Once Upon a Time

by Luna Doerr

  Well, okay, maybe I had.

  Sim had warned me that it might be hard to watch him touch Erica. That isn’t the problem, I fear. I’m able to keep it together when it’s Sim touching her. It’s Caterine touching Sim that blows my gasket.

  “Sorry. Keep going,” I say.

  Caterine’s arm begins to move again, but tentatively this time, not with the erotic sureness of a minute ago. Sim holds my eyes while she strokes him. He’s trying to stay detached from what she’s doing—for my sake. I look down at my laptop, breaking the eye contact and releasing Sim. Sim isn’t totally an asshole. He’s just a man used to handy, unlimited pussy most of the year.

  When I glance up again, Sim pulls Cat against his chest and kisses her hard. His lips are everywhere on hers, ravaging her, claiming her like a man possessed by a dream. Caterine’s arm hitches as Sim begins to thrust into her hand. Her entire body shakes with the force of his hips rutting forward.

  I. Hate. This.

  Hate it so much that I’m not even hard myself from watching it. Hate it so much I have to force myself to keep my eyes open.

  Charles and Erica.

  I remind myself that this isn’t Sim and Caterine. These are my characters, and I want Charles fantasizing about Erica.

  Try as I might though, it ’s still Caterine I’m seeing.

  It shouldn’t matter. You’re not interested in her. She’s just your assistant.

  Then Caterine’s body absorbs a final sharp jerk, and Sim pulls away. She stumbles back a few steps before catching herself while Sim shoves himself back into his trousers and buttons the weird front flap.

  “I think this is where I wake up,” Sim rasps.

  16

  Caterine

  I sit at my small desk in Alaric’s office while he pounds away on his laptop. I worry he’s going to break the keyboard, the way he nails his fingers against every letter.

  I’m doing nothing, just waiting for Alaric to need me and trying to be inconspicuous. Hard to be inconspicuous when you’re wearing some vintage pajama outfit that’s about as see-through as Saran wrap.

  Alaric stares hard at his computer screen. He’s barely said ten words to me since we came inside. I thought the morning went well. Sim had been helpful during the scene. I hadn’t done anything that made him yell out in pain. I wasn’t in the habit of sticking my hand down a man’s trousers but that seemed to me to be what a man would imagine in a dream.

  It wasn’t so bad, I smirk to myself. Maybe I should adopt that habit, sticking my hand down men’s pants. It had gotten me an amazing kiss, after all.

  But maybe the morning hasn’t gone as well as I think, because Alaric’s surly mood is certainly back. I wish he would tell me what I did wrong. Maybe I’d be better if he gave me more direction ahead of time. I know he doesn’t want me acting with a capital A but it’s hard to simply guess at what he does want.

  The staccato clacking of his keyboard falls silent and he looks over at me.

  “Come here, please.”

  He pushes back from the desk and pulls me in between his knees. For a long moment, he just stares at my body through the cotton, stares so intensely I begin to think he’s trying to see my bones. He presses the cotton flat against my stomach, then dips his thumb into my navel.

  I’m dying to know what he’s thinking.

  “Were Sim and I okay this morning?” I venture to ask.

  He grunts assent. “Sometimes I need to see things closer up. To see them through a character’s eyes.”

  That makes sense. “Do you ever look that closely through your female characters’ eyes?”

  “You’d like that, would you? To watch me inspecting Sim up close.”

  “I don’t think that would appeal to me, no.”

  “Nor me.”

  “Do you have your assistants tell you what it’s like, then? So you can see it through their eyes?”

  He slips his hands around to my bottom, molding the fabric to my curves. “Not usually. They’re models, not writers.”

  I detect a note of condescension in his voice. He pinches the fabric between his fingers and looks up at me, a smile curving across his lips. “Was your chair wet over there?” He leans a few inches to the side to look up at the ceiling above my desk. “Is my roof leaking?”

  I’m too embarrassed to speak. I had hoped he wouldn’t notice the wet spot on the back of the sheath. Am I not supposed to get turned on during the scenes? How am I supposed to avoid that?

  “Perhaps I could make an exception for you, though, Caterine.” He lets the fabric drop from his fingers. “Tell me what it was like to have Sim touching you this morning. Why would Erica have gotten wet in her husband’s dream?”

  I think for a minute. “Well, no man has ever touched her before. He knows that, and would want to be the only man who’s ever made her body feel that way. So he would definitely imagine that, that everything she’s feeling she’s feeling for the first time.”

  I bite my lip, waiting for his response.

  “And what did it feel like to touch his penis? That was a bold move for a virgin.”

  “It was his dream, though. I thought that’s what he would imagine.”

  “What was Erica thinking, feeling his cock for the first time?”

  “She wasn’t. It wasn’t her dream.”

  He chuckles darkly. “Touché.”

  He spins me around until I’m facing his desk. Unfortunately his computer is asleep, the screen dark, so I can’t see the draft. He presses the cotton against my hip.

  “You can see your tattoo through this.”

  “I’m guessing ladies back then didn’t have rose tattoos.”

  He slides the sheath up over my hip and rubs his thumb over the rose. My skin burns beneath his touch.

  “Doubtful.”

  “It could be a birthmark,” I suggest.

  He slides his hand further down my hip, then stops on my thigh. “Hmm. There’s an idea. Maybe she wouldn’t want him to see it.”

  A knock sounds at the door, then Sim steps through carrying a tray of sandwiches and sodas. He’s changed into jeans and a tee shirt. I’m guessing there will be no more scenes with him today. Unexpected disappointment blooms in my chest.

  Sim sets the tray down on Alaric’s immaculate desk. “Hope I’m not interrupting anything.” He leans over to look at my hip. “Didn’t notice that this morning. Nice. Not historically accurate, probably.”

  “No,” Alaric says. “But we were discussing the idea of making it a birthmark.”

  “Damn. I was contemplating the idea of Charles giving her a tattoo.”

  Alaric lets the sheath drop back over my hip and spins me back around to face him, but not quickly enough. Sim notices the wet spot.

  “That me or you?”

  “Does it matter?” Alaric says coldly.

  “To my ego, it does.”

  “Your ego’s in fine shape. We’re still working here.”

  The note of dismissal in Alaric’s voice is unmistakable, and I catch the look of surprise—then hurt—that skims across Sim’s face. Without a word, he picks up a sandwich and a can of soda from the tray and leaves. The door slams behind him.

  I ease myself away from Alaric, and he lets me go.

  “Is everything okay?” I ask.

  “Yes. Fine.”

  The sharp way he says “fine,” though, indicates otherwise.

  “Did I do something wrong this morning? You can tell me. I want to do this right.”

  “No, Caterine. You were perfect.” Alaric pops open a can of soda.

  “Did Sim do something wrong?”

  He pours what has to be half the can of soda down his throat. “No. Sim’s fine. Caterine, I’m—” An odd look passes over his face, then vanishes. “I’m under a lot of stress. From a family issue.”

  “Your father. How is he doing?”

  Alaric fusses with his sandwich for awhile, tucking the lettuce more neatly between the bread, licking a smear of mayo
from his thumb.

  “Well, he’s going to die. No two ways around that. He’s an old man. More than that, I don’t really want to discuss.”

  I retreat with my sandwich and soda back to the tiny desk across the room. “If there’s anything I can do to help, please let me know.”

  17

  Alaric

  I can think of several things she can do to help. She could undo my pants the way she had Sim’s that morning, slide her warm little hand in there and pull me out. Kneel between my knees and fuck me with her mouth the way she had in the hotel. That had been … heart-stopping.

  I try not to watch her as she eats, as she closes those pretty lips around her sandwich. A woman eating a sandwich should not be erotic. But it is. I look down at my own, remembering as I do that Sim made the sandwiches.

  Sim is handier in the kitchen than I am. Sim hadn’t grown up with cooks and in-house pastry chefs. He possesses more practical, day-to-day living skills than I do.

  And if it’s going to bother you that she is eating a sandwich made by Sim’s hand, you need to learn to cook real fast.

  I don’t know why I’m in such a funk. It’s only partly due to my father. That the old bastard is dying, I could care less about. Good riddance to a boil on the ass of the planet. His scheme to blackmail me—yes, that’s contributing to my black mood.

  But Caterine is here now—my Erica is here now. I should be able to get the book finished quickly enough to have my cake and eat it too. Use Caterine and still preserve my sister’s inheritance.

  When my sandwich is finished, I wake up my computer and go back to work. I need to get the morning’s scene written while the details are still fresh, still sharply outlined in my mind.

  Charles had dreamed of his wife often. He couldn’t say he loved her. They hadn’t known each other long enough for that. Maybe they would never love each other—husbands and wives often didn’t. But he had looked forward to a life with her. She would have been a good wife, he was certain of that.

  His dreams always ended before he undressed her, to his eternal frustration. Just another five minutes of sleep and he might know what his Erica looked like beneath her pretty dresses and sleeping sheaths. Oh, it wasn’t that Charles had never seen a woman naked before. He had spent time enough in brothels. But he wanted to imagine that his wife had softer lips, unblemished skin. That she was a clean slate upon which to write his desires. Erica was untouched. The women at the brothel were not only very touched, they were roughly handled all day—and night—long. They served a purpose, he wouldn’t deny that, but he didn’t put them in the same class of women as he did his wife. They were loose in more ways than one.

  He was man enough to admit it. The thought of being Erica’s first lover was heady stuff. Intoxicating. To be the first man she had ever seen, the first man she touched, the first man she let into her body … he had thought many a time that if the war didn’t kill him, the waiting surely would.

  The dream was the only thing that had sustained him, kept him alive, during the hardships of war. But now the dream was his torture. He was home, lying in his bed down the hall from her room, and he couldn’t have her. He was no longer the man she had married. He had been handsome, strong, before. Now he had a weak leg that left him hobbling as he walked. And his face. Slashed by a sword.

  Would that he had died of his wounds, and left Erica a widow. Spared her the humiliation of a disfigured husband. He would support her and cherish her, but he would not force himself upon her. He would not make her take him into her body, make her look upon his hideous visage, make her feign pleasure. She was too precious for that. He would go back to the brothel, as before. He knew which women there wouldn’t even bother to feign pleasure.

  18

  Caterine

  Charles looked up from his ledger when the door to his study opened.

  “Frederica.”

  “My lord.”

  “Do you need something?”

  “I brought you tea.” She waited a beat before approaching his desk and another moment before setting down the tray she carried.

  “Where is …” He wracked his brain for the name of the servant girl. He’d been back nearly a month but names still flitted through his mind like tiny birds, never settling for long. “She should be bringing the tea.”

  “She is in the kitchen. I wanted to bring your tea.”

  “I see.”

  She took a step back from his desk, biting her lip uncertainly. She was as lovely as when he left for war. Too bad the same couldn’t be said for him.

  “Do you have a moment?” she asked.

  He closed the ledger. “Yes. What do you need?”

  She bit her lip again. “Before you left, we never …”

  “Never what?”

  “Never, you know ...” She waved her slender hand in the air. “Well, consummated … things.”

  He leaned back in his chair, and folded his hands in his lap.

  She went on. “And, well, you’ve been back now for several weeks and I’m not … I’m not sure where I stand, your lord.”

  A lovely wash of pink was staining her cheeks, her neck, her sternum above the delicate neckline of her gown. He knew where this was going, but it was a conversation he didn’t want to have. If things had been different … he shifted his hands to cover the growing hardness in his lap. What she wanted had to remain in his dreams only, lest it become the stuff of nightmares for her.

  “I can’t go back to my father’s home. He won’t have me.”

  “Nor do I want you to, Frederica. You are my wife. My feelings for you have not changed.”

  “But then … why …”

  “Frederica, look at me. I am hideous, not the man you married. I won’t force consummation on you. But we are still married. I have no intention of abandoning you, or putting you out.”

  “But men have needs.”

  “I can get those needs taken care of elsewhere.”

  Her fingers fluttered about the edges of her neckline.

  I stand between Sim’s legs as my fingers slowly unlace the bodice of my dress. Strictly speaking, it’s not a Regency style.

  “Duly noted,” Alaric had said.

  I’m guessing his readers neither know nor care how women in Regency England dressed. At the moment, I don’t care much either.

  Sim’s eyes are dark on my hands as I work the strings loose. He’s supposed to be angry, angry that Erica is taunting him this way. Sim looks more eager than angry.

  I’m nervous. This is going to be the first time. With Sim. In front of Alaric. Sim felt pretty big in my hand yesterday. What if it hurts?

  I hesitate a moment before letting the dress fall over my hips and onto the floor. Sim’s nostrils flare. Odd, the details you notice. That’s why Alaric does this, I suppose. To see the details you might not think of otherwise.

  The details start happening fast after that. Sim grabs my hips roughly and spins me around, pushing my chest down onto Alaric’s desk. His thighs spread my own wide and then he’s inside me, in one smooth thrust. I gasp at the intrusion, at his size.

  Across the room, Alaric scowls, watching and taking notes on his laptop. I hold his narrowed eyes with my own. This isn’t sexy at all. I have to resist rolling my eyes. Alaric had sold me on this job partially with the promise of hot sex.

  This is about as hot as National Geographic.

  Alaric’s eyes leave mine and look at Sim behind me. He nods and Sim begins stroking into me.

  “Harder,” Alaric commands.

  “I’ve got to get her ready,” Sim replies, his hips thrusting gently against my ass. “Fuck. She’s tight.”

  Across the room, Alaric closes his eyes.

  Sim leans over her and whispers, “Are you all right?”

  I nod.

  “Okay if I go faster?”

  I nod again.

  Alaric opens his eyes just as Sim slams into me with enough force to move the desk forward several inches. I bite down h
ard on my lip. Across the room, Alaric types furiously.

  Erica gasped when Charles thrust into her. This wasn’t what she’d had in mind. She’d been thinking more along the lines of his bed, pillows, linens, face to face. Not this way, the way animals did it. The edge of the desk was hard against her hip as he pounded into her. It hadn’t been her intention to anger him. She had simply wanted to offer him what a wife was supposed to offer. Oh, she knew he’d been with other women, loose women, while he was away. But she had spent the years waiting for him, alone, imagining his body beneath the clothes, imagining his hands on her skin.

  He shouted behind her, thrust again and was still. Erica squeezed her eyes tight against the tears that threatened. She was being silly. She had let herself be led on by her sister’s tales of marriage. Apparently, her sister’s husband was a passionate and patient lover. But that wasn’t the norm, Erica knew. Even among her own friends, sex was a means to an end. Specifically, to an heir. After that, the women were glad to see their husbands riding off to the brothels to “get their needs taken care of elsewhere.”

  She felt Charles withdraw and cool air replaced the burning in her quim. Then Charles smacked her bottom, hard. She cried out.

  “There. Consummated,” he said roughly. “Now go.”

  I’m not sure at what point Sim will stop. Or if he will stop at all. Alaric and Sim had provided doctor’s notes and I’d provided that plus pharmacy receipts for my birth control pills. But Alaric has been purposely vague about how real things will get. He refuses even to let me read what he’s written of the story thus far.

  “I need your reactions to be natural,” he said. “If you know what to expect, you’ll start acting.”

  Sim is leaning over me now, his large hands spread flat on the desk on either side of my shoulders. He is still slamming into me, the desk shaking beneath me. My eyes water from the pain of the desk cutting into my hip. Across the room, Alaric’s expression is impassive, remote. I wonder if this turns him on. Probably not, given how many books he’s written. Just another day at the office.