It Stings So Sweet (31 page)

The longer it goes on, the more I give myself over to it. I want them to see me
do it. I want to do it just the way she likes it. It doesn’t matter that my mouth is sore and my tongue
is tired. It only matters that I want to make her come. I want to make her come because she wants
it. And I also want her to come because Robert wants it.

He’s done this to me and I love him
for it

Clara finally moans, still pulling my hair. “Don’t stop. Just like that . . . oh, just
like that, just like that!”

Three rhythmic tenses of her belly and she’s pulsing against my
tongue, crying out in rapture. But that isn’t the end of it. She holds my face there afterwards, making
me kiss her pussy softly until she’s spent.

Flushed and panting, her grip turns gentle and
she strokes my cheek. Then she bends down to kiss me, tenderly and with genuine affection. “Good girl.”

The moment she releases me, I look up at Robert and watch him
snap
.

Never in all the times
we’ve been together has he grabbed me with such force. He pulls my clothes off like he owns me,
like I’m his, like he can share me if he wants to. I can’t escape him. And I don’t want to. He has me
naked in seconds, spread flat on the coffee table, the cool polished surface slippery beneath my shoulder
blades.

I don’t know what’s happening. I don’t much care, as long as his hands are on me. He
tilts my head back and presses the shining crown of his cock against my lips. I take him in my mouth
and realize there are more hands on me than just his. The silky brush of Clara’s hair against my
belly makes me cry out, but my sounds are muffled by Robert’s shaft as it slides smoothly over my tongue.

The sensation is too much. I’m sucking him as Clara sucks on me and I can’t stand it. His testicles
bump my nose, forcing me to breathe around his tempo. Clara uses her tongue to torture me. It
thrusts, it squirms, it taps and taunts. Her tongue rasps mercilessly against my sex until I’m dying
of obscene, wicked rapture.

I want to please Robert. I want to please Clara. I want to please
them all. I feel like the tiniest person in the room. A toy for them to play with. And the thought
makes me come.

I scream around Robert’s throbbing cock, awash in ecstasy.

I want to drink
him while my own orgasm consumes me, but he pulls me down to my hands and knees by Leo’s feet. I
look up at the famous aviator and catch a look that passes between him and Robert. They don’t need
to speak; whatever they say is in a language all their own, but it looks like gratitude, understanding,
and maybe . . . grace.

It’s a strange thing to see, especially knowing that Robert is going
to fuck me now. I shake with the knowing of it. I smell like Clara and need—I’ve done something utterly
wicked and I’m reveling in it. Sex is base. Sex is animalistic. Sex is rooted in the earth. Its
smells, its feel, its fluids, and its consequences are grounded in the here and now. But when he thrusts
into me, I feel my spirit fly.

It doesn’t take Robert long to finish, and when he does, we
collapse together to the floor.

I laugh because I’m filled with unexpected joy. Robert chuckles,
too, breathless, clutching me.

“Now
that
would have made a good movie,” Leo says, with a tip
of his glass.

Clara crawls to her husband. “You don’t think I forgot about you, do you, Ace?”

“To the contrary, Mrs. Vanderberg, you sure do know how to show a fella a good time.”

Clara and Leo make love in the chair.

Right in front of us.

And why not?

Spooning
together in wordless emotion, Robert and I watch them. And they’re beautiful to watch. I like the way
Clara moves. I like the way Leo touches her. They don’t care that we’re watching; I think they’ve
forgotten we’re even here. They are two people so attuned to one another, so perfectly trusting of each
other, that nothing else in the world matters. They’re so in love that it radiates off them.

I can feel it. And my own emotions rise up in me.

“Thank you for giving this to me,” Robert
murmurs.

It was my fantasy and he gave it to
me
. But somehow, I understand. I’ve closed a circuit
for him—I’ve made the same connections with the people he cares about. I’ve shared with him something
he doesn’t allow himself to have anymore. He was discontented and I’ve given him contentment.

There’s something sacred in that.

“I’m falling in love with you,” Robert whispers.

My heart fills to bursting, but I’m afraid to believe. “No, no, you aren’t.”

“Yes,” he insists,
his lips in my hair. “I am. And there’s nothing halfway about it.”

The declaration steals my
breath away all the more for the quiet, sincerity with which he utters it. A lump lodges itself in
my throat as I feel the weight of his stare. I don’t know what to say or how to say it because what’s
inside me feels too big for words.

CHAPTER

Nine

A sliver of cruel morning sun tortures me from the
only part of the window not covered by the curtains. My tongue rolls thick and furry in my mouth and
a thousand tiny protesters roar their fury every time I move my head.

“Here,” Robert says,
sittin
g at the edge of the bed with a tonic in his hand. “This’ll help.”

I take a sip, but
my belly threatens rebellion. “I think I’m going to be sick.”

“Allow me to introduce you to
your very first hangover.”

That makes me laugh, which hurts my head. “You’ve introduced me
to rather a lot of firsts.”

He beams, boyish in the morning light. “Your first time, your first
drink, your first hangover, your first girl . . . oh, Sophie, don’t hide under the covers!”

I do it mostly to keep the sun from stabbing at my eyes, but the sharp edge of embarrassment cuts me,
too. “Did that really happen? With Clara. Last night?”

“Oh, yes. I don’t have photographic
evidence, so you’ll have to take my word.”

I whimper. “I can’t even imagine the discussion
you must have had to arrange it—”

“I didn’t arrange it.”

“But, last night, in the club,
you said—”

“By then, I knew,” Robert says. “I know their moods.”

He takes my hand, lifts
my fingers to his lips, and kisses them. “Don’t say you regret it, Sophie, or you’ll break my heart.
I needed that so much. We don’t ever have to do it again, but I won’t be able to bear it if you
remember the evening with disgust.”

“Disgust is the very last thing I feel,” I confess.

I stand shocked at my own behavior. At my reckless loss of self-control. But the memories that flash
through my mind only make me sigh with renewed desire. Clara’s lips. Her breasts. Her taste. Robert’s
encouragement. Leo’s cool observation. Somehow, the utter licentiousness of it fills me with satisfaction.

“I understand why you wanted to be with them.”

His expression softens. “Sophie, last night
wasn’t about them. I need you to know that watching
you
excited me more than anything or anyone
has ever excited me.”

“That can’t be true,” I say, wary of believing him.

“Do you need
proof?” he asks, sliding between the decadently silky sheets with prurient intent.

I hold him
at bay with both hands. “Only if you can prove it quietly without jostling my pounding head . . .”

“Sophie . . . I’ve enjoyed the company of many women; I won’t lie about that, but none of them
ever needed me before and—”

“And you think
I
do?” I take umbrage.

“You
definitely
do.
Spending your days philosophizing and making trouble. Hiding all that sex appeal beneath prim dresses
and shabby underwear. Walking around with a head full of wild fantasies and no one to make them come
true. It’s criminal. You need me badly.”

“You’re awfully full of yourself,” I say, my cheeks
hot.

But I don’t deny it, either.

“And I need you, too, Sophie. Because you make me feel
like a man.”

I roll my eyes, then realize he isn’t teasing. He’s trying to tell me something
important.

He clears his throat. “I’ve been an overgrown boy most of my life because nobody
ever expected very much from me and I’ve never disappointed them. Very few people ever needed me. I
can count them on one hand and most of them died in the war. But
you
need me, you trust me, and
because of that, I’m starting to trust myself. You challenge me to be smarter, stronger, and more disciplined.
You make me want to be better.”

“And that excites you?” I ask, thoroughly confused.

“Everything
about you excites me. When I tell you to do something and you obey me, it’s such a thrill
that my cock jumps to attention. And last night, good
Christ
, you made me lose my mind.”

“Perhaps
you were just aroused because Clara was in the room.”

He snorts. “Maybe that’s why
you
were
so aroused. I adore Clara, but she can’t hold a candle to you in my eyes. She’s a sweet ball of drama
covered in a candy shell, but you’re something to chew on. There’s nothing jaded or hard about you.
You’re the genuine article, the real McCoy . . . and I think you were made for me.”

Twinkling lights transform the hotel rooftop into an elegant starlit
venue. A band plays at the far end and several hundred well-dressed people laugh and dance and swipe
hors d’oeuvres from silver trays.

“Is that Douglas Fairbanks and Mary Pickford?” I whisper,
in a near panic. It was one thing for Robert to introduce me to his friends in a speakeasy, but now
he’s squiring me around on
his arm in real society. “Are you sure I should be here?”

“I love
to introduce you to new things,” Robert says with a wink. “Besides, Clara and Leo would be heartbroken
if you didn’t show up.”

Clara and Leo’s aviation film won a big industry award and to celebrate,
they’ve rented out the rooftop of the Aster Hotel. Now they’re dancing, cheek to cheek, cradling
a statuette between them like a love child. They’re strange and gay and happy, and their joy is infectious.

I’m happy, too, and why shouldn’t I be?

There’s a whole night sky of twinkling possibility
overhead.

Clara waves us over. I flush and go tongue-tied as I drift into her orbit, but she
kisses me on both cheeks, easy as duck soup. “Sophie, say you’ll come with us!” Clara turns in her
husband’s arms, leaning against him. “Leo is taking me to Cape Cod for a few weeks and we’re going
sailing. You and Robert should join us. Can you imagine the fun we’ll have on the beaches?”

It sounds wild and decadent and given Clara’s enthusiasm, probably something that Robert has done with
them before. But for a man with his reputation, he’s strangely reticent. Robert says, “I’m afraid
we can’t. I have a hotel to run, you see . . .”

Clara laughs, resting her head on her husband’s
shoulder. “Oh,
bushwa
. You’re the boss, Robert. Give yourself a vacation and we’ll hit every dive
roadhouse on the coast and—”

“Bobby,” Leo interrupts. “Eyes at ten o’clock.”

Robert glances
over his shoulder and stiffens. “Oh
hell
, my father is here.”

Following his gaze, I see the
portly ambassador in a knot of similarly dressed older men sporting long mustaches that went out of
style at least a decade ago.

Leo scowls. “He didn’t tell you he was coming?”

Robert gives
a shake of his head. “He’d rather make a surprise inspection . . .”

A moment later, the ambassador
makes his way over. By way of greeting, he gives a stiff bob of his head. Beside me, Robert
steels himself, tension vibrating through his hand into mine. “Father. It’s good to see you. You know
Mr. and Mrs. Vanderberg of course.”

The ambassador barely acknowledges the duo. “What’s this
bash costing us? You’ve got too many waiters working the floor and—”

“May I introduce my date
for the evening? This is Miss O’Brien.”

The old man nods, indifferently. “A pleasure to meet
you, Miss O’Brien. You look lovely tonight.” It’s a reflexive compliment, dismissive even, as if his
son has introduced him to many young ladies. Then something drags his eyes back to me. “You’re not
Paul Kendrick’s cousin from Ireland, are you?”

The old man’s scrutiny makes me awfully nervous.
“No, sir, I’m afraid not.”

“But you look so familiar,” he says, puffing on a pipe. “What does
your father do?”

Robert starts to say something, but I’m so nervous I talk right over him.
“My father was a coal miner.”

Old Mr. Aster chuckles until his belly jiggles. “A miner, she
says. And I suppose your mother was a kitchen maid. Don’t try to pull the wool over my eyes, girl.
I’ve seen you here before.”

Robert intercedes. “Sophie works in the hotel boutique.”

The ambassador’s expression goes sour as spoiled milk. He glares at his son as if he’d arranged my presence
just to humiliate him. “Of course she does. Yes, I remember now.”

Robert doesn’t shrink under
his sire’s withering glare. “I hope you have a good time tonight, Father. Sophie and I intend to.”

With that, he whisks me away to the dance floor.

We dance. We flirt. We sit close together.

But Robert doesn’t drink. Not one drop.

And the next morning, he’s up and ready for work
at eight o’clock sharp.

I know because I see him in the elegant lobby when Clara and Leo sweep
out, promising to return in a few weeks on their way back from Cape Cod. Embracing in fond farewell,
Clara takes Robert’s face in her hands, telling him something I can’t hear from so far away. Then
Leo shakes Robert’s hand and leans in close to whisper something in his ear.

They love him,
I realize. They love him. Not in any way that there’s a name for. But it
is
love. Deep and abiding.
It ought to make me jealous, but I find myself strangely grateful that two people in the world besides
me know how special Robert is.

Something has changed.

In the days that follow, Ro
bert actually works at his desk all day. He doesn’t laugh as much
as he used to and I begin to think that I’ve done something to ruin his love for me . . .

Maybe that’s why I’m so relieved the night he asks me to join him in his suite. When he opens the doors
to the balcony, my heart starts to gallop as I remember the fantasy I wrote about the girl who makes
love outside, high above the street where anyone might look up and see her. If Robert shares my
instant, eager arousal, he controls it and simply lays a card on the balustrade for me.

Oh,
good. Our game. Smiling, I tear the card open. Then my smile fades away . . .

Marry Me.

The words seem so stark on the pale paper. I’m suddenly dizzied, hypnotized by the faraway sounds
of the car horns from the city below. I turn the card over, as if to see if there is anything more written
on the back. I must stare at the card for a very long time, because Robert noisily clears his
throat.

I look up to see him grinning at me like a mischievous boy, glee shining in his eyes.

He’s very proud of himself and he probably expects a much different reaction than the one he’s
getting. Knowing how very long he’s dodged husband hunters, I’m moved. What woman wouldn’t be? But
I back away from the railing, suddenly afraid of the height. “I don’t understand.”

“It’s a
marriage proposal, Sophie. It isn’t very complicated.”

“But I don’t understand what you mean
by it.”

“I mean to take you as my wife.”

A summer’s night breeze catches my hair. “Why?”

He leans dangerously over the rail. “Because it would make everything so much better, don’t
you think? For one, we could stop using French letters. Wouldn’t you like to feel me bare inside you?
Hot pulses jetting up into your womb?”

The thought does make me a little weak in the knees,
at least until I consider all the children that might follow. “You said you wanted to become a respectable
businessman and move into the family mansion . . .”

The corner of his mouth lifts. “I’ll take
you with me, of course.”

The idea makes me slightly ill. “And what would we do? Take the train
into the city for work every day or be chauffeured by your driver?”

A flicker of confusion
passes over his face. “You wouldn’t have to work, Sophie. Not another day in your life.”

My
anxiety blossoms into full-blown panic. “What if I wanted to?”

“Why the devil would you want
to? Why would anyone want to work if they didn’t have to for money or the sake of appearance?”

My lips press together to hold back barbed words that nearly fly off my tongue. I take a deep
breath and try to remain calm. “I don’t plan to be a shopgirl forever and there are a great number
of causes I care about.”

“You’ve made that clear,
Comrade
. But as my wife, you’ll need to be
more careful about which ones you lend my name to.”

I think of all the times he’s indulged
me with a wink and a nod. The reality of what he’s suggesting sinks in with horrible clarity. He sees
me as the kind of woman who will marry a man and become an extension of him, a possession he can control.
Perhaps the spankings aroused him because he always thought of me as a child. I’ve let him think
that. Until now, I enjoyed his mastery of me as love play. I’ve dismissed his Victorianism as quaint
and charming. But maybe it was deadly earnest. Maybe it was a thing meant to transform me into
a wife.