Sebastian Stuart - The Mentor

Charles begins to unbutton her blouse and she reaches into his robe and feels his chest; the robe falls open, he has nothing on underneath, his muscular body is naked, and Emma wants to look at it, right there in the kitchen. She breaks their kiss and pushes the robe off his shoulders and he stands there in front of her, naked. Emma lets her eyes roam down his body. It’s her turn. And maybe someday soon this will be her kitchen.

She feels Charles’s hands on her shoulders, applying a growing pressure. Emma sinks to her knees and the room falls away.

“You’re mine,” he states.

Emma looks up at him, but he grips her hair and forces her gaze down, down.

“I’m yours,” she whispers.

Their sweat and juices mingle until their bodies share the same dense smell. Emma steps through the looking glass into a realm of pure sex, moving openly, naked, from room to room, making love in the guest bedroom, on the rug in the library, until the day becomes a blur, a hazy blue high, a languid dream of love and desire. Now they’re dancing naked in the shuttered living room to the music of Billie Holiday and Emma wishes her father could see her, could see how she’s grown up into a woman, a woman who dances naked to Billie Holiday in the middle of a gray New York afternoon.

The day slips by like a vapor and Emma finds herself on the living room floor wrapped in the softest blanket she has ever felt, her body aching with the sweetest fatigue. Charles, wearing his robe, is sitting in the chaise longue reading to her from The Sound and the Fury.

Charles closes the book and looks down at her. Emma lets the blanket slip from her shoulders and she’s naked in front of him on the floor. She leans back and opens up her body to him, an offering, and he looks and she loves his looking. Then she drapes her arm around his ankle and kisses his foot.

Charles is holding her down on the bed, gazing at her with something hard and frightening in his eyes. Emma pleads with her eyes; she needs him, needs him inside her. She starts to whimper, and still he just looks down at her.

“Please…” Emma moans.

A tiny smile plays at the corners of his mouth and he moves his hips closer so that he brushes against her, hard and hot.

“Please…”

And she arches her hips up and he moves out of her reach and her breath comes shallow and she knows if she can have him she will never want anything else.

“I beg you… Charles…”

“Say it,” he orders quietly, staring down into her eyes.

“I beg you… Please, Charles, I need it, I beg you I beg you I beg you…”

And then she starts thrashing on the bed, her body sweeping her up in its need. And he enters her, and feeling him, she stops and is still-and as he slides in, slowly, slowly, she remains still, biting her lower lip, looking into his eyes, knowing she has found that place where love lives.

When Emma wakes she’s alone in the guest room, and outside the window it’s dusk and she wonders where Charles is. The apartment is silent and empty, and suddenly she’s scared, gripped by fear in the huge room with its empty corners. She sits up, sweating. What’s she doing here? Naked. She’s in danger. She must get out, get home-home. Where is her home? Panic rises in waves up her body.

And then she hears footfalls coming down the hall. She’s still. Charles walks into the room, dressed, with his coat on, and he smiles at her. He switches on a bedside lamp and a soft amber glow suffuses the room. Her panic recedes, but it’s quickly replaced by a terrible vulnerability, being naked on the bed, as if the party’s over and no one has told her. And then Charles leans down and kisses her and she wraps her arms around his neck and everything is all right again. She has simply taken a nap, a nap after a long day of lovemaking. Grown-ups do that.

“Hungry?” Charles asks.

“Mmmmm.” She realizes she’s ravenous.

“Thai?”

Emma nods.

“Back in twenty minutes.”

And then he’s gone and Emma is alone in the apartment. She stretches. Her body feels heavy and warm and satisfied. She catches her reflection in the mirror over the dresser. Lit by the soft yellow light she looks almost beautiful, like an actress in a sexy French film, glamorous and languid, alone in her lover’s apartment in the evening.

Emma has a sudden urge to explore, and she slips out of bed and into her shirt. She loves walking down the long hallway in nothing but her shirt-she is in a sophisticated French film.

Emma walks into the master bedroom and stops. The vast sleigh bed stands dead center in the room like a surly watchdog. Emma gives it the finger. Poor rich bitch, Charles has never taken her to the places he took Emma today, no way. On the dresser sits a tiny kingdom of beautiful glass bottles. Emma opens one and holds it under her nose-it smells fresh and clean and full of hope. She dips the stopper and runs it along her neck and down into her shirt, between her breasts, around a nipple.

In the bathroom Emma looks at herself in the mirror wall. Her skin is glowing, her face infused with a confidence she’s never seen before. Slowly, defiantly, she begins to unbutton her shirt. It falls off her body and she stands there naked. She’s never looked at herself like this before. She’s a woman now and her body shows it: her bony, boyish angles have softened, her hips and breasts have filled out and, yes, they do have a lovely shape, graceful and smooth. She’s a woman and a writer and she has a lover and a book-a life.

Emma steps into the shower, the huge shower with its brushed-steel bench and shelf filled with expensive soaps and shampoos, everything glistening, and she turns on the faucet and the water sprays out, steaming, soothing, and she lets it beat down on her body, her strong beautiful body.

Wrapped in a thick towel and drying her hair, Emma walks across the bedroom and into rich bitch’s dressing room. It looks like a department store. One dress catches her eye, a plain black dress made of some material that seems to float as she takes it down. Emma turns to the full-length mirror, and holds the dress up in front of her. It has thin shoulder straps, and ends halfway down the thigh. It’s such a simple dress, and yet the cut, the cloth, and the feel are sublime. Emma imagines wearing it out to dinner with Charles in the summer, sitting at an outdoor cafe, elegant and famous and in love, watching the city go by. She hangs up the black dress and takes down a pale green one, full-length, silk, elegant, tight, with a mandarin collar and a row of tiny buttons running diagonally across the chest. She turns to the mirror-how wonderful! Like something you’d wear to the White House or to an opening night, on Charles’s arm, secure, serene, and beautiful.

“Green’s not your color.”

Emma gasps and whirls around. Anne Turner is standing in the doorway.

“I’m… I’m sorry. I don’t know what I was doing.”

Emma, her hands shaking, hangs the dress up and makes a move to leave. Anne blocks her way.

The point is, Emma, I do know what you’re doing.”

Rich bitch has her face all haughty and righteous. As if she were so perfect.

“You said you were going to give me some of your clothes, didn’t you? Remember-a few weeks ago, in the kitchen? Right after that phone call?”

Anne is stunned. Emma thinks she looks like a fucking cow, standing there with her mouth gaping open.

“Well, didn’t you?”

Anne takes a step backward. “I didn’t think you’d come and help yourself,” she says crisply.

“I’m just checking them out,” Emma says. She turns and runs a hand along the dresses.

“Anne, you’re home,” Charles says, walking into the room, shooting Emma a glance that says “I’ll handle this.”