I feel a sudden rush of confusion. If he can help me, why shouldn’t I let him? Is it because I don’t want to admit to being a damsel in distress? Do I really value my bruised and battered pride over my freedom? What convict ever insisted on making an unassisted prison break?
But as much as I want Robert, I can’t help thinking that his affection might be infinitely more dangerous than Dave’s hostility.
“Take the dress off,” he says again. “I hate that it’s touching you. It’s like he’s holding you tightly from a distance.”
Yes, I want to say, holding me in an embrace of humiliation. I take a step back, moving away from Robert’s touch. I continue my backward stride, Robert following me, letting me set the pace. It’s a strange tango in which the woman leads . . . if only for the length of a few bars of music.
I lead us to the dining room. The table had never been set and it now stands bare, except for one unopened bottle of wine, a reminder of Dave’s failed plans and my minor victory. I move the bottle to a chair.
“He’s not here,” I say and I reach down to the hem, pull it up over my hips, my stomach, my breasts until, with a little effort, it’s gone and I’m standing there, completely naked, before my lover. “He’s not touching me,” I say. “No one will touch me without my invitation. If anyone tries, they’ll pay for that mistake. But you’re going to have to let me exact the price. Me. Not you.”
Robert stares at me. His eyes are hungry, but I still feel his vexation. Yet it’s not aimed at me. He’s pointing it toward the night, toward the unknown part of town where Dave sits, making decisions about my life. “I won’t just turn a blind eye, Kasie. That’s not who I am.”
I hear him but I’m not fully listening. I’m looking at the table. In its polished surface I see the night Dave had planned for me. How far would the game have gone if Tom had cooperated? And Asha, how far did she plan to push me? Did they all see me as weak? Did they think I would surrender all my power so easily?
“Kasie, did you hear me?”
I ignore the question, redirect his energy to my liking. “Would you like to touch me, Mr. Dade?”
His breath catches in his throat. I can still feel the anger but it feels even more distant now, allowing him more room to explore more pressing passions.
“I asked you a question.” I let my fingers run over the table. I’m playing a very dangerous game. I don’t know when Dave will come home. I don’t know what Robert will do to him if he does reappear. I don’t know if this will be the act that breaks my world to pieces. I’m risking everything for a moment of pleasure, to celebrate a fleeting victory. But I’m beginning to think that life is about passing moments and small celebrations. Without them there’s only pain, fear, ambition, and, for some of us, foolish hope.
“He wanted me to serve him and Tom Love at this table,” I say. “He wanted me to play the part of the submissive. He wanted to control me. He didn’t get what he wanted. I won. Will you help me celebrate, Mr. Dade? You’re invited.”
Robert doesn’t move right away. But when he does, it’s swift, closing the distance between us in seconds and pulling off his shirt so that our bare skin presses together in a raw embrace.
“I want you to take me here,” I whisper as his teeth graze my shoulder. I pull off his belt. “I want you to take me on the table where I refused to serve him.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes,” I say as his belt falls to the floor. “You’re invited.”
And then I’m being lifted into the air, laid back on the table, like a delicacy meant to be savored.
He strips off the rest of his clothes and I take him in. His muscles create little hills and valleys across his chest and stomach. His arms and thighs are equally strong and enticing. This is a different kind of perfection. He’s sculpted but not like Michelangelo’s David. He’s made of something much more vibrant than marble. He’s a song with a pounding beat and a roughly melodic tune. His erection reaches for me, another blatant reminder of his vitality.
He leans forward, runs his fingers across my stomach; it seems he’s tracing the letters of a word there—“lust,” “love,” it’s hard to tell the difference, his touch shoots over me so fast. I breathe in the sent of him as his fingers continue their dance up to my throat, resting there, right under my chin. He studies me the way one would study an eclipse, expectant but awed. And his fingers keep moving, this time down to my breast; he caresses the area around one nipple and then the next, so different from Dave’s intrusive touch.