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There’s a chaotic pile of silken slips, garters, and gauzy, lace chemises strewn across her bed; the sort of sumptuous display only a madame of her stature is capable of compiling.
She’s still dabbing off the excess lipstick, the matte scarlet she knows will look exquisite against her skin, when she finally decides on the emerald and black lace number. Gingerly holding her hair clips in place with one hand, she guides the gliding silk into place with the other. She regards herself in the mirror, gaze transfixed by the way her pale skin is framed by the nearly backless draping fabric.
There’s a final spritz of rose scented perfume at the juncture of her shoulder, the place he favors best, the patch of skin rasped pink by the unforgiving metal the next morning. He’s not beautiful, not like her. She’s delicate. Porcelain, ethereal, had a thousand love letters shoved under her door, and yet when the weight of his skeleton key sits in her palm it sends an unmistakable warmth through her.
She slides through the familiar hallways, avoids the creaking floorboards. The click as she turns the lock sounds momentous and definite in the pitch black.
His head whips to the cracked door but the rest of his body is stuck in a sort of stupefied trance at being discovered. His hands are grazing the seam of his trousers, buttons undone and gaping.
Gillian steps onto the sparse oriental rug before her, closes the door behind with a soft clink. “Now, Richard.” She slinks forward, smile tight and false, and turns just enough so that his eyes follow the deep green silk pooled at her lower back. He lets loose a noise closer to a growl, and she has to bite the side of her lip to ensure she plays this lucky hand perfectly.
He’s vulnerable, still-hard and positively flushed red in humiliation and longing.
“I had such a splendid night planned for us, Richard.” Her face looks carved of stone in the warbling light. “But it seems as though you’ve grown too…impatient.” She sits down in the leather chaise, reclines, pulls the hem up just enough so he can see the outline of her thighs.
Her voice is sharper than a dagger. “Well, then, don’t let me disturb you.” She pins his gaze, leaves no room for hesitation.
Shaking hands slip into his boxers, and he continues where he left off, fluttering introductory touches. “Stop.” He pauses, looks at her, waiting for her to continue. This is power. It’s heady, exhilarating and it’s never been so wholly her’s before.
Gillian must bring him to the precipice half a dozen times, but he still listens, even when the groans seem to be pulling at the threads holding him together. She thinks he must have been a fine soldier, eager to follow orders and still robust with youth.
The skin of her chest is flushed, she rises, sudden and sharp, just as he finishes.
She barely closes the heavy oaken doors of her boudoir before her hands dive under the black, lacy slip. She’s unfettered, crying, she can’t pinpoint why, and within a few short strokes she’s a heap on the wooden floor beneath her. Her breaths are still shuttering when she hears his heavy footsteps retreat down the hall.
Her mouth quirks in the approximation of a smile.