Madame X Read online

  You shake your head. "No. No. I see that I was in error by not reading the contract. I'm sorry, Madame X. I hope I didn't insult you."

  I smile generously and withdraw my foot from your chest. You rub at the sore spot with a palm, and I am dismayed to see that your hand shakes as you do so. "Did you read the pamphlet, Jonathan?"

  You shake your head again. "No, no, I didn't."

  "Stop wasting words. Say what you mean, and only that."

  "Okay."

  "Not 'okay,' Jonathan; 'yes, Madame X.'" It is a test; if you actually obey me, respond with such sniveling submissiveness, then you will have failed the test, and failed it miserably.

  Your eyes narrow and you take a deep breath. "You're playing games with me."

  I smile at you, and this is my razor-blade smile, my predator smile. You shrink away from me as I lean in, and your eyes go to my cleavage. "Eyes on mine, Jonathan," I snap. "You don't get to look at me like that. You haven't earned it."

  "Earned it?" There is hope in your voice.

  Pathetic boy.

  I put my hands on the back of the couch, on either side of your head. My face is inches from yours, and I can smell your putrid breath, and I can tell you didn't bother to brush your teeth this morning. I do not even know where to start with you, how I can even begin to salvage your entitled, spoiled, lazy, passive personality. I stare you down until you look away and try to bury yourself into the couch cushions.

  When I know you will listen, I straighten and stand with my spine stiff and my head high, literally and figuratively looking down my nose at you. "I am not being paid to be nice to you, Jonathan, so I'm not going to be. I am being paid to teach you how to be a man. How to sit, stand, speak, eat, drink, and think like not just some rich and lazy little bastard, but like the heir to a multibillion-dollar company. I wouldn't give you the time of day otherwise, Jonathan. I wouldn't look at you twice. I wouldn't even bother to smile at you if I saw you at a bar, or on the street. You exude incompetence. Your entire bearing and attitude says you don't give a single shit how you're perceived."

  "I thought I wasn't supposed to care?" you ask.

  "Wrong. You must always be aware how you are perceived. Appearing as if you're so confident in yourself that the opinions of passersby don't matter is one thing, and that is what you're after: the appearance of casual confidence, the appearance of insouciance and just enough arrogance to be attractive." I gesture at you with a finger, sweeping up and down to indicate you as a whole. "Right now, Jonathan? You stink. Your breath is rancid, and you've put on far too much overpriced, low-quality cologne. That all by itself is a turn-off. No woman will ever want to be around a man who can't even remember to brush his teeth before he meets her. And that's just my olfactory impression. You're deferent and submissive, yet utterly arrogant. You didn't bother to read a contract you signed, so you don't even know what it is you agreed to. This tells me you're hopelessly lazy and totally incompetent. You have no bearing, no presence. I have no desire to spend another moment in your company, not for anything. You bored me with talk of football, of all things. In a word, Jonathan Cartwright, you are pathetic. We're done here."

  I point at the door, and you stand up, visibly angry now.

  "You can't talk to me like this--"

  "I most certainly can. I do not need you. I have a client waiting list two years long. I did not seek you out; your father sought me out, because you are hopeless. Your father, now . . . he has presence. When your father enters a room, people notice. When he speaks, people listen. And yes, that is due in part to the fact that he's one of the wealthiest men in the country. But how do you think he earned his wealth? By sitting around and watching football? By coasting along on his father's coattails? No! He demanded that his peers take notice, and they did. He demands attention and respect simply by merit of who he is. You . . . do not." I twist the doorknob and pull the door open, gesture to the foyer and the elevator beyond. "Go away, Jonathan, and don't bother coming back unless you can learn basic hygiene at the very least, if not how to make interesting conversation."

  You stare at me, anger and embarrassment and hurt in your eyes. You hate being compared to your father, of course, but only because you know that such comparisons find you deeply lacking.

  I shut the door behind you, and when I hear the elevator door slide open and closed once more, only then do I let myself slump against the door and shake with nerves and breathe. I just insulted the son of one of the most powerful men in the world.

  But then, such is my job.

  *

  A knock on the door, the silent swing of hinges, and then heat and hardness behind me, a faint but intoxicating hint of cologne, the creak of leather. Hands on my waist, lips at my neck. Breath on my skin.

  I don't dare tense, don't dare suck in a sharp breath of fear. I don't dare pull away.

  Strong, hard, powerful hands twist me in place, and an index finger touches my chin, lifts my face, tilts my gaze. I cannot breathe, don't dare, haven't been given permission.

  "You are lovelier than ever, X." A deep, smooth, cultured voice, like the purr of a finely tuned engine.

  "Thank you, Caleb." My own voice is quiet, careful, my words chosen and precise.

  "Scotch." The command is a murmur, barely audible.

  I know how to prepare it: a cut-crystal tumbler, a single ice cube, thick amber liquid an inch from the top. I offer the tumbler and wait, keep my eyes downcast, hands behind my back.

  "You were too harsh on Jonathan."

  "I must respectfully disagree."

  "His father expects results."

  I bristle, and it does not go unnoticed. "Have I ever failed to produce results?"

  "You sent him away after less than an hour."

  "He wasn't ready. He needed to be shown his faults. He needs to understand how much he has to learn."

  "Perhaps you're right." Ice clinks, and I take the empty tumbler, set it aside, and force myself to remain in place, force myself to keep breathing and remind myself that I must obey. "I didn't come here to discuss Jonathan Cartwright, however."

  "I suppose not." I shouldn't have said that. I regret it as soon as the words tumble free.

  My wrist bones scrape together under a crushing grip. Hard dark eyes find mine, piercing and frightening. "You suppose not?"

  I should beg forgiveness, but I know better. I lift my chin and meet those cold, cruel, intelligent dark eyes. "You know I will fulfill the contract. That's all I meant."

  "No, that isn't all you meant." A hand passes through artfully messy black hair. "Tell me what you really meant, X."

  I swallow hard. "You're here for what you always want when you visit me."

  "Which is?" A warm finger touches my breastbone, slides into the valley of my cleavage. "Tell me what I want."

  "Me." I whisper it, so not even the walls can hear.

  "All too true." My skin burns where that strong finger with its manicured nail traces a cutting line up to my shoulder. "You test my patience, at times."

  I stand stock-still, not even breathing. Breath whispers across my neck, huffs hot on my nape, and fingers toy with the zipper of my dress.

  "I know," I say.

  And then, just when I expect to feel the zipper slide down my spine, body heat recedes and that hot breath now laced with hints of scotch is gone, and a single word sears my soul:

  "Strip."

  My tongue scrapes over dry lips, and my lungs constrict, protesting my inability to breathe. My hands tremble. I know this is expected of me, and I cannot, dare not resist, or protest. And . . . part of me doesn't want to. But I wish . . . I wish for the freedom to choose what I want.

  I have hesitated too long.

  "X. I said . . . strip." The zipper slides down to between my shoulder blades. "Show me your skin."

  Reaching behind my back, I lower the zipper to its nesting place at the base of my spine. Hard, insistent hands assist me in brushing the sleeves from my shoulders, down my arms, and t
hen the dress is floating to the floor at my feet. That's all the help I'll get. I know from long experience that I must make a show of what comes next.

  I turn my head, and see tanned skin and the perpetual two-day stubble on a refined, powerful jawline, sharp cheekbones, firm, thin lips, black eyes like voids, eyes that drip desire. My hair drapes over one shoulder. I lift one knee so my now-bare toes touch the gleaming teak, curl my shoulders in, let my gaze show my vulnerability. With a deep breath, I unhook my bra, let the garment fall away.

  I reach for my underwear.

  "No," comes the purr, "leave them. Let me."

  I let my fingers graze my thighs, wait. My underwear slides down slowly, and where fingers touch, so too do lips, hot and damp, touching my skin, and I cannot flinch, cannot pull away or express how badly I want only to be alone, to even once have the right to want something else.

  But I do not have that right.

  Hands blaze over my bared skin and ignite my desire against my will. I know all too well the heat of this touch, the fires of climax, the moments of afterglow when dark eyes drowse and powerful hands are stilled and I am allowed to let my guard down. I stand still, knees shaking, as lips scour and slide over trembling skin. My thighs are nosed open, and lightning strikes with the touch of a tongue to my slick skin.

  I gasp, but a single look silences me.

  "Don't breathe, don't speak, don't make a sound." I feel the whisper on my hip, feel the vibrations in my bones, and I nod my assent. "Don't come until I tell you."

  I have no choice but to stand and accept silently the assault on my senses: down-soft hair against my belly, stubble on my thighs, hands cupping my backside, fury blooming within me. I hold it back, keep it tamped down, bite my tongue to silence the moans, fist my hands at my sides, because I haven't been given permission to touch.

  "Good. Let go now, X. Give me your voice." A finger pierces me, curls, finds my need and sets it free, and I loose my voice, let moans and whimpers escape. "Good, very good. So beautiful, so sexy. Now show me your room."

  I lead the way to my bedroom, push open the door to reveal the white bedspread, plumped black pillows, all tucked and arranged, as required. I lie down, setting aside pillows, and wait. Eyes rake over my nude form, examine me, assess me.

  "I think an extra twenty minutes in the gym would do you well." This criticism is delivered clinically, meant to remind me of my place. "Trim down, just a touch."

  I hide the clutch in my gut, the ache in my heart, the burn in my eyes. Hide it, bury it, because it is not allowed. I blink, nod. "Of course, Caleb."

  "You are lovely, X. Don't mistake me."

  "I know. And thank you."

  "It's just that our clients expect perfection." A lifted eyebrow indicates that I should finish the statement.

  "And so do you."

  "Exactly. And you, X, I know you can deliver. You are perfect, or very nearly, at least." A smile now, blazing and brilliant and blinding, excruciatingly beautiful, meant to soothe. A finger touches my lips and then traces favorite locations on my anatomy: lips, throat, breasts, hips. "Roll over."

  I move to my stomach.

  "On your knees."

  I draw my knees beneath my stomach.

  "Give me your hands."

  I reach back with both hands, and my wrists are pinioned in one large, brutally powerful hand. My shoulder blades touch each other as my arms are drawn together, and my face is pressed into the mattress. I swallow hard, brace, breathe.

  Oh, the ache, the fierce throb as I'm penetrated. I'm rocked forward and my shoulders twinge and the grip on my wrists holds me in place.

  I have no choice but to feel the burgeoning blaze, no choice but to let it push through me and make me breathless, and I want to cry, want to cry, want to cry.

  But I don't.

  Not yet.

  I let myself go when I'm told to do so: "Come for me, X."

  And then it's over, and I'm turned to lie on my back, gasping, and whispers bathe over me. "So good, X. So beautiful." A finger to my chin, lifting my gaze. "Did you enjoy that?"

  "Yes." It's not a lie. Not entirely, at least.

  Physically, I am rocked to trembling. Physically, aftershocks still seize me and touch makes me shiver and I am breathless. Physically, yes, I enjoyed it. I cannot help but enjoy it.

  Yet . . . there is a space within me, a deep, deep, deep well where truths I do not even dare think live hidden and always buried. Down there, where those truths reside, I know I crave . . . absolution, freedom, a breath taken in privacy, a word spoken without ulterior motive.

  But I cannot let those thoughts bubble up. Cannot, and do not. I am a master of self-control, after all. I could hold off orgasm indefinitely. I could go without breathing until told to breathe or pass out. I could remain sitting motionless for hours, until told to move. I know I can do these things, because I have. I learned total control in the harshest of schools.

  And so it is child's play to let my body drape loosely in the guise of intimacy on a hard, taut, muscular body until a chime from discarded slacks demands attention.

  "I have to take this." A pause, a breath, a tap of finger on a cell phone screen. "This is Caleb. Yes. Yes. Sure, give me twenty minutes. Of course. No, don't let him in until I get there."

  A kiss to my temple, a finger tracing my body from shoulder to hip to foot. "I have to go."

  "All right." I don't ask when to expect a return, because I don't want to know, and because I wouldn't get an answer.

  "Will you miss me?"

  "Of course." This is a lie, and we both know it.

  "Good. Your next client is in two hours, so you have time to shower, dress, and prepare. His name is William Colin Drake, and he's the heir to a technology development company worth fifty billion. Usual terms and conditions apply. The file on William will arrive in the usual manner."

  "Should I expect as much trouble with William as with Jonathan?"

  A quirk of a smile, amusement. "No, I should think not. William is a much different animal, from what I've observed." A pause, and a speculative glance at me. "But, X?"

  "Yes, Caleb?"

  "Watch yourself with William. He's got a mean streak."

  "Thank you for the warning."

  "He needs to learn to control it, so you'll have to draw it out of him and make him aware of it. But be careful."

  Draw out his mean streak. Poke a snake, prod a sleeping bear. Risk injury. It won't be the first time, and it won't be the last. Hopefully I won't need medical attention like I did last time. That's not covered in the contract, of course, but it's understood: Never, ever harm the property of Caleb Indigo; it's just not smart business.

  When the door closes behind a broad, suit-swathed back, I shower the sex-stink off. I scrub harder and longer than I have to and fight the boil of forbidden emotions. When my skin is rubbed raw, I force myself out of the shower and dress, apply makeup, remake the bed, prepare tea.

  And then I seat myself on the couch and breathe, compose myself, push down the vulnerability, put away the fear and the desire. Once again, I am Madame X.

  *

  I spare a single, momentary glance at the small dark dot in the ceiling, hidden in a corner, and let my eyes betray me. I imagine I see a red dot within the black depths of the camera, and I imagine I can see all the way along the trail of electrons and through the monitor to the faces on the other side.

  I imagine, but that is all I can do.

  There is a decisive rap on the door, and I rise, breathe out slowly, lift my chin, smooth my dress over my hips, and wiggle my foot in my shoe, breathe, breathe, let the moment linger.

  And then I open the door, and I welcome you.

  You are handsome, but not beautiful. You hold yourself with dignity, and your gaze betrays arrogance. And yes, as I meet your narrow gray gaze, I see ugliness, a propensity for cruelty, a viciousness.

  "I see they didn't exaggerate how hot you are," you say.

  I ignore your remark,
and gesture to my couch. "William, welcome. Thank you for coming. Have a seat, please. Would you like some tea?"

  You eye the decanter. "Scotch would be better." And then you sink down on the couch, cross your ankle over your knee, and wait to be served, and your eyes follow me hungrily. I hand you the tumbler, three ice cubes, a finger of scotch. "I read the contract, and I have to say it wasn't what I was expecting. Neither are you."

  I hand you the contract, and you read it yet again, and then you sign it, and so do I. "What were you expecting, William?"

  "Well, I certainly wasn't expecting item three, that's for sure. I signed it, so I'll abide by the rules, but I'm disappointed, Madame X. I'd love to get you out of that dress." Your eyes peruse me, take their time cataloging and critiquing my body.

  "I'm sure you would, William."

  "Call me Will, please." You sip with casual elegance.

  "All right then, Will. Tell me, what do you hope to get out of our sessions together?"

  "I have a better question." You lean forward, lift the contract as if about to rip it. "What do you say we tear this puppy apart and get to the good stuff? We can always sign it again later."

  I must still smell faintly of sex, despite how ruthlessly I scrubbed: Your nostrils flare, and you inhale, lean closer, let your shoulder touch mine. I take the contract from you, gently but firmly, set it on the coffee table, and slide it away from you.

  "I think not, William." I stand, take the tumbler from you. You don't protest, but your eyes harden. "You signed it, and you are legally bound by it now. If you do not wish to continue, you may petition to have the contract absolved. If not, then I must insist you keep any further such comments to yourself, as they are neither allowed nor desired."