The sun was high already in the sky when James' eyes at last flickered dully open. His arms instinctively grasping for the girl who had lain so tenderly upon him the past night, whose words and cries and actions had left him lying there awake for hours in the dark, his mind inflamed with ardor...but she was gone. He was alone there in the bed - blessedly, damnably alone, his relief a hollow spectre before the deeper stab of disappointment. His first real action as he stirred awake, to glance blearily around the room, hoping he might look upon her beauty as a welcome to the day. Perhaps that they might talk about the night before.
God. Such madness, that. His memories of it were as vivid as if it were happening only now, feeling her body clench and squirm around his finger, that favored digit advancing at her urging into the velvet wetness of her womanhood. Her melodies of pleasure resounding in his ear, subtly emphatic sighs and whimpers, evocative enough to stir a dead man's heart. And the hysteria which had come over her before the end...he was not wholly shocked by it, as her mother had been prone to such fits herself, when in the act. But it was still an all-too-tempting thing, to feel her body arch and shudder there against him, to hear that gasping little cry as she clung so tight and desperate to his chest. The seeming of a moment's helplessness, in this girl so bold and strong.
Bold, yes. Even in light of the nights before, of her explorations with his hand, he still had not imagined she would dare so far. Perhaps his first few moments of passivity could be blamed on that, on the surprise that froze his will when she slipped his hand beneath her bedclothes, when he felt his fingers slide amidst that thatch of dewy, tangled hair. Perhaps. But for the afterward...there could be no excuse. Nothing to justify the way he'd only lay beside her, permitting her to penetrate herself upon his finger. No explanation but his weakness, his own depraved desires - he'd known that he must stop her, that this could not be allowed, but in the warmth and dark beside her he could not find the will to act on it. Could not refuse the sweetness of this sin.
Ah, and then the afterward. When she lay upon him, when his rigid, aching manhood had been pressed into her thigh, when she trailed those slender, skillful fingers down along his chest. When she offered herself to him, if he wanted her...
if
. The absurdity of that question. If water was wet, if the sky were blue. If he could think of anything beyond the way her womanhood had almost seemed to suckle at his finger, the silken, youthful tightness of her channel, the modest weight of her on top of him, and the feeling of those strong and sculpted legs entwined with his - it was no less than a miracle that he had not succumbed to his desires, that the paltry thing he called a conscience had grabbed his tongue for long enough to speak at all. One last gasp of effort, holding back the lustful roaming of his hands for sufficient time that she could fall asleep...a sanctuary, that. Before the soft and calming cadence of her breath, the gentle pressure of her bosom pushing at his chest with every inhalation, even the demon there inside him could not bear to wake her from her rest.
For what little it was worth. What good it was to last one single night, when so many more awaited. A sickly sort of certainty sat firm and fatalistic at the bottom of his mind - he would not be able to resist another. Not the way things were. Not when even in the sober light of a solitary morning his flesh was yet aflame with the remnants of her touch, when his perverse imagination whirled with lurid dreams of them together in the night, of those perfect legs wrapped tight around his back, of soaking in her pleasured cries as he thrust forcefully inside her, unleashing every ounce of lust that he felt seething in his veins.
And how much more damning, now, that the thought little even phased him, that it did not shock him anymore that he would think of her this way. That he could summon just the faintest twinge of guilt and self-disgust as he brought before his lips the finger that had been inside her, inhaled slowly of her scent still clinging to his skin...oh, that subtle musk of womanhood, rich and pungent, thick and heady as the spices of a foreign land. Filled with wordless whispers to the animal in man. All his recriminations were little competition to the excitement that it spurred, the eager appetite that tingled up his spine in anticipation of the night ahead. After all, a man can only take so much. She was so beautiful a creature, intoxicating and sublime, offering herself to him. And he had been without a woman's company in what felt so very long...
The thought occurred almost unwelcome, a shiver of reason interrupting his inching towards surrender. Perhaps he was in need of the relief that only a woman's touch can give...but that did not mean that it must be her. There were other women in the world, even if his eyes had scarcely seemed to notice them of late, women who were not his kin, with whom an hour's leisure would not be the gravest of sins. And while he little had the charm to win an honest woman's fancy as swiftly as he needed, there was rarely any shortage of fallen angels to work the bars and brothels of the land. He still was in possession of that little pile of bills, neatly bundled in his pack - it might not be so hard a thing to buy a bit of respite, some clarity of mind. Perhaps to find his sanity again, once his frustrated haze of lust was burnt away.
Strange, though, the uncomfortable misgiving that flitted through him at the thought. Guilt, as though he were contemplating a betrayal. The memory of Alice there upon his chest, still trembling with hysteria, proclaiming so enchantingly sincere that she was now his woman, that they were joined. As if the night had been a kind of promise, a vow between two people that no church would ever wed, that he now threatened to forsake.
Nonsense. Reason was a scowling thing, stern and cold. Absurdity. A man could not be unfaithful to his daughter, whatever madness there had come to be between them - this was just another sign of his corruption, coming up with senseless reasons to give in. Whatever she had said, he would be a better father if he did this. Cleared his mind with a quick indulgence, so that her presence did not arouse in him desires to excruciating, so divine. And afterward...perhaps find her another man that she could love, that she
should
love, that would have no cause for guilt or hesitation at the power of her passion. Though this thought, too, made for a silent ache down in his marrow, one that he had to glare away as he rose up out of bed, preparing for the day.
---
It did not take long to track down Javier - the man was working in his office when James let himself in, peering over a ledger of tight-spaced, half-scribbled numbers. Seeming happy enough to drop it back down to his desk, looking up cheerily to the door as the other man entered. "Ah, good morning, Señor Blake!" Faint amusement in his ever-sunny smile. "Or good nearly-noon, as the case may be. It is good to see you up - your company at breakfast was sorely missed."
"Had a rough night." It seemed safe enough a thing to say, tense and still conflicted. Deciding how to broach the question he was there to ask.
"I could imagine, yes." The response came back a trifle dry. "Would that we all could have such nights. I find my own of late to be a touch more settled than I might desire...but. You are hungry, I suppose? I would hardly think I need to say it, but you need not hesitate to make requests of the chef. He is not so busy in these days that he should balk at another chance to practice his craft." Humor tugging slightly sideways at his lip.
"No, ain't hungry in particular." A bit too dry and stuffy in the room - James wet his lips before he spoke again. "Alice around?"
