Chapter Nine The Performer #2
A sharp breath of air pushed from my nose, and I leaned back in my chair. Reluctantly, I closed my eyes.
In the darkness behind my eyelids, I listened for him.
His footsteps approached, not quite cautious, not quite confident. More like stalking than a playful pursuit. The steps stopped in front of me, and I could hear the crisp skin of a fruit breaking.
I felt wetness on my lips.
“Open,” he whispered, gently moving the piece of fruit across my lips, a trace of the juice yet to taste.
I parted my lips, letting him place the piece in my mouth before I chewed. The fruit was sweet, with a slightly sour bite from the skin. The flesh was soft.
I moved the slice in my mouth to chew.
“Ah-ah! Not yet.” He grabbed my face, pinching my cheeks inward to stop me. “Patience.”
My jaw twitched, wanting to bite down on his finger rather than the fruit now.
“Do you taste it?”
I nodded, holding it in my mouth.
“Did you notice it’s sweeter?” His voice stayed close but moved around me. “Or how just letting it sit there, undisturbed on your tongue, agitates the senses?”
I shifted in my seat, holding the fruit on my tongue. The juice dripped down my throat. The temptation to swallow was ever-present, as was my dwindling patience.
“Do you notice the scent is stronger, sweetness only tasted when you salivate enough to swallow, just to wait some more?” he said in my ear.
I nodded again, taking a deep breath.
He grabbed my chin. My eyes need not have been open to know he was insatiably close.
“I consider haste a sin. I can appreciate the patience it takes to wait for something. To wait until it’s ripened to perfection.”
I opened my eyes, and his lips were on mine. His tongue snaked inside my mouth, stealing the fruit from my tongue before pulling away.
“It sounds like you plan to eat me.” I exhaled, disappointed that he hadn’t allowed me to finish the treat after all that play.
He laughed as he chewed, cocking his head at me. “Maybe. But judging from the look in your eyes, maybe it is I who should be worried about your appetite.”
He gestured his hands over his eyes, wanting me to close them again.
I did, waiting.
He placed another unknown slice in my mouth, this time allowing me to chew.
“What do you taste?”
“I don’t know.”
“Think.”
“A plum.”
“Very good,” he said. “Do you want another, or shall I move on to the next?”
“Next,” I answered, hearing rustling again. I leaned forward, anticipating the return. He held another piece to my lips, and I let him place it in my mouth. The fruit was stiff like an apple but sweeter. “A pear.”
“You have an excellent palate.” He chuckled.
“Of course I do.” I perked up, posture straightening.
He grabbed another fruit, and I opened my mouth before being prompted.
Another piece, a smooth slice with a bitter sweetness and a peculiar textured skin.
“Easy, apricot.”
“No”—he chuckled—“a peach.”
My eyes snapped open, looking up at him as he stood in front of me.
“What is the point of this game?”
“You said you like your French apricots because of the taste, because they’re special.”
“So?”
“I don’t believe that to be true,” he said, dragging the knife through the fruit again before it was hindered by his thumb, then holding up the knife with the slice on it.
“Why would I lie about a silly thing like that?”
“I don’t think you do it on purpose. Or maybe you do, I wouldn’t know.” He shrugged, holding the knife down to my lips.
I leaned forward, taking the slice from the blade.
“I think it’s a sentimental preference.”
“How do you mean?”
“You said it yourself, it tastes like home.”
“What’s wrong with that?” I tilted my head, chewing the fruit.
“I wanted to see how willing you were to leave it, to make a new home from something.”
“I have already left my home country,” I scoffed.
“So have I,” he hummed, “yet you are now married, in the same house, with the same routine, just with fewer friends than ever.” His words were like a jab to my gut.
“So?” I crossed my arms and looked away.
“Maybe instead of having the same apricot every day”—his hands rested on the chair arms on either side of me, the knife still in his left—“you should try some new fruit?”
“Nothing is wrong with my routine.”
“Petronille.”
I glanced at him from the corner of my eye, heat rising in my cheeks. Those pretty hazel eyes were gleaming, a light inside of them full of mystique and certainly bad ideas.
“Did you wear this for me? How nice of you. Ease of access and all . . .” He sank to his knees, his hands moving from the armrests to my legs, then pushing forward to my thighs.
He leaned in, close enough that I could feel his breathing through my stockings as the robe lifted.
His eyes peered up at me through his lashes.
“Will you let me introduce you to something new?”
I gulped, shifting in my seat. “You’re not funny.”
“Did I tell a joke?”
“How would I know?”
“Why don’t you ask?” he suggested, bunching the fabric higher as he lowered his face, kissing above my knee as he kept his eyes on me.
“Arkady—”
“Tell me, what do you like?”
“What do I like?”
His lingering hands froze, looking up at me more directly to meet my expression. “Yes, what do you like?”
I glanced away, shifting again. I wasn’t sure if it was the pressure of the position or the question.
“You’ve never been asked before, have you.” It was a question, but his tone was not. “What does sex look like to you?”
I couldn’t help a laugh, shaking my head. “Do you think I am a child? I know what sex looks like.”
“Not a child, no, but I think we have very different ideas of what it is.”
“I’m not comfortable telling you what I think it is.”
“Then allow me to tell you what it looks like to me,” he said, pushing my knees apart.
“Wait—” I grabbed his hands, but from the way he looked at me, I knew he felt me shaking.
“When I think of sex, I think of art.” He used a single hand on my chest to bow me in the chair. “It must be balanced, it must be tangible, and above all else, it must be a conversation: verbal as much as it is silent.”
I listened to him, relaxing slightly against his hand. “Then what do you want from me?”
“Tell me how you like to be touched.” He played with the lace decorating the top of my stocking. “But that would also mean you have to say what you dislike.”
I considered it a moment. Whatever benefit he got from this game was unknown to me, as was the reward for asking me these things.
Just him kneeling before me with eager eyes and hands made my gut twist, but I didn’t know for what.
There was nothing particularly salacious happening.
He wasn’t doing anything taboo or out of the ordinary.
So why did all this make me feel so faint?
A dizzying spell had captured me from head to toe just waiting here.
The worst part was that he had barely done anything at all, just left me swimming with insinuations, with questions.
I didn’t know what other types of sex there were, for a man, at least, but any attention from him at all was setting me on fire.
“Pick a word.”
“Pardon?” I raised a brow at his demand.
“Pick a word,” he said, “and it will be our secret word. If you do as little as whisper it, I will stop.”
I snorted when I laughed. “What a ridiculous request.”
“How about ‘apricot’?” he suggested. “Seems to be something you’ll remember, since you don’t seem to be able to say no to any of my musings.”
“Fine.” I nodded, moving my hands away from him. “I will play your silly game.”
He cupped both of his hands under my hips, pulling me toward the end of the chair.
The back of my head dragged down the backrest from the sudden pull, and I gripped the wooden arms from the jolt.
His hand smoothed down one of my legs to lift it over his shoulder, pushing the rest of my robe away.
He peered up at me with a smirk, raising a brow.
I shifted in place, confused. “Aren’t you going to do it?”
“Do what?” he asked innocently.
I bit my lip. Does he really expect me to say it? I shook my head.
“Then I won’t do anything.”
I slouched in protest. This was embarrassing.
If I declined to answer, would he stay like this until I said something? I wasn’t going to say what I really thought. He might think I was a degenerate if I said anything as filthy as all the ways I wanted him to have me in my inner fantasies.
Then, I grabbed the half-sliced peach from the table.
If I couldn’t say it directly, I would have to get creative.
With the fruit in my palm, I crushed it. The juice dribbled over my pelvic bone, dousing me between the legs.
He raised his brow again, this time in amusement.
“I want you,” I began, taking a deep breath through the unbearable heat in my face, “to clean it up. Without using your hands.” My face burned as hot as his kiln. “Best not to waste perfectly good fruit.”
Stop talking! You are making a fool of yourself!
He lowered his face down between my legs, both him and my pelvis within view. I felt like a voyeur of my own body, removed and attached all at once. I could feel his shallow breathing against the sensitive skin, triggering the urge to flee.
He flattened his tongue between my labia, dragging it up before lingering at my clitoris.
My entire body stiffened. No matter how I justified it in my head, it felt dirty.
His hand wrapped around my thigh on his shoulder to keep it still. He lowered again, this time in the surrounding area, cleaning the fresh-squeezed juice from my skin. Licking, sucking, savoring every mouthful.
His warm tongue laved over the sensitive skin, a hotness I thought would melt me faster than ice cream on park pavement.
A shiver shot down my spine, and I could feel the heat rising from my neck and burning my ears in embarrassment.
“How does it feel?” he asked, his lips remaining close, his cheek brushing against my inner thigh. His breath tickled against the skin.
“It feels . . . nice.” I was being conservative with my description.