The Story of X: An Erotic Tale by A. J. Molloy

Author:A. J. Molloy [Molloy, A. J.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Romance, Thrillers, Erotica, Contemporary, Fiction
ISBN: 9780062268518
Google: cAC6-sFg524C
Amazon: B009R66214
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2012-12-11T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER NINETEEN

THE MOON IS large and melancholy, reflected in the still blue seas, and laying its path of silver on the tiny rippled waves. The olive trees whisper in a barely felt breeze, but still I shiver, here on my smooth rock, ashamed like Eve by my nakedness. I need a fig leaf. I need a cushion. The concept doesn’t amuse me. Everything is detestable. I can’t even bear to look down and see my new tattoo.

“Carissima.”

It is Marc.

“X, I have been looking for you.” He lifts a canvas bag. “I brought you some clothes, and something hot to drink.”

I gaze his way, then the words tumble out.

“But Marc, but Marc—I can’t—”

“What?”

“I can’t wear the dress, the Armani dress . . .” My voice is still pregnant with sobs, with near-tears. “I’ll ruin it. I am . . .” I take a deep, tearful breath. “Marc, I am bleeding.”

Marc kneels and opens the bag. He has bandages, swabs, ointment. He speaks into the bag as he sifts through it.

“I spoke to the handmaidens. They gave me all this, darling. I have a simple black dress for you as well. I had Giuseppe bring it.”

He looks up, and adds, “Just in case . . .” He hands the dress over. “It’s from Zara.”

His kind and amused blue eyes—gray in the moonlight—look deep into my own. I can’t help blinking back a few more tears, but these are different: tears of relief, tears of—though I hate to admit it—tears of gratitude. Yet he put me through this. I don’t know what I truly feel.

Marc turns away as I wipe myself. I apply some ointment, which is antiseptic, and soothing. The bleeding has almost stopped now; only the pain remains, the pain and the humiliation—though the latter is also drifting out to sea. Perhaps I just panicked. I don’t know. I was having a good time—feeling that Mysterious, Dionysian liberation—before it went wrong. Maybe the fault is with me?

Take a deep breath, X.

It is time to look at my tattoo. Shifting a little, I open my thighs. And gaze at my white skin in the moonlight.

And now I want to cry again.

Because the little tattoo is utterly pretty; it may even be exquisite. It comprises a dark and slender arrow, laced with a very sinuous S-shape along its length. The coloring, black to dark violet, is subtle. It is striking and lovely, despite being so small.

“It’s an alchemical symbol,” Marc says. He is kneeling and staring between my thighs. I am naked down there, of course, but I like him looking. We are both looking at my naked vulva and my new tattoo on my inner thigh.

“A symbol of what?”

“Purification,” he says.

He kisses my stockinged knee. I have to ask him.

“Do you like it?”

“I adore it, X. It is wholly exquisite. The symbols change every year, I believe. But I know that one.

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