22. Sinclair
Sinclair
So far, this evening has been the opposite of our Alchemy “dates” in every way, just as I intended it to be.
Otherwise, what was the point of taking the action out of the club?
And I can’t know how Elyse expects the rest of the night to go—she knew my initial pitch was “dinner and sex,” after all—but I’m pretty certain she assumes I’ll rip off my sheep’s clothing and her actual clothing and whisk her off to some clichéd, Fifty Shades-style playroom.
Not a chance.
I’m enjoying unleashing my softer side far too much.
I’m having a wonderful evening with a beautiful woman.
The thrill I get each time she reveals a new nugget of color about herself to me is equal to the thrill I’ve gotten each time she’s revealed her body to me in that private room.
And the terrifying thing is that I’m not exaggerating.
We’re building something sacred here, and I’m not about to desecrate it.
On the contrary, I want to honor it.
I want to honor her.
It’s possible I want to prove to her that I’m more than the entitled animal she’s encountered on our previous occasions together. Tonight, she’ll give herself to me because she wants to, not because I’m paying her. She’ll let me consume her because she wants to, not because I have her restrained.
And it will be hot as hell.
Her mouth is so soft under mine as she leans in and accepts my kiss.
Soft—and rapidly eager, her slim fingers sliding through my hair, lips parting, tongue meeting mine.
I widen my legs and grip both sides of her stool, dragging her closer with the harsh, grating sound of wood against concrete.
Once I have her where I want her, I smooth my hands downward from the crown of her head, over her satin-smooth hair, cupping her jaw as I clamp my knees on either side of hers, locking her in.
It feels like a first date, except that the certain knowledge of how we are together ignites my anticipation even further.
Under the attentions of my hands and my mouth, she blooms like a Fairwater rose in summer, mouth pliant, skin soft, the little noises she’s making a sure sign that she’s as locked in as I am.
Making out is a criminally underrated activity, especially for men of my ilk, who frequent places like Alchemy to get right to the good stuff.
But this, right here, is the good stuff, and it reminds me how wise I was to break my no-kissing rule for Elyse that first time.
Who’d want to forgo the deliciousness of dragging their lips against a mouth that’s like a dew-soaked flower?
After a few intensely pleasant minutes of our going at it like teenagers, the rest of my body grows more impatient, my fingertips toying with the tiny straps on her shoulders.
“Bed?” I murmur against her mouth, and she murmurs back her acquiescence.
When I take her hand and help her off her stool, she already looks a little dazed, something I suspect will work out pretty great for me.
I lead her out of the living area and back through the foyer.
My bedroom is at the end of a long corridor from which all the sleeping quarters can be accessed, as well as a home gym, wine cellar, and the study I rarely use.
I prefer to work in the kitchen or, weather permitting, the terrace than hole myself up in a small room.
There’s nothing small about my bedroom, though.
The double doors are flung wide open (an apt metaphor for my desire to smooth the path to burying myself balls-deep in Elyse tonight, perhaps?).
Inside, the room is what my designer called “austerely palatial,” the lobby’s hardwood floors continuing throughout.
I had three priorities in here: the view, the bed, and the art.
The view came with the property. Some of my favorite, most serene oils hang in here.
And the bed is fucking huge, a marvel of engineering draped with gray linens in the finest cotton.
I’m a big fan of maximizing my sleep quality—insane bed, dark room—even if I don’t go for all the weird bullshit that Kieran tries to foist on us, like nasal strips and mouth taping.
I mean, mouth taping? What the actual fuck?
Tell me you sleep alone, bro, without telling me you sleep alone.
“Oh, wow,” Elyse says, looking around with wide eyes. She’s taken off her heels, and I’m reminded once more of how petite she is. “It’s so beautiful. Look at that view!”
The drapes are open, giving us an uninterrupted view of the city at night.
I love the sense of peace that comes with being so high up, while still feeling a part of something bigger.
Fairwater gets deeply, densely dark at night, but this city never sleeps, obviously.
I like being aware of the thousands of lives going on all around me while being removed from them, too. It never gets old.
Still, I turn to Elyse and tell her the truth. “It has nothing on the view in here.” A little smile. “I’m serious.”
“Deluded, more like.”
“Don’t think so. Bet it’ll get even better in a moment.” I shoot her a grin. I suspect my face looks ravenous as fuck. “You look really fucking good in my bedroom.”
In response, she reaches up and tugs me down by the collar of my shirt, not releasing it until she can access my mouth. Her kiss is hungry, her little hands roaming over my chest and shoulders. “This needs to come off,” she says breathlessly, groping blindly at my buttons. I love her hunger for me.
“Hard agree.” But rather than helping her, I find the zipper at the rear of her dress and slide it down, down, until the entire back is open and I can slide my hand inside. I encounter warm skin, the delicate arch of her low back, and then a scrap of lace.
Her thong.
I’m unsure why everything feels miraculous with Elyse.
I’ve put her on a pedestal, for sure. I’m still having issues recalling her face on demand during my waking hours.
When I’m asleep, it’s no problem. I’ve taken to furtively pulling up the PDF of Vanessa’s solène pitch on my phone when the craving gets too bad.
My point is that she barely seems real, and the mere idea of her getting dressed at home, selecting a thong she thinks I’d like, and sliding it up those perfect legs…
Every perfunctory act of hers has me star-struck.
Star-struck and touched, somehow. She makes me ache—and there’s only one way to cure it.
I map her skin with my hands before pushing the straps off her shoulders and letting the dress sink to the floor—a fact she allows by pausing her efforts with my dress shirt.
She stands before me, breathing hard, a vision in nothing but her thong.
Her breasts are small and wonderful, nipples pink and furled tight, and something in me breaks.
“Stirrups,” I tell her, “have their place. But you belong on a bed.” With that, I pick her up, clamping a hand under her peachy ass, my arms full of her as she wraps her legs around my waist. At the bed, I lean forward and lower her down before peeling her thong down her legs.
She kicks it off and scoots farther up the bed without being told, bracing herself on her elbows as she slides one foot up over the sheets.
I think I might die of happiness. It’s as if seeing her here, naked and laid out on my bed for me, is the most precisely perfect thing my brain could conceive of.
I think she should never leave.
With her hungry eyes spurring me on, I get my shirt off and make quick work of my belt buckle and pants.
Off come my socks. I wrangle my boxer briefs over my erection and lose them, too, then I’m crawling over her on the bed, kneeling between her legs, staring down at her, stroking her hair.
What the fuck was I thinking with all those Alchemy gimmicks?
Sure, I acted out my deepest fantasies on her over those two sessions.
But a woman like Elyse requires no gimmicks, and right now I want the anti-Alchemy experience.
I want to fuck her in my bed, deep and slow, and make her fall apart around me.
The way she’s staring up at me is something I have no words for.
I’d like to think this moment feels as charged to her as it does to me and, if I’m honest with myself, as monumental.
As I lower myself down on top of her—just for a moment, just to revel in the sensation of bearing down—I take in her face.
The face that torments me in my dreams and eludes me in my waking hours.
The face I crave so much that I’m forced to drink it in from the pages of the very pitch I killed.
But now it’s in front of me. She’s in front of me, all lush-mouthed and doe-eyed and luminous, and if I’m back in my dream, I never want to wake up.
Fuck that pillory. Being eye-level with her cunt had nothing on this.
Although that’s clearly where I should be: down there, making this worth her while. Vindicating the decision I made for her.
She’s lying here, guileless and trusting. She thinks she’s here of her own free will. And what terrifies me beyond all compare is this insistent, intrusive thought, tapping at my consciousness like a tattoo:
If she knew what I’d done, she wouldn’t be here.
But she doesn’t know.
She won’t find out.
And she’s fucking here.
I kiss her one more time. Slowly, memorizing the reality of her with all my senses, the present moment feeling almost bittersweet.
Painful, certainly. I’m Bottom—or a more cerebral version, hopefully—kissing Titania, hoping her curse never lifts.
Hoping she never finds clarity. Hoping I can make it so good for her that she never even thinks to seek it out.