“Yes,” she agrees, breathless.
“When the women come, and they squeal and shake, it isn’t real. It isn’t right. You know that, don’t you? They fake it. You won’t fake anything, darling.” I turn her to face me, because for the first time, this is the right way. The only way.
“What if I don’t—”
“You will,” I assure her, which only seems to worry her more.
A shudder runs through her delicate frame, making her hair vibrate like dew drops on a pretty little flower. It only looks fragile; in truth it can withstand this earthquake. “It would be easier if it didn’t feel so good,” she says, her voice plaintive and pleasure-dipped.
“One day you’ll tell me why you want sex so badly, without feeling anything.”
“I won’t,” she says, but she’s only cross with me because I’m rubbing gentle circles on her back, because it feels so damn good. She arches into my touch, the same way her cat would.
And then I move my hand lower, to the upper curve of her ass. It’s a beautiful ass, which is saying something. I’ve seen more than my fair share. Enjoyed every single one of them, but the picture of her heart-shaped behind, from when she bent over the dresser, is emblazoned in my mind. So perfectly wrapped in black silky fabric, thick enough to ward most men away. I’m not most men. The challenge only makes it sweeter, as I stroke the slope of her, as I feel her gasp in response. I’m the first man to ever traverse this land, something I hadn’t thought to find pleasure in. What a barbarian I am. A Viking, to find such deviant delight in taking a young woman’s virginity. It has nothing to do with seduction, the palm I place on her, the squeeze I give her. That’s pure indulgence on my part, knowing I am the first.
She shifts closer to me, making tiny sounds I’m not sure she hears. Her body is out of her control; it’s in mine now. “I don’t even know your favorite color,” she whispers.
I laugh softly. “Red.”
The color of my Bugatti.
“Mine’s blue,” she says, but she doesn’t explain why.
I reach down to the lace hem of her dress, pulling the fabric into careless bunches, until I touch bare skin. It’s a godsend, the satin of her. Like opening my mouth to the sky after years of thirst. With a firm grasp I hitch her leg up to my hip, spreading her. “Any other questions?”
Her eyes are hazy. I can see the struggle behind the green curtain, the valiant attempt to string words together as her body comes apart. “Favorite food.”
“A tagine,” I tell her, not adding that it’s my mother’s I dream about. The spice of it on a hot night, making me sweat in the dark. This isn’t about revealing secrets, not truly. It’s about making her feel like she knows me. I won’t lie to her, but I won’t rip apart my skin to set her at ease either.
That clears enough of the arousal from her eyes to ask, “A tagine?”
It makes me wonder what other foods she hasn’t yet experienced, trapped in this gilded prison of hers. Even the richest of foods can be punishment if they’re all she can eat. “A stew. Spicy. Do you like spicy food?”
“I don’t know,” she says, confirming my worst fears.
I want to book us a flight to Thailand or South Africa, to show her a thousand buildings and give her a million new tastes. Like most penthouse suites, this one is large—for a visit, not for a lifetime. “What’s your favorite food, darling?”
She pulls back, looking me right in the eyes, proving that though she is untried, she is far from naive. “I haven’t found it yet.”
Her words travel straight to my groin, a challenge I’m desperate to accept. “You think these questions make it easier? We could talk for hours and hours, darling. And still you would be nervous.”
“Then how do people do this?”
I grasp her small hand and place it flat on my chest. “These are your questions. So what do you wish to know?”
Awareness sparks in her eyes. She moves her hand in the smallest circle, testing, asking about the solidity of my body, wondering at the reality of this encounter. I can’t let so eager a question go unanswered; I bend my head to capture her lips.
Her other hand flutters against my shoulder before settling there. A butterfly I must be careful not to spook if I want to enjoy its beauty. I dart my tongue against her lips, letting her think about the presence of it before delving into her mouth.
She startles for a moment, and I think, this is it. This was all I’ll have of her, this taste. It’s shocking the depth of my disappointment. I can walk away from any woman. We enjoy our time together. And then we part. I have never wanted more, never needed another taste like I do now.
She moans in sweet acquiescence.
I’m overcome with relief I don’t want to examine, and I slide my tongue against hers in quiet insistence. The physical sensations are a tidal wave, they drown out any thoughts or worries. They sweep over the both of us, making her breath come faster. She’s excited, and hungry, and needy, and so I can push aside the realization that I am, too.
If my response to her is stronger than I expected, so be it. I can use it to be a better tutor for her. Because that’s what I am right now, as experienced as I am, with a virgin—her teacher.
I press my forefinger to the small furrow between her eyes. “You are thinking too hard. Feel, instead.” To illustrate my point, I bite her plump bottom lip. It’s only a small nip, but enough to make her jump. “Only feel.”
Her eyes spark with a lovely rebellion. “Like this?”
I know what she’s going to do before she leans forward, before her white teeth peek from between peach-colored lips. There are one, two, three seconds when I could jerk out of reach. And it wouldn’t be awkward; I would be too charming for that. I would laugh and cajole and coax her into the most pleasure she’s ever known.
It would be a beautiful performance, that. Instead I let her get close enough to hurt me, the sharp pain a brilliant counterpoint to the thrum of anticipation in my veins. It’s only a pinch, but I have to close my eyes against the raw force of it.
“Yes,” I say, and my voice is lower now. My accent thicker. “Like that.”
“What else?” she whispers, and a dark current of arousal runs through me at the hope in her voice. It wasn’t only me who was jaded, I realize. It was the women. The women who would call me, because they were tired of selfish, cheating men in their lives. I was happy to give them a reprieve from their loneliness, to take a reprieve from my own, but this is different.
Bea is full of hope, like a curved tendril of green splitting the earth in spring. She makes me want to breathe in deep, to stretch my limbs. To watch her rise.
What else? she asked. This is what else, my hand falling down her side to the indent at her waist. And lower, lower. She sucks in a breath, leaving only cool air against my collarbone.
And still lower.
My hand stops in the space below her stomach, well above her mound. A place that isn’t on its own sexual, but a place a man would only touch if he’s about to have sex.
“You have practice, yes? You touch yourself.”
Her lips form a perfect “O” because of course she has. She isn’t experienced, but she is curious. “That’s not weird,” she says, a little defensive. The voice of one who has to convince herself.