The Housemistress (10 page)

My darling, you’re a tease, and you make me weak.

Lying there, holding the note to her chest, Rylie stares up at the ceiling, aware of a distinct heat between her thighs. It’s been days since she’s had the opportunity to tend to certain physical needs, and until this moment, it hadn’t occurred to her how having to share a dorm with eleven other people might negatively impact her ability to sate her passions.

She considers sneaking into the bathroom for a quick rub, but she can’t be bothered to get up. She also considers setting her alarm twenty minutes earlier than usual, and slipping into the bathroom before anyone else is awake, but she knows she’ll hate that idea when morning comes. Instead, she decides to do as Adel had done last night: wait until everyone else is likely to be asleep, then get down to business.

Playing solitaire on her phone—even though the use of electronics is forbidden after lights out—she lets twenty minutes tick by.

Twenty-one.

Twenty-two.

As she hits the half an hour mark, the anticipation of an orgasm has her absolutely gushing and she can’t hold off any longer. Setting her phone down, she drives her hand under the covers, inside her pajama bottoms, and between her legs. Unfortunately, as she smothers a deep gasp of need, someone else in the room lets one out.

Rylie freezes. Could it be? Again? Adel?

“Oh, Vivienne, fuck me …”

Yup.

Scowling, Rylie pulls her hand out of her pajamas, gets up on her knees, and prepares to chuck a stuffed animal at Adel’s head, but once she’s high enough to look over the cubicle wall, her eyes are drawn immediately to the door.

The shadows are there, just like last night. Carriveau! Did she return out of curiosity? Hope for a repeat performance? Sheer coincidence? Whatever the reason for her reappearance, tonight, she leaves before Adel reaches her peak.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Two weeks pass. Every evening, flirtatious glances are exchanged across the refectory. Carriveau always seems to pick a seat with a direct eyeline across the room, and Rylie chooses to believe that she’s doing so on purpose. Back at the house, Carriveau continues to invite Rylie into her study for private tutoring, which begins as something mildly unnecessary and becomes gradually more pointless as time goes on.

They converse in French, for the most part, but Carriveau’s syllabus notes go from her lap to the coffee table, and then never leave her desk. The ratio of English to French starts to increase, and there’s a great deal of laughter. Carriveau talks about herself at least as much as Rylie does, and their conversation moves from the sofa to the floor as the wayward bound Housemistress starts pulling out photo albums to illustrate her stories.

“I grew up in
Provence
.” She shows Rylie pictures of
la Côte d’Azur
. “But I feel as British as the gloomy weather,” she jokes. “I’ve lived here since I was sixteen. I’m thirty-one now, so that’s almost half my life.”

“I still can’t believe you speak seven languages.” Rylie shuffles a few inches closer to better see the album, their backs leaning against the bookshelf, their shoes castoff by the desk. “I can barely wrap my brain around two.”

“Seven fluently,” Carriveau corrects her. “I speak several more in bits and pieces.”

“Bragger.” Rylie flips the page.

In the next set of pictures, Carriveau is with another female. The two appear close, often photographed holding hands or embracing. In one photo, they’re kissing.

“Girlfriend?” Rylie enquires, keeping her tone neutral, hoping the question conveys merely a casual interest.

“Ex.”

“You’re gay?”

“You’re nosy.” Carriveau snaps the album shut, playfully trying to trap her fingers.

“I’m curious,” Rylie defends herself. “Are you not out on campus? Is that why you won’t say?”

“No-one’s ‘out’ on this campus,” Carriveau reminds her sadly. “So be discreet.”

“With what?”

“Gabby Laurenson. I can see that the pair of you have become quite close in the last fortnight.” The smile that’d been so firmly pinned on Carriveau’s lips falls away. “You can rest assured that you shan’t ever be chastised for anything the two of you do in this house, but elsewhere, you must play by Missus Bursnell’s rules.”

Rylie shakes her head. “I don’t fancy Gabby.” She twists sideways to look at Carriveau. “But I
am
gay, if that’s what you’re wondering. If that was your way of asking.”

“It wasn’t.” Carriveau pings the rainbow bead bracelet on Rylie’s wrist.

“That doesn’t necessarily mean I’m gay.” Rylie strokes the back of her hand down Carriveau’s arm. “It just means I like rainbows.”

Carriveau suppresses a shiver and diverts her attention to the closed album in her lap, picking at a dented corner. “Why would you be interested in something you can never get your hands on?”

“Chasing it’s half the fun.” Rylie lifts the album out of Carriveau’s lap, pushing the distraction away. “Besides, the rainbow wants to be chased.”

“
Ah bon
? Is that so?” Carriveau turns her head, emerald eyes fixing on blue.

“Uh-huh. Nothing that beautiful likes to be ignored.” Rylie edges closer. “Plus, if it didn’t like the attention, it wouldn’t flaunt itself.”

She pinches the open collar of Carriveau’s blouse between her fingers, easing the fabric aside, baring more of her Housemistress’s generous breasts, looking but not touching.

“Rylie …” Breathing heavily, Carriveau remains motionless. “Please …”

Not sure if that’s meant as a supplication or a warning, Rylie hedges her bets and drops her hand to Carriveau’s lap, seeking out the French woman’s fingers, creeping her own over top.

“Don’t do this.” Carriveau slips her hand away. “Don’t tempt me. Can’t you see how much I’m already struggling? How much I want—” She stops herself from completing the confession and turns her head, both to break the magnetism and to hide her watery eyes. “I’m afraid that’s it for tonight. It’s bedtime.”

“All right.” After two weeks of this same routine, Rylie knows better than to argue. “I’ll see you upstairs in a few minutes.” She picks herself up off the floor and retrieves her shoes, leaving silently.

Ironing appears to be a skill that one must acquire through practice, Rylie concludes, growling with frustration at a shirt that refuses to relinquish its creases. She’s been in the laundry room wrestling with the uncooperative garment for far too long, and her patience is wearing thin.

Last night’s session with Carriveau ended on a high note that stuck with her till morning, right up until she received a dress code warning from Missus Bursnell, who told her she looked like a tatterdemalion and ought to sharpen herself up before she winds up in detention.

Brilliant.

She’d run out of clean shirts several days ago, was forced to do a wash, and thought she could get away with hanging them to dry, figuring that the wrinkles would fall out of them.

Apparently not.

She lays the buttoned up shirt out over the ironing board again and drags the iron from collar to hem, catching on every button on the way down.

“Motherfu—” She catches the curse word in her throat as Carriveau appears in the doorway. “Oh, shit,” she says instead, looking at her watch. “Am I late for our … thing?”

Carriveau closes the door and leans against it, rapping her fingers on the wood, thinking deeply before she speaks. “It’s time for our private lessons to end.”

“Oh.” Rylie looks crestfallen. “Why?”

“I think you can imagine why.” Carriveau takes a step closer, then hesitates, appearing to contemplate something before coming to a decision that announces itself with a heavy sigh of resignation. “You’ve never ironed before, have you?”

Rylie shakes her head. “I’m not even sure my mother has.” She makes another halfhearted effort with the iron, but achieves nothing.

Without explanation, Carriveau strips off her jacket, flings it over a washing machine, and crosses the room, moving behind Rylie and out of sight, her stilettos clicking rhythmically on the floor tiles.

Then, the clicking stops.

Silence.

Rylie is about to turn and ask for help when, suddenly, she’s encased in warmth. Carriveau is at her back, against her, close enough to transfer body heat between them, moving slowly and precisely.

“I can’t bear to watch you. It’s too painful.” She reaches around Rylie’s waist, sets the iron aside, and takes the shirt in her hands. “Like standing by while you struggled to make your bed on your first night.” Her voice is like caramel, sweet and soft, her breath like fire against Rylie’s neck as she leans forward to tease the shirt open. “It’s a torture to see you like that.” She unfastens one button at a time, as if undressing a lover, her breasts pushed up against Rylie’s shoulder blades, her lips grazing the young teen’s ear. “
Tu comprends, ma minette
?”

Rylie nods, understanding the
double sens
perfectly: Miss Carriveau wants her!

She feels blood rushing between her legs, responding to Carriveau’s daring use of a highly inappropriate endearment: my pussycat. Reacting instinctively, she tilts her head, baring her neck, offering her peachy skin to Carriveau for kisses, should she feel inclined to give them. Unfortunately, she doesn’t.

“You’re going about this all wrong.” Carriveau nuzzles her cheek against Rylie’s head, clinging to the ruse the shirt provides as she drapes it over the ironing board. “Let me show you.”

She flattens one half of the shirt out, starting with the buttoned edge, and nudges Rylie to retrieve the iron from its cradle.

“You start like this,” she explains, placing a hand over Rylie’s on the iron. “And you have to go slowly.” She guides Rylie over the fabric. “Don’t force it.” The iron sizzles against the cotton. “Don’t rush.” She weaves the tip of the iron in between the buttons. “Please, don’t rush. You have to give the heat time to build.” She bears down slightly on Rylie’s hand. “Now apply a little more pressure.”

“Like this?” Rylie presses harder on the iron, simultaneously arching her back, pushing her rear into Carriveau’s crotch.

“Mm-hmm.” Carriveau brings a hand to Rylie’s hip, resting it there. “
Tu fais cela très bien
.
J’aime ça
.”

Rylie’s breasts tingle beneath her uniform, her nipples swelling and stiffening with arousal. She knows full well that Carriveau is exploiting her mother tongue to convey that which cannot be so easily concealed in
double sens
, nor spoken freely.

By offering up these compliments and endearments in French, Carriveau leaves her words open to interpretation. In this case, what could be completely genuine praise of Rylie’s ironing—you’re doing that very well—almost legitimizes the subsequent, more obvious appreciation of the action of her
derrière
: I like that.

Almost, but not quite.

Capitalizing on the back-and-forth movement of the ironing—doing her bit to maintain the subterfuge—Rylie keeps in constant motion, repeatedly bumping her backside into Carriveau.

This goes on for a minute or two, progress being made slowly on the shirt, then Carriveau withdraws her hand from the iron.