Girl in Bath

by Catherine C. Heywood

  “It really is something to see for the first time,” Jonathan admitted.

  For a moment of unchecked awe, she’d forgotten he was there.

  “I don’t want you to be intimidated,” he continued, “but I think I need to tell you something.”

  “I’m not easily intimidated,” she said, though she just had been.

  “While you’re studying all this beauty”—he leaned in and whispered—“everyone is studying you.”

  She looked around them and saw men and women hiding behind their champagne glasses, flicking surreptitious glances at them.

  “I think they’re looking at you, wondering what kind of rubbish you picked up.”

  “No. I promise you they’re not thinking that. They’re thinking, ‘Who is that incredible creature and how did he get her to stoop for him?’”

  “Jonathan, you’re flattering me.”

  “Is it working?”

  His praise fell like fingers on a piano down her spine. “It is.”

  He leaned in and pressed a wet kiss near her ear, then whispered, “I like the sound of my name on your lips.”

  She looked at him. Was that the first time I said it? she wondered. He nodded as if a party to her thoughts.

  After an elegant dinner accompanied by more glances and murmurings of Tout-Paris, Jonathan and Monica were tucked comfortably in a red velvet private box when the lights went down and the orchestra galloped into the opening bars of Le Cid. As soon as Fidès Devriès opened her mouth to sing Chimene, Monica was lost. She leaned forward as the soprano’s voice climbed up and up, dipped and turned, pulling the audience into the tale. That diminutive woman with the large voice had everyone in the theatre enrapt.

  Well into Act IV, she felt Jonathan beside her. She’d been so taken by the performance, she’d nearly forgotten he was there. He moved his chair closer and slightly back from hers, then put his arm around the back of her chair. His face directed towards the stage, he tipped his head to hers.

  “Are you enjoying the opera, Monica?”

  “Yes. Very much so.”

  “Good. Keep watching the stage.”

  “What are you do—”

  “Whatever you do, whatever I do, just keep watching the stage.”

  “Pardon me?”

  “Watch. Just keep watching.”

  Her gaze was frozen to the stage when she heard Jonathan clear his throat and bend over as if he’d dropped something. Then she felt his hand under her dress and she gasped and grabbed it, glancing to the right and left of them.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Let go.”

  She squeezed even tighter and looked around again.

  “No one can see,” he said silkily. “If they look they will see me smiling politely, my lovely date entranced. Now let go of my hand.” Reluctantly she did. “Good girl. Now, keep watching.”

  Warmth flooded her face and chest and her breathing grew faint against the tight corset as his questing hand smoothed up her stockinged leg through all the layers of her underclothes and into her knickers. She sucked in a breath and whimpered as his hand met her bare thigh. Again she grabbed his hand when it hovered near her sex.

  “Ah-ah. Let. Go. You’re enjoying the opera, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.” Although she’d completely lost the thread of it.

  “Spread your legs.”

  “Not here.”

  Her sex felt so flooded and thick, she couldn’t let him touch her there. Not now. Right here in the opera house with Emile Zola and his wife in the very next box. What is he thinking?

  “No one can see.” He traced two fingers up and down her thigh, getting closer and closer to the crease at her core. “I promise.”

  Fixing her watery gaze on the stage, she shook her head even as she opened her legs.

  “More.”

  She licked her lips and spread her legs further.

  “More still, Monica,” he said in a lust-laden lilt.

  It felt like her whole body was burning up when she spread her legs further, more than enough room for his hand. And when he slid a finger through the down of her sex deep into her wet core, she swallowed a cry.

  “Shh. Ah, sweetheart, your cunny is soaked. I think you want this. I think you like me touching you here.” He waggled his finger. “Right here in the middle of Act IV. Are you watching?”

  She nodded, some sort of ridiculous squeak sound like a mouse saying yes coming out of her mouth.

  “What’s happening?”

  “I have no idea.”

  He tsked. “What am I going to do with you?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Lucky for you, I have some ideas,” he said, sliding two fingers up and down, up and down, and up and down her slit.

  She moaned and her head fell back.

  “Ah-ah. Keep watching.”

  “I don’t know what’s happening anyway.”

  “Then pretend. We’ll playact,” he began. “I’ll play the role of a gentleman sitting close to his lovely date with a placid hand on her thigh, wishing, hoping, praying he might stroke her naked thigh later if he’s very ardent and she’s very game. And you’ll play the role of my lovely lady, so entranced by her first time at the opera, she hasn’t any idea she’s being fucked by his finger. Can you do that for me?” All the while he worked up and down the outside of her swollen lips, playing in the crease where it met her legs, gliding just over the top of the nerve that held her release. Teasing, so mercilessly teasing.

  She looked at him and his smile was so sly, so pleased. As much as she wanted to slap it off his face and yank his hand out of her skirt, she wanted what he wanted even more. That realization was so surprising that barely without thought, she opened her legs even more.

  He thrust two fingers inside her to the knuckles and she moaned.

  “Shh. Not a sound. Open your eyes. Close your mouth. Concentrate. What’s happening?”

  “I’m going to come.”

  “I meant onstage.”

  “I have no idea.”

  He chuckled and pumped his fingers in and out, moving his thumb to circle around, then finally press into her bundle of nerves, kneading it. She gasped and jerked.

  “Easy. Stay still. Can you come without a sound?”

  She shook her head.

  “But for now you will. For me. Won’t you, sweetheart?”

  She felt like she was going to go up in flames. Fall off her chair. Make an utter ass of herself. And she didn’t care. She just wanted to come.

  “I feel you getting close,” he said. “Tightening up on my fingers nicely. Any moment. Any second. La petite mort. And you’ll do it without a sound. Just for me. Won’t you?”

  When she finally tipped over the edge, she bit her lips so hard, grabbed her chair, his arm, anything to hold her steady and keep her quiet. The tingling rushed through her core and up her spine. She felt her sex clench his fingers over and over and over again.

  Finally she was able to take a breath and turn to him. His satisfied smirk was devastating as he smoothed her dress and tasted her on his fingers.

  “Why did you do that to me?”

  His arm still around the back of her chair, his put his other hand on her thighs and whispered, “Because I knew you’d like it. Tell me I’m wrong.”

  She was facing Monsieur Zola, the famously prudish writer, who glimpsed her out of the corner of his eye and squirmed.

  “You’re not wrong,” she admitted, though it tasted like a defeat.

  When he pulled back, he cupped her cheek tenderly. “Good.”

  Chapter 8

  A rich dinner, the exhilarating opera, then a stunning orgasm. When they finally climbed back into the carriage, Monica felt so languorous, she could sink into the squabs and fall asleep.

  “This has been a wonderful night,” she said. “One I’ll never forget. Thank you. So much.”

  “It’s been my pleasure, Monica. Believe me. You’ve ruined me for any other date for the
opera. I never imagined how good it could be to bring someone who was so livened by it.”

  She smirked.

  “Not that. Well, yes that. But I really meant that you were so struck by it all. It only made me want to show you more. I hope the night doesn’t have to end yet.”

  She peered out the window. “Where are we going?”

  “You’re allowed to say no. But I’d like you to say yes.” They pulled to a stop before a cream stone building on the Boulevard Saint-Germain. “I thought we’d stop at my apartment for a drink.”

  Immediately she felt all the blood in her body pour into her core. There could be no question what he was suggesting and after his taunting in the opera, she wanted desperately to say yes.

  She could feel her mother’s condemnation all the way from Rouen. Her mother, though she’d once been so daring as to follow her dashing French capitaine from the streets of Salvador to France, couldn’t seem to conceive of a woman who wanted more for her life than the meager bounds her sex and religion would mete out. Monica should be focused on being a wife and mother. Sleeping with any man who showed an interest was no way to that. So many times Maria had said it, Monica could hear it in her mother’s voice even now.

  She shouldn’t have gone for that walk. Should not have answered his summons to The House of Worth. Should certainly not have accepted his invitation for tonight. And definitely should say no to this.

  “Perhaps one drink.”

  After a brief tour of Jonathan’s penthouse apartment—it was a Haussmann and very modern, with parquet floors and soaring ceilings, arched doorways and carved fireplaces in every room—she stood at a balcony peering out.

  “It’s every bit as monstrous as they all claimed it would be,” she said, staring at the illuminated wrought iron lattice tower.

  He came up behind her, slipping his arms around her waist and resting his head on a shoulder. It felt so good and warm and right, as if her body were built just for his.

  “It was much worse when they first began building it. I seriously considered moving. But I’d only just bought the place and I like it.”

  “I suppose there is something to the electric lights.”

  “Like a beacon from ancient Alexandria.” He brought her into the drawing room. “Anyway, I’m used to it now. And it can’t be there forever.”

  They settled on the plush oriental rug, a bottle of cabernet between them.

  They talked about the opera and its attendees. About his family—he was the youngest of eight, all seven older siblings girls. About her mother living in Rouen with Monica’s father’s family.

  “And your father?” he asked.

  “A captain in the army. He managed to outlast the Prussians, but succumbed to radicals in the bloody spring of 1871.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  She looked at him evenly. “Tell me more about your work. Entertainment investments? An entrepreneur. I thought that was looked down upon in your set.”

  “Oh, it is. Believe me. But I don’t have the stomach for genteel poverty like some. Leisure all day and living on the credit of an increasingly worthless name. I can’t do that.

  “And my father made some bad investments some years back. When it comes right down to it, there wouldn’t have been much for me to inherit. The girls didn’t care. It wouldn’t be left to them.”

  “They all married well?”

  “Some. My sisters are…a discerning lot.” He sighed. “And quite independent.”

  “That sigh. You sound plagued by discerning and independent women.”

  His deliberate gaze fell on her. “It feels that way at times.”

  “Can you find a more amenable sort?”

  “Easily. They’re everywhere. But they bore me.”

  “An unmarried woman of a certain age—she must worship our Savior or Saint Sappho.”

  Jonathan burst out laughing. “I love your frank tongue. No, let me rephrase that. Frankly, I love your tongue.”

  After they shared a laugh, he said, “Cecelia and Vionnet are married. Diandre is our nun. Caroline is off in Italy somewhere, doing what and with whom we’re not exactly certain. As for the rest of them—you met Marie-Thérèse—they’re seeing gentlemen and being very discriminating.”

  Monica paused to take it all in. To have such a large family seemed like the warmest embrace compared to hers.

  “You mentioned an increasingly worthless name. Do you fear that?”

  “Not if I can help it.”

  “Derassen. Are you related to the Comte de Rassen?”

  “Distantly. And there is no more Comte de Rassen since the Revolution. At some point the de became married to the Rassen.”

  “Sometimes we must adapt to survive,” she said.

  “Exactly.”

  “And Madame Caron? She didn’t mind your work?”

  “She didn’t have a choice, really. The Carons are the genteel poverty sort. She likes nice things and I like giving them to her.”

  Monica didn’t fail to notice the present tense and Jonathan shifted as if realizing it, too.

  “But we aren’t well-suited, it seems,” he added. “I think it’s possible to love someone and know she’s not right for you. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  “It’s certainly possible.” She didn’t think it true in his instance.

  They peered at the empty bottle, then he surveyed her. “That looks uncomfortable.”

  “This old thing?” She indicated her dress. “I’m never taking it off.”

  “It may be difficult to bathe.”

  “Do you think so?”

  “And the silk may never lay the same. I’m afraid you’re going to have to take it off eventually.”

  “I suppose you have some idea as to when I might do that.”

  “One or two. Yes.”

  Suddenly all the excitement of the night seemed to drain out of her and, combined with the smooth, dark red, she yawned.

  “If you’re sleepy, we might move to a bedroom, so you can be more comfortable.”

  “I was thinking if I were sleepy it might be time for me to go home.”

  “But it’s so late,” he said, lacing a hand through hers and pulling her towards the bedrooms. “Wouldn’t it be so much easier if you just slept here.”

  She knew the inevitable outcome when she accepted his invitation for a drink. But as they approached the bedrooms, she couldn’t help but remember what Gabby had said:

  “…he’s dangerous…”

  “…a divorce complaint so detailed in its decadence it would make the devil himself blush…”

  Was she being naïve? Did she simply miss intimacy? Or was there something about this man in particular? He stirred her blood, but he didn’t frighten her. Perhaps he should, but he didn’t.

  “I suppose it would be easier,” she said. “And you do have all these spare rooms with their empty beds.”

  “Exactly,” he said, drawing her into the first. He bent to light the fire that had been neatly prepared. “They get downright mournful if they’re not used.”

  “And how convenient the fire was ready for you to light in this room.”

  “I was just thinking the same.”

  After the fire caught, he turned a bedside lamp on low and turned to her. For what seemed like long moments, he stared at her with dancing eyes over placid features, his head tipping so his gaze could move and scrutinize. She almost spoke, but he brought a couple fingers to his lips. They lay carelessly on them as if he would tell her to be quiet, but couldn’t be bothered. His manner was so unnerving and he almost certainly knew it. Had any other man done it, she might have called him on his arrogance. But he wasn’t any other man. That Jonathan had made a study of her, sent her blood racing, her nerves crackling, and her breath faint.

  Finally he said, “You look uneasy. Is something the matter?” His tone was curious, as if he truly didn’t know what he did to her when he certainly did.

  “No.”

  “Would you
like to be more comfortable?”

  “Yes.”

  “Would you like my help?”

  “Please.”

  He twirled a finger and she slipped out of her pumps and turned around. She felt the warmth of him behind her and his breath on her nape as he began slowly sliding her long opera glove off her right arm, then the left. Next he moved unerringly to the tie of her bodice.

  “How do you do this without help?” he asked.

  “The answer to that is very simple. A woman who can afford such a dress as this has help.”

  “M-hm. Of course.”

  His lips ran along her nape, his nose running up and down the back of her neck and around her ears. When the bodice was loose, he drew it up her bare arms, tickling deliberately over her fine hairs, then pulling it over her head. Next he untied the outer skirt and the small bustle.

  “Step out.” The tone of his voice was firm, almost coarse, and she moved immediately to obey him as if she were a child. For some reason, something in his voice or the way he carried himself, she felt an almost unconscious desire to bend for him in a way she couldn’t remember with Aubrey. It was both alarming and intriguing.

  The lamp burned a low amber and the fire crackled and popped. All the while he worked methodically, deliberately, his fingers skimming over her skin, his breath rising and falling so warm on her neck. Taking his time as if he knew that drawing out every single small act was crueler. It was and, for some reason she couldn’t fathom, she liked it.

  Finally he untied and dropped her corset.

  “Step out.”

  She did.

  “Now turn and face me.”

  “Thank you—”

  He put a finger to his lips and abruptly she buttoned up. She stood in a plain white cotton chemise, knickers, and stockings and his eyes skimmed over the demure shapeless form as if she were in the raw. And, honestly, the burning in his eyes as they moved made her feel raw.

  Taking a seat next to the fire, he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

  “Continue.”

  She moved to a stocking.

  “Knickers first.”