I try not to melt into him. I try not to surrender. But the way he uses his mouth on me has me panting, moaning, straining. I throw my head, tendrils of sweat-soaked hair whipping at my bare back as I realize that he’s going to make me come. “Oh god, oh please.”
I shouldn’t beg him, but I can’t help it. As my thighs clench around his ears, I reach down and grab a fistful of his hair. I’m coming again, crying out, and I think I must be hurting him.
But I can’t be gentle.
Rip.
It’s the sound of his right arm tearing free of his bonds and it’s as raw and primal as my orgasmic screams. In spite of everything, I’m grateful when his freed arm comes round my hips and locks me in place. He’s still sucking and licking and thrusting his tongue into me when we begin to roll.
His body is like some enormous boulder, the momentum of which I cannot stop. He’s supposed to be submitting to me, but he has me caught in the grip of one arm as he rises from the bed the other arm is still tethered to. He pins me to the wall. The cool grain of the wood paneling scratches my back as I slide between it and his body.
My eyes must be filled with reproach because he says, “I’m sorry. I don’t think I’m made that way … and neither are you.”
Hours later, we’re glued together, sticky with sweat and sex. Having taken personal instruction as to exactly which positions are possible—quite a few, it turns out—I’m so overstimulated that even the bedsheets against my skin leave me raw. “I begin to see what all the fuss is about, Mr. Aster …”
With great satisfaction, Robert peels himself off me, collapses onto his back, and basks in the morning rays of sunshine that leak in around the curtains. “And that’s how your first time should have been. Now we can sleep in.”
I groan. “I’ve never been so tired in all my life … but I don’t think I could sleep a wink.”
“I’ll read you a bedtime story,” he says, reaching to the end table for my journal.
“I’m too tired to even think about sex,” I confess.
“Nonsense. Tell me, my little bearcat, which of these fantasies is your favorite?”
When this started, it was exciting to have a man cater to me with no expectations in return. Now I find myself wanting to know his fantasies, too. “Which one is your favorite?”
“This one.” He flips to the right page, holding the journal so that I can see it.
One glance at the page and I feel myself turning scarlet. I curl in on myself, drawing my knees up under the covers as if I can hide what he’s exposed. “It was just a whimsy …”
“Why are you cowering, Sophie? Trust me, I’m gratified to know that we both fantasize about famous movie stars.”
I peek at him. “You are?”
He gives me a lurid smile. “I knew about these fantasies before we met. Nothing in this journal shocks or offends me. I don’t know if everything you fantasize about will excite me, but everything I’ve read in this journal definitely does.”
There’s an easing of the tension in my back and shoulders as I accept his words for the gift that they are. “I think it’s just her. I love her sass, her hair, and the way she dresses. We all try to imitate her. I think if there was any movie star girls would think about kissing, it’d be Clara Cartwright.”
“And trust me, she’s the movie star most likely to appreciate that sentiment.”
I have to ask. “You’ve met her?”
“I know her very well.”
Remembering the spate of scandal sheet rumors from more than a year ago, my stomach suddenly sours. “You may say that I haven’t any business asking, but—”
“Sophie, you’ve every right to ask,” he says, reaching to stroke a lock of hair out of my eyes. “But a gentleman does not tell.”
“I thought you were trying to be less of a gentleman.”
“Nevertheless, I treat people I care about with respect. If you want to know about my relationship with Clara, you can ask her yourself.”
I snort indelicately. “I’m just a shopgirl. I’m not likely to meet the likes of the legendary Clara Cartwright.”
“To the contrary, you’re going to meet her next week. Clara and Leo are coming to stay in the hotel. Their film has been nominated for an award and they’ll be my guests while they’re in the city. I intend to introduce you.”
If someone told me two days ago that I’d see Clara Cartwright in the flesh, I’d have been over the moon. Now, I’m upset. “I don’t want to ask her about you like some jealous harpy! It’s not her place to tell me. It’s yours.”
He pulls himself up, resting his back against the headboard and reaching for a flask by his bedside, as if this isn’t a conversation that he can have sober. When I see him pause, unable to take a swallow, I know I’m not going to like what he has to say. “Clara and I were lovers, but I deny it in the scandal sheets and always will.”
“Because you’re such a right guy or because you have something to be ashamed of?”
“I’m not ashamed of Clara,” he says with a slight note of offense. “I adore her. She’s married to my best friend in the world.”
I sigh with relief at this perfectly reasonable explanation. He wouldn’t want to rub an old affair in the nose of her husband. It makes sense to spare everyone’s feelings. So why does something feel so unfinished about it? “You’re not still sleeping with her, are you?”
“Not for quite some time.” He seals the flask, puts it back without taking a sip, then arranges himself stiffly against the pillows. I’m alarmed by the anxiety in his expression, by the naked emotion in his posture that he’s trying to hide.
He’s a man who takes what he wants; I’ve always known this about him. What I don’t know is if there are lines he won’t cross. “Robert, did you betray your friend with his wife?”
“No,” he says forcefully, more than a shadow of warning in his eyes. “No, I did not. I would not.” That’s when I realize it’s not guilt I see on his features, but some other kind of regret. “It’s not what you’re thinking, Sophie. But it’s too complicated and unconventional to explain.”
“I’m a complicated and unconventional girl. If you can’t tell me, who can you tell? It’s hardly fair that you know all my stories and I know none of yours.”
He sighs. “Has anyone ever told you that you argue rather persuasively? Do you have formal training?”
“I’ve been speaking in union halls since I was a teenaged girl at my da’s side.” I nestle against him, trying to make him comfortable enough to tell me the truth. I see that his handsome features are marred by dark shadows beneath his eyes. I don’t know if it’s sadness or exhaustion, but he lets me pull him down so that we’re on the same level, face-to-face. “The main thing is that I’m persistent, Robert, so you might as well sing.”
I school myself not to show shock or alarm; I don’t want to wound him if he opens himself to me. But a little part of me worries whatever he has to say might ruin everything between us. And perhaps my keen desire to protect this relationship should be what scares me most.
He touches his forehead to mine. “What would you say if I told you that when I shared a bed with Clara Cartwright, it was at her husband’s invitation?”
The stab of jealousy is blunted by my instant fascination. “He wanted you to make love to his wife?” In spite of bracing myself, I’m wide-eyed, my mouth a little circle of surprise. My words are breathy when I speak, betraying my own excitement. “And you did?”
“Many times.”
“Oh.” I don’t know what else to say. That he would do such a thing makes him seem even more worldly than before. “Are you … are you all lovers?”
He hesitates. “Leo and I don’t … it’s really of no consequence, Sophie. It’s been over for months now, ever since I returned to the city.”
“Did something happen? Was there an argument?”
“Nothing like that. Quite the opposite, actually.”
It pains him, I realize. And that, in
turn, pains me. “You said you’d been in love precisely one and a half times, Robert. Was Clara the one or the half?”
The way he rubs at his cheek tells me I’ve hit a nerve. “The half …”
When I realize he has no intention of explaining more, I guess. “You held your heart in reserve because she’s a married woman?”
“Something like that,” Robert replies softly. “But I say I was only half in love with her because it wasn’t her alone. It was the both of them. I got from her what I couldn’t get from him, and from him what I couldn’t get from her. But how long can that go on, really?”
“I don’t understand.”
“My strongest bond is with Leo,” he says, his lips thinning with the admission. “But that’s not a sexual attraction. Meanwhile, I’m very attracted to his wife, but that never became love—at least not the kind of love that binds a man to a woman forever. What would I have done if it had?”
I lace my fingers through his, fighting back my selfish relief so that I can better understand his complicated heart. “They couldn’t offer you more?”
“They offered me more. I just didn’t take it. I’m the son of an ambassador. I live in society. Hell, my family is society,” he says, knotting the coverlet in one of his fists. “What sort of explanation could I ever give for such a relationship? No one can make such a thing work. It just isn’t done.”
“How do you know if you didn’t try?”
He closes his eyes, as if the conversation has exhausted him well beyond the exertions of our lovemaking. “My father reminded me that I couldn’t be a worthless playboy and a dreamer forever, and the ambassador is always right. I followed his orders and came back East to be a man and make a name for myself.”
“So you left them. You left Clara and Leo?”
“Shouldn’t I have?”
How can I answer a question like that, for the man who has become my lover? Can I wish he did anything else? No, I can’t and I don’t. But it troubles me deep in my bones. “I think if you find happiness, you ought to cling to it no matter what anyone says about it.”
“You really are a radical aren’t you?” he murmurs drowsily. Then, when I don’t answer, he says, “I couldn’t think of a way to make myself fit with them … and it’s for the better, because if I hadn’t left Clara and Leo, I might not have found you.”
Why, what a tender thing to say. It takes me utterly by surprise.
His eyelashes are fair like the rest of him, but they’re the longest eyelashes of any man I’ve ever met. With his eyes closed they give him an angelic appearance. I stroke his cheek softly and say, “But you and I hardly fit in each other’s worlds either, now, do we?”
“No we don’t,” he admits. “But I thank God for you anyway because I was drowning here before you …”
CHAPTER
Seven
“And you let him go all the way, Sophie?” Ethel asks, catching me by surprise with her disapproval.
But even her wide-eyed censure can’t spoil my mood. Still giddy, I fling open the window sash and smile at the city below. “More times than I could count.”
“Sophie!” Ethel cries.
“What?” I settle myself on the window ledge to get a breeze. “Aren’t you the flapper who has kissed a thousand men and claims to want to kiss a thousand more?”
Ethel puts her hands on her hips. “On our skimpy wages, I’d never get to go anywhere or do anything fun if I didn’t. But nobody looks up to me. You’re the one always telling us to stand up and earn our own way.”
I make a sound of annoyance, glancing around our shabby room with its broken closet door. In the corner, a basket overflows with laundry to be washed, hung, and ironed. Even the flowerpots on the fire escape are chipped and cracked. “And what is it you think? That Robert Aster’s my sugar daddy?”
“You got him to give all that money to Gertie. Don’t tell me he’s given nothing to you.”
I count my gifts. Lingerie. A rose. Three lovely meals. And more pleasure than I could stand. Even now, the traces of his touch linger on my skin and make me sigh a little. And that makes me defiant. I turn on Irene who, up to this point, has appeared to be in shock. Even now, she’s holding the iron up and away from the board as if afraid she won’t be able to press her clothes without scorching them. “Well, Irene, aren’t you going to add your two bits about my pitching woo with the boss?”
She gives a delicate shake of her head. “I’m just worried for you, Sophie.”
“I’m not going to end up like Gertrude!”
“No,” she says. “But you’re falling in love.”
“Horsefeathers.” It can’t last between us. I know that. Robert has already told me his plan. He’s going to meet some girl from his own social circle and let her reform him of his playboy ways. Let her reform him of … me. He’s going to marry her and show her off on his arm and make little Aster heirs. He’s told me what to expect, but the sharp pain of the truth stuns me. “I’m not a fool, Irene. I know better.”
Still, in the days that follow, I wonder if she’s right.
Robert and I play out each fantasy in my journal, one by one. He takes me to Coney Island late one night; we swim nude at the beach in the frothing waves. Another night we play a card game that leaves me naked and ready to do his bidding. Following that, I dress up in a frilly maid’s uniform and pretend to steal the silver from his room, a crime for which I’m exquisitely punished. And after a spirited night in which he introduces me to a vibrating gadget popularized by Dr. Freud for the treatment of hysteria, Robert falls asleep in my arms.
Watching the moonlight play on his closed lashes, something happens to me.
I want to know him; truly know him. Wondering over each object by his bed, I make up little stories about each one, saddened that I should have to guess about anything in his life. I want to know how he looked as a little boy. Who taught him to ride a bicycle. Who tended his first skinned knee. I want to know how old he was when he smoked his first cigarette. When he kissed his first girl. When he did something for which he holds regret. I wonder how he got the jagged scar near his elbow and it seems a terrible tragedy that I’ve missed all these moments of his life.
All I want to do is be with him so that I don’t miss another …
It’s my night to close the boutique, so I turn off most of the lights and draw the curtain that tells customers to come back in the morning. I’m just about to pull white linen sheets over all the counters to keep dust from settling onto the delicate garments, when someone says, “Don’t do that yet.”
Startled, I look up to see Robert in the doorway wearing a tuxedo. He looks like a swell, neatly coifed, perfectly handsome, his smile as white as his shirt, which is fastened with mother-of-pearl studs. He’s an elite man of society. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen a man look so dapper.
It makes my insides flutter just to look at him.
“What are you doing here, Mr. Aster?”
“It is my hotel,” he reminds me with a grin. “And I’m buying you a dress. Surely there’s something in the boutique you’ve had your eye on? Choose anything and don’t look at the price.”
I’m more than a little flabbergasted. “Why?”
“Because you’ve never been drunk and I’m taking you to a juice joint.”
As I stand there stammering, he comes up behind me and touches me with a freedom I’ve never allowed any other man. There isn’t a breath of space between the moment he grabs me and the moment my body comes alive for him. I hear myself sigh, wanting his hands everywhere, but I say, “Getting drunk in a speakeasy isn’t one of my fantasies.”
“Well, it should be.”
I sigh again. “I’m afraid I have other plans. There’s a lecture at the Civics League tonight on world peace.”
“I did my part to secure world peace during the Great War …”
“You can’t secure peace with war.”
“If only someone had told the President,” he says with a chuck
le. “Well, I hate to be the cause of bloodshed in some obscure nation because I took you away from a meeting, but come out with me tonight and I’ll do my best to make it up to the world later.”
“You haven’t heard the full list of complaints I wrote up yet. I think you’re taking advantage …”
He laughs. “Oh, hell. Give me your list. I promise I’ll read it. As long you let me get you all dolled up. What about the golden gown with the sequins and fringe?”
It’s the most expensive and glamorous gown in the shop. It comes with long black gloves, a feather boa, and matching headdress. I worry it won’t fit, but once he’s stripped my clothes off and put me into it, the gown hugs me tight, baring my shoulders, arms, and back.
That’s a lot of skin.
It’s so short the tops of my stockings are likely to show when I walk, but when I look from the mirror over my shoulder to see him staring, I can’t imagine wanting to wear anything else. “You like it, don’t you?”
There’s banked heat in his eyes. “It makes me want to burn everything else you own.”
“That’d leave me nothing to wear to work.”
“Nudity has never bothered me,” he says, giving me a little spin. “In fact, by the end of the evening, I expect to have you naked and screaming my name.”
Well, I can’t say no to that, can I?
He takes the list of complaints from me, glancing at it while I get my shoes on and comb my hair under the headdress. Then he gives me a moment to powder my nose before taking me straight out through the lobby where the bellboys, with posies in their lapels, watch with wide eyes. I don’t want them to start doubting me, but right now, the only thing I can see is Robert Aster.
On the street, his driver helps us into the back of his Rolls-Royce limousine and we’re off to Harlem. But when Robert leans in to kiss me, I say, “I’d like to talk about wages.”
He groans, burying his head against the feather boa round my neck. “You’ve the most peculiar notions about how to arouse a man, Miss O’Brien.”
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