"I have to work tomorrow during the day, I'm sorry to say, so I won't be able to entertain you, but there is food. Feel free to come in here whenever you want. You should be able to fix yourself something for breakfast and lunch if that's okay with you, or you can go to town, of course." He pulled open the fridge to reveal some very clean shelves loaded with staples before he slammed it shut again. "Feel free to explore the big house, the attic, outside. Just don't go into the swamp."
"The swamp monster might get me?" He was amusing her. He looked actually nervous about having a guest. It was obvious that while he had his infamous parties with a certain regularity, he didn't seem to have traditional houseguests.
"Either that or a gator." He stuck his hands in his pockets. "If you need anything just come over to the pigeonnier. At any time. My work is easily interruptible, and I want you to be comfortable. Though sometimes you might have to just poke around to find what you need… I don't really pay attention to where the maids put things."
"Damien, relax." Marley pulled her ponytail tighter. "I'm an easy guest. And I'm used to taking care of myself. Everything will be fine."
"Okay." He nodded. "Good. It's just, I'm not used to having anyone stay over. My wife was an excellent hostess, but I'm much more comfortable writing a check for the caterer and the cleaning crew."
Hello. Marley barely heard a word past wife. "You were married? For how long?"
He winced. "Eighteen months. She hated this moldy plantation."
"I'm sorry it didn't work out. I think the house and the property are stunning." Small consolation, but it was true.
"Thank you. I'm sorry she died too. Very, very sorry."
"She died?" Marley was horrified. She had just assumed divorce. "When?"
"Two years after my father died." Damien rubbed his hand over his jaw. "Just forget that I brought it up, alright? I didn't mean to say anything in the first place and I can see what's it's doing… you're getting that look again."
"What look?" Marley wanted to cry. How could one person know so much tragedy? Damien was wealthy, but he had no one to share his material fortune with. That made her profoundly sad and ashamed. She had no reason to resent her family. While they were flawed, they loved her, and they belonged to her.
"The look that says you want to cuddle me and make shushing sounds in my ear." He gave her a wry look. "I don't need to be cuddled, I promise. I am perfectly fine."
"That's the problem with men," she said, a lump still in her throat. "They turn down good cuddling for the sake of pride."
"If you're going to be in my arms, it's not going to be from pity."
"No? What will it be?" She knew what he was going to say. Passion. Desire.
His nostrils flared. "Lust. It will be from lust. I don't want you feeling sorry for me, I want you begging me for more."
Oh, shit. Marley backed up. For some crazy, wild reason, her eyes darted down to his crotch. He had an erection in his jeans. Nothing to be sorry about there.
"I think I'll just go to bed. Bathroom's out here somewhere, you said? Thanks. For everything. I'll see you tomorrow. Good night."
She turned and fast-walked out the door onto the wooden porch, hoping she would recognize the bathroom when she stumbled on it. Her cheeks were hot and her inner thighs likewise. Nope, she wasn't feeling sorry for him. She was feeling sorry for herself. Sorry that she was too much of a chickenshit to just stroll up to him and start begging.
"Good night, Marley," he called after her. "Turn right—you'll find the bathroom at the back of the garden. And sleep well."
Like that was going to happen. Marley yanked her ponytail out. Her brain hurt.
Lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil.
Oh, Angelique, if only I had remembered to pray. I feel very fatigued this evening and have not written since this morning. Besides, I ran out of paper and had to fetch some from Damien's desk. It was unfortunate in that I was discovered by my husband leaving his library, sheets in hand, and he would exact payment.
I am so lost to all that is proper. I know not myself any longer.
You must anticipate that I went to Damien that night in July. It was a course of action I had set myself upon and could not alter. I wanted too badly both the reassurance that my marriage still existed in some measure and I was not to be socially and physically cast off, and as well, to know whether, if I shifted the initiative to myself I could discover the satisfaction of pleasure.
These new feelings of curiosity, of desire for Damien, led me to follow him into the house. Led me to disrobe with the maid's assistance, and head down the hall to his chamber in nothing but chemise and wrapper, the carpets shocking and intimate on my bare feet, my hair unbound, air swirling around my exposed ankles and calves.
I knocked and Damien bid me enter. Though embarrassed and nervous, I can't say that I hesitated. I slipped inside and shut the door behind me. Damien was sitting in a plush damask upholstered chair by the window, his shirt off, whiskey glass in hand. I had never been inside his chamber, and it was stately and large, very masculine, with dark furnishings and thick carpets. The papering was done in a rich blue, and the linens likewise. It smelled different than my room does, with its powders and perfumes. Damien's space smelled like soap, leather, liqueur, and tobacco. Like him.
"Well done, Marie," he said, raising his glass to me as he stood. "I was laying odds at three to one that you'd retire to your own chamber and wish me to the devil."
I can never predict what is going to come from Damien's lips, and I do not understand his wit. I realized that this was a source of irritation to him, so I knew I had to speak or risk his ire. "Why ever would I go to all this trouble to dress and pursue your company in the garden only to wish you to the devil?"
Damien laughed. "Alright then. Come closer and tell me what it is you want." He sank back into the chair, stretching his legs out. "There is no other chair near the window, but here is a seat for you." He patted his lap.
A fissure of excitement tripped through me. Damien looked very, very attractive, so powerful, so naughty, so sly. I wanted to experience that sort of confidence, arrogance.
I walked over and descended onto his legs, my hands carefully on my knees. Our bodies made contact, his legs hard beneath my soft bottom, my shoulder brushing against his bare chest. It felt strangely intimate, curiously wicked, especially when his hand spread onto my waist, helping to balance me. I turned to look at him, to study his hard jaw and his equally hard green eyes. My confidence grew. "I want you to make love to me."