Page 12 of Pleasure Lessons

I don’t answer. I just pretend to clear my throat and lower my eyes.

He steps close to me. I smell something on him–maybe another woman’s perfume. His hand reaches out for mine, and when his fingers close around my wrist, I flinch. I can’t help it.

“You’re shaking, Cassandra. Have you eaten?” He glances over at the silver dome of my breakfast tray, sitting on the side-table. I pretend to scratch my neck and pull my hand away.

“I have,” I reply, lying through my teeth. Arthur’s jaw ticks, but he doesn’t push it. He sees right through me. It’s one of his most disconcerting qualities. He lets things slide, but later, when I’m least expecting it, he lectures me on what he’ll expect from me once we’re married. What it means to be his wife and carry the family name with “grace” and “discipline.” My heart turns to ice just thinking of it.

That lecture comes laterin the evening after my father shows up for dinner. He fawns all over Arthur, his eyes beaming like he’s so proud of their arrangement–the future he’s bartered on my behalf. A deal I dread.

“Look at her.” He smiles, spreading caviar on toast. “She’ll be a princess here, Arthur. She already is!”

He’s tipsy off all the champagne they’ve been drinking. It’s beyond embarrassing. Here they are, talking about me like I’msome Disney princess, when really, I feel like the final-girl in a thriller-horror movie.

I smile and nod, however, like a good girl should, until the dishes are cleared. Arthur twirls his glass and leans in. “By the way, you’ll be accompanying me to the gala I’m hosting at my club next weekend.” Arthur owns a golf club, because of course he does. “A designer will be here in three days to fit you for your dress.”

He winks, as though having a dress handmade for me is suddenly going to make me feel like the luckiest woman in the world. I guess Arthur just can’t fathom the fact that women don’t want to be bought.

I open my mouth to reply, but he’s already talking to my dad again. They start lighting up cigars and talking business, and I politely excuse myself upstairs. The second I’m back in my room, I strip out of the uncomfortable dress he had me wearing and the brand-new heels that have been killing my feet. I trade them for a pair of athletic shorts and a soft T-shirt I’ve worn countless times. Then I slip my hand under my mattress where I’ve hidden the romance novel I’m currently reading.

I cradle it like a tender little secret. Because it is a secret. It’smysecret. My only outlet into the psyche of a man, until Rhett came along.

I sink into bed and curl up under the covers. My heart still stings from not hearing from him all day. My stomach feels hollow but not because I haven’t eaten all day. The second I open the book and the smell of the paper enters my nostrils, something inside me comes alive.

The scene I reached last time was a spicy scene near the climax of the book, where the heroine, who is desperate for the hero’s touch, finally admits to him that she’s ready. That she’s desperate for him. I knew I had to stop here or I wouldn’t be ableto get to sleep, but as I delve in, suddenly the heroine is no longer who I am picturing in my mind.

It’s me.

And the hero is Rhett, looming over me, his jaw sharp, his cheekbones chiseled, his voice gravelly and strong.“If I teach you, it won’t be like my tennis lessons. I won’t be able to take things slow with you. There won’t be any beginner lessons. We’ll jump right into the advanced classes.”

I close my eyes and let his words sink into me.

“You’re mine,”he growled, slamming the door behind him as he walked toward her, his eyes flaming with desire. “Say it to me.”

“I’m yours,” she whimpered, scared but also elated by the pure lust in his gaze.

Slowly, my hand begins to drift beneath the covers, as if moving on its own. Without me even thinking of it.

It’s not something I’ve ever done before–not really. I’ve never really known just what to do or had any real reason to do it.

But now my body is on fire. A slow and steady ache is building between my thighs as I imagine Rhett’s rough, skilled hands on my body, his mouth on my neck, his tender breath against my skin. I think back to how he kissed me, as if he was going to lose his mind if I didn’t kiss him back.

My fingers move lower, beneath the hem of my panties.

My breath catches as I feel how wet I already am. I move even lower, imagining my fingers are Rhett’s as he whispers in my ear,“I’ll show you, baby. I’ll teach you.”And then the hesitation disappears, overtaken by a rush of desire that lights my whole body on fire.

Goosebumps spread across my limbs, and my legs begin to tingle as I touch myself. My back arches off the bed and my hips sway, moving like they themselves know just what to do, even ifmy brain does not. I picture him on top of me–his weight, his warmth, his pressure, the growl in his throat as he fills my ears with talk like from one of my books.

A gasp slips from my lips as my core grows hotter. I have no idea what I’m doing, but I like it. I don’t stop. I can’t stop. Not when Rhett is filling my mind.

My thighs tighten. My toes curl until my feet start to cramp. I picture his eyes locked on mine, like a hero from a romance novel, heavy with hunger and desire. His callused, skilled fingers slide down my stomach and under the waistband of my pajamas, down under my panties.

“Just like this,”he’d say to me.“Touch yourself like this, Cassandra. You only have a few more seconds before I take over.”

“I want you to,” I say out loud, my voice quivering.

And that’s when it happens.

I go off.

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