her burgundy painted lips, "I'm quite sure that's not mannerly either, love," he reproaches mockingly.
She shrugs, taking a deeper pull of the liquor, and Klaus' eyes are drawn to the smooth pale skin of her shoulders, the light freckles along the line of them, "There's a good chance you'll kill me tonight, Klaus. And I'd rather go out with a bang."
He stills, his eyes snapping to her face. She looks calm, and composed, even when he moves so he's right against her, winding his hands in the beads around her neck. She makes no move to escape, even when his face changes, and he dips down, his fangs near her throat. But Klaus merely inhales deeply. Her scent is pleasant, just a touch alluring, and in any other situation Klaus might have taken a taste. But he's got pressing matters to deal with, so he withdraws, grasps her chin, and looks into her eyes, preparing to compel the truth out of her, "Why are you here?"
When he pulls back to let her answer, she gives him a sad smile, "I can't be compelled."
"Impossible," Klaus denies heatedly. He would know, he's sure, of such an immunity, and he's never encountered one before, "You must be on vervain. Don't worry, love. I'll have it drained out of you right quick. I'll even do it myself."
She shakes her head, and then she's bringing her wrist to her mouth, fangs dropping before she bites down, offering it to him. "Should probably use the glass, but that bootlegged rum is a mite strong."
Klaus accepts her hand, stroking a thumb across her palm, watching the flicker of interest pass through her eyes, before he brings it to his mouth. He licks at the blood that's spilled, listens to her pulse pick up. He has to concentrate, harder than he'd like, given the precarious situation. But she might be the best thing he's ever tasted, and it's a serious test of his control, not to bite down and take more. There's no hint of the sting, the lingering bitterness, vervain drinkers always have, in her blood.
He waits until the wound closes, and then he pours another drink, nudging it towards her. "Start talking, sweetheart. Start with your name, and how you can do the impossible."
"My name is Caroline. Caroline Forbes."
"Pretty," Klaus remarks lightly.
"I'm sure my long dead mother would appreciate the compliment," Caroline replies flatly, knocking back the liquor in one gulp, "But your father killed her."
Klaus digests that, and what it could mean. Grudges are often useful, to bind allies and exploit in enemies. "I'd offer my condolences, but I sense there's more to the story."
She laughs, but the sound holds no true amusement and Klaus finds that it grates, "It was a very long time ago. More than a lifetime."
"Why did Mikael kill her?" Klaus asks.
"Why does Mikael do anything?" she shoots back, lips twisting scornfully. "A grand plan to get to you, my mother just a stepping stone. You're different, you know. Then what he says you are."
Klaus' teeth clench, and he works to keep his voice even, "Mikael doesn't know me, not at all."
Her face changes, becomes determined, a glint of anger entering her eyes, "Nor me. And that's exactly why I'm here."
"Go on," Klaus prompts Caroline, studying her. There's turmoil, underneath her calm countenance, rage and resolve but he senses no fear. All things that Klaus thinks that may be useful, and all of them intriguing.
She lets out a long sigh, gaze tracking upwards, as she appears to gather her thoughts, "My father hunted creatures such as us, taught himself to resist compulsion, taught me too. I don't know how he met your father, but they formed an alliance of sorts, to end you and your siblings, and end vampires as a race."
"A yes. Mikael's tedious mission. That he's failed at, repeatedly, century after century."
"Eight or so, when the bargain was struck."
"Still," Klaus counters, "not the most glowing of track records, you must agree."
"I did. And I argued with my father. Was told to concentrate on my first season, and leave everything to him. 'You sing beautifully, Caroline, but your watercolors need some work.' Was what he said to me. Never was much of an artist, and I confess I was always mystified about how landscapes were supposed to make me a more suitable prospect for matrimony. But my mother insisted," she pauses, looks faintly embarrassed, and turns to look at him, "I'm sorry. I'm sure you don't want to hear about out dated husband hunting strategies. It's just, I've not thought about them for so long."
"It's quite all right," Klaus tells her, and he means it. There's something about the lilt of her voice that he enjoys, something that tells him she's probably not exaggerating her abilities as a singer. But, he needs to hear the rest, "What happened next?"
"Your father betrayed mine, of course. Killed him, killed my mother. Turned me. Was delighted, when he found I could still resist his attempts to compel me, after I'd changed. Told me that a pretty blonde distraction would be far more useful than my father had been, in the long run. Threatened to kill the rest of my family, and all of my friends, if I didn't cooperate."
"And now? Forgive me, love. But this seems like the opposite of cooperating," he gestures between the two of them, the lack of distance between them. He believes her, but Klaus isn't one to trust blindly, so he doesn't mask the edge of suspicion.
Her expression turns wry, her head tipping to the side. A loose curl tumbles down against her shoulder, and Klaus clenches his hand to keep himself from brushing it away, "It's been a hundred and seventeen years, Klaus. Everyone I've ever loved is dead. Mikael's convinced I've come to think like him, that I hate being a vampire."
"Do you? Do you hate what you are?" Klaus asks even though he already knows the answer. The way she moves, it's not like someone who loathes the skin they inhabit. She's comfortable, with what she's become, and Klaus thinks she'd be magnificent, with her monster unleashed.
"No. I don't want to die. But I don't want to be a prisoner anymore either. It's not living. Chasing Mikael who's chasing you. Hardly a life."
"So you hope to bargain with me? Tell me, what's my father's grand plan?"
This time it's Caroline who moves, presses herself up against him, and leans in, so he can feel her breath against his neck, she pitches her voice low, exaggeratedly throaty, "I'm supposed to seduce you."
Klaus smiles, glances around the club, at the interested looks they're getting, people quickly looking away and smirking behind hands and glasses when they see him looking. She's cunning, this one, because to a passerby it must look like she's succeeding.
"And then?" he asks, giving in to the urges he's been fighting, playing with a strand of her hair.
"Then I lure you to my hotel, where Mikael's waiting, with a weapon that can kill you." She pulls back, her nose wrinkling, "Seemed thin, when he presented it to me. But maybe you have a reputation for letting your libido run the show? I was only given two weeks."
"Hardly," Klaus denies, though he's quite sure Mikael still thinks of him as that lovesick boy, panting after Tatia. It's always worked in Klaus' favor, Mikael's tendency to underestimate him. "I'm not one to be fooled by a pretty face, and pleasing figure, though I'll admit I find you more tempting than most."
She bites her lip, and this time when she touches him, it doesn't feel like a game, her fingers lingering on the skin of his throat, left bare by his undone bowtie and open collar, "And you haven't even heard me sing," she returns flirtatiously.
"That can be changed, love."
She pulls back, a gleam of excitement lighting her eyes, "Really? I've always wanted to, for a crowd. I was supposed to excel, but be modest, as a girl. Singing outside of drawing rooms and musicales was for mistresses and whores, or so I was told."
It's infectious, her delight, and Klaus finds himself motioning for the boy, who's been hovering nearby, and telling him to escort Caroline to the stage, with instructions that the band will play whatever the lady wishes, for as long as she wishes.
She goes with a bounce in her step, beaded dress swinging tantalizingly around her calves. She mounts the steps to the platform where the band plays, only the fluttering of her hands betraying her nerves. The band starts to play, and it's familiar, though Klaus hardly cares, his eyes trained on her. She licks her lips and closes her eyes, and when her mouth opens, and she starts to sing, a hush falls over the crowd, as the conversations and drinks fail to hold anyone's interest, with the magic happening on stage.
Her voice is low and sultry, and she sings with more feeling than anyone Klaus has ever heard. There's longing and pain and little sparks of hope and wonder, which stops her performance from being depressing. He understands the gaping that the crowd is doing. Because under the spotlight, blonde hair shining, she seems sweet and innocent and she can't pass for much more than twenty. What has this girl lived, they must be wondering, to sing like that?
Klaus has an inkling. He'd spent twenty six years, with Mikael, after all. And it seems like she's spent quite a number more.
The applause is thunderous, when the final notes of the song fade away. And Caroline's eyes pop open, her expression shocked, like she'd forgotten she wasn't alone. She throws her head back and laughs, loud and joyous. Then she turns to the bandleader, whispers a few words, and a more upbeat tune rings out.
And then she's dancing, eyes open this time, working the crowd like she's done it a thousand times.
Klaus settles back to watch, waving away the fresh bottle that's been brought to the table. He's had most of the previous one already, and while that's not enough to get him drunk, another would get him close. And he wants to be sober for this, for Caroline Forbes, in her element, in case he never gets to see it again.
Caroline sings another half a dozen songs, before she bows, and thanks the crowd. They protest, loudly, begging her to sing another, but she waves away their shouts bashfully, making for the steps. A small clump of men, wait for her, at the foot of the stage, asking her name, offering to buy her a drink, dinner, a fur coat. She looks flattered, and overwhelmed, but Klaus, waiting a few paces behind the group calls out, in a tone that accepts no arguments, "The lady is with me."
One of Caroline's would be suitors turns, looking like he's spoiling for a fight, but he quickly subsides when he sees Klaus. The humans know of him, have all sorts of wild theories about who he is, and what he does. They know he's dangerous, and not to be crossed, exactly how Klaus prefers it.
"Sorry, gents," Caroline demurs, flashing a pretty smile, "This girl's dance card is full."
Klaus offers her his arm, and she takes it, wiggling her fingers over her shoulder in a goodbye. He leads her outside, stopping briefly to let the club owner know that he's to tell Rebekah that Klaus has left for the evening, if she and Stefan ever show, and that he expects to see her at the house, for breakfast tomorrow.
The man fears him, though not nearly as much as he enjoys Klaus' money, so Klaus is confident his message will be delivered.
Caroline looks up at the sky, does a quick spin, letting out a squeal, "That was amazing."
"You were," Klaus agrees, and she grins, fit to light a city street.
She falls into step with him and they walk in silence, for a few blocks. He sneaks looks at her, admiring her flushed cheeks, and bright eyes, how she's nearly glowing with excitement, fidgeting like she still wants to be dancing.
Caroline catches him looking, and Klaus is not a boy, hasn't been for a long time. He's long since ceased to feel ashamed of his desires. And he wants her. So he holds her gaze, notes her eyes turning dark, once she understands his intent. She licks her lips, and Klaus feels the air between them grows tense with anticipation. Caroline turns to him abruptly, pulling him to a stop in front of her, "Take me somewhere," she demands, stepping into his body, pressing her curves against him, leaving no illusions about what she's offering.
"Have you no sense self-preservation, sweetheart?" Klaus asks, watching her expression carefully, still not sure this isn't a ploy, "You haven't even asked me if I'm going to kill you."
She shakes her head, "I don't care. Tomorrow you'll kill me, or tomorrow I'll run. But that's hours away and tonight's the first time I've felt free in my entire life. I want to enjoy it. And I want you to take me somewhere more private, so I can enjoy it with you. Anywhere you want. Blindfold me, if you wish."
Klaus reads nothing but sincerity from her, so he nods, stepping into a street to flag down a cab, giving the driver directions to a luxurious hotel, in the heart of the city.
He'll not think of his father, at least until the sun rises. He'll buy or compel the hotel's best room, have Caroline on fine sheets, and against the windows. Maybe in the bath, in the wee hours of the morning. As many times as the night and creativity allow.
And then he'll decide what to do with her.
Caroline doesn't waste time, when they get to the suite Klaus has arranged. The doors have scarcely closed, and she'd undoing the zipper of her dress, slipping it from her shoulders, her eyes heavy lidded and watching him, over her shoulder, the weight of the beads pulling the fabric down her body, with barely a shimmy from her required.
She'd gone without a corset, wears only pink knickers, and black silk stockings, held up with sliver garters. She turns to him, lifting the numerous necklaces she'd been wearing over her head, letting them slip from her fingers and tumble to the carpet.
Caroline sits on the edge of the bed, watching him, toeing off her heels, "Well? I think you're overdressed."
Klaus shakes his head, lets out a laugh, but obliges her, letting his clothes fall to the ground, piece by piece. She matches him, unclipping the garters, and rolling down her stockings, before she eases back on the mattress, propping herself up onto her elbows and waiting for him with her thighs parted.
Klaus crawls over her, kissing her stomach, and she falls back with a moan, nipping up her ribcage, until she tangles her fingers in his hair. He bypasses her breasts, something she grumbles about, until he takes her mouth in a fierce kiss, plundering until she's arching up against him, hitching a leg around his hip.
Klaus follows the line of her neck with his lips, pays special attention to what makes her jolt against him. He reaches down, tearing her knickers off, finds that their slow, teasing disrobing has left her slick and ready, and he sinks two fingers inside of her easily.
He works his fingers into her slowly, leaves her clit alone, until she's clenching around him, and her hips are shifting restlessly, while she breathes raggedly into his skin. And then he rolls off of her, pulling her astride him, so quickly that she looks surprised, once she finds herself looking down at him. "I believe you wanted freedom, sweetheart. So take what you want," it's a taunt, low and gravelly, as Klaus leisurely brings his hand up, licks the evidence of her arousal off of his fingers.
And Caroline rises to the challenge beautifully, as he'd known she would, giving his cock a few strokes, just the right kind of rough, before she positions him at her opening, enveloping him in one quick downward motion. She doesn't give either of them time to adjust, rocking above him, setting a frantic rhythm. Klaus sits up, before long, the bouncing of her breasts too much for him to resist, and he dips his head, sucking one into his mouth, pulling a moan from her with the scape of his teeth.
He clutches her hips, pulls her down onto him. She's got her hands on his shoulders, a little more pressure and her nails will draw blood.
"Klaus," she gasps before long, "I'm so…"
"I know," he mutters hoarsely, because the way she feels around him, slick and hot, her walls fluttering, is making it hard for him to hold on. A few strokes of his thumb over her clit, and she's crying out his name, shaking in his lap. Klaus lets go of his tightly held control, thrusts into her, a few more times, and buries his face in her throat to muffle the groan he lets out when he comes.
They barely speak, for hours, letting their bodies talk, knowing that words will ruin things. Klaus has her again, in the bed, tastes her until she screams. Against the window, her front pressed to the cold glass. Bent over a table, underneath him on the floor. By the time they make it to the bath she seems tired, rests against him complacently in the sweet smelling water, turning her head to nuzzle into his throat. And then it's Caroline, who breaks the spell, her voice quiet and resigned, none of her earlier exuberance remaining, "I suppose now's when I should tell you about Mikael?"
Klaus nods, and she begins to talk. Detailing what she knows of Mikael's plans, allies and associates. He asks questions, dozens of them, possibly hundreds, and she answers without complaint, long after the bath has turned cold.
He leaves her alone to dry off, and they dress in silence, once she emerges, as the sun spills into the room. When Caroline's finished applying her makeup, she turns to him, hands twisting anxiously, though she tilts her chin stubbornly, and doesn't allow her voice to waver, "Is this goodbye? Or is this…"
Klaus crosses the room, kisses her one last time, thoroughly, filing this moment away, until she's clutching his suit jacket and eagerly meeting him, stroke for stroke. He'd been fairly certain he wouldn't be able to kill her last night, when she'd shamelessly pulled her dress off. And he had decided in the bath, when she'd offered more information about Mikael's operations than he'd ever been able to glean, and asked for nothing in return, that she was far too sweet for death.
"This is goodbye, Caroline," Klaus assures her, trying to convey the things he can't say with his actions. Her eyes are closed, lashes wet, features filled with relief, "And it's good luck. You're clever enough to survive, at least a few more centuries. Perhaps I'll see you again."