Page 3 of Pleasure Lessons

CASSANDRA

The pulsing between my thighs just won’t go away.

It’s been there since my lesson yesterday with Rhett, along with a tingling sensation like I’ve been transformed into a bubbling can of lemon seltzer.

I press my legs together as I lounge on the green velvet chaise in my room.

I’m reading a book Clarisse brought me from the outside world.

It’s a romance novel entitled Built from Stone about a girl who goes hiking and gets caught in a storm, only to be rescued by a rough mountain man who takes her home to his cabin where… things happen.

Clarisse gets me books like this occasionally. I think she knows they’re more educational than enjoyable to me. Having never had a boyfriend, I’m completely ignorant of how to please a man. These books at least give me somewhat of an idea.

I used to be able to picture the heroes in my mind, but ever since I met Rhett, all I see is his face.

His jaw, his hands–so rough and so big, gripping the handle of his racket as he showed me how to swing.

The way he looked like he was holding back as he placed a hand on my hip while correcting my stance.

The way his thick chest rose and fell when I asked him what men want from a wife.

Something about that question rattled him, and he doesn’t look like a man who’s easily rattled.

He didn’t even answer me. Not really. But I remember his eyes when I said the word want . It was like my question was dangerous. Like I was dangerous.

My whole body still tingles, but especially the places he touched me: my hips, my hands, his chest against my back. If I inhale now, I can still smell his scent in my nostrils, despite the fact that he cancelled our lesson today and I haven’t seen him in over twenty-four hours.

The deep rumble of his voice and the way he spoke to me echoes over and over in my head–a naughty lullaby, beckoning me to do something I know I shouldn’t do.

I didn’t sleep at all last night. I just lay in bed, my body on fire, wearing nothing but a loose T-shirt and a pair of panties, trying to cool off and calm down.

But I couldn’t stop thinking about his eyes, his hands, his touch…

and what would have happened if I knew how to do those things that other girls know how to do.

How to show a man they’re interested in him.

A loud knock at my door nearly jolts me off the chaise. The door opens, and Clarisse pokes her head in. “Mr. Fredrickson is here.”

I freeze instantly. “What?”

“He just arrived…just now.”

My mind goes blank. This doesn’t make any sense.

Arthur and I haven’t seen each other in weeks.

His room is in the opposite wing of the house from mine.

He goes to work and comes home, and I don’t even notice.

The only reason I’m even living here now is because my father and he decided it would be good for me to get used to the house, the grounds, the whole estate, and prepare for being a wife.

Arthur calls me “darling girl” in public, like some kind of old-fashioned British aristocrat. Which makes sense considering how obscenely wealthy he is. Oh, and did I mention he’s also fifty-five? Yeah, my dad didn’t see an issue there.

I rush to my mirror as Clarisse shuts the door. My cheeks are flushed, my lips are chapped from biting them anxiously all day, and my hair is an absolute mess. I rush to the bathroom and quickly do my best to put myself together.

Arthur is waiting, as he always is, in the drawing room. Surrounded by walls of books, he’s sitting by the fire, wearing an old-fashioned white suit with a whiskey in one hand and a lit cigar in the other.

He turns and glances at me like he owns me–like we’ve already been married for decades. “Cassandra.”

I don’t know why, but I curtsy. Maybe it’s in response to the suit he’s wearing. I instantly regret it. “Arthur.”

He motions for me to come over to him, which I know I must do. He gestures with his cigar, and I lean down. He then brushes his cold lips against my forehead, and it’s all I can do not to vomit.

“Thought I’d surprise you,” he whispers. “You look delicious this evening.”

Yeah, I actually might puke.

“Thank you,” I reply automatically. He frowns, takes a sip of his whiskey, and scans my body with his eyes, pausing–oddly enough–on my throat. “You’ve been working out.”

“Playing tennis,” I stammer.

“Ah, yes.” He smirks, taking a puff from his cigar. “The tennis coach. There’s nothing going on between you two, is there?”

His question nearly knocks me down. “Ex–excuse me?”

“You heard me,” he says, his smile broadening. “I don’t have to worry about what you’re up to when I’m away. Do I, darling?”

I shake my head so hard it nearly comes off. “Of course not! Rhett is very professional!”

Don’t overdo it.

Arthur sets his cigar aside, reaches out, and takes my hand. It’s just as cold as his lips. “You’ll be a good wife, Cassandra. I’ve been very patient. I’ve let you live here without any contact while you…mature. But patience has its limits.”

He lowers his eyes to my hand, my ring finger, the large engagement ring he placed there when I first moved in. It’s enormous. A symbol of his equally enormous wealth. I’ve always hated the thing. It weighs my hand down like an anchor.

I hide my hand behind my back and look at the floor. “I–I’m tired, Mr. Frederickson. I think I’ll go to bed–”

“Must we still play this game?” he asks before I can turn. I bring my eyes to his, nearly trembling from anxiety. “Call me Arthur. I’m going to be your husband.”

My throat spasms. I’m not ready for this.

“I think I’ll go to bed…Arthur.”

He smiles and nods, taking a puff from his cigar. “Good night, darling.”

I turn and quickly leave the room, gulping down deep breaths to calm myself.

This house feels like a prison. It’s like the walls are closing in on me, doing their best to squish me into jelly.

I take the route that leads to my room but duck out a side door and walk across the grass to the back garden.

It’s lush and ornate, with fountains and ivy and roses everywhere, and I’m sure Arthur has never once been here.

He just pays someone to keep it up so when guests come over, the estate looks impressive.

I’m glad he does, though, as I like to come here from time to time when I need to decompress.

It’s where I go when I need to breathe. The cobblestones are cold on my feet as I take the long route.

I pass through the stone arch and hear the sound of running water from one of the fountains and am just about to find my normal bench when I stop breathing altogether.

Rhett is here.

He’s shirtless, wearing only jeans. Sweat is gleaming off his muscled back and shoulders as he curls a dumbbell in one arm. I knew he was built when I first saw him, but seeing him uncovered like this just takes things to a whole new level.

I grip the stone of the arch beside me, using its chill to lower my body temperature.

He doesn’t know I’m watching him as he lowers the weight slowly, his bicep bulging, thick and veiny.

When he finally sets it down, he runs a hand through his hair and turns slightly, stretching, giving me a view of his abs. Abs a Hollywood star would kill for.

A sound squeaks out of me. I can’t help it.

His head snaps to me, and my heart stops. “Cassandra?” His voice is low and cautious.

I step out from the archway, doing my best to appear innocent, like I wasn’t just watching him work out–like I just happened to be here.

He reaches for a towel and wipes the sweat from his face. My thighs are tingling like crazy. “You shouldn’t be out here at this hour.”

“I–I needed to get some air,” I explain. “After Mr. Fredrickson made a surprise visit.”

His face hardens. “Did he…touch you?”

“What?”

Rhett growls something under his breath and tosses the towel aside. “Nothing. Never mind.”

I take a step forward. My arms are tingling now and my mouth is dry–but my center is not.

I feel like I feel sometimes when I read those books Clarisse brings me.

Maybe it’s because I was reading one a moment ago–or maybe it’s some leftover anxiety from my visit with Arthur, but I’m feeling curious at the moment.

And I say something I don’t think I normally would.

“Do you always work out shirtless?” He doesn’t answer. My heart is racing. Am I overstepping? “You’re…in very good shape.”

Still, he is silent.

“You know I have these books that Clarisse gets me, and the men on the cover are always very muscular. You look like you could be one of them actually–”

“Cassandra,” he snaps, as if warning me. But my body is on fire for him now, and I can’t stop myself. Behind me is prison–before me is freedom.

I walk right up to him and look up, so far up. He’s so tall I have to crane my neck. My eyes fall on a scar on his chest. A slash of white across his glistening golden skin. Before I can stop myself, I raise my hand to it and trace the line with my fingertips.

“What is this from?”

I feel his heartrate leap through his chest. “Barbed wire,” he says. “When I was seventeen.”

“Were you…a bad boy when you were young?”

He twists his lips and flexes his hands, as though he’s angry with me.

“You shouldn’t be touching me like this,” he says, his voice low and tense.

“You’ve already touched me,” I counter. “Besides, I’m just curious.”

He takes a step back, reaching for his shirt. My heart sinks as he slips it on, concealing his Adonis physique from me.

“I shouldn’t be here,” he says. “I was just getting in a workout–”

“What do men want in a wife, Rhett?” I ask. He freezes. “Because it seems like Arthur just wants me . You know what I mean?”

He closes his eyes. “Not this again, Cassandra. Don’t ask me this. I–I can’t give you the answer you want.”

“Yes you can, Rhett. Who else will teach me? The men in my books?”

He opens his eyes again and turns them to me. They’re blazing with energy. “You’re barely legal, Cassandra.”

“Yes, but I am eighteen, Rhett.”

He growls and looks down. “And you’re his.”

That’s it. He’s worried about Arthur. It makes sense. Arthur is the one paying him to give me my lessons. Arthur is a rich and powerful man. That’s why my father is having me marry him.

“Not by choice.”

He looks up, shocked by my answer. He had no idea about the arrangement. And why would he?

My thighs are slippery with arousal and squeeze together as I remember how he guided my hip during our lesson, correcting my stance when returning a serve.

“I’m yours if you want me.”

A savage sound erupts from his throat, and he turns away from me, tearing at the fabric of his shirt. “You don’t even know what you’re saying, Cassandra.”

“I know what I feel ,” I reply. “You’re all I think about between lessons, Rhett. I even picture you in my romance novels when I’m reading.”

He shakes his head angrily, then turns back to me, his chest rising and falling with heavy breaths.

“You think you’re the only one? Huh? You think I don’t want to touch you?

I wake up hard as a rock after dreaming of you.

I jerk off in the shower while I whisper your name.

I dream about you–your smooth skin, your lips, what your body looks like beneath that short skirt and Polo. ”

A quiet murmur falls from my lips as my jaw drops. “Rhett…”

“I hear your innocent little voice asking me what a man wants from his wife, and I’m going out of my goddamn mind.” He steps forward, dangerously close. I feel the heat emanating from his body. “But I can’t touch you, Cassandra.”

“W–why not?”

He drags his eyes down my body and back up again, studying every inch. “Because if I do, I won’t be able to stop myself. There will be no going back. For either of us.”

My lips tremble as I stare back at him. Those gorgeous eyes and the sharp lines of his gorgeous face. “What am I going back to?” I ask, pointing to the manor. “ Him?”

His eyes flick to the house then back to me. I see understanding in them, like he finally understands my position. And then slowly, he reaches out and brushes a strand of my hair behind my ear.

“That shouldn’t be there,” he growls darkly.

“What? My hair?”

He shakes his head. “No. His scent. Smokes cigars, doesn’t he?”

I cringe. My God, do I smell like Arthur? How revolting. How embarrassing.

I look up at him, and our eyes meet, and it’s like the world shifts. I see desire in his gaze. And for the first time since we met, I see him falter.

“You could…replace it,” I whimper, my lips barely responding to me. “With yours?”

Even with his shirt on, I see his body tighten. My eyes fall to his shorts, where a large bulge has formed. Is that… it? The curiosity thrills and overwhelms me. Thoughts like the steamy scenes in my books fill my mind, only starring me and Rhett.

For a brief second, I think he’s about to reach out and touch me. But then he’s gone, stepping past me and walking through the arch.

“Lesson tomorrow,” he barks. “Don’t be late.”

I watch as he walks away. I guess I didn’t notice until now, but Rhett’s butt is sculpted and firm, like two slabs of muscle that move in a way that has my skin buzzing.

“Tomorrow…” I whisper to myself, biting my lower lip. “See you then.”