Makeup can only do so much for a person after a night like that, but I did my best to cover the damage I’d done. It did nothing, of course, for my hangover, but my headache and achiness felt a little like penance after the mess I’d made of everything. Jess and Lana exclaimed over my work clothes, Jess asking details about my tailor, obviously interested in the idea of hiring one. None of us mentioned the bags under my eyes or their cause, and we made plans to meet on my next free day, Sunday, for brunch.
When Amelia’s driver called from downstairs, I rode the elevator with mounting trepidation. I couldn’t think of an easy way to recover from a scene like we’d had, and I was very much afraid that the awkwardness would be too much to overcome. I didn’t want to get another job, especially when this one had turned out to be so enjoyable and lucrative. Moreover, I felt terrible about what I’d done. I chided myself for the thousandth time that morning. This was precisely why you shouldn’t get involved with someone from work, I thought. Steeling myself to face the problem head-on, I decided that when I saw Amelia, I would simply broach the subject without beating around the bush. While I wasn’t ready to admit my feelings to her yet, we needed to talk about what was happening between us or my position with the company would become untenable.
Her face, when the driver opened the door for me, put all these plans to rest. She was drawn and pale—paler even than she usually was, which is saying something. Her sunglasses were on despite the darkness of the car’s interior, and her whole body seemed to be drawn in on itself, closed off. She’d chosen the seat in the limo that faces the front of the cab and had drawn into the farthest corner from any other seat in the car, legs folded around themselves twice, pretzel-fashion. She looked up at me quickly in recognition of my presence and then returned to looking at her tablet, effectively silencing me for the entire trip.
We were doing our first reconnaissance missions today before the big dinner tonight. We’d scheduled meetings with two up-and-coming artists Amelia was interested in meeting, one of whom I’d actually studied in graduate school. We would be evaluating them together and deciding whether to distribute either one or both. While more and more artists have agents, Amelia believed agents weren’t always best at getting distributors for an artist’s work, in addition to the fact that artists made more money if they dealt directly with the seller. Further, if an artist we talked to this week insisted on going through his or her agent, we could simply contact the agent if we were interested in selling their work.
Tomorrow, on Saturday afternoon, we were attending a Sotheby’s auction that promised to be one of the art world’s highlights of the year. In fact, our trip here was primarily designed and planned so Amelia could attend this auction.
Two evening functions were planned as well for tonight and tomorrow. Tonight’s was a charity dinner, a little like the one we’d attended in New Orleans, and tomorrow’s was an artist’s opening reception. Amelia had made a dinner reservation for Saturday near the warehouse in Brooklyn where the reception was taking place and had been very hush-hush about it, looking mysterious every time I asked her for details. I’d been excited to have dinner alone with her, knowing that most of our other evenings were booked with other people and events, but now, after the scene last night, the idea of being alone with her terrified me.
The first gallery we visited was a typical Manhattan affair, with stark-white walls and floor and minimal décor beyond the paintings. The saleswomen were those narrow, pinched women you expect in a place like that, dressed in solid black with high, tight hairdos, both of them probably models or actresses when they weren’t here. Their looks mirrored their attitude, which was cold and aloof. They gave us the cold shoulder and only briefly greeted us as we walked around. Only when the artist, Pierre Gasteau, appeared, all smiles and handshakes, did they seem to understand that we were worth noticing. After that it was all ass-kisses. Pierre treated us to lunch at the 21 Club, a first visit for me and a genuine pleasure except for the company. His arrogance and machismo disgusted me, and neither of us was able to say much of anything as he gushed about himself and his work at effusive length.
The next gallery was more to my taste, with students working the floor and an eclectic, bohemian style of décor. The room had the quality of a workshop, with the artist and the some of the students actually working on pieces in the back of the room. The artist, Audrey Pieuon, was also French, and I was more familiar with her artwork than Pierre’s, having studied her work in school. Audrey taught at the School of Visual Arts in the fine arts department and obviously employed her students at her gallery. While her work was now widely recognized and occasionally on view at various modern art museums around the world, she had yet to achieve the kind of acclaim that gave her celebrity status, and it showed in her behavior with us. She was far friendlier with us than Pierre had been, whose kindness had been phony and grasping. Audrey was also familiar with the Winters Corporation and asked both of us questions about the other artists we distributed and the restoration work we did.
“Is this your new piece?” I managed to ask when we were standing near it in the workshop. I hadn’t expected to be starstruck but found myself almost tongue-tied the moment she appeared. Amelia had thrown me a couple of strange looks at my silence, so I was making an effort to get over it.
“Yes, and it’s giving me migraines,” she said, frowning at the piece. Audrey was primarily famous for her glass and mosaic work, and some critics had gone so far as to call her the next Louis Comfort Tiffany. Compared to most of her work, which was usually quite small—often small enough to hold in your hands—the scale of the new piece was impressive, stretching nearly twelve feet square. She had begun only one corner of the piece, the colors of the glass shards she used in her work sparkling with the light. A ladder stood next to it, and she climbed up, pointing at various areas and explaining what it would look like when it was done.
“I have lived away from France for almost a decade now, yet I always go back there in my artwork. They say an artist puts her identity in her work, so I guess France is mine.”
She excused herself to help some of her student employees, which gave Amelia and me a chance to take a closer look at the work throughout the gallery. Amelia walked away from me, ostensibly to be alone with her thoughts, but it was clear that she simply didn’t want to be around me. Sighing, I turned toward the centerpiece of the gallery, a large vase composed of various colors of glass punctuated by metal fragments throughout. Coming closer, I could see that the metal was actually French franc coins, which had been out of circulation since the currency reform in Europe. The piece was titled Lost Singularity.
We left after having a cup of lovely French coffee prepared by our hostess, and by then we were running a little late. The charity dinner started at seven, and now we were locked in rush-hour traffic. I’d been expecting to talk about what we’d seen today after both galleries, but Amelia was still not talking to me. She kept her eyes firmly rooted to her tablet. I had nothing with me to work on, so I sat there in quiet frustration as we slowly squeezed our way through from the Village to midtown Manhattan. Staring out the darkened windows, I watched as the teeming masses rushed home on the sidewalks, thousands expelled from the office buildings around us. The silence in the car was made more poignant by the contrast to the busyness outside, and I felt the crushing weight of my situation all the more clearly for having nothing else to think about. When we finally pulled up to the Peninsula, our hotel, my nerves were completely shattered. Overtired and anxious, the thought of making nice at a dinner party all evening was almost more than I could bear.
Amelia had reserved a suite connected to a second room for me. The suite and my room were the very definition of elegance and luxury, with lush bedding, enormous bathrooms, and elegant décor. Our rooms were connected by a door, and I was very happy to close it behind me as I excused myself to get ready. I was so relieved to be alone I almost started crying. There were flowers on the desk in my room and a small bottle of wine, which I quickly opened, pouring most of it into a tall glass. I had exactly thirty-five minutes to make myself presentable and human again, and I figured the wine would help.
My luggage had been set up in the walk-in closet, the gowns I’d brought hung up. I found a small note on one of the gowns.
I think this one would be most suitable for tonight, don’t you agree?
—Amelia
Her audacity was galling, and the note, coupled with her ridiculous childishness all day, turned my day-long depression to near-blinding rage. Spitefully, I grabbed the other gown and took it with me into the bathroom. For the next twenty minutes I slammed around as I got ready. My anger energized me, and I spent the entire time attempting to make myself look completely and utterly unattainable. Rather than be hurt by her childishness, I decided to fight her ice with my own fire.
When I came into her suite, Amelia was standing with her back to the room, staring out the window. Even from behind she was breathtaking, and once again my plans for how to behave toward her took a nosedive. Hearing me, she turned, and for the first time today I saw beneath the coldness to the deep hurt underneath, but only for a second. Her eyes hardened quickly, making me doubt what I’d seen.
“I see you chose the other dress,” she said.
“Yes,” I answered simply, trying to mimic her cold tone. “It’s more comfortable.”
She didn’t reply, and I followed her out of our rooms and downstairs to our waiting car. Despite having hurried, we were still running late, and I could feel her mounting tension as the car eased itself through evening traffic. The event was held at the Edison Ballroom, and as we pulled up to get in line behind the cars in front of us, I could see a red carpet in front and the flash of cameras.
Two cars away from the head of the line, Amelia suddenly turned toward me. “Listen. Can we put this…misunderstanding behind us for the evening? We have a lot of work to do tonight, and it will go more smoothly if we can look like we like each other.”
“I do like you, Amelia—”
“I know. I know you do, and I’m sorry for how I’ve behaved today. I’ve been very foolish.”
“You haven’t been foolish at all. I’m the one who acted like an idiot yesterday. I’m sorry. I really am.”
“So am I.” Her face was still drawn and wary, and she seemed reluctant to say the wrong thing. “Let’s put it behind us.”
I had just enough time to nod my reply when the door was opened for us, the flash of cameras blinding me as we climbed out. Amelia looked cool and collected, and I heard a press liaison tell one of the scribbling journalists who she was. No one knew my name yet, so Amelia provided it, making me realize that I would no longer be her anonymous “blonde” after tonight. Placing her hand on the small of my back, she led me through the flashing entryway and into the luxurious interior of one of the most exclusive ballrooms in the city. Attendants took our coats, issuing us a small coin for retrieval, and we got in line to wait for our table assignment.
As we waited, Amelia linked her arm with mine and drew closer. “You look wonderful this evening,” she whispered. “I meant to say so earlier.”
“Even in the wrong dress?” I whispered back, trying to sound coy.
She responded with a wide grin, and I was relieved to see that some of her earlier coldness was beginning to thaw. She seemed genuinely excited to be here, and I decided to join in her fun. Twice today I’d been overjoyed to experience a part of New York life with which I was completely unfamiliar, and the opportunity simply to be in this building was a treat. I had to stop myself from gaping once we finally entered the ballroom proper. This was old, moneyed New York at its finest.
A smaller contingent of press had been invited inside, and they discreetly took photos of the two of us. Word had already made it inside who I was, and I was surprised to hear my name carefully spelled out between journalists as we walked by. A small dance floor had been set up near the stage, on which a big-band orchestra was already playing softly. Our table was once again near the mayor’s, and I wasn’t surprised to see a contingent of his bodyguards nearby.
Just as we were about to sit down, someone called out from across the room. “Amelia! Amelia darling!”
We turned to find an older woman approaching us, followed by an entourage of much-younger men. She and Amelia kissed cheeks, and the older woman grabbed her by the shoulders, looking her up and down.
“My heavens, Amelia, where on earth do you get such wonderful clothes? I’m going to have to fire my designer, I really am.” Suddenly spotting me, she arched an eyebrow and said, her voice teasing, “And who, my dear, is this?”
“May I introduce Dr. Clothilde Deveraux,” Amelia said, pulling me closer. She left her hand around my waist, sending shivers up my back. “Doctor, this is a very old friend of the family, Daphne Waters.”
“I’m charmed,” Daphne said, touching my fingers lightly with hers. Looking at Amelia, she said, “Where on earth do you find them, my girl?”
Amelia blushed at this and we shared a quick, embarrassed glance, but she recovered quickly, turning the conversation to other topics. She and Daphne walked together over to the bar, leaving me to make small talk with the young men Daphne had left behind. They were all clearly younger than I was, and it was tough going until I found a shared interest in Europe with the very striking-looking David. He told me his mother was British and his father Italian and that he visited both countries as often as possible. With his dark, wavy hair and slight five-o’clock shadow, he was the very picture of manly beauty in his beautiful silk suit. He warmed up to me quickly when we started talking about Florence, where his father grew up, and I let him fill the awkward pause as we waited for our hosts to return with our drinks, nodding in agreement with everything he said.
Soon, Amelia handed me a glass of champagne, and Daphne returned with a waiter and a tray of drinks for her followers, all of them effusive in their thanks.
“I won’t keep you two lovebirds apart any longer,” Daphne said after a few more minutes of chatting. “I know how tiresome it can be to talk to someone when you only have eyes for one another.” This time I couldn’t help but blush, and Daphne chortled at my response. Drawing close to me, she whispered, loud enough for everyone to hear, “You keep your eye on Amelia, dear heart. She’s a real lady-killer.” Laughing again, she winked at me and led her men back across the room to their table. They trailed after her like baby quail.
Amelia breathed a sigh of relief and turned toward me, her eyes merry with amusement. “I am sorry.” She was trying not to laugh. “She’s an old letch, and like all letches, she thinks everyone else is one too. My father would be appalled to see her here with her posse like this in public. She replaces them all every few months, by the way. God knows where she finds them. I’m sure they adore the money she dumps on them. Probably almost worth whatever they have to do to get it. My father will get a real laugh when I tell him about her next weekend.” She paused, glancing at me furtively. “That reminds me: my parents are having their anniversary party next Saturday. I was wondering…well, you see, I hate going to parties at their house alone. All of my siblings are married or attached, which means I end up sitting by myself most of the time, or with some old aunt no one cares about. It would be nice to have a friend there.”
“I’d be delighted,” I said.
“Thank you.” She looked genuinely pleased, and I was happy to note that the feeling was mutual. Whatever had happened last night was starting to seem like it was behind us.
The food was, for once, excellent, and our tablemates were surprisingly easy to talk to. One of the young women opposite me had recently been involved in a film that was starting to get Oscar buzz, though if I remembered correctly from the preview, she had only a minor role in it. She had her own posse of admirers in the form of two dumb-looking, hulking men on either side of her, both of whom were completely quiet the whole dinner. Amelia worked on her while I once again directed my efforts to an older couple sitting next to me, both of whom looked incredibly uncomfortable here. Only when I’d been talking with the woman for five minutes did I realize that she was an author I very much admired. This explained why she seemed out of place here, as she’d likely been encouraged by her agent to make an appearance in light of her new book. She was rumored to be something of a recluse, refusing readings and paid appearances, but her work was well-respected in literary circles.
Forcing myself to avoid gushing, I praised her work long enough to flatter her before switching topics to literature in general, at which point her husband, a famous English professor at NYU, joined in. By the time dessert was served, I had an appointment to meet with them in their apartment later this week to discuss one of their favorite artists, whose work was notoriously hard to get. They eventually excused themselves to go dance, and I watched them for several long minutes, always envious of couples that grew old together. I suddenly felt a tap on my shoulder and looked up to see David standing next to my chair.
“I wonder if I might have this dance, Doctor,” he said, bowing slightly.
Too surprised to protest, I took his proffered hand and let him lead me to the floor. He led me into an easy, slow foxtrot after showing me a couple of beginner’s steps. Once or twice I glanced over at Amelia, still seated at our table, but she seemed not to have noticed our departure or she was pointedly ignoring it. Daphne, however, was watching us closely, her eyes narrow slits of rage. I enjoyed her anger almost as much as I enjoyed dancing with David, who was a perfect gentleman throughout the dance. In fact, he was so entirely hands-off—as much as that was possible when dancing—that I began to suspect he was doing all of this on purpose to drive Daphne crazy. He could dance with me and make her angry, but his body language seemed to say that was as far as he was willing to go. It was a relief, actually, as it meant I could simply enjoy being with him without wondering about his motives. We danced through “In the Mood” and “Cry Me a River” before I claimed fatigue, and he kissed my hand before rejoining his mistress.
Amelia’s eyes flickered my way as I sat back down, but her expression was unreadable. I waited as she arranged to meet with the starlet at her hotel in a couple of days to discuss artwork more fully. Once they’d exchanged numbers, Amelia excused herself, standing up and extending a hand to me.
“Would you come with me, Doctor?” she asked. Her eyes looked cold, angry. I mutely followed her, and she led us back toward the bathrooms.
In the ladies, we found a small sitting room that was blissfully empty at the moment, and, after the door closed behind us, she turned toward me, eyes blazing.
“Are you trying to drive me crazy?”
I was so completely surprised by her question, I could only sputter, “W-what do you mean?”
She had tears in her eyes now, and her face was the very picture of desolation. “You probably, no, you must understand by now how I feel about you. I don’t expect you to feel the same way about me, but do you have to flaunt your indifference?”
I flushed all over and walked closer to her. “Amelia, I—”
“No, don’t.” She nearly jumped away. “Don’t come near me and don’t say anything.” She covered her eyes with one hand. “I can’t believe I’m acting this way. You have me completely in knots.”
“Amelia, let me explain—”
“There’s nothing to explain.” She removed her hand. She was crying now, the tears making a wreck of her makeup. “The only thing I see, know, is that you’d rather dance with anyone but me.” Sobbing now, she staggered over to the couch, sitting down on it heavily and covering her eyes with both hands. Completely flummoxed, I stood there, stunned, unsure what I should do.
“Please leave me,” she said between sobs. “I’ll be all right in a minute, but I need to be alone right now.”
Ignoring her, I walked over and sat down on the couch next to her, putting my arms around her shoulders. She resisted for a moment and then turned, pulling me into an embrace and sobbing into my shoulder. I rubbed her back as she cried, making shushing noises once in a while. Her body eventually stopped hitching against me, but we stayed like that, holding each other for a long time. Finally, she pulled back, but she was unable to meet my eyes. She riffled through her purse for a moment before pulling out a tissue and her compact, wiping at her eyes and nose while she looked in the mirror.
“God, what a fuckup I am, Chloé,” she said finally, putting them back in her purse. She met my eyes briefly and then looked away again, clearly embarrassed. “You must think I’m a complete ass.”
“I don’t.” Throughout the crying, I’d been pushing myself to say something, anything, to convey what I felt for her, but the thought of actually admitting it to her was too overwhelming. To admit it would be to make it once and for all real. I took her hands in mine. They were soft and small, and holding them sent a thrill through me. “Really. I don’t,” I repeated, meeting her eyes.
She tried to laugh. “Let’s blame my behavior on lack of sleep, shall we? I didn’t sleep at all last night.”
“I didn’t either. After you left in the taxi, I was just one big bundle of nerves. I tossed and turned all night.”
She rolled her eyes. “I’m quite the drama queen, I guess, spreading drama everywhere I go.”
I shook my head. “You’re not.” Steeling myself again, I went a little further. “I would rather have been dancing with you. Last night and tonight. Only you.”
Her eyes met mine in surprise, and I could see her mind weighing my words for sympathy or truth. “Do you mean that?” she finally whispered, her voice low and hoarse.
Before I could chicken out I nodded, and the reaction was stunning. Her face lit up from inside, and all the stress and worry that’d plagued it all day seemed to vanish in an instant. A smile spread across her features in slowly escalating stages of pure joy. She squeezed my hands in hers and then moved forward a little, looking at me with sudden shy trepidation. I met her smile and bent forward a little myself. Millimeters from kissing, so close I could smell her delicate perfume, I saw the door to the sitting room suddenly open, and we sprang apart.
It was Daphne, and she laughed when she saw us. “I see the two of you can’t keep your hands off each other. Don’t mind me!” She disappeared into a stall.
“Let’s get out of here,” Amelia said to me, her eyes desperate.
Heading to the entrance and getting our coats was like walking the gauntlet. Several times people that Amelia knew or friends of people she knew who wanted to talk to her interrupted us. Throughout the ordeal, which lasted well over an hour, my body was alive with jangling, cacophonous nerves that radiated throughout my whole nervous system. Amelia presented her usual, seemingly effortless geniality to everyone we came across, but I had to force myself not to scream at them to get out of our way. Her hand, however, which was firmly on my back across the entire ballroom, conveyed an entirely different emotion. I could feel it shaking and hot against the fabric of my dress, and sometimes it traveled slightly lower on my body than was, perhaps, polite in public. At one point, when her fingers brushed the top of my ass, I nearly screamed with impatience at the woman we were talking to. I was gripping Amelia’s arm, and I gave it a particularly harsh squeeze when her fingers brushed so low. She threw me a wicked look that nearly made my legs melt. My vision darkened and my panties grew damp from my overpowering need. My hands were shaking too much to put my coat on, so I simply draped it over my arms to hide them underneath. Our limo took an eternity to reach us, both of us standing a couple of feet apart as we waited.
Safely inside the limousine, and almost before I knew what was happening, I found myself in Amelia’s arms. She wrapped me in a passionate embrace, pulling me close, hard. When she kissed me, the kiss was warm, soft, and gentle. Her mouth was soft—softer than any man’s. Her lips were full on mine, and, after a moment, I felt her tongue part my lips and enter. I moaned into her, my body alive with barely contained fire. My moan seemed to encourage her, and our tongues caressed. I strained my body against hers, and she tightened her arms around me. Desperate need flooded me, and I grew wet with desire. I wanted those soft, beautiful hands to touch me, explore my body, and quench the growing fire burning inside me.
I tried to move my arms away from her neck and down to her chest, to her beautiful, pert breasts, but before I could, her hands began exploring my body. Her face moved away from mine and her lips found my neck. She kissed me there, and my pleasure soared to new heights. I sighed and moaned, and her hands slipped down to my ass again.
“Oh!” I sighed with pleasure, arching my back. She began sucking on my neck, cradling my head with one hand while the other made its way down my thigh. Her own body was flush with mine, her nipples hard and erect against my chest through the thin fabric of her gown. I longed to see her body, and, I realized in a moment of clarity, I longed to be naked with her too. The thought no longer fazed me. In fact, there was nothing I wanted more than for the two of us to be naked together with our desire.
I moved my head to indicate that I wanted her to kiss my lips, and she obliged me. Her mouth was sweet for a moment, and then she became rougher again. She darted her tongue into me, running her nails down my back before biting down on my lower lip. The pain was minimal, but the pleasure it sent through my body was instantaneous and powerful. I moaned with pure animal desire.
“Please,” I managed to say between kisses, not even sure I knew what I was begging for her to do, but fully aware that I wanted to her to do it to me, whatever it was.
Pushing me back with her hands and mouth, Amelia took the top, settling me back and onto the seat and climbing over me. Her mouth broke from mine and moved back down to my neck. I gasped at the heat this action caused and clutched at her back, pulling her closer. Her hands lifted me from underneath, pulling at the zipper along my back to find my flushed and hot skin underneath. I hissed at the pleasure this contact caused, and she leered down at me before kissing me again. I arched into her body, my legs pinned beneath her, groaning in frustration.
“Take it off!” I pleaded, clawing at my dress with shaking hands.
She laughed and kissed me again. “We’ll be at the hotel soon, darling. We can take it off in my room.”
Waiting seemed intolerable, and I groaned out my frustration at her words. She laughed and started kissing me again, ripping up the bottom of skirt and settling her body between my legs. My body rose to meet her hips, and I ground into her in desperation.
“No cheating,” she said into my mouth before giving me a kiss so fierce it was almost painful. “You have to wait.”
“Just touch me,” I pled again, my voice whiny and broken, “Please. Just a little. Please.”
I felt her fingers then, lightly, on my knees. She sat up a little, holding herself up with her left arm, and traced the fingers of her right hand slowly, achingly slowly, up my thigh. I was trembling all over at this point, and watching her slow progress nearly made me scream in frustration. She stopped just shy of my underwear line and trailed her fingers back down my leg toward my knee again. I groaned and then grabbed her hand, pulling it between my legs, toward my center. She pulled it back and laughed at me again.
“There,” I said with a boldness I hardly knew I had in me. “I want you there. Inside me.”
She leaned down and kissed me again, slowly, softly. “All good things come to those who wait.”
The car stopped then, and she moved away from me, giving me room to sit up. She had just enough time to pull up my zipper before the driver opened the door, but I was still blushing as we climbed out, unable to meet his eyes.
I was breathless as we crossed the lobby of our hotel, my legs shaking so badly I could hardly walk. I felt dazed, almost drunk with desire. Once again, we stood carefully apart as we waited for the elevator to arrive. The doors opened and we stepped inside. Once the doors closed behind us, Amelia shoved me into the back wall and crushed my mouth under hers. My desire, already raging, hungrier than I’d ever experienced, escalated further, and I jerked her into me, grabbing her ass as leverage.
The doors opened and we staggered out, Amelia clutching my hand, her color higher than I’d ever seen it. She too was trembling and had a difficult time getting the keycard out of her purse. We laughed to be so close to what we wanted, and I finally had to help her get the card in the lock. We nearly tumbled inside, our mouths attached again, both of us kicking off our heels and throwing our purses and coats on the floor.
“Oh God,” I moaned as she unzipped my dress, almost tearing it off me. Grabbing me by the hips, she pushed me toward the bedroom, steering me backward as our mouths locked together. The back of my knees hit the edge of the bed and I fell on it, gasping with surprise. She stood there, looking down at me with almost angry, hungry eyes.
“Take off the rest,” she said, indicating my lingerie. “I want to watch you.”
Fingers shaking, I undid the clasp of my bra. Her eyes lit up at the sight of my freed breasts, but she remained silent, still looking at me with lust-darkened eyes. I took longer with my garter belt and hose, teasing her a little, and saw her eyes flash with anger and impatience. Finally, I was down to only my underwear.
“Let me,” she said, stepping closer. Kneeling at the edge of the bed, she pulled them off slowly, laboring over their removal. When I was completely exposed, she gasped in pleasure, and her eyes, when she looked up at me, were deep and heated from within.
She pulled me to the edge of the bed, and then she had one of my nipples in her mouth, sucking it fiercely. I gasped and arched into her, throwing my head back in pleasure. She moved her mouth toward my other nipple, and I thrust it at her, pulling at the back of her head once she sucked it in. Her hair came loose from its tight French braid, and she took a moment to shake it free, pins flying into the bedroom. Finally finished, she returned her attentions to my nipples, which were now rock hard and painfully aroused. I felt her teeth lightly play with one of them and tensed, waiting and wanting her to bite down.
She continued to tease me until I groaned, “Please. Please,” which was all I could manage. I felt her lips curve in amusement, and then she bit my nipple, making me whimper in desperation.
Her hands, all this time, had been resting on my knees, and she occasionally trailed them up and down the inside of my thighs, making my legs jump. Things were beginning to go from desperate to worse, my escalating desire starting to make me feel light-headed and weak. Almost as if sensing I could no longer wait, she moved her lips away from my nipples and started to kiss her way down my stomach. I froze, so desperate for what was coming I no longer knew how to react to what was happening. At the hairline below my belly button, she paused and looked up at me before kissing my inner thigh, making me shudder all over with pleasure. She thrust my legs apart, and then her mouth was on me.
The cascade of pleasure that washed through me made me groan loudly. Resting heavily on my arms, I threw my head back, rocking my hips into her mouth. Her tongue explored me, first lightly, then with rising pressure and heat, circling my clit and then dancing on it. The feeling of her tongue there made me jerk with electricity, and when her fingers, which had been resting lightly on my thighs, started moving, I thought I might scream. She traced her way slowly, by inches, toward my center until I finally felt what I so desperately needed. Her tongue and mouth still toying with my clit, flicking at it, circling it, sucking it in, she sank her fingers into me, and I took her fingers with my whole body as they moved inside. My hips responded of their own accord, lifting up so that her fingers could slip deeper inside. I shuddered with pleasure, but after just a thrust or two, she pulled them out again, and I moaned in frustration.
“Please!” I looked down and saw that she was grinning, triumphant with the power she had over my pleasure. Her joy and the teasing glint in her eyes made me hot with desire.
“I’ve waited so long for this, my darling.” Her voice was low and husky. “I don’t want it to be over so soon.”
With a strength I wouldn’t have thought she had, she managed to lift me momentarily and slid me farther onto the bed. She climbed onto the bed herself and lay atop me, kissing me again, long and deep on the mouth, then moving to my neck. My body arched into her, and I felt a single finger trail along my soaking-wet cleft. I gasped, and as her fingers came close to my clit, I thought I would finally come, but she pulled her fingers away again.
“You like that, my sweet?” she whispered against the skin of my neck.
“Yes. Yes!”
Her finger traced lazily up and down my slit, sometimes touching my clit, sometimes stopping just before she got to it. I thought I would explode with desire at any moment, but she never let me get there. She was in control the whole time, and that made me want her even more. Finally I felt her fingers slip inside me. She pushed and pulled at me from within, and in seconds she’d found the spot inside that began to push me over the edge. Noises were emerging from my mouth in a strange, wordless jumble, my mind beyond real language. I could feel my orgasm building as she massaged me inside and out, and when it finally crashed over me, my arms lost all their strength and I collapsed onto the bed behind me, thrashing against her mouth and fingers and screaming myself hoarse.
It was a long time before I had strength to even open my eyes. My body, after the final wave of ecstasy, had simply stopped functioning. I was completely and entirely spent. After a long, long time, and still feeling quite weak, I opened my eyes and realized tears were drying on my face. Sitting up and holding myself up on a shaky arm, I wiped at them distractedly, realizing they must have squeezed out of my eyes in pleasure. Amelia was still between my legs, resting her head on my thigh, and I stroked her hair. She seemed to come out of her own daze and looked up at me, her eyes veiled with something I couldn’t read.
“Holy shit,” I whispered, still stroking her hair. “I didn’t know…I mean, I didn’t realize it could be like that.”
She smiled, finally, with what I realized was relief, and I was somewhat amused to understand that she had been worried about her performance. This despite all the screaming and yelling that’d just come out of my mouth. I motioned for her to move closer, and we both climbed up and onto the bed more fully, scooting over and onto the pillows. I was completely drained and, encased in her arms, felt a sudden desperate fatigue wash through me. She was stroking my hair now and, despite the fact that my nakedness felt a little strange against her dress, within her embrace felt like the most desirable place in the universe.