The Sweetest Charade

by Jadesola James

  She didn’t want to think about it anymore.

  She lifted her chin and met Alexander’s eyes instead. He blinked once.

  “Did you ever get to kiss your girl?” she asked quietly, allowing herself a tiny smile. His eyes had changed, something she was growing to expect from him; it was incredible, how much the browns could vary, could go from soft to stormy to the sweetest she’d ever seen, as they were that moment.

  “I don’t remember,” he said, low, and—oh, hell, why not? She did what she wanted to do, which was kiss him.

  He was clearly startled by her move, though not displeased; he stared at her before she reached out, looped her arms round his neck, kissed him again. This one was harder, tinged with a little desperation, teasing at the seam of his mouth.

  “Haven’t you ever just done something you wanted to?” she asked softly, against his lips.

  He pulled back ever-so-slightly, and his hand came up to trace the line of her cheek. “Not really.” He cleared his throat and bit his lip. After a second’s hesitation, he took a deep breath and responded with a vigor that left her shocked.

  He was intense, Faye was quite right in her suspicions, and it was as if they’d picked up where they’d left off in the lounge, the night before. He took his time, exploring the contours of both her mouth and body with lips and hands that were deliciously, frustratingly warm and slow. His thumbs found their way to the base of her spine, alternating with lazy circles on areas of her body that she had no idea were so sensitive. It was a culmination of that strange, easy chemistry they’d had from the start. His lips were on her neck now, and she whimpered despite herself.

  “Delysia—”

  She shook her head. “Please, don’t talk.” If he did, they’d have to be sensible, and she didn’t want that right now.

  His eyes had darkened to a muddy shade of brown that seemed to mask his usual expression, and suddenly she felt fear creep in somewhere beneath her ribs, along with the arousal that had her pressing her thighs together. This guy wasn’t going to be just a quick shag; he had depths that she wasn’t sure she was ready to explore.

  Too late for that now, she thought, as his lips began to trace the skin bared as his fingers began undoing her buttons, still at that unhurried pace. She might have been the one to initiate the seduction, but—Jesus. Jesus.

  “Is this okay?” he murmured into her ear, making her jump. His fingers were teasing the lace barrier covering the most sensitive part of her now, and she clapped a hand over her mouth, hoping that when she climaxed she wouldn’t cry out.

  It wouldn’t be long at this rate, and he was still fully dressed. Hell, she hadn’t even attempted to touch him—she was way too skittish. Nicky was her only reference when it came to sex, really, and he’d attacked her body like a road map, spending the allotted time needed in the necessary bits before diving in as if he’d earned a prize by making her come, but Alexander was treating this like some kind of—she didn’t even know.

  Those eyes were calm and steady, concentrating on the pleasure on her face. It felt so good, being touched so gently and so carefully, and Delysia was squirming in a way that she knew would be incredibly embarrassing, in retrospect.

  “Breathe, sweetheart,” he said softly, and kissed her behind the ear. That proved the trigger, and Delysia did whimper, finally, spending herself on his warm, blunt fingertips. It wasn’t enough, even close to enough, and her hands began moving frantically to tug at his clothes, to kiss him hard, demanding more.

  “Delysia,” he husked against her lips, dropping a restraining hand to her hip. She squirmed in frustration, changed position so she was half-straddling him. She was gratified to hear him groan when she shifted her hips right where she suspected he wanted her to. Her fingers were fighting with a drawstring that suddenly seemed impossibly knotted when he cleared his throat. She could see his Adam’s apple bob.

  “Delysia,” he said again, this time a little louder. She opened her eyes to look into his; the murkiness was gone, replaced with that clear, calm, light-filled brown. His expression was a lot of things—tense, worried, and more than a little embarrassed. “Stop.”

  Excuse me? She stared at him, fingers still tangled in the knotted cord at his waist.

  He sighed. “I—I don’t have a condom, Delysia.”

  Oh my God. “I—” she sputtered, but he was already gently shifting her back onto the bed, pulling away from her, taking a deep breath. She registered the loss of warmth before she did anything else, then suddenly realized they were now sitting together in semi-darkness. How long had they been here, with him kissing and caressing her so gently?

  Alexander reached over and turned on the lamp by the bed, and Delysia felt herself flinch. “Oh, don’t,” she mumbled, looking down and fumbling to cover her exposed breasts and shoulders.

  “Delysia.”

  She hunched her shoulders and worked a little faster. Goddamn it, buttons had never seemed quite so clumsy before. Her body, embarrassingly, seemed to have no idea their little tête-à-tête was over for the moment; the area between her legs was still throbbing, wet, and her nipples were still so sensitive that she bit back a wince when the fabric skimmed over them.

  Alexander had dragged the blanket over his lap, so she didn’t even know how he was faring, but he’d moved as far away from her as was humanly possible without falling off the bed. She felt a sudden sick stab of misery.

  “Delysia.”

  “Go away,” she muttered. “I need to get dressed.”

  “Delysia. Please look at me.”

  She didn’t want to do that—she wanted to die. Or disappear, at the very least. She heard him sigh, then felt warm hands on her shoulders. She lifted her chin and forced her eyes open.

  “I’m not going to apologize for wanting to have sex with you, and you shouldn’t either,” she said. Her voice sounded odd and shaky.

  “I’d hate it if you did,” he said gently. He reached out and thumbed a strand of hair from her face. “And I am sorry, Delysia. If we ever did, you deserve better than a cheap tumble like this.”

  “Don’t try to make me feel better,” she said with a snuffle.

  “I mean it—” And here, he wrapped his arms around her. Delysia wanted to pull away, but she felt herself relaxing into the warmth of his grip, despite herself. He was talking into her ear now, still in those same unhurried tones. “It should be dinner, and dancing, or one of those dreadful nightclubs you love so much, and loads of good wine, and candlelight, and then I’d bring you back here, and kiss and touch and undress you properly. And after there’d be a hot bath and television, and...” His voice trailed off. “Something like that.”

  “That’s quite the fantasy,” Delysia rasped out, then laughed.

  “You deserve no less than someone who can give you that.” His voice rang with sincerity.

  And you’re not that someone. Delysia felt brittle inside, suddenly. It did not help when Alexander bent and kissed her with all of the gentleness and none of the heat of before.

  Don’t you want me? she wanted to cry out. She wished they’d just stop speaking in generalities. She wished she had the courage to ask him not to. But then again, she didn’t want to push for specifics.

  She’d pushed for specifics once upon a time, with Nicky, and the answer had crushed her.

  Instead, she clung to him just for a moment, burying her nose in that smooth good-smelling place between his neck and shoulder.

  She’d take this for now, and be content.

  Chapter Eight

  Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

  Delysia stood half-naked in front of her mirror, shivering and frowning. There was a draft coming from the large window in the sleeper car; she hadn’t bothered to close the heavy velvet curtains. The City of Brotherly Love, so far, in her opinion, had little to recommend it. The glorious fall weather they’d left be
hind in New York had succumbed to a gloomy, rainy gray. It was forty-two degrees, misty, and threatening to freeze—and it matched Delysia’s mood perfectly.

  If she didn’t know better, she’d say she was almost heartsick. Which would be ridiculous, because it was Alexander. The man had worn the same faded, olive-green fisherman’s sweater three days running, put his shoes out to be polished every night, and had thrown a fit when the American Financial Times was delivered rather than the London edition. He acted as if nothing had happened between them, as if he hadn’t had her in his bed two days ago and had her quivering in his arms with barely a touch. She supposed it was him trying to be kind, but Christ.

  She shook her head as if to clear it, then concentrated on her outfit for the evening. It was one she’d been excited about, initially.

  “Your first major designer!” Faye had crowed when Versace sent over the glittery lady tux. It featured three pieces: a sleek black blazer with sequins glittering on it like stars in a midnight sky, a waistcoat that was really more of a bustier—it made her breasts look like they were being served up for dinner—and tailored black trousers with a fit that bordered on the obscene. She wore her trusty Louboutins with it—she did want to be comfortable, after all—and washed and conditioned her curls so they tumbled round her face and shoulders, framing the dark red slash of her lips.

  It was a lot. Still, tonight was a pretty big deal. An A-list hip-hop artist was debuting an all-female version of Faust at the Philadelphia Opera Club, and the influencers were slated to appear there tonight—another triumph for the Gilded Express.

  Not that Alexander, she thought with some irritation, realized that. “Oh, ah, very well,” he said vaguely, when Delysia emphasized it, then went off to his stack of books, where he’d been pounding away at his Mac for hours. He’d skipped the champagne tea and Would You Rather? influencer game. The AMA that Faye had cajoled him into streaming live was absentminded at best, and he’d been back to his damn books afterward within minutes.

  Pathetic, Delysia thought, stabbing at a false eyelash viciously. She was jealous. And she didn’t even have a person to be jealous of. She was jealous of the fact that he was cool, and calm, and impenetrable, and had managed to have that kind of encounter with her—and had the audacity not to be one bit awkward about it afterward. It was literally as if nothing had happened.

  Well, screw him. There were only a few more days of this madness, and then she’d be free of his brown eyes and gentle hands and vague manner forever. Hopefully.

  “That’s a job done,” she said to herself finally, studying her reflection in the mirror. She turned away from it and tripped into the next car, swaying on her heels, to tell Alexander he could have the bathroom.

  He was tucked away in his corner, as usual, sipping from his stained white mug and frowning into a large book. When he saw her, his eyes lit up. “Ah.”

  Slightly mollified by the response, Delysia offered him a smile and opened her mouth. She was interrupted when he thrust two glossy postcard-sized sheets of paper under her nose. “Look!”

  She blinked and looked. As far as she could tell they were completely identical photographs of...brocade chairs?

  “My antiques dealer sent them over this morning,” he explained. “To replace the ones that were originally in this lounge, don’t you see? If this is to be a working train, we’ll need to find some way of protecting the more historic pieces. I never thought I’d consider a reproduction, but these are absolutely flawless...”

  She didn’t know if she was just overtired from the week’s activities so far or what, but Delysia suddenly felt a rush of anger that she suppressed with more effort than she liked.

  “I came to see if you wanted the bathroom,” she said.

  “Oh, is it time already?” He peered nearsightedly at his watch, then stretched, shooting her a contented half-smile. Delysia was discomfited to notice the sliver of skin that showed where that damn sweater separated from his trousers; she was even more discomfited to remember how taut and smooth that skin had felt.

  I need to get laid tonight, she thought rebelliously, even though she knew it was complete bullshit. She hadn’t been close to being with a guy since Nicky. The picture of her that had started this whole thing with Alexander had been exactly what her relationship with him was now: fake, a flirtatious moment reenacting a movie scene on a set she’d been visiting. Apparently, she attracted fake relationships like pollen attracted bees. “It is.”

  “Well, you know I only need fifteen minutes, unlike you,” he joked, and stood to his feet after inserting a bookmark and closing his text reverently. “When are you getting dressed?”

  When am I—Delysia blinked. “I am dressed, Alexander. This is what my sponsor sent over.”

  Alexander looked at her in astonishment. “For tonight?”

  The irritation was returning. “I said so, didn’t I?”

  Alexander opened and closed his mouth before speaking again. “Er... I’m not sure if this came across in the details,” he said, almost apologetically, “but we’ll be in the senator’s box tonight, not seated with the general public.”

  “Yes, I know, Faye told me.”

  “Er...yes. She may have missed the detail, but...there’s a white-tie requirement for opening night.”

  Faye actually had given her the detail, but Delysia had assumed it wasn’t super-relevant. After all, she and the influencers were the special guests of honor of the evening—celebrities, right? “Yeah, I know. Charming,” she said dryly. “Very quaint.”

  “It’s traditional for guests in that box—not necessarily everyone else, people wear jeans to the opera nowadays,” he said, voice raising an incredulous half-octave on the word jeans. “I’ll be wearing a tux, of course, so you’ll probably want to—”

  “I’m fine with what I have on,” Delysia said snippily. “Really, Alexander. No one pays attention to those sort of things anymore, and—”

  “You’re probably thinking of the Opera Philadelphia,” Alexander cut in. “That’s the general opera house. This is different. It’s a private opera club, supported by the oldest Philadelphia families, with the cornerstone laid in 1807, after the visit of the Lord George Telburn, who was so impressed by a young woman he saw in a performance of Faust that he, after a tumultuous affair with her, built a private club for her use when she was banned from—”

  “Alexander.” His voice had taken on a decidedly class-lecture lilt. “Listen. I have to wear this. Versace sent it.”

  “Very well.” Alexander’s expression was dubious at best. “I suppose our members will understand that you’re a...special sort of guest.”

  Way to make me feel like the evening’s entertainment. Delysia rolled her eyes so hard her false lashes were in danger. “Who do we have the esteemed honor of sitting with?”

  Alexander completely missed her sarcasm. “Well, the senator, of course, is traditionally invited to opening night, although he doesn’t always come—thank heaven for that,” he added under his breath. “Most of the board will be present, of course, as it’s their club. A few new inductees will be asked to share the box. Us, of course, and the director’s family...”

  “Wait. You’re a member? Is this why we landed the box?”

  He gave her a look of astonishment. “My father was from Philadelphia, Delysia. His sister arranged this event.”

  “Oh.” Delysia had been fairly sure he’d mentioned that at some point during the planning process, but oh well.

  Alexander stood, ran his hands over his hair. “Well. I’m going to go and get ready. And really, you look lovely,” he added with just enough sincerity to soothe, if not eliminate, his initial reaction to her attire.

  She grunted.

  * * *

  The weather had done little to dampen the spirits of the Gilded Express, and #gildedexpress was officially, finally, impenetrably trending. The
Philadelphia opera event would only add icing to the proverbial cake.

  The event did its best to evoke old-world glamor. Stretch limos and vintage Rolls-Royces charioted the guests to the opera house (not an SUV in sight), and white-gloved ushers with massive umbrellas stood waiting outside the opera house in order to shepherd the VIPs inside. They hurried over the sodden red carpet into the warm, fragrant front lobby, where Victorian chandeliers, brightly lit candle sconces, and shaded lamps made for lighting so flattering that everyone’s phone was out, #filterfree.

  Alexander, in full evening dress, had arrived an hour before the influencers, ostensibly to ensure everything was in place. The quiet old opera house had seen nothing like the likes of the musician and his ermine-swathed entourage in its three centuries in Philadelphia, and Alexander felt certain the founders were twirling in their graves that evening.

  Alexander was looking forward to the entire spectacle. Faust was one of his favorite operas, and he definitely saw a potential for creative interpretation. It was all sure to be very exciting. He reached the lobby just in time to see Delysia emerge from a white Jaguar 1952 roadster (as made famous by Audrey Hepburn in How to Steal a Million) as grandly as the Duchess of Cambridge might, waving to the local reporters gathered outside.

  His breath caught in his throat when he saw her. She was absolutely radiant. The lights illuminated her face and hair, making her look larger than life, almost like a Hollywood actress. Even that unorthodox costume looked wonderful on her. The trousers hugged her hips and made her legs look miles long, and the sequined jacket did little to hide the curves beneath. Remembering exactly how those curves looked, encased in scented, silky skin, made him bite the inside of his cheek, and hard.