The Little Death

Chapter Fourteen

The clock chimed, its sweet sound carrying in the stillness of the house. She waited until she counted twelve chimes, then slid from the bed and went downstairs.

The marble was cold on her feet as she went quickly through the rooms. The white lights of the Christmas tree glowed in the dark. At the front door, she opened the small box and punched in the code to deactivate the alarm.

She hurried to the back of the house, passing the closed door of the study without a glance. At the French doors, she paused, looking out over the patio. The pool lights cast shimmering shadows on the swaying palm trees.

She switched off the lights, and the pool went dark. She unlocked the door.

Her heart was beating too fast, and she thought briefly of her doctor and his warnings. But she didn’t care. It felt good. And it had been a while since she felt good.

She retraced her steps through the house and up the sweeping staircase. All of the rooms were dark; she had made sure of that. There was no one in the huge house but her; she had made doubly sure of that, even sending Greg on his way early with the excuse that she was too tired to work.

Back in her bedroom, she paused. Everything was just right. Fresh new linens, the lights on dim. The candle, smelling of orange blossoms-was that a cliché?-glowed on the night table. She felt a twinge of guilt over the candle-what kind of woman spent $300 for one candle at Neiman’s? — but she didn’t care. She had simply wanted it.

She went to the dressing table, looked down at the selection of perfume bottles, and picked up the small, square crystal bottle. She removed the stopper and ran it over the skin between her breasts, then put the bottle of Jicky perfume back in its place. She paused, looking at the larger bottle hidden behind the others. She picked it up, pulled out the stopper, and brought the bottle up to her lips. She closed her eyes as the scotch burned down her throat.

After wiping her lips, she replaced the stopper and put the bottle back in its place.

She moved to the French doors and opened them. She stepped out onto the balcony. A wafer-white moon hung over the ocean, and a cool wind was blowing in. She closed her eyes at the feel of her nipples hardening against the silk of her nightgown.

“Carolyn?”

She turned. He was standing in the doorway, as if waiting for her permission to come in. Which is exactly what he was doing, she realized suddenly.

How sweet. How different from the others.

“Come here,” she said.

As he came forward, his features were a blur. But that was as she had planned it. That was why she hadn’t bothered to put in her contacts. That is why she had broken her promise to herself and had the scotch. She wanted all of the edges to be gone. She wanted nothing but softness.

He held out the ceramic pot. “I was told to give this to you,” he said.

The accent… she had not heard him speak much that first time, and she hadn’t realized how lovely his accent was.

She took the ceramic pot and set it on the night table, then turned back to him. He was wearing jeans and a plain white dress shirt. He smelled like soap. Simple and clean, just the way she wanted it to be, just as she had requested.

“You’re English?” she asked.

“Irish.”

“What kind of name is Byrne?”

“It’s Gaelic. I think it means raven.”

His smile touched her.

“Byrne,” she whispered. And she closed her eyes.

She was grateful that he understood that it was a signal. She was grateful that when his hands encircled her waist, they were gentle. She was grateful that when his lips touched hers, they were soft.

His breath was warm at her ear. “Your husband?”

“Not here,” she whispered.

Then it was a dance as he firmly but slowly led her to the bed. She so loved being led. It was such a relief from the rest of her life.

She lay back in the fresh sheets. He was a beautiful blur as he undressed, just candle-gold skin and dark hair. When his body covered hers, she groaned and moved against him.

“What do you want me to do?” he asked.

“Whatever you want,” she said.

She closed her eyes and felt his hands at her neck and then moving down under the silk to her breast. As he removed her gown, his hands were rough, and she had a vision of him as he might look when he was at work-tan and hard, pulling on the ropes.

“Tie me,” she whispered.

“What?”

“There’s rope… there by the bed. Tie me, please.”

She closed her eyes and raised her arms over her head. He was gentle as he looped the rope over her wrists and around the bedposts. His hands were trembling.

“Tighter,” she said.

“I don’t want-”

“Tighter.”

She cried out as he pulled the rope snug. Then he was kissing her, and she clung to an image of herself riding a sleek white yacht over huge blue ocean waves.

But it wasn’t enough. She was too nervous, she was thinking too much, she was always thinking too much. Why couldn’t she just let go? He would lose patience, just like the last one did, and it would all be ruined.

Tears formed in her eyes. She had to try it; she had to be brave and try it.

“Your hands,” she said. “Put your hands at my neck.”

“What?” he panted.

“Put your hands around my neck.”

“Listen, lady-”

“Carolyn, I’m Carolyn, oh, please.” She was crying.

“Don’t cry. Jesus, don’t cry. I… okay…”

She felt his hands encircle her neck.

“Tighter,” she said.

His hands pressed into her throat. “More, tighter…”

“You tell me when it’s-”

“Yes, yes,” she gasped. “Do it, do it, please.”

When he entered her, she cried out. And as he came, his fingers closed tighter in a reflexive grip. The instinct to fight was there, but her hands were tied. When the orgasm came, she felt the world slipping away.

The next thing she remembered was the feel of something soft and wet on her face. She opened her eyes with a start. He was kneeling over her, sweating, holding a towel.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

She nodded.

“Good God,” he said. And he fell back against the headboard in relief.

She couldn’t move. Her head hurt. Her body felt like liquid. He undid the ropes and pulled her to his chest. He kissed her bruised wrists and her neck over and over.

She drifted into sleep, and when she woke, he was gone. She heard the clock downstairs chime twice. She picked up the phone and dialed the number.

“It’s Carolyn,” she said when the person picked up.

Her eyes fell on the red orchid on the night table.

“He was beautiful,” she whispered. “Thank you.”