This time Rose goes to the fourth floor alone. She knocks on the bedroom door herself.
"Come in," Cal's voice calls out. The bedroom is large, well furnished, and positively sumptuous. Everything seems to have and be in its proper place, rich red curtains falling just right, soft black bedspread, suitcases stacked neatly along one wall. Rose wants to step out. But I don't belong here, she thinks.
"Get in the bed," Cal tells her from behind the closed bathroom door. She can hear water running. Her stomach ties itself in knots, her heart pounds, her cheeks flush. She steps inside and shuts the door behind her.
She's still standing, frozen, by the door when Cal walks out. He takes her in. She looks lovely—hair falling gracefully, lips pouting because she's pissed off to be there, eyes nervous but curious. She picked a simple black nightie, both because it reminds her of the plain black leotards she wore to dance practice and because it's similar to the dress Camille wore that evening. She wants Cal to look at her and see Camille instead. She wants Camille to take her place.
But now that she sees him, Rose doubts these intentions. Cal looks more raw, more human, than the first night she met him. There's a bit of stubble on his chin and jawline, and his hair is unkempt, like he ran his hand through it rather than comb it. He's still wearing most of his dinner attire—tailored black slacks and a white button down so clean and fresh it's nearly glowing. His shoes, tie, and jacket are gone though, and he's obviously unbuttoned and tugged at his shirt collar to loosen it. Even fully clothed, there's something raw and naked about the way Cal is standing there and watching her. She wants him to touch her.
"Get in the bed," he repeats. His soft, firm tone makes Rose think of him holding her. Feeling his skin on her skin. Feeling him protecting her from the whole wide world.
She nods and walks toward the bed.
"Rose. We talked about this . . ."
"Yes, Sir," she chokes out, correcting herself and walking to the bed. Stalling and uncertain of herself, she perches on the edge of the tall, hard bed, her legs stretched out straight in front of her with the knees locked. She avoids Cal's gaze completely, instead looking down at her bare feet, toenails painted red. She feels silly wearing heels around the house, as if she's playing dress up, rather than living real life.
Cal chuckles and walks toward her. "In the bed, dear," he tells her, and, in one strong swoop, he lifts her off the bed with one arm, pulls back the covers with the other, and
deposits her on the white satin sheets, her back bouncing against the pillows.
Rose brings her knees up, and Cal sits down beside her, leaning back against the pillows and closing his eyes.
"Tired, sweetheart?" he asks her.
"Not anymore. Nervous."
He smiles but doesn't open his eyes, "Sir," he reminds her.
"Sorry. Sir."
"Is it really that hard to remember?"
"I'm sorry, Sir."
He opens his eyes and turns his head to look at her. She's sitting up more than he is, so he tilts his head slightly up to look at her, taking in the slender neck, full lips, big eyes, and . . . something more. Something that makes her just a little prettier, a little bit more special than the other women he's known. "You're so open," he murmurs. "You really don't play games. You don't act coy, or play pretend. You really are," he takes her right hand in both of his, running his fingers across the soft skin of her wrist and the underside of her forearm, feeling how light and delicate her body is as well as her pounding pulse, "nervous out of your mind right now." He drops her arm and pushes himself up to sit up straight against the pillows. He puts his left arm around her shoulders but doesn't pull her any closer.
She breathes in his scent and relaxes against the warm touch of his arm. "Am I crazy? You seem familiar. Have I met you earlier, long ago?"
He nods. "The Gold and Silver Ball. In Naples. Three years ago, almost."
Her eyes light up. "I remember that! My dad got an achievement award that night."
"Right."
She laughs. "He didn't even want to go. I insisted, because I had a sparkling silver dress and wanted to dress up and wear it."
"He didn't want to go?"
Rose shakes her head, "There were two hundred guests, and he hated giving speeches to groups of fewer than ten or more than a hundred. He said it all has to do with group mentality—too few people, and you have to sway each one individually, rather than get a few to agree and watch the others give in to group pressure. But have too many people, and all hell breaks loose—cliques and distractions and too many different reactions. He knew how to work a crowd, but only a very particular crowd."
"Well, I was there, but I don't even remember his speech. I remember seeing you. I was three tables over. I knew he had a daughter, but for some reason I thought you were much younger. He must've had a baby picture on his desk or something, and it never occurred to me that over the years the baby would've grown up. I . . . was surprised."
"Was Camille with you that night?"
"Camille? No. I don't take her when I travel. I don't even think she likes planes."
Rose shudders against him. "I don't think I do either, anymore."
He immediately recognizes his mistake, remembering the plane crash, the bodies . . . he opens his mouth but can't find the proper words. They sit in silence. The room seems to dim, but maybe it's Rose's vision.
He squeezes her shoulder, now pulling her close so that she lays against him. "What've you done?" The tone is strict but genuinely curious.
"Nothing." She pauses, then remembers to add, "Sir."
"Kissing?"
"Yes, Sir, of course." For God's sake, she's sixteen, not a nun.
"Real kissing—French," he clarifies.
"Yes, Sir."
"And has a man ever touched you, under your clothes?"
His delicate euphemisms strike her as funny under the circumstances. "No, Sir, never under. Camille's felt me up more in the last week than any guy has ever done."
Cal turns to her and raises an eyebrow, not sure if she's joking. "Camille's felt you up?"
"She's too impatient. I can never dress myself quickly enough for whatever we're doing. Going clothes shopping with Camille is the most physically invasive thing that's ever happened to my body."
Cal brushes his fingertips up and down her shoulder, across her neck, down the middle of the nightie. "Fuck," he murmurs, not to her, but to himself. She's too new, too lovely. But. . . "Come," he says, placing his right hand over her throat and wrapping his left arm around her waist, pulling him into his lap, then spreading his legs so that she drops down in front of him, with her back against his chest and his legs on either side of her. He feels her pulse race and waits for it to slow before removing his hand from her throat.
"Scoot forward," he directs, and she does. He massages the back of her neck, twisting her hair around his hand and placing it across her right shoulder. "I want you to relax," he tells her, massaging the knots and tension from her back, her shoulders, and down those long, soft arms. He runs his fingers through her hair, massages her scalp, and she feels a tingling in the small of her back. "Mmm," she murmurs, finally forgetting herself.
"Ah. That's it," he realizes, rubbing the back of her head, just above the neck, her temples, and then placing his thumbs at the back of her head and making small circles, pushing her head down so that her hair falls forward. "Your hair is too heavy for you."
"Yes, Sir, sometimes I get headaches," she admits.
"You know, sometimes I get headaches too." He runs his fingers one last time from her scalp to the ends of her silk strands, then, before Rose can even realize what he's doing, he pushes the straps of the nightie off her shoulders and lets the top drop to her waist. Acting on reflex, Rose's brings her hands up to cover herself.
"No, pet. Arms down." Cal resists the urge to physically bring her arms to her lap himself. He wants her to obey him of her own free will, and, after taking a deep breath, she does.
The bedroom is warm, yet Rose is shivering. He fondles her gently, thoroughly, from one breast to the other. Then, when he's had his fun, he draws his hand up her throat, tilts her head up just as he brings his own head down, and meets her in a deep, penetrating kiss.
She gasps with his tongue in her mouth. She opens herself to him completely, reaching up to wrap her right arm around his neck and pull him even closer.
"Good girl," he murmurs, pulling away just slightly, so that she can feel his warm breath on her lips. He gives her a quick kiss on the lips, then travels downward, tickling her throat with soft kisses, and then her collarbone. Rose braces the palms of her hands against the mattress and attempts to push herself upward, so that Cal can kiss lower. Instead, he brings his head up and takes the opportunity to grasp her under the arms and push her down on the bed.
He slides out from under her and turns over so that he faces her, bracing himself on his arms and looking down from above her. In this position, Rose feels chastened, more exposed now that Cal can take a good look at her from the front. And he does. She can feel his eyes traveling across her. He meets her eyes again and smiles. "Nice," he says simply. Rose wants to laugh, oddly grateful for his validation.
Cal kisses her mouth again, soft at first, but deeper and harder as his hands travel from her shoulders and down her sides. She giggles and bucks against him as the nightie gets pushed lower and he runs a hand over her smooth, flat stomach. "That tickles!" she protests, unable to help herself.
"God, finally," he says, running his hand over her stomach again, in the curve just above her pelvic bone. She laughs and bucks again, trying to control herself but failing. "I never thought you'd relax. You're ticklish?"
"Very. Never grew out of it like everyone else."
Cal uses this information to his advantage. His mouth on hers, he tickles her again, Rose bucks, and he uses the opportunity to slide the nightie from her hips, down her legs, and completely off. Kissing her, feeling her heavy breathing, hoping, please, please God don't let her freak outt or have a heart attack or scream, he pushes her thighs apart. Nothing.
Rose is compliant, eager. Her body is flexible. He brings her knees to either side of her head easily. "Hold," he tells her, and Rose grips her legs by the back of the knees and holds them in place. He wraps his left arm around her waist, tilting her pelvis toward him, and runs his right hand down her stomach (a giggle, a slight movement) and then between her legs.
"Panties? Who okayed this? Camille dressed you in panties? Do I need to enforce an all naked policy in this bedroom?" He's teasing and Rose wants to laugh, but she also feels queasy and nervous again. He wraps one hand around her throat and places the flat of his palm against her. The panties are thin—just a bit of black lace between her and his hand. She wants more air.
"Well, well," Cal muses. He's almost taken aback by how hot and wet she is. He rubs a finger up and down, the friction making Rose moan beneath him. She throws her head back and bucks in pleasure this time, wanting more pressure. But he continues to lightly run his finger over the lace, then higher, finding her swollen clit.
Rose gasps. Her eyes widen. He rubs her slowly, lightly, gently. She moans and tries to say something, but the hand at her throat tightens. He continues to stroke her, feeling her wetness, pushing her closer and closer to the brink.
"Please," she gasps out, her voice finally audible.
"Please what?" he asks.
"Please let me come," she answers in a small voice.
He squeezes her throat and shoots her a stern look, then relaxes his hold so she can speak.
"Please, Sir, let me come," she's shaking and pleading, but her eyes never waiver from his. He takes his hand away and slaps her lightly between the thighs. She whimpers.
He brings his hand back, yanking the panties down so that he can touch her directly. He pushes a finger in as deep as he can go, but she flinches almost immediately. "Hurts?" She nods. He tries again, making sure his finger is completely covered in her own wetness beforehand. The flinch is less perceptible, but he can read the pain on her face.
"Haven't you ever touched yourself?" he asks.
"Not like that, Sir."
"Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck," he mutters to himself. She's impossibly wet, yet impossibly tight. "I should've had Camille make sure you were ready."
He pushes her legs even further apart, steadying her with a hand on her hip, then pulls a pillow beneath her so he has a better angle. He finally manages to push a finger in all the way, stroking it back and forth, back and forth. She lets out a deep moan. Two fingers. He can hear the wetness, feel it tickling all the way to his wrist. He moves to her clit, strokes, back down, inside, back and forth, back and forth, then back to the clit. Three fingers. A brief glimpse of Rose's pain, then a moan of pleasure as he hits just the right spot.
"Yes, please, Sir, yes, yes, please . . ."
He feels a tension building inside her. He feels her mounting higher, higher toward a release.
"Please," she begs, tears coming to her eyes.
He stops. He pulls her panties completely off.
"Let go," he tells her, taking her hands from the back of her knees. "Hold on to the headboard." She grips the bars of the headboard, arching her back and stretching her body out in front of him. "Perfect." The softness and beauty is almost too much. He doesn't know how much more he can take of this. Rose is oblivious to his own needs, too innocent and honed in on her own to even realize that she's supposed to take his clothes off and touch him. This is fine. Plenty of time for her to learn.
He brings his knees down beside her hips and undresses himself, slowly, smoothly, almost mechanically, but aware that her eyes are on him. Cal doesn't disappoint her. He's been an athlete his whole life, and his body is solid, strong, slim but muscular.
Her lips part. "I liked your shirt, Sir," she says, as a compliment, too embarrassed to compliment his body, even though she's obviously impressed.
"Were you spoken to, pet?"
"No, Sir."
"Thighs apart." Rose obeys, and he slaps her between the legs with the back of his hand. "Remember your place. Now," he licks his lips, "wrap your legs around me."
Worry and fear immediately streak across her eyes, but, once again, Rose obeys. She feels his erection brush against her. She's scared of the pain, and yet . . . very curious.
Cal reaches down, and, rather than thrust forward, rubs himself across her, back to front, again and again, until she's once again dripping down her own thighs this time and his erection is slick her own wetness.
"Do you feel that?" he whispers in her ear, leaning close to kiss her neck.
"Yes, Sir."
"Can you take that?"
She knows the answer he wants to hear. "Yes, Sir."
He puts his arms around her and thrusts forward, bringing her hips toward him as well. He feels her tighten and her entire body stiffen. She screams out, and he claps a hand over her mouth. He's barely a few inches in. "You told me you could take it." He pulls out, this motion making her whimper even more.
"I'm sorry, Sir." Cal takes a long, serious look at her, eyes glistening with tears, her whole face marked with a deep and sorrowful disappointment. He realizes that she really is sorry. All her other niceties and "Sirs" had a tinge of mockery, like she was merely humoring him. But this time . . . she really is sorry. "Fuck," he mutters to himself again. He could play with her, get her to calm down and relax and open up—physically, that is—but suddenly Cal isn't in the moodfor this. "You're not ready for this," he tells her, rolling off of her and onto his side beside her. "You have no idea . . ." he looks down at the soft, young, compliant body. A perfect body, really. Everything he's ever wanted. Rose is straight out of a man's fantasies, like she's not even real. Rose waits for him to finish, knowing she isn't allowed to interrupt. "How badly I want to fuck your brains out right now," he finishes. He slaps the inside of her thigh, lightly, playfully this time. "Come here," he says, tilting her chin upward for a long, sensuous kiss, during which he releases her head and fondles her. She laughs.
"Bit more intimate than Camille?" he asks.
"Yes, Sir."
"Thighs apart," he tells her, and this time she understands that when he says this, he means knees bent and legs spread very wide. What Cal wants, more than anything on earth at that moment, is to climb back on top of her and thrust himself in all the way, to the hilt. He wants to feel himself deep, deep inside her. But he controls himself. It is—it's always been—about control.
He places a finger inside. Rose immediately flinches. "Sore?" he asks.
"Yes, Sir."
He nods. He brings his fingers to his lips and tastes her. "Mmm. You know, you're really lucky I took you in. You would've been out in the streets otherwise." At first she thinks he's trying to coerce her into trying again, but Cal continues, "And then you would have resorted to whoring yourself out for money, but," he glances down at her open legs, "you're a really fucking bad whore."
Rose can't help herself. She breaks out into a laugh, and, while she's relaxed and amused and at ease, Cal quickly kisses his way down from her belly button to between her legs, and flicks her clit with his tongue.
"Ohhh," is Rose's reply, laughter leaving as she arches toward him once again.
Cal licks and teases, enjoying the sweet, heady taste of her, lost in the scent of her musk and perfume. He glances up and sees her with her eyes closed, transported to another world. He keeps his tongue flickering on her clit and, tentatively, brings two fingers inside her. She opens up beautifully, his fingers sliding in easily, without any resistance. He brings her to the brink, and, once again, hears that tell tale whisper, "Please, Sir, let me come."
With one last lick, he brings his face away, looming up to kiss her, letting her taste herself on his tongue. The motion of his hand continues, however, faster, deeper. He puts his left hand over her throat, feeling just how fragile she is in his hands, brings his lips to her ear, and whispers, "Yes, sweetheart, come for me."
