Caught In The Shadow [Jenlisa]

Chapter Eight -

Jennie

The door opened slowly, Lisa's shadow significantly less ominous, haloed by the light of the room behind her. I was, dare I admit it, relieved to see her. Lisa. I stopped myself before I said her name and instead took a huge breath. I sat...I waited. She stood by the door, and then leaned against it casually. What looked like a silk nightgown was held almost carelessly in her left hand. I stared at it as she held it out toward me. Weary, I tried to make out her expression in the dark. Was this another fucking game? If so, it was the cruelest yet.

"Well, Kitten? Are you going to put it on or are you finally over your self-indulgent modesty?" I waited for the tease to play out, but she continued to stare at me with a quizzical expression. I walked toward her, and grabbed it from her hand fully expecting to meet with resistance. When I didn't, I fell forward slightly, my cheek colliding with her chest for a brief moment before I righted myself. She laughed and it was almost...sweet.

The fabric was soft and sensual as it glided through my fingers while I discerned the opening. I had never been this close to the open door and my excitement was palpable. The light filtering in from the room behind her beckoned me sharply. I fumbled with the slippery silk.

Lisa's hands unexpectedly reached out for mine. She held them still, steadying my trembling, overly excited hands. I looked up at her, finally able to make out her features in the glow of the adjoining room. I was strangely excited to see her in the light, to really see her, as plainly as I had that fated day on the street. It seemed a lifetime ago.

Her right hand lifted toward my face. It was pure instinct that bade me to close my eyes when her fingers caressed first my brow, then my cheekbone, the curve of my jaw, and finally, her thumb across the bow of my lips. I swayed. My former instincts to fend off her caresses had left me at some point but I couldn't recall when exactly they had stopped. Her touches were expected now. My skin unconsciously eager, waiting for a stroke to feed this new hunger in me. I could suddenly feel her weight at my back, hear her low grunts in my ear as she had taken her pleasure from me. I released the nightgown into her all too capable hands and opened my eyes, expectant but also bemused. I tried, and failed to suppress a shudder when her hands slipped it on over my head. The silk licked my flesh from head to toe, first cool, then warm as it absorbed my heat.

"There," her voice was hoarse. Another caress, this one down my arm. I stared at her chest, the dark buttons against dark cloth. She took my hand and led me out the door. My nipples hardened, pressing against the silk.

She was really going to let me out? "Come," she said, giving a small smile of approval. But I froze. I kept asking myself: is this really happening? And like always, the answer was: yes.

I stepped into the living room as if I stepped into a whole other world. It was one I was strangely frightened to enter. I hesitated, the room felt too big, too cold, and too bright to my sensitive eyes. I squeezed Lisa's hand, needing to make certain she was close to me, and then stopped. I recognized the ridiculousness of my thought process, but also knew there was no way to change it. What was it called when a hostage took refuge behind her abductor? Stockholm's? Did I have it? Could you catch it like the flu? I knew it was stupid to wonder. The simple answer was I didn't want to run into that other guy, the one that took me—that's all. Yes, yes, of course. These thoughts soothed me. Lisa hadn't gotten to me, not like that. Hasn't she? I shook off the thought and let go of Lisa's hand to emphasize my point. Take that inner monologue.

My eyes devoured every surface, any object because who knew when I'd be put back in my black box. I looked up at the ceiling, some twelve feet high, and marveled at the thick wooden beams that ran from wall to wall. It was beautiful, old, and grandiose. Beneath my feet were ceramic tiles, large ones, some with flower-like designs. Tapestries and wall sconces lined the large room, accentuating the low antique looking chairs. I felt like I was in an eighteenth-century sitting room. Any minute now, a man wearing a cravat and brandishing a stylish, if not useless walking stick was going to enter the room and offer me tea. Though one look at the arched entrance to a hallway directly opposite my room and I knew the man would probably not be English. This place had a lot of Spanish vibes. Where the hell was I? To the left I spied a type of kitchen area. There was a table at least. And directly across, to my right I finally saw...a window.