More Than A Maybe (11 page)

I breathe in the captivating musk of his scent that mingles so beautifully with the night ivy of the garden, then tilt my head so I can see his gorgeously sculpted face. He’s not looking at me, not yet. His eyes are still flicking back and forth along the shadowed treeline of the darkened hilltops, and I sense that he’s weighing a powerful decision in his mind.

And then he makes it. Firmly yet effortlessly he pulls me still nearer, and I feel myself bend to him,
yield to him,
all the day’s jumbled puzzles resolving themselves into a perfect picture . . . a picture of us. His hand finds the side of my face now; it’s hot, a bit rough against the soft flesh of my cheek. It carries with it an invitation. No, a demand. A demand for something more.

My heart leaps, willing him to capture from me all that he desires — I need to accept him, and I tilt my head further back as my lips part slightly. My breath is coming fast, but I somehow find my voice. It rises in my throat, and I say his name —

“Xavier . . .”

The ivy-sweetened night air seems to catch the name and hold it, frozen, for a bouquet of beautiful seconds. It doesn’t sound like a name when I say it, though . . . it sounds like something deeper.

A confession. A wish.

If his touch is a demand, then the sound of his name escaping from me is a pure and total consent to it. Xavier's other hand takes its place at the side of my face, and he lifts my lips to meet his own at last . . .

I feel the sensation of infinity spinning away inside me — an impossible rushing expanse that knows no bound, knows no end. I want more, I need more . . . I feel the wetness of my tongue flick outward to taste his own, driven now by some indistinct animal instinct that seems to grow more and more certain as each angelic moment slips past.

He buries his hand in my hair now and he grips me there, holding me fast as his perfect mouth continues to sate its potent thirst. His warm fingers then find the crook of my neck, and I can only wonder at it — at this incredible raw power that suddenly holds me so effortlessly within its thrall.

I am taken. I am charmed. I need that first kiss to last forever — hours, days, a million and one perpetual lifetimes . . . but it cannot. Xavier’s lips slip from my own, and a gasp escapes some crack in my soul, fluttering from my stunned and still-open mouth. Still, I have his face, and his eyes, and I stare at them in unbounded awe as I wait for what comes next . . .

“I want you,” he says, staring past my eyes to some unknown corner of my heart. I nod as if spellbound.

“Do you know why?” he asks, smoothing the edges of my hairline with the wonderful authority of his fingertips. “It is that core of strength I see in you. It is the way you want to love yourself. So many people just wait for life to love them — hoping against hope that the march of time will charm some affections out of a cold and indifferent universe. But you, Veronica . . .
that’s . . . not . . . you.
”

His second kiss is more gentle, more exquisite somehow, but in every way the equal of the first. I feel lost in him . . . and yet 
found.
I wonder how my body has managed to contain such desires for so long. They’ve all burst forth from me in a torrent now, and my arms reach for him in a thrill of instinct. They surround him, and I feel myself grasp needfully at mad handfuls of his shirt. Even through his clothes, the warm heat of Xavier’s body is here, it’s right here, and I will it to swallow me completely.

His lips leave mine once again, and he rests his forehead against my own, breathing hard before he speaks.

“It’s late,” he says, his fingers brushing against my face. “It’s time that I put you to bed.”

* * *

Xavier’s touch against the skin of my inner thigh is pure honeyed electricity.

I’m now thankful for the privacy afforded by the screen separating us from our new limo driver. He’s younger than the one that brought me from the airport earlier — a bit more boyish, maybe. While he’d seemed like a discreet enough person when he’d opened the door for us at the end of the club’s red carpet, I wouldn’t be comfortable with him seeing me in the state I’m now in. While the matte-black interior of the limousine is indeed deliciously cool, it isn’t the recycled breeze of the A/C that’s causing the gooseflesh to ripple along my arms and legs.

“Look at me,” Xavier says, his voice commanding. “Keep your eyes on me. Only on me.”

I can’t help but obey, and I lose myself in the heat of his storm-swept eyes. My lips yield open, my breathing quickens, my head begins to swim. I feel warmth spreading throughout me as his hand slips beneath the soft black folds of my dress, tracing a path up my leg to the already-dampened silk of my panties.

My arousal is intense — but it is growing. Xavier rests the tips of his fingers against the silk there for a moment, very lightly. I gasp at the sensation, my gaze dropping reflexively to the graceful curvature of his hand.

“Ah, ah. Bad girl,” he says, his voice suddenly becoming an achingly erotic mix of strict and playful. He shifts his fingers, and his touch is gone — there’s an emptiness at the separation. A slight whimper escapes my lips, and I once again let his eyes hook my own, my expression now more than a little pleading.

“Much better,” he says, a thin whisper of approving smile spreading across his faultless lips. His fingers return again to the thin piece of silk covering my sex. They begin to move, teasingly at first, then with authority.

“Ah —” I say. My voice is hoarse. It’s a sound I don’t recognize — an unchained vocal offering of pure and wild desire. Xavier’s expert fingers soon find the swell of my clit, and I feel him begin to massage me there with the softest of teasing strokes. My eyes swim deeper and deeper into the abyss behind his eyes, and I feel my hips draw me forward into his touch, silently yearning for him to bring me closer to the edge.

Xavier strokes my cheek. It’s all I can do not to close my lids, lose myself completely in his touch. Xavier sees the longing behind my eyes, the desperate and immense hungering for him. His hand brings my chin upward once again, and it’s no use — my eyes slip shut at last as I quiver to the feeling of his lips against my own.

His searching tongue still exploring my mouth with its endless tenderness, Xavier’s fingers slip around the taut elastic of my panties; he skillfully caresses the delicate place where my thighs meet my moistening sex. With the subtle command of a virtuoso playing some rare instrument, Xavier slips a finger into me. My deep moan escapes into his mouth, mingling with the sweetness of his kiss.

I want this to continue, I need it to . . . but I have to tell him.
He needs to know.
I let my lips part from his mouth.

“I . . . haven’t before. I mean, not completely . . . ”

Xavier is just a bit surprised for a moment, but his face soon becomes gentle. “It’s fine,” he says calmly. I can detect no disappointment in his voice. Still, his finger hesitates inside me; I find myself worrying that the cascading waves of pleasure flowing through me might come to an end.

My hands drop to his wrist to steady him. “No. It’s alright. It’s good,” I say, my voice unrecognizable. I take a deep breath, and he nods in response, the warmth of his finger resuming its ministrations. And it
is
good: I can feel my muscles gripping his now-slick finger in response. He smiles. “Can you come for me, Veronica?” he asks, his voice kind. The soft flesh of his thumb moves upward to my clit, his touch the kiss of a butterfly’s wing. I nod, my breath puffing from my lips in small stunned gasps. I cannot speak.

His voice grows insistent. “Come for me, then.
Come.
”

I arch my back as my universe explodes around me, a billion lights from some unknown heavens swimming in the black depths of my tightly-shut eyes. I fall toward Xavier and he catches me, guiding my body, holding my head close against his chest.

I stay there and he comforts me as I listen to the sounds of his heart and his breath.

I’ve never felt more danger.

I’ve never felt so safe.

* * *

At last we arrive.

We’re decidedly flushed, but more or less ready to be seen in public now; we’ve taken the last couple of miles to straighten ourselves up a bit. Our hand-smoothed clothes are as presentable as can be hoped, and I’ve given myself a quick once-over with Jayla’s bag of cosmetics.
I owe you one, girl,
I think, as the hotel’s sharply-attired valet opens the limo door for us. I give him a smile of thanks, gently waving away his attempts to relieve me of my overnight bag.

Xavier takes my arm to assist me from the car; as my heels meet the stones of the hotel’s cul-de-sac I can only stare upward in awe.

The building in front of us is a modern palace of polished glass. I’m in love at the sight of it. We’re high in the hills now, and the twinkling view of the electric city below us surpasses that of even the secret rooftop garden.

We saunter through the perfume of the kindly-tended lilies that greet every late arrival to the Thousand Arms Hotel. We’re walking arm-in-arm now, through the tall Venetian doors that swing open at the nudging of a well-attentive doorman. It takes me just a moment for my senses to adjust, and the warm and glowing vision of the lobby makes me just a little bit dizzy. The building’s architecture is beyond my understanding. High and sweeping arches of finely-brushed steel criss-cross above our heads, keeping a silent watch on the sparse nighttime mishmash of starlets in haute couture and the neatly-styled haircuts of red-eye weary diplomats.

Even at this late hour, the hotel maintains a muted energy. My heels click along next to Xavier, across the crystal-shiny marble of the mirror-polished floor. He drops my arm for a moment and has a few words with the friendly-yet-never-familiar staff at the front desk.

I see Xavier slide the room’s keycards into his calfskin wallet — then he returns. I can still see the flush of our adventure in the limousine on his face, and I smile at the sight of it.

It’s a smile that Xavier does not return.

His face is a sudden impenetrable veil, neither kind nor unkind. He fixes me instead with the dispassionate calm of his thundercloud-colored eyes and lifts a hand, indicating the gleaming row of elevators on the far side of the lobby.

It’s as if I’m with a different person. I feel a pang of doubt.
Something is wrong.
My certainty of it only continues to grow as we step into an elevator and the doors slide silently shut. Xavier touches the topmost button, and my heart starts to pound again as it illuminates beneath his finger . . . but it’s more from apprehension than excitement now.

I can trust the Xavier I met last night, I think. I can believe in the Xavier I kissed on the roof, even the wild side of him he showed me in the limousine. But this cold stranger in the elevator . . . am I truly ready to give myself to him?

The elevator doors slide open, and we walk side-by-side over the lush carpet of the hallway until we arrive at our room. Xavier checks the room number, reaches into his wallet for a keycard . . .

And hands it to me.

I utterly balk at him. While there’s no denying the feeling of the plastic against my palm, I find myself completely unable to grasp the reality of what it means.

“Thank you for a lovely evening,” he says, his voice now strangely formal. “If there’s anything you should need during the night, room service will be more than happy to —”

I can’t believe this. “What!?” I cry, my voice cracking. I’m not precisely sure if it’s anger or sadness I’m feeling, but the quick heat of my own emotions is better than the wall of nothing I’m suddenly getting from Xavier.

I look at him, seething, full in the face. My tears are coming, I can feel them, but I’ve got a few seconds before I break down completely.
He’s going to hear this.

“I came all the way across the country for you,” I tell him, my voice a quivering whisper. “I
trusted
you. In the garden, in the limo. So now what?” A tear of pure disbelief rolls down my cheek and splashes against my dress.

No — not even my dress,
I think.
His dress.

This has all been about him.

Xavier’s face now looks distorted by the wet cloud of my tears, but I think I see it soften slightly. He closes his eyes, touching the palms of his hands together in a sudden pantomime of prayer, as if trying to summon the correct words from a place divine.

“Please . . . ” he says, his voice quiet yet still powerful. “Please understand. I am a man of . . . so many responsibilities, so many obligations. Not a day goes by that I don’t make more.”

He lets his hands fall to his sides as he opens his eyes once again . . . but he isn’t looking at me. His stare is fixed somewhere in the middle distance, scanning for something known only to him. Somehow his difficulty makes my anger and frustration fade, just a bit.
This is so hard for him,
I realize . . . I wipe at my tear-stained face with my wrists, not speaking, just willing him to continue.

“I like to think of myself as a problem-solver,” he says. “A man who can make things, fix things. But people . . . people aren’t problems, they’re not machines . . . ”

His voice is strong yet, but now I can hear the heat of some fierce conflict raging within him. There’s something heavy behind his words. I touch his arm. Whatever he’s thinking, I need to know.

Xavier gives me an impossibly heavy look, then reaches past me to tap the door at my back.

“Whatever is behind this door,” he says, “whatever happens tonight, whatever we do . . . I need to know that I’m not making another problem. For the both of us.”

I get the message then, and it nearly knocks the wind out of me. I lean back into the door for support. There’s a sign nailed firmly to Xavier’s Black’s heart, and it’s now easy to read:
No Strings Attached.
Whatever dream I’ve been walking in could end at any moment — and he wants me to know it.

And yet . . .

The plastic key I’m holding in my hand is important. It means something.

He’d been ready to leave me alone tonight.