by Alexis Hall
“And that’s really enough?”
“More than. Look, I’m not an expert or anything but, for me, submission is here”—I brushed a finger against my brow—“and here.” I tapped my heart. “You can bring me to my knees with a word or a smile or the simple will to have me there.”
He shuddered, eyes closing for a moment, but, for once, it didn’t seem to be distress. “I have built a world-spanning financial empire from the ground up. I have bought and sold corporations that between them controlled the livelihoods of tens of thousands of people. I have dined with presidents and prime ministers. But nothing has made me feel as powerful, or given me such pride, as your trust, your passion, and your surrender.”
“They’re yours.” Apparently I’d gone from stressed to lustful in 2.5 seconds. “Let me show you.”
We gazed at each other across an expanse of bed. Something had definitely changed: intangible but undeniable, like the sky, and the taste of the air, on the first day of spring. But it felt fragile too in its newness. Naked skin over deep wounds.
“We shouldn’t,” he said. With precisely zero conviction. “I’m already late for a conference call.”
Casting off the blankets, I rolled onto my knees and elbows. Arched my spine in supplicant invitation, presenting my arse in a “come and get it” kind of way.
He gave a soft, helpless groan. “My Arden.”
“Yes.” I wriggled shamelessly. “Own me.”
We went at it no-frills. Just stripped-bare need. With Caspian not even undressing. I could tell he was trying to be careful but it stung after the pounding he’d given me yesterday.
His first shallow thrusts made my eyes water and my fingers knot in the sheets. But, being a total pervert, I was into it. There was something so primal and inexorable about his cock prizing my body open. It made me feel real again.
Once he was all the way in, and I was stretched and trembling under him, he slid a hand all the way up the sweat-damp line of my back. Cupped the nape of my neck, his touch controlling and tender and perfect.
“You’re all right?” he murmured.
I bucked back against him. “God, yes.”
For a man already late for a conference call, he fucked me thoroughly and languorously. And I lay among the pillows, moaning and rocking to his rhythm, my whole body alive with the raw ache of possession and the whiskey-burn of slowly gathering pleasure. I wasn’t sure I’d come—the sensations were strung together too tightly—but the brush of his lips against my shoulder blade, the way he could make me feel so degraded and so worshipped at the same fucking time, sent me over.
It got a bit more explicitly ouch in the arse department after that. I was still okay with it, since while it wasn’t good pain, it wasn’t bad pain either, and I enjoyed simply being used. Except he must have figured it out because he pulled out and, from the slick sound of skin on skin, began finishing himself off.
Which I didn’t have a problem with exactly. In fact, physically speaking, I was grateful. And maybe on a different day I would have found it hot. But, right now, I wasn’t up for anything that put distance between us. Or made me feel uninvolved in his pleasure. I tried to roll over but his hand tightened on my neck. Time was, I would probably have taken it without question. But today I was either too strong or too weak to do that for him.
“Um,” I said, in a muffled, inadvertently pillow-munching voice, “I’m all up for being objectified and wanked over, and I think I’ve got a pretty decent bum…but what’s wrong with my face?”
A moment of silence. Then. “I adore your face. But I don’t like being watched.”
I put my head back down. Listened to his harsh breath. Tried, with my brain fuzzy from orgasm, to find the Robert Frost road (correct not common interpretation) between his boundaries and my own. “You can…y’know…in me.”
“I don’t want to hurt you.”
“I don’t mind.”
His palm swept down my spine again, and curved possessively over my flank. “When I hurt you, Arden, it will be in a way I have chosen and can control.”
And to think he kept insisting he wasn’t the romantic type. I mean, yes, I was all for roses and chocolates, but there was something deeply endearing to me about a man who wanted to hurt you right.
“What,” I suggested hopefully, “if I kept my eyes closed?”
Caspian made this sound—I couldn’t tell if it was more exasperated or more amused—grabbed me around the waist, and flipped me over. “Happy now?”
“Yes.” I tried to de-flail my limbs and arrange myself somewhat sexily, which was actually kind of difficult when I couldn’t see. And was right in the middle of my own wet spot. “It’s better like this.” Awkward pause. “Isn’t it?”
This time his soft laugh was nothing but fondness. His fingers brushed my lips and then the tip of my nose. Tweaked at my nipple rings. Traced the tattoo at my hip. “Much.” He tapped the inside my knee. “Now show me what’s mine.”
“All of me is yours.”
Heat was trickling over me. Gathering in the places I thought he might be looking. Considering less than a minute ago I’d been lying in a wobbly heap with my arse in the air, it shouldn’t have felt any more exposing to spread my legs on command but somehow it did.
Didn’t stop me though. And, actually, made my cock perk back up. I just never know when to quit, that’s my problem.
He gave a rough growl. And presumably got back to his masturbating.
“Sure I can’t do anything?” I said. “Give you a helping—”
He put his hand lightly over my mouth. Which I entirely deserved. Giggling, I kissed his fingers, and then sucked on them.
“Oh. God. Arden.”
It was such an amazing groan that I couldn’t help myself…and I cheated. I peeped. The quickest glance from between my lashes. And, fuck, it was worth it. He was flushed and rumpled, his head thrown back, his neck all strong and straining, and his expression half frowning, half helpless. Completely beautiful.
And then I felt guilty as fuck because he’d trusted me and I’d epically failed to be worthy of it. What it came down to was, I was Orpheus, hanging around at the gates of Tartarus and being like “Sheesh, dude, it was only a glance” to Hades.
I squeezed my eyes tightly shut so I wouldn’t be tempted again. Concentrated instead on doing the lewdest possible things to Caspian’s fingers. And he came a few seconds later, with a naked cry that—for once—he didn’t even try to stifle. I actually jerked when his come splashed over me, impossibly hot for the split-second of its landing.
“Can I look now?” I asked. Or, rather “Can ah ook ow?” on account of my tongue being somewhat occupied.
“If you must.”
I stared at him hungrily, but he was almost back together by now. I mean, he still looked like he’d just had sex, flushed and sweaty, his chest heaving and his hair curling at the tips, but I wanted to see him in the wildness of the moment, lost and vulnerable and free. It was kind of sad-making he didn’t want to share that with me. Even more sad-making that he didn’t feel able to share it with anyone. Orgasms weren’t supposed to be lonely.
It made me want to snuggle him without mercy. But I knew he wouldn’t be into it. So I grinned up at him instead and pulled his fingers from between my lips with the wettest plop I could manage.
He winced adorably.
I let him go. Dabbed up a splash of semen from my stomach and licked it off my thumb.
“Arden…” He sounded almost shocked.
“Five-second rule. And you’re delicious.”
“That’s ridiculous. And untrue.”
“How do you know? Have you tasted?”
“Well, not myself. But I’m familiar with the…with the…”
I somehow didn’t completely crack up at the sight of Caspian Hart trying to find whatever he deemed an appropriate word for come.
“…substance,” he finished.
“And you’re not a fan?”
Wai
t. Did this mean Nathaniel had funky spunk? Oh please, God, I hoped he did.
“I don’t have an aversion.” Caspian took off his jacket and tossed it over the end of the bed. “I just wouldn’t actively seek opportunities to imbibe it.”
“I didn’t say I’d eat it on chips. But it’s you…and I like you.”
He’d gone pinkish. “Why are we talking about this?”
“You started it.”
“I absolutely did not.”
“Yes, you did.”
He stretched himself out over me, trapping me cozily beneath his body, and kissed my nose. “No, I didn’t.”
“Your clothes,” I protested. Though it was way, way too late.
“I would have had to change anyway.”
Great. After all the trouble I went to in order to ensure nobody would have to clean my jizz off Caspian’s carpet, now it was going to be someone’s job to get it out of his bespoke, probably Italian suit. “Two looks in one day. You’re the Kim Kardashian of financial management.”
“I’m who?”
“Oh my God.” My voice shook with the laughter caught in it. “You really have been in more magazines than you’ve read.”
“That’s an accurate assessment.”
He kissed me again—mouth this time—and then rolled away, settling on his back beside me, one arm flung casually above his head. I curled into the space. It was something I was getting weirdly good at it: lying hopefully in the shape of a hug. I was close enough to feel the heat from his body, to smell the sex on him, but he still didn’t touch me.
“Maybe,” I said, “we could do a knowledge exchange.”
His eyebrow twitched.
“I could teach you about popular culture…like…any popular culture. And you could—”
“Educate you on the impact of emerging economies on price movement in global equity, currency, and commodity markets.”
“I was thinking more…get me into sci-fi?”
I wasn’t sure how seriously I’d meant it, but he tensed right up. “I’m hardly an expert.”
“It’s not about expertise. So much as, y’know, sharing something with you. That you like. I mean”—I stretched an arm over the side of the bed and groped around in the box until I found Downbelow Station—“could I borrow this maybe?”
There was a horrible silence.
“Shit, it was your dad’s, wasn’t it?”
Caspian covered his face with his hands. “It’s not that I don’t trust you…”
“No. God. No. I know that. Don’t worry about it.”
“There’s just…when someone dies. There’s so little of them left.”
“I get it, I really do.” Wow. Oh wow. I was a complete fucktrumpet. Caspian’s generosity to me was boundless, ridiculous even. And here I was casually asking him to lend me his last connection to his dead father. “I’m so sorry. Forget I ever said it.”
I wished I could touch him. I felt so helpless, lying there, babbling out apologies that were probably washing over him like water. When all I wanted to do was draw him close and hold him tight. Make him truly believe he was safe with me. That I would take nothing from him he feared to lose. Didn’t choose to give.
Eventually, he emerged, letting out a long, careful breath. “No, it’s me. I’m being foolish. Of course you can—”
“No,” I cried. I mean, it was incredibly touching that he was willing. But it was the last thing I wanted now that I understood what I’d actually been asking. “I mean, sheesh. Paper books? Who reads those anymore? I bet I could pick this up for 99p as an epub.”
He gave a slight shaken laugh.
I grabbed my phone and googled. “Well, okay, $11.99 if I pretend I’m American.”
“Arden, I don’t mind.”
“I do. That thing’s like five hundred pages. It weighs a ton.” Suddenly his arms came around me and he pulled me close, turning the space into a nook, my body tucked into his. To me, at least, it felt perfect. Like I belonged there. And I couldn’t help wriggling in even closer. “By the way, I think your meeting might be a bust.”
“Oh fuck.” Caspian swore so rarely that it always sounded extra filthy—and therefore extra sexy—when he did. He pulled out his phone and dialed with a deft swipe. “Bellerose? Cancel that call, please.” A pause. “No, that’s fine. Yes. Yes. I’ll leave at two. Thank you.”
“I’m sorry I made you miss your thing,” I said, once he’d hung up, only lying a little bit. “Was it important?”
“Terribly important. But so am I. And it can wait.”
I tried not to smirk.
“You know”—Caspian gave me a wry look—“you don’t seem all that sorry.”
“I’m abstractly sorry. But I like being with you too much to be completely sorry.”
He laughed, his hand finding its way to my arse and giving it a squeeze. The fabric of his suit was slightly rough against my nipples, making me very aware of the fact he was, once again, fully clothed and I was starkers. It was kind of the way things tended to go with us. Mostly I didn’t mind, and there were times when the sense of personal exposure was definitely part of the fun, but from another perspective it was bizarre. After all, I looked like me—decentish but nothing special—and Caspian was absolutely spectacular. If I’d been him, I would have been naked whenever I could get away with it.
Honestly, I’d probably never stop wanking.
While taking selfies of myself.
Narcissus for the social media age.
I snuggled in closer, just content to bask in the time that Caspian had unexpectedly given me.
“Do you mind if I smoke?” he asked, after a minute or two.
He’d told me when we’d first met—on a moonlit night in Oxford that seemed forever ago now—he allowed himself one cigarette a month. Something to do with controlling his vices, which didn’t make much sense to me because if there was one thing Caspian Hart could have done with a bit less of, it was control. I wasn’t entirely sure what it meant that he wanted to indulge himself here, now, with me but it was intimacy of a kind and I sure as hell wasn’t going to say no. “Course not.”
My bedside table was a pervert’s smorgasbord of lube and condoms and exciting things to put up your arse or wrap round your knob. I didn’t get much of a look in Caspian’s but I was pretty sure there was nothing inside it except a book, a lighter, a saucer I guessed he was using as an ashtray, and a packet of Dunhill.
With an arm around me, he was a little clumsy lighting up. And then he lay back against the pillows, still holding me tight, and took a deep, luxurious drag. His eyes fell half closed, smoke billowing from between his parting lips. It made me desperate to kiss him. Feel the surrender of his mouth. He hadn’t wanted me to see him come but he let me see this. The one pleasurable yielding he seemed able to countenance.
“Caspian?”
“Mmm?”
“What did you write on me yesterday?”
“It’s from The Lathe of Heaven.”
One of the many problems with being an English literature student, especially if you went to Oxford, was that people expected you to have read everything. Thus condemning you to a life of lying, bullshitting, and incipient shame.
I opened my mouth to do make a bland statement that implied familiarity with the text without committing myself to anything. And then I thought: fuck it, no. Caspian already knew I’d only pretended to have read Ulysses. He wasn’t going to think less of me because I hadn’t read The Lathe of Heaven.
And there was no reason for me to think less of myself either.
“I don’t know it,” I announced triumphantly.
“Why would you, since you’re not into sci-fi? It’s Ursula Le Guin. About a man who has the ability to change reality through his dreams.”
“I can see why you might be into that.”
He smiled faintly. “It’s not quite what you think. The protagonist is very much a dreamer. Passive to a fault. It’s other people who want to change the world,
usually with disastrous consequences.”
I sighed. “You know, that’s another thing I don’t get about science fiction. For a genre that’s supposed to be all about technology and progress and the future…why does it always turn out to be a massive disaster whenever somebody tries to do anything or change anything?”
“You tell me, Mr. BA Oxon.”
“I guess because a lot of genre fiction has its roots in the nineteenth century, when we had more rigid ideas about God and social order. Aaaand check out me sounding like I know what the fuck I’m talking about.”
“That’s because you do. Though, for what it’s worth, I don’t think this book is actually saying that. I think it’s more about the complexities of the world and its problems, especially the problems that are connected to the complexities of people. My father…” He paused. Cleared his throat. “My father always said Le Guin was primarily interested in people.”
“Isn’t science fiction supposed to be about ideas?”
Caspian swallowed. “It is. But it can also be very…very human. Since a lot of the time it’s concerned with human questions. At least that’s what my father believed.” He shifted and I could feel him getting self-conscious. This was usually the moment he would pull away from me. But, to my surprise, he gave a slightly rueful laugh and went on. “No wonder I read PPE.”
“I thought”—I gave him a naughty look—“you were leveraging the Oxford brand to something something the something something?”
“That too.” He let his voice slip into its driest, coolest register. “To lead a successful life, it is vital to something something the something something.”
I giggled, hopelessly heart-eyed. I adored everything about Caspian—his strength, his ferocity, his delicious cruelty—but this side of him, his secret capacity to laugh at himself, never failed to delight me.
“But I think a large part of it,” he murmured, “came down to being able to study philosophy. It gave me an excuse to keep thinking about the sorts of things my father liked to think about.”
I was starting to wonder if maybe I’d developed the power to affect reality by dreaming. Except I wouldn’t have dreamed up this in a gazillion years. I wouldn’t have dared. It seemed too impossible. We’d had an argument. Fixed it. Discussed stuff. And now we were actually cuddling. And he was talking to me, his body warm and relaxed against mine, his eyes a darkly slumberous blue, like the sea when you swam out too far. And then his phone bleeped a reminder.