Page 103 of Chaos

I remember the low thrum of his voice as he called me beautiful and perfect, the feel of his breath on my skin, the gentleness with which he touched me. “Yes.”

He gets the door open, guides me inside with a hard hand at my hip.

It’s dark inside the suite as he presses me against the door, rucking up my silky dress, finding the edge of the tiny panties I put on.

He groans when his fingers find the strap. “Always dark lately, moonlight and candles,” he says in that same low voice. “Someday I’m going to fuck you in the sun. Right outside in a field somewhere.”

I can imagine it so well. A picnic blanket spread on the grass. A blue summer sky. He’s weaving a spell, transporting me as far from the cellar as he possibly can. “Let’s make that a goal.”

“Good. You’ll be just like this.” He pushes my emerald duster over my shoulders and it falls to the floor. “White dress, no bra, tiny panties.”

Except I’ll be pregnant, but why ruin his fantasy with a beachball stuffed into my abdomen? So I don’t remind him. “What will you wear?”

“Whatever you want me to.” His hands slide down to grip my ass and he lifts me up high, so my legs circle his waist and my face is right above his.

“Are assless chaps an option?”

“Definitely no.”

“Boo.”

“What do I call you? Other than Frankie? I feel like if I’m going to talk nonstop during sex I need names for you.”

“Schnookums? Pookie?”

“I hate saying no to you, but you keep setting me up.” He carries me across the room, lurches, nearly dropping me and staggers forward, before righting me. “Fucking legos.”

Once I’m over my fear of falling, I can’t not giggle.

“Don’t laugh,” He strides into the bedroom, tacking a semi-snide, “Sweetheart,” onto the end.

“Sounds British.Sweeeet-haaaaaaahht.”I drawl the last part, feeling like Elizabeth Bennett, which would make him apompous Fitzwilliam. “Oh, you’d be awesome in a Darcy-verse.”

He gets his knee on the bed and sets me down on the center of it, my legs still wrapped around his waist. “We have a Darcy-verse?”

“Why not? You’d be beautiful dressed in britches.”

“I don’t know about a top hat.” He sets me on the bed. “My love?”

That has me melting. I wonder briefly what I would call him. “I like my love.”

He unbuttons his dress coat, revealing a snowy white button down. “Scoot back.” He pulls off his boots and pads across the carpet barefoot, turning on a lamp in the corner that floods the room with soft light. “Strip. I want to see those pretty tits.”

The coarseness of the command has me pausing for a moment.

It’s so unlike him. And then I realize what he’s doing. He listened, boiled it down, and found the pith of my words. He heard me like only Yorke ever has.

I felt scared and dirty.

Worse, I felt powerless.

He could strip off my clothes now, but instead, he’s giving me control over when and how it happens, while simultaneously reassuring me it’s what he wants, and taking away any insecurities that linger from the cellar’s filth.

I’ll take it.

All of it.

I sit up on my knees and pull the slinky silky dress over my head and toss it into a pool on the floor.

---