Of course, I woke up alone. And, thanks to jet lag, it was still the middle of the night. I rolled about, trying to re-snuggle, but it wasn’t happening. The empty space beside me just made me sad. Even though I knew Caspian wasn’t trying to hurt me, any more than I was doing something to drive him away.
The last time I’d gone looking for him hadn’t exactly been a rousing success, but we’d both been independently messed up, and, presumably, if I didn’t descend on him wailing about Nathaniel like I’d been possessed by the spirit of lovers past it would go better. And, anyway, if I could spontaneously ask Poppy Carrie for an interview, I could go and find Caspian.
Hell yes, I could.
Throwing off the covers, I scrabbled about on the floor for my pajama bottoms and padded out into the hall. I expected he’d be in the living area, but he wasn’t. It was empty, caught in the eerie half-light of the city’s ceaseless glow. Maybe he was sleeping somewhere else? Except no sign of him in any of the bedrooms.
Shit. Maybe he’d left?
Fuck me sideways, he’d better not have. If he’d fucked off on me after last night I…well, I had no idea what I’d do. But I knew this wasn’t the sort of thing I’d get over. My stomach knotted with a strange mixture of preemptive anger and fear. While my heart was already begging: please don’t do this to me, Caspian.
Then I heard it: a gasping sound, almost a sob.
I turned. Followed it like a ninja. And, for the record, I wouldn’t normally have burst in on someone in the bathroom, especially if weird noises were involved, but the door was half open and I could see Caspian inside. He was braced against the marble counter, head down. What I could see of his face in the mirror was pale, sweat damp like his tangled hair, and he was trembling violently.
Don’t tell me I’d done this to him again.
“C-Caspian?”
He glanced up, his reflected eyes red-rimmed, damp, and desolate. Meeting mine only briefly.
“What’s wrong? Are you—” I remembered just in time how he’d reacted to the word triggered. “Is it like before?”
“No. No. Nothing like that. I’m…oh God, don’t laugh.”
“Of course I—”
My assurance was lost as he rushed on. “I had a dream.”
I guess maybe some people might have found it funny. He was, after all, a grown man, and a powerful one, and only children were supposed to be scared of dreams. But I’d heard my mum begging and screaming in hers way too often to take them lightly. “You mean, a nightmare?”
After a moment, he nodded.
“Do you want to talk about it? It’s okay if you don’t, but sometimes it helps. Was someone hurting you?”
“No. I…I…”
Suddenly he spun away from the counter and pulled me into his arms so fiercely it almost knocked the wind out of me. I hugged him back and, for once, he didn’t protest or pull away, his body this tangle of physical anguish against mine, all hot, rough breath and the panicked heartbeat of a wounded beast. And then, before I quite knew what was happening, he was on his knees, clinging to me.
“I was hurting you,” he whispered.
It felt about eighty-seven types of weird to be standing when Caspian wasn’t. On any other occasion I would probably have hit the floor too in order to balance things out. But I knew that wasn’t what he needed from me tonight. So I stopped worrying. Curled my fingers very lightly into his hair, trying to soothe him. “It was only a dream.”
“You were crying, Arden, and screaming. And there was blood on your back, and you were begging me to stop. And I didn’t.”
“It was a dream,” I said again. “Only a dream.”
His fingers tightened, digging hard enough into the backs of my thighs I was sure he was leaving bruises. “It felt so good.”
“Yes, but that doesn’t mean anything.”
He didn’t answer. Just stifled another miserable sound.
“I’m serious. You’d never do something like that in real life.”
“Arden”—he looked up at me with his restless ocean eyes, so full of unfathomed pain—“you have no idea what I’m capable of.”
It was the easiest thing in the world, right then, to hold his gaze. “I know you’d never hurt me in ways I didn’t want to be hurt. I know you’d never break my trust. And I know that, whatever you’ve done or whatever’s been done to you, you’re a good person.”
I could sense the protest gathering inside him. Any second now he was going to say something devastatingly rational about how I couldn’t be sure and then we were going to have a big argument because, on this particular subject, I wasn’t yielding. Not for him. Not for anyone.
But I guess he was still too raw. Because he let me hold him instead. And we stayed there like that for long enough I started to worry about his knees on the marble floor.
When my mum had nightmares we turned on every light in the house. And checked every room. That wouldn’t work for Caspian, though. He had different demons.
Which wasn’t to say they couldn’t be conquered.
I touched his shoulder gently. “Come back to bed.”
“You still want—”
I knew it was rude to interrupt, but sometimes you had to. “More than anything in the world.”
* * *
My body had apparently given up on time zones because when I next woke up it was still far too early, especially for a Saturday. To my slight surprise, Caspian was beside me, as close as he could get without us actually touching.
God, he must have been exhausted because he was out. And, whereas when I was asleep I looked like a concussed bunny, drooling and twitching and snuffling my nose (I knew because Nik had been kind enough to record me), even after last night Caspian looked beautiful. Like he belonged in an arty black ’n’ white photo series.
He was lying on his stomach, head turned to the side, one arm flung across the pillow, the other curled neatly beside him. The covers had slipped down, exposing his shoulders and the long sweep of his spine. And the teeniest hint of buttock curve. His hair was an adorable ruffle across his brow and his eyelashes were infuriating. I mean. . Did he need them that thick and dark and soft? Really? Did he? When the rest of him was so ridiculously exquisite? He could have afforded one less than perfect feature. Except I loved his contrasts: his strength and his secrets, like his lavish eyelashes, his delicate collarbones, and the enticingly tender skin of his flanks.
I stared at him creepily for a while. Partially because I could, and Caspian would never know, but also because my phone was flashing super insistently and I wasn’t ready to face whatever I was being messaged about. Not when I could live in the shadows of Caspian’s far too lovely eyelashes.
Finally, though, I forced myself to get out of bed, creeping into the living area so I wouldn’t disturb Caspian. Strips of pale yellow-gray sunlight fell across my feet, making them look jaundiced. Oh England with your half-arsed summers. I was so happy to be home.
I glanced down at my phone. Holy shit. That was a lot of notifications. Which, once again, I wasn’t conscious of having done anything to inspire. Sighing, I googled Ellery (nothing new), myself (nothing new), and finally yesterday’s event. I was fairly reassured that I had to hunt to find it, but there it was in a particular scurrilous gossip rag: “Keeping It in the Family: Aloof Billionaire Caspian Hart Steals Sister’s Squeeze.” And a fuzzy side-by-side of two mes—one eating strawberries with Ellery, and one holding Caspian’s hand outside the gallery.
So, yeah. That was pretty icky. And typical, honestly, that the public record of Nathaniel’s relationship with Caspian was all glossy couples pics from charity events, whereas I was turning into a tabloid-headline-generating floozy. But, whatever. Being with Caspian probably meant some of this stuff was inevitable. I forwarded the article to Bellerose just in case and turned to my emails.
A few were related to my own writing, one was from Milieu (oooh), the rest were Nik, Sophie, Weird Owen, Professor Standish, Oxford University notifications…oh fuck.
Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.
This could mean only one thing.
My results were out.
I could have put it off. Once upon a time I would have. But not anymore. I had an article coming out in Milieu. A respectable army of Instagram followers. A billionaire lover who fucked me and cherished me, and let me comfort him when he needed it. I’d danced all night at a secret rave in an abandoned building. Flown to Boston to be with a friend. Interviewed Poppy Carrie in a hospital café. Frankly, Oxford could suck my balls.
I dug my password out of the sludge in the bottom of my brain and logged into the student self-service.
And there it was.
Arden St. Ives: 2.2.
The rest of the non-work emails were mostly congratulations. Polite congratulations. Professor Standish said she hoped this wouldn’t hold me back because she knew I was very capable when I put my mind to it. Weird Owen had helpfully gone to Exam Schools and taken a photo of the public list for me. I was right at the bottom. Worst mark in college. Even Druggie Matt, who had been off his face in every tutorial, had managed a 2.1.
So. Yeah.
2.2.
The result you got when you weren’t competent enough for a 2.1 or incompetent enough for a third. A 2.1, said “I did what I was supposed to do,” a third said, “I gave no fucks about doing what I was supposed to do,” and a 2.2 said nothing at all.
It was a squeak of inglorious inadequacy.
I waited for the sky to fall. I waited to burst into tears.
But the world stayed right-way-up. And I was…totally and completely fine.
Huh.
Well, time to see what Milieu had to say. Which was, if anything, even more nerve-wracking. They’d got back to me much quicker than last time, which made me suspect I was either moving up in the world or about to suffer a devastating insta!rejection.
But it was good…ish…news. I think. They liked the interview, though it would need a lot of work, and to run it at the length they felt it deserved, it would have to be a main feature. Meaning, they wanted Poppy for the cover. And so, since she was essentially my contact, I had to email her. And what with it still being the middle of the night in Boston, and the weekend, it would probably sit there in her inbox for hours, if not days.
Holy tenterhooks Batman.
“Arden?” Caspian’s voice startled me away from my phone.
“Sorry. Sorry. I’m here.”
I ran back into the bedroom. Found Caspian sitting up and bleary-eyed, pushing the hair out of his face.
“I’m starting to see,” he said, “why you object so much to waking up alone.”
“Did you miss me?” I jumped back into bed.
“I wouldn’t say missed you exactly—”
“Wow thanks.”
He gave me a look. “Well, I knew you were unlikely to have gone far.”
“You could still miss me though.”
“I certainly awoke and was aware of your absence.”
“If you ever get sick of being a billionaire, you could work for Hallmark.” I mimed titles flying through the air. “I Am Aware of Your Absence. I May Have Mildly Inconvenienced You. My Concern on This Non-Ideal Occasion.”
“Oh shush.”
I’d never seen someone try to laugh while they were scowling. Or scowl while they were laughing. Anyway, it was…pretty special. Then he twisted a hand in my hair and pulled me in for a kiss that felt like reward and punishment all at once.
“Caspian,” I mumbled against his mouth.
“Yes, my Arden?”
“I failed Oxford.”
He drew back a little. Not in a recoiling-from-my-ignorance way. More just giving me space. “You failed? Nobody fails Oxford. You mean you got a third?”
“2.2. That’s worse than a third.”
“It demonstrably is not.”
“You and your damn logic.” I sighed. “Sorry. I guess…I don’t know. I can’t figure out how I feel. I’m supposed to be wrecked. Why aren’t I wrecked?”
“Perhaps,” he said with gentle mischief, “you’ve developed a sense of proportion?”
“Um. Have you met me?”
He leaned in and kissed my nose. “When you’re there, Oxford seems like the whole world. And its values the only values that matter. But you’ve been flourishing elsewhere, and in your own way, for months now. At this point, your degree classification is largely irrelevant.”
“I do”—I squirmed with an almost uncontainable sense of liberation—“feel…maybe…that I’m flourishing. Milieu might want my interview as well.”
“I’m so proud of you. Both for what you’ve achieved at Oxford, and beyond.”
Ahhhhh. Too much. Too much. I flumped over and pulled a pillow over my face. “Oh my God, what are you doing to meeeee?”
“What on the earth’s the matter now?”
“I can’t cope when you’re this lovely. I don’t deserve it.”
“Is that so?” He wrestled the pillow away and rolled on top of me, sliding his knee between my legs. Last night’s nightmare seemed very distant indeed as he gazed down at me like a wolf with an exceptionally delicious rabbit between its paws. “Because I can also be terribly cruel.”
My cock got hard so quickly it practically sproinged. “Fuck yes. Please be cruel to me.”
He caught my lower lip between his teeth and tugged until I whimpered. It was such a sweet, sharp pain.
“But first,” he murmured, “let me make something very clear.”
Some boys liked diamonds. I liked being sexually threatened. I nodded eagerly. “Okay.”
“When it comes to me, I decide what you deserve. And I will feel proud of you when I damn well please.” He nipped at my chin. Then moved down my neck, making the skin dance under the scrape of his teeth. “Understood?”
I tipped my head, already breathless. “Y-yes.”
“Good. Now, then. Shall we see what you deserve today?”
Apparently what I deserved was to beg and moan a lot. To get covered in bites and bruises. To be sweaty and mindless and helpless. And, finally, when I was literally crying, to come like the end of the fucking universe.
Leaving me used and abused and sated and happy.
* * *
Caspian had to fly to New York on Sunday. But—apart from the time I spent on the phone, first to my folks, who were thrilled for me, and then to Nik, who’d got a first, of course—he was all mine for Saturday. Remembering how much he’d enjoyed our family game night, and facing up to the fact that I was never, ever, ever going to be remotely interested in learning how not to suck at chess (even from Caspian). I took him down to a board game shop in Seven Dials. He wanted to call a car but I insisted we walk, since it was only half an hour, through Hyde Park and Mayfair, and that turned out to be exactly the right call. Because the day was shiny with sunlight and Caspian let me hold his hand and, for a little while, we were lost together in the London crowds. Just another couple.
I thought I was never getting Caspian out of the shop but we finally settled on a few two-player games. Caspian chose Hive because the assistant described it as “like chess with insects” and I went for Fungi because it was about mushrooms. We headed home via our local Waitrose so I could buy lunch—picnic food, mainly, of the sort best nibbled between committed bouts of sex and board games—and I wasn’t sure Caspian had ever been in a supermarket, or at least had forgotten how they worked, because he looked distinctly bewildered the whole time we were there.
I spent the afternoon having my arse handed to me (in a nonsexual way) by an increasingly apologetic Caspian. But it worked out okay since I was far more attracted to his ruthlessness than I was embarrassed by my own abundance of ruth. And I got to tease him about it and make him blush, which was far more satisfying than winning anyway. Then we watched The Force Awakens again. I tried to tell Caspian other movies existed—that even other Star Wars movies existed—but he said he felt he might have missed things the first time round and wanted to study the film further. Because he was a ginormous dork.
It was more Star Wars than I would normally have been up for, but I liked…no, I loved being able to indulge Caspian. Draw out his tentative pleasures. Catch the gleam of happiness as it crept shyly into his eyes. Also real talk: my toenails were a complete state, and this gave me an opportunity to sort them out. Even if it meant subjecting the man I desired most in the universe to the sight of me hunched over on the sofa like an elderly baboon. Or, y’know, Yoda before he got all CGI. I went for blue-black glitter and teeny-tiny silver stars because I thought Caspian would like it. And I guess he did because he threw my freshly beautified feet over his shoulders and fucked me into a puddle of happy goo as the credits rolled.
Probably ruining the Star Wars theme for me forever.
Or improving it immeasurably.
I couldn’t quite decide.
After that, I was pretty much done for, but it turned out Caspian wanted to take me out for dinner. As in put-clothes-on-call-a-car-spend-more-money-than-I-was-comfortable-with-maybe-we-could-just-stay-home-and-I-could-make-pasta-instead dinner. Apparently he wanted to celebrate my accomplishments and he wouldn’t take no for an answer. Not that I tried to say no very hard. And it was quite a complicated no anyway, because the no-ness was largely about the fact I would never be able to do anything like this for him. But what I really wanted to say was yes. Because, while it involved far more chauffeuring and Michelin stars than I was used to, it was…a date. A date with Caspian Hart.
He wore charcoal gray with a slate gray shirt, a maroon tie, and dark gold pocket square. And looked, as ever, ridiculously gorgeous and well put together. So I nobly pulled on my one suit—my crappy, exam-doing suit—only for Caspian to send me back into the bedroom to change. It wasn’t until I reemerged, this time in rainbow tie-dye skinny jeans, a T-shirt, and my plum velvet jacket, that I realized he’d dressed for me. Not in the sense that we looked remotely similar. But he’d clearly chosen his tie to complement my jacket, the boldest splash in his otherwise subdued palette like a private tribute to my very favorite color.
In the car, he passed me a neat little parcel, and explained, “We were instructed to bring a book.”
“To dinner?”
He nodded. “I hope you don’t mind that I had Bellerose provide one.”
“Did he also pick the restaurant?”
“He”—Caspian got all pinkish at the top of his cheekbones—“helped me come up with something you would like.”
“Maybe I should go out with him.”
“I would strenuously object.”
I unwrapped the book and burst out laughing. It was a folio society edition of Rebecca.
The restaurant turned out to be this wood cabin built on a traffic island near London Bridge. Inside, it was clean and unfussy, all grown-up shades of brown, and books everywhere—there was even one on our table, a copy of Eros the Bittersweet. And it turned out the whole deal was about telling stories through food. Which I…yeah. Cheesy or not, I loved it.
And, best of all, they had a tasting menu so I was saved from having to order, something I always hated. I mean, not what beans I wanted in my burrito, but there was way too much pressure in fancy places. You had to worry about the price of things, whether you were paying or not, and also what your choices might be saying about you. Like if you had the beef after the crab, did that mean you were a yahoo, and everyone was secretly laughing? And…and…on top of all that was the major commitment you were making to a large, expensive plate of food that you might not even like.
But this way I got to sit there and enjoy a candlelit Caspian and the food took care of itself: arriving as part of what seemed to be an endless parade of exciting nibbles. Some of which, I’ll admit, were slightly challenging for a middle-class boy who grew up in the middle of nowhere, but I quickly got swept up in the drama of never quite knowing what was going to turn up next. We had savory Oreos, called Storeos, made with squid ink and eel mousse, and crispy cod skin with cod roe emulsion, and black pudding topped with pineapple. And that was before the meal had even properly started. I didn’t think my bouche had ever been so comprehensively amused.
They brought us pouches of sourdough next served with condiments, and I literally squealed when it turned out the candle was made of beef fat and had been quietly forming a pool of warm, meaty deliciousness for us to dip the bread into. I did quite a lot of squealing, actually, as the various dishes appeared. Squealing, squeaking, gasping. Occasionally even waving my hands in the air. Everything was just so pretty and playful and weird, like the teeny-tiny mashed potato served with coal oil, or the Snow White apple that was presented to us in a bowl of billowing dry ice and opened up to reveal beef tartare and truffle, or the tiny little milk bottles that were full of rhubarb and custard soda.
And Caspian…God, I don’t quite know. He was looking at me the way he looked at Star Wars. Which made me so happy I got scared. Because it made me realize that I’d been with Caspian longer than I’d ever been with anyone and I had no idea what it meant. Our relationship had started with a blow job on a balcony, progressed to a pre-negotiated, short-term sexual arrangement, and then exploded.. And now it was…nothing and everything and we were at a restaurant together and was he my boyfriend?
Was Caspian Hart my boyfriend?
And did I even want him to be? Since it generally resulted in me going off someone pretty quickly.
Eh. Was it really worth worrying about? It was obvious Caspian liked me. And liked me far more than I was used to being liked. More than any reasonable person ought to like me, in all honesty. But I couldn’t help wondering: did it feel for him the way it felt for me? These Icarus wings, heavy on your back, and full of the promise of power, drawing you higher and higher and faster and faster until you couldn’t tell anymore whether you were flying or falling or soaring or drowning.