Chapter 8: Ask Me Again

Alexander put the book down very slowly.

"Say that again," he said.

"I'm not angry." Clara pushed off the doorframe and shut the door behind her. "I'm not shaking, either. I checked."

"Clara."

"You said ask. I'm asking."

She crossed the rug to the desk and stopped in front of it.

He stood, and his chair rolled back, and the cane stayed hooked on the desk edge where he had left it.

He did not touch her.

His hands hung at his sides, and she saw that they were fists.

"Tell me what you want," he said. "Out loud."

"You, on the couch. Now."

"That's not what I meant."

"I want you to fuck me," Clara said. "Slowly, and then not slowly. I want you to stop being careful for one night."

Something broke open in his face.

He took her by the waist, and the kiss was nothing like the one in the garage.

It was deep and unhurried and almost frightening, because he meant every second of it.

His hand slid up her spine and spread between her shoulder blades.

She remembered the ballroom, and the warmth of that same hand, and a small sound escaped her.

He heard it, and his arm tightened.

He walked her backward to the leather couch, three steps, and she felt him favor the right leg.

"Sit," she said against his mouth. "You're not standing for this."

"I can stand."

"I know. Sit down, Alexander."

He sat.

She stood between his knees and unbuttoned his shirt, one button at a time.

The lamplight showed a long scar low on his ribs.

She pressed her mouth to the scar.

His breath went out of him.

"Your turn," he said roughly, and found the zipper of her dress.

It slid down her back in one long pull, and the air of the room touched her skin.

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