A 21st Century Courtesan (21 page)

I am desperate that Enzo not be blamed. I look at Joshua and he's watching me in that way he has, with total concentration. But I can read the shock all over his face, in his tight features.

“Yes, I can see that,” he says quietly.

He gets up then, begins the pacing all over again. I'm quiet, watching him. I have no idea what to expect.

He stops in front of me, his eyes blazing. “Tell me what you've clone. All of it.”

“What? You want a laundry list? Joshua, why do you want to put yourself through that? Why do you need to know?”

“I just do. Tell me.”

“Okay. Okay.” I run a hand through my hair, squeeze the strands between my fingers. I feel sick. “I don't know where to start.”

“Have you had anal sex with these guys?”

I nod my head.

“Talk to me, Valentine.”

His voice is harsh. My heart breaks a little more. But I answer him.

“Yes.”

“What about group sex?”

“Yes.”

“Sex with other women?”

“Yes, all of that.”

“Kinky stuff? Bondage?”

“Not much kink, no.”

“Did you like it?”

“God, Joshua … you already know …”

“I need you to say it.”

“Yes. I liked it. Most of it, anyway. Is that what you want to know? ”

“Yes!” he hisses. He rubs a hand over his jaw, says more quietly, “Yes. Because … it makes it seem less wrong if you weren't compromising every bit of yourself to do these things.”

This is shocking, not what I expected him to say at all.
He's still angry, though; I can see it in the clench of his jaw, in his burning eyes. I'm on the defense; I want to explain myself to him, even if he can never truly understand.

“So, do you really day trade, or is that just a cover?”

“I do some trading. I'm not dependent on it, but I make some declarable income that way.”

“And have you really been to college? Have you been taking art history courses?”

“Yes. Yes! That's all true. The only thing I kept from you was my … occupation. The rest is all true.”

“What else, Valentine?”

“I'm not hiding anything else from you. There's nothing left for me to hide. But you should know that I've been tested for HIV every six weeks the whole time. I'm clean. I don't want you to worry about that. I know that's not… normal. To have to live this way.

“There's been nothing else to my life, really, for the last nine years. I'm either working or I'm alone. There is nothing in between. I've tried dating a few times, but it's always horribly disappointing. The sex is such a letdown. And I can never be myself, because no one who is not a client can ever know what I do. And so I gave it up, finally, the dating. Trying to have any kind of normal life. I suppose I was resigned. Numb. And then I met you.”

“And?”

I know what he's asking.

“And I knew from the first moment I met you that something was different. That things could be different. And they have been. Everything is different with you, Joshua. The sex is … amazing. A revelation, if you want to know the truth. For the first time in so long, ever maybe, I'm feeling …
something.
Everything! But it's turned my life upside down. Maybe that needed to happen. I know it did. But now I'm just… I know what I need to do. I just don't know how to go about it.”

He nods his head a few times. “Okay.” He gets up, starts the pacing all over again while I sit there with my heart pounding out of my chest, my fingers clamping together so hard it hurts. “Thank you for telling me.”

Ever the gentleman. Even now.

My heart is thudding like a series of hammer blows in my chest. I'm almost sober again. I watch him pace, wait for the verdict. I already know what's coming: that he will walk out the door, walk out of my life. But like some twisted masochist, I have to hear the words from him. I have to hear him say it's over.

Finally, he sits down again, asks, “So, what happens now?”

“You're asking me?”

“Yes.”

I shake my head, unable to grasp what he's saying. “Are you telling me I have some choice here?”

“Don't you?”

“Joshua …” But my throat closes up. I swallow, hard, forcing it open so I can talk to him. “Are you saying you're not… walking out? Walking away from me?”

“That all depends on where you'd like to go from here. If you want to try.”

“I … I've quit work. Is that what you're asking?”

“Partly. Yes. It's necessary. If you hadn't told me you'd quit, without me having to ask, I would have been out that door already.”

“I'm not going back. No matter what. I swear it.”

“I believe you.”

“You do?”

“Christ, Valentine. If I didn't, how could we possibly have anything?”

“You're angry.”

“Hell, yes, I'm angry. I'm angry that you didn't tell me, even though I understand why you didn't. Why you couldn't. I'm trying to imagine what it must have taken for you to tell me now. But, yeah, I'm angry. Because there's something beautiful and intense between us, and I don't want anything to fuck it up, and this very well might. It sure as hell should. But I'm not sure I'm willing to let it. Not if you can really stop. If you're willing to change your life. But you can't do that for me. You have to do it for yourself, or it won't work. It won't mean anything.”

My hands are twisted together in my lap, my fingers biting into each other. “Joshua, so much of this is about you, in that you were the starting point. The point at which I had to stop and question what the hell I was doing with my life. But the answer is that I have no life. Not really. And I need to change that. I
want
to. I can't do it anymore; it's become impossible. So while you may have been the catalyst, it ultimately comes down to the fact that I'm done. Even if you walk out the door this very moment…” I have to stop, catch my breath. I don't want that to happen. I want him to stay. More than I've wanted anything in my life. “I'm not going back. I can't. That part of me has changed already.”

He's quiet, watching me once more. My face is hot. My head feels as though there is an immense pressure, in my brain, beneath my skin.

Finally he says, “I needed to know that.”

I nod. The tears are back, waiting for me to let them fall, but I clench my jaw, refusing.

He takes my hand, looking down at it as he runs his
fingers over the knuckles, turns it over, rubs his thumb over my palm.

He says very quietly, “You're shaking.”

“Yes.”

He looks at me, and I cannot believe what I see in his eyes: sympathy. Understanding. Pain.

The tears fall then. I can't stop them. Fucking awful that he's watching me cry, my face contorting. But fucking wonderful that he's still here with me.

“I can't believe you're willing to do this. To even try,” I tell him.

He lifts my hand, lays a soft kiss on the palm. “Maybe I can't, either. I don't understand it all yet. But there's something so deep between us, Valentine. I'm not ready to let that go. And I have to admit that all of my sleeping around, all those years of fucking everything in sight, wasn't any different than what you did. Except that I didn't get paid for it.”

I want to throw my arms around him. But I feel too undeserving. If I am to find any comfort with him, he has to be the one to offer it.

“What now?” I ask, even though it scares me to think about what his answer might be.

“Now we just… spend some time together. Try to work through this. If you're willing.”

“I want to. But, Joshua, I have to tell you, I don't know what the hell I'm doing. I've never had a normal relationship.”

He smiles then, just a small, crooked smile. “I don't know that this will ever be a ‘normal’ relationship.”

A small sob escapes me. “No. I suppose it couldn't be.”

“It'll be whatever we make it.”

“Okay.”

“Come here.”

He grabs me, his hand snaking around the back of my neck, holding me hard, and he kisses me. His lips are firm, insistent. They taste like my tears.

How can I be so incredibly sad and hopeful and hot for him all at the same time?

But he presses closer, his other hand grasping my hip, pulling me toward him. Holding me tightly, he stands, lifting me to my feet, then he picks me up and walks down the hall to my bedroom.

“No, Joshua.”

“What?” I can feel his body tense.

“Not in my bed. Take me into the shower. I… I have to be clean.”

How can I explain that I need some sort of ritual to mark this moment? I hardly understand it myself. But he seems to understand. He takes me into the bathroom, sets me on my feet. I reach in to turn on the shower while he leaves for a moment, coming back with a condom package, which he sets on one of the small shelves built into the big red granite shower stall.

I wait for him, as passive as I've ever been with any man.

I don't want to think about other men.

He begins to undress me. Slowly, carefully, as though he's never seen me naked before. Maybe he hasn't. Not like this. Not with my entire being open to him.

When I'm bare he strips his own clothes off quickly, takes my hand, and leads me into the water.

We stand under the rain showerhead for a long time, our arms entwined. I can barely think. I don't want to. I simply want to be here with him, in the wet, steamy heat. He holds me, tighter and tighter, until I can barely breathe. I don't care.

Then he starts to kiss me, his lush mouth on mine. Tender kisses, like nothing I have ever felt before, not even from him. I don't know if he's different, or if it's about what's happening inside me, or both, maybe. And my chest is filling with some sort of dense warmth. Like honey: that thick, that heavy.

His kisses are so lovely. And as his hands grip me, his strong fingers digging into my flesh,
owning
me, my body is heating up, a slow burn that is almost dreamlike in the misty steam. And the sensation of his wet skin against mine, the water seeping in between our closely pressed bodies, is more real than anything I've ever felt in my life.

His hands begin to roam over my skin: my back, my buttocks, the back of my thighs. He pulls his lips from mine and dips his head, laying open-mouthed kisses on my throat, between my breasts. And my hands go into his wet hair, pulling him closer. He kisses my breasts, my nipples coming up hard. And once more I'm amazed at how I can burn for him, physically and emotionally all at the same time.

“Valentine, I can't wait.”

“No, don't wait. I need you.”

In moments he's rolled the condom over his rigid cock, and he lifts me, pushing me up against the wall of the shower. I wrap my legs around his waist, and he sinks into me, sweet and smooth. Like the water coming down on us. Like everything I have ever needed.

He pushes in, his cock sliding deeper. And already my body is arcing into his, clenching, pleasure sweeping through me in long, undulating waves.

He kisses me again, our mouths pressed together, tongues twining, that sweet, wet heat, the taste of him, filling my mouth, my mind.

Pleasure rises in my body, higher, higher, as he presses his
hips into mine, his cock thrusting harder and harder, slamming into me, and his grip on me tightening, hurting, possessing. But this is exactly what I need from him. My muscles go loose, and I am his.
His.
We move in perfect rhythm: our mouths, his cock in my sex. My body is filled with him; my heart is filled in a way it never has been in my life. And as I come onto him I am too caught up in how good he feels, how good we feel together, to be scared.

WE SPENT ALL OF
last night and the entire day today in bed. I couldn't stand to be away from him, too afraid that if he left my side for even a few moments, I would start to think. I admitted this to him, and he canceled all of his work appointments, just to stay with me.

I still can't believe anyone would do this for me. For
me.

It's late now, the night all around us, like some dark blanket, hiding us away from the world. He has made love to me over and over. We've talked about meaningless things, both of us being careful not to address the really important issues. After the shock of my revelation yesterday we need things to be as simple as possible between us for a little while. We both have too much to absorb; it can't be done all at once.

He's in the other room now, checking his messages. I don't want to check mine. Even seeing there aren't any will remind me of how my life has emptied out. I know I can't fill it entirely with Joshua. That wouldn't be fair. I'll have to figure out the rest of it.

Not now.

No, there will be time for that later. If I have to think about it now, it will ruin everything.

He comes back into the bedroom, climbs into bed with
me. I love it when he looks like this: his hair spiky, a little beard stubble on his cheeks, his eyes sleepy. Smelling like sex. Like love.

My heart stutters, and I swear it skips a few beats.

Love?

Is that what this is? How can someone like me even know?

We have known each other two and a half weeks. This is not possible.

What else could this warmth be expanding in my chest, filling me, making me weak as he takes me into his arms? It's not sex. Oh, no. I know what that feels like. This is something else entirely.