More Than A Maybe (12 page)

He’s trying to protect me . . . from himself.

Whatever Xavier’s plans had been for this evening, whatever was supposed to come after the cocktails on that laminated schedule he’d sent me . . . something has changed in his master scheme. His chill in the lobby, this hallway confession — none of it was part of his plan. I’m certain of it.

It’s all still scattered . . . but the shape of this reclusive billionaire is beginning to resolve in front of me. The pieces are slowly clicking into place. I very nearly know him now, this Xavier Black, and the sudden realization is pure electricity:

Xavier Black has never been in love.

I see him now for what he is. A neverending loneliness surrounds him like a cloud — a constant dark companion that goes with him each and every day. I sense that I am here to stand between him and it . . . that this grand adventure he’s whisked me into is the closest he has to the connections that form with real relationships. It’s all he has. This is his hell.

I feel his searching eyes on me. There’s a flash of recognition behind his cloud-swept gaze.
He knows that I understand him.
His hand is once again at my shoulder.

“Veronica,” he says, “do you remember what you told me in the car? About beauty? About that life you want for yourself?”

I nod.

“That’s when I truly understood how special you are. I knew then that all those things you want for yourself . . . I want them for you too. I truly do. But if we go in this room tonight . . . I’m sorry, Veronica. With me, about the future . . . there are no guarantees. I really can’t offer you anything more than a maybe.”

Somehow, in some locked-away part of him . . . he wants this to last.

He wants it to last and he’s afraid that it won’t.

Is that the responsibility that he doesn’t want to shoulder? The thought that we’ll lose each other?

People come to Los Angeles to
become
people, he’d said . . . and I now know the two things that I need from this city.
I need to complete myself. And I need to complete Xavier.

I rest my hand against his chest, looking up at him with eyes of peculiar strength. My tears have stopped and I feel my voice returning to me. It’s surprisingly clear, and when I speak it’s as if I’m hearing myself for the first time:

“I’d like it very much if you came inside, Mr. Black.”

* * *

The room beyond the door nearly takes my breath away. It’s a suite much larger than the apartment I left in Chicago, with vast windows opening out onto a magnificent view of the nighttime cityscape below. There’s a separate living room with a crackling fireplace that ignites at the touch of a silver button, an elegant marble-topped writing desk, and an enormous bathroom with an inviting-looking whirlpool tub.

I get the impression that the bedroom is more than lovely as well, but as I’m already pressed back onto the soft mattress of the room’s four-poster bed, I don’t have much time to drink in anything but the face of Xavier as he stares down at me.

He puts a hand on my chest and pushes me backward with a force that makes me half-breathless. His gaze crashes into mine, and the moment hangs there — it’s as if our spirits are connected by the spell of some strong and invisible thread. Long aching seconds tick by. Neither of us can break free.

His face is taut with gravity; he’s still weighing the implications of a deeper physical relationship.
And he knows that I’m a virgin.
I’m not afraid of the initial pain, exactly — a run-in with a grade-school jungle gym had taken care of that. Still, the memory of Xavier’s exploring finger in the limousine makes me wonder just how sore I am going to be afterward.

My need, though, cannot be denied. Xavier knows this. “I can’t say this won’t hurt,” he says. “But we’ll go slowly. Slowly, and together.” I bite my lip, nodding.

The strong lines of his face soften a bit. He gives me a kiss then, a gentle one, at the crest of my forehead, then another, and another, his lips slowly working their way to my brow, the bridge of my nose, down at last to meet my own mouth. I drink in the wet electricity of his kiss, and I feel it spark along every facet of my body. His tongue meets my own, and I surrender all, tasting him, willing him to take me.

With serene authority, his experienced hands roam beneath the fabric of my dress. There’s a confidence there, a mastery. He moves them then across the surface of my skin, his touch a bit rougher now, yet not unkind. I put my hands on his powerful forearms, guiding him, the entirety of my form singing with a silent permission.

It is more than that, though — I ache for him, I demand him. A moan of savory pleasure slips from my lips. My mouth forms the shape of his name, again and again and again . . .

Xavier.

Xavier.

Xavier.

He guides my hands to his waist, to the cloth-and-zipper bonds that hold him. I gently caress his stiffening cock lightly and with shaky fingers . . . it’s firm and insistent, tenting the soft cotton weave of his dark pants. The thought of it sends a thrill trilling its way through me — but he is here and I am here and I am somehow unafraid.

He wants me to invite him in, and so I do, my fingertips fumbling just slightly with his unfamiliar zipper and clasp. His erection strains the thin cotton of his briefs, and I hesitate — I don’t want to, but I do. It’s reflexive.

Xavier takes it as an opportunity. His arms are around me in an instant, and he pulls me from the soft surface of the comforter and to his chest with a surprising force. My breath is coming faster now, and I feel my body go just a bit rigid. I can’t help it. I wonder if it isn’t all a bit too quick for comfort . . .

He feels this — feels me — and there is a slight shift in his bearing. He cradles my back with a firm hand, smoothing my hair with the other, bringing his mouth close to my ear:

“Remember: slowly and together,” he whispers. I want him so, so much . . . my arousal earlier was nothing compared to the fire Xavier has started within me. He knows so perfectly what I need, and I find myself yielding to him entirely, as the warmth of his embrace gently quells my shivering.

His fingers find the clasp of my dress, and he undoes it with a deft motion . . . then he’s lifting it lightly, up and over my head, tossing it over the side of the bed. I’m so very aware of his eyes on my body, how they flick their way across my exposed flesh.

I’m his. I’m his and he knows it.

“You’re simply too lovely,” he says. He’s captivated, his voice is ringing with complete and utter conviction. His hands begin again to explore — his fingers dancing across my skin, along my arms and underneath them, over the low padded peaks of my satin-clad chest, down to the soft flesh of my navel, tracing some pattern known only to him. He has the controlled hands of an artisan.

The whole of my being is in a place beyond amazing, and I feel all my reluctance blend into ecstasy and desire. I find that I simply cannot help myself now . . . I hook a finger between two of his shirt buttons and tug, my naked need completely on display for him.

Xavier immediately understands. In a moment his shirt has joined my dress on the floor, then his pants disappear along with his socks, and then —

Then they are joined by my padded bra.

I close my eyes, suddenly feeling the old emotional wounds, cursing my lack of development, the breasts that never saw fit to arrive. Wondering what he’s thinking, as his eyes take in the barely-there rise of my bosom . . .

But when my lids flutter open to look at him again, there’s no disappointment on Xavier’s face. He smiles, gently.

“Like I said. You’re much too lovely.”

He lowers his mouth to my chest, caressing his lips over the soft contour there, over my now-erect nipples. My lips part at the sensation, whispering for him to give me more, to suckle at them . . . but he only allows me the lightest peppering of his kisses. The sensations go straight to the damp place between my thighs, my desperate ache for him suddenly threatening to consume me.

Some carnal instinct seems to tell Xavier just how very turned on I am for him. “I want you,” he says. “Now. I want you and I’m going to have you.” His powerful hands fly down my body, his fingers slipping around the elastic of my panties. He pulls with a force that makes me gasp, and I quake at the sensuality of cool air on my wet and needy sex.

I moan, caught in a haze of need and want. The control he wordlessly demands — I can feel its insistence throughout me now, making my clit pulse with a naked lust. Any last resistance melts and slips away as I bend to him completely. He is in total control — and I can barely comprehend how very hot that makes me.

He slips his boxers off, and there it is: all I can do is feel the heat rising in my skin as I drink in the the vision of his beautiful cock. He leans down, and I feel the warmth of his breath as his whisper flutters against my ear. “I’m going to fill you, Veronica . . . feel you in a way that no one ever has. I’m going to fuck you and make you my own. I’m going to teach you all the luxuries of your body . . . and when you come for me, you’re going to know, Veronica. You’re going to know what pleasure truly means.”

His whispered words make me gasp; my whole body feels so achingly alive. His hand is against my inner thigh now; my legs part of their own accord and I revel in his scent. I close my eyes, and as I do I hear the crinkle of what must be a condom.

This is real. This is happening.

I open my eyes again and his face is suddenly wild, dangerous. He guides me once again against the fabric of the bed, leans in close, and enters me with a firm and powerful thrust.

I feel myself stretching, the pain present but somehow manageable. I force myself to push it down into some dark corner of my thoughts, to overcome it, as the heat of Xavier’s thick member fills me completely.

Xavier’s fingers slide down to tease my throbbing clit. In a rush of pleasure I feel the pain begin to recede, and I will it into a tiny pinprick at the edge of my consciousness. Xavier begins to move his way forward, backward, and I feel a wellspring of unknown passions gush from within me in an impossible torrent. I stare at the beautiful intensity of Xavier’s face . . . and marvel at the sensations his cock summons from my depths as our bodies collide.

There’s no feeling of loss, none at all; I have Xavier now, this magic and beautiful creature, and as the shimmering miracle of my orgasm approaches, I can’t help but marvel at us . . . at the way we just fit so perfectly together, like music, like some vibrant and lovely duet . . .

His face is now etched with a hard and all-consuming fervor, and I know that his climax must be very near my own. “Now, my lovely,” he says. “Together. NOW!”

I feel the muscles of my sex squeeze around him as the force of my orgasm explodes with his own. We shatter together, the mingling forces sending us both breathless. I cry out, then — for my blinding white orgasm, for the pain, for life I’ve just stepped into, for the one I’ve left behind . . .

. . . but more than anything, my cry is one of victory.

I have this man, this Xavier Black . . . he is in me, and I know that he is mine.

* * *

He collapses next to me, sated. He holds me close.

We lay in the bed for a long time after that. My body against his, one of his warm and toned arms supporting my head like a perfect pillow, the other arm around my waist. I marvel at his form. He doesn’t have the body of a man who is trapped behind a desk — he has the undeniably sexy physique of an athlete. An adventurer.

But happy as I am, there’s something eating at my thoughts . . . and I really don’t want to give it voice. I don’t want to bring
her
into this room, into this bed, but —

Well, I find that I just can’t help it.

“I want to apologize,” I begin, slowly. “About earlier.”

“About what?” Xavier asks, sounding puzzled.

“That woman tonight,” I say. “Baby. How I sounded. I didn’t mean to come off like that.”

“Oh, that? Don’t worry about it,” he says. “I’m sure she has to deal with those sorts of reactions all the time. No doubt she’s been on the receiving end of much worse.”

I shift my body to look at him. “Do you think she’s pretty?”

Xavier doesn’t even hesitate. “Of course. Don’t you?”

My sigh is my only answer. I wonder just how transparent my jealousy seems. I feel my ears begin to redden, and find myself wondering at the lukewarm anger still inside me. I’m not sure if it’s all about Baby, really . . . but just the idea that Xavier would find any other woman attractive makes me uncomfortable. Still, the honesty in his admission is refreshing, somehow. I get the sense that he respects me enough to be straight with me.

I say nothing for a minute, and I try to let the subject drop . . . but I find that I’m unable to hold myself back.

“Would you think I’d look good if I was . . . well, you know. More? More like that.”

It’s obvious I’m talking about my boobs — or rather, the ones that aren’t there. I brace myself for the usual avalanche of polite denials:
No. You look fine just the way you are. Blah blah blah.

I hear Xavier suck in his breath. “If you looked more like Baby? Is that what you’re asking?”

“You know what I mean,” I say. “
More.
”

“Well,” he says, clearly giving it some thought, “like I said, I do think she’s pretty. But do you know why I would think so?”

“Tell me.”

When he answers, it’s like he’s revealing some immutable rule of the universe. The little hairs stand up on the back of my neck; the gooseflesh prickles along my arms.

“I think she is pretty,” he says, “because
she
thinks she is pretty.”

The sentence hangs heavy with the sound of truth. There’s no irritation in his voice. It sounds matter-of-fact, as if it’s something anyone should know. “The reason she’s pretty isn’t the way she’s decorated herself. It’s the confidence behind it all. So: would you look good if you looked more like her? I doubt it. I think you’d look good if you looked more like
you.
”