by Raine Miller
She laughed. “I think you’ll be more comfortable here. The master bedroom is very cozy.”
His smiled died. “I don’t want to turn you out of your room.”
Oh, dear. She should leave now and avoid this awkwardness. She knew that and yet her mouth had already opened to explain. “I didn’t sleep with your uncle. My bedroom is on the third floor.”
“But I thought…” Cal’s eyebrows came down slowly. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t pry.”
“This is really why I should leave.” She started to stand.
His hand made a slicing gesture and she instinctively sat back in her chair. He didn’t seem to notice what he’d done.
He picked up his tea, turning the glass around slowly as though inspecting the rivulets and beaded moisture on its surface. He didn’t look up. “I respect your privacy too much to ask about your exact relationship with Uncle Bruno. Mac’s told me a little, enough I hope to keep me from making a fool of myself. I gather there’s a room downstairs—well, I don’t need to see it.”
Thank God for that. “So you’re not…?”
“No.” His voice was decisive, but the look in his eyes suggested his interest in her was more than casual. Sara had seen that look at The Club on the face of men—Doms—who wondered what it would be like to do a scene with her. Cal may never have tried BDSM, but she sensed the idea intrigued him.
His fingers traced down the side of the glass. Sara imagined his wet, cold fingertips on her nipples. Divine. She shivered at the image.
“What precisely are you suggesting?” she asked.
“Bruno wanted us to stay together in the house. We can be roommates. The house is huge. I just need a place to work during the day when you’re out of the house. Mac says you have a job?”
“I’m the chief financial officer for The David and Zela Martin Foundation.”
That caught his attention. She found herself pinned in place by those forest-dark eyes. She rushed to explain.
“I’m a CPA and have a business degree. The foundation doesn’t have a huge staff, but the reporting requirements as well as the payroll, benefits and managing the endowment…” She trailed off.
“I applied for one of your grants last year.”
“Oh, really? Which one?”
“Your foundation supports regional orchestras. I needed funding for the world premiere of one of my compositions.”
Sara tilted her head. “I gather you didn’t get the grant.”
“No. I didn’t.”
There was that mocking little smile again, the one that made her pussy clench.
What was it about this man? She’d gone from handing over the keys on her way out the door…to this aching desire to kneel at his feet if it would make it easier for him to work. He’s not a Dom. He’s not a Dom. Just keep repeating that until—
“How long do you think it will take for the will to be probated?” she asked. In other words, if she agreed to this crazy scheme how long was she going to have to live with a man she wanted to submit to?
“Mac wasn’t sure. I think it depends on how long before he gets some kind of letter from the IRS and each of the various places where Uncle Bruno’s estate will owe taxes.”
Crap. Dealing with taxing authorities never went quickly. This could take months.
Months living with a gorgeous man who made her ache with the desire to serve him. Only, he hadn’t suggested any sort of—arrangement. He hadn’t even mentioned the clause Mac told her about. The one where Master Bruno left her to his nephew. Could she really stand to be near him, want to submit to him, and constantly be reminded that he wasn’t a Dom like his uncle?
Okay, so she should walk out that door and never see him again. Her suitcase sat just a few feet away, mocking her with the ease with which she could simply leave.
Sara looked back at Cal Raynes, his shadowed expression, his strong jaw, those breathtaking hands. Hands she wanted on her, in her hair, tying her up, touching her breasts, playing with her clit. Not some random Dom at The Club. This man, regardless of whether he was dominant or not.
Master Bruno must have known somehow that she wouldn’t be able to walk away from this man. Maybe she was insane, but she was staying. It would hurt like hell, but she was going to trust Master Bruno’s judgment…and her own heart.
She just had to remember—Cal’s not a Dom.
***
Cal woke absurdly early, painfully aware of how arousing it was having Sara a short flight of stairs away.
Sara.
He’d been shocked by how lovely she was. Tall—which was the first thing Cal noticed about a woman—gorgeous breasts and waist, long legs and a tight butt. He imagined her doing yoga or one of those other exercise routines. Wearing Lycra, her silky blonde hair in a ponytail, doing Downward Facing Dog.
He closed his eyes in disgust. God, he was sinking so low. Sara was effectively Bruno’s widow. The last thing she needed was to have a horny guy sniffing after her. Here, though—in Bruno’s bed, which Sara insisted she didn’t share—Cal couldn’t keep sexy thoughts of Sara at bay.
The trouble was, Cal wasn’t sure what a sex sl—a woman like Sara did. The image of her with Bruno, a man Cal remembered as being brilliant but still a bit rough around the edges, was hard to conjure up. If they didn’t sleep together, what did they do? Yes, he understood about the dungeon—a room he really didn’t need to explore just yet—but surely a man and a woman, even with the kinky dynamic, still had sex?
It was the kinky dynamic that Cal struggled with. Who would want to boss Sara Braverman around? She was smart and charming. Cal’s instinct with women like Sara was to invite them to a nice restaurant—that was when he had some money, of course—and see how things developed. The last thing he could picture was barking orders at her—“Strip. Kneel. Suck—”
Oh, lord, that image—the one of Sara on her knees—made him want to stroke his cock. Down, boy.
Suddenly, Uncle Bruno’s will seemed less insane. If Cal had been into kinky sex, and it was something that Sara enjoyed and Bruno supplied, then wanting Cal to take care of her might make sense. Unfortunately, that just wasn’t the way Mom had taught him to treat women. He grew up with the idea of respecting women, providing them with pleasure, ensuring they came before he did. How did having a woman on her knees accomplish any of those things?
He should be the one on his knees, pushing her legs apart and using his fingers to play with her clit and fill her, pressing on her G-spot, until she came. Then he’d attack her with his lips and tongue, driving her to a second orgasm. He tried to imagine Sara’s scream—would it be a dainty, breathy noise, or a full-throated cry? What would she look like as she came? He pictured her damp and sated, her blonde hair pushed back off her face.
He could see her falling back on a mattress, limp from her climaxes, a slight smile on her lips. Why did he then imagine lifting her arms over her head, and him tying her to the bed with thick silk ropes?
Cal groaned. Time for a cold shower.
CHAPTER 3
“Are you sure you should be back this soon after his death?” Yvonne settled into the chair across from Sara’s desk.
Sara tried to decipher her boss’s mood. Fear that Yvonne was subtly criticizing her still had the power to make her uncomfortable. It was irrational, Sara knew, but years of trying to impress Yvonne had made their mark.
“I’m fine. Bruno—well, he was very important to me, and I miss him, but we never thought of ourselves as a permanent couple.” She waited to see how Yvonne would take this.
Yvonne ran a hand over her sleek cap of dark hair. “No, I can see that. But it’s a loss nonetheless.”
Sara nodded. She did mourn Bruno. Yet Cal Raynes living in the house provided such a huge—six foot five, to be exact—reminder that everything was different.
As if she could read Sara’s mind, Yvonne dipped her chin and smiled. “One of your neighbors told me that you already have a man living with you.”
Fig
ured the neighbors were on that detail so quickly. “It’s Bruno’s nephew, Calder Raynes, the composer. He’s inherited Bruno’s estate.”
“He has? Not you?” Yvonne’s eyes opened wide.
“There’s some money for me, but no, Bruno didn’t want me—” Sara paused, unable to explain precisely what Bruno wanted. “He didn’t want me to hole myself up in the house and never leave. I was ready to move into a hotel, but Cal insisted I stay. The house is big enough for both of us.”
“The neighbor also said he’s tall, dark and handsome.”
“You are such a matchmaker,” Sara accused.
Yvonne held up her hands. “I’m just reporting what I’ve been told.”
Sara folded her hands on top of the tax filing she’d been working on. “Cal’s a good-looking man,” she said primly.
“Aha! So Uncle Bruno was the matchmaker, throwing the two of you together.”
Sara felt her cheeks flame. That was far closer to the truth than Sara wanted to admit. “Don’t be absurd. As I understand it, Bruno barely knew Cal. I’d certainly never heard of him before last month.”
Yvonne’s mouth puckered slightly—a kiss or disapproval, it was hard to say. “You two have been living together since last month?”
Sara nodded slowly. Her face must be on fire, it felt that hot.
“Well, what’s he like? Does he leave his smelly sneakers on the sofa? Does he flop in front of the television and scratch his balls? I want to know.” Yvonne’s face was lit up with avid speculation.
What could Sara safely say? That Cal kept to himself, mostly, but when they did meet in the kitchen at breakfast, for example, Sara couldn’t stop staring at Cal’s arms, bared by the ratty sleeveless T-shirt he wore over loose pajama bottoms, or the wedge of skin revealed at the small of his back when he reached up to grab the cereal box. Even his bare feet triggered a wave of longing. She wanted to get down on her knees and kiss each toe until he was as aroused as she was. Then she could ask to suck his cock, which would be huge and pressing against the thin flannel of his pajamas. If he gave her permission, she’d pull down the elastic waistband, reach in and free his erection, letting her lips and tongue bring him to a shuddering climax. She’d had that fantasy so often, it embarrassed her. Recently, she’d started to skip breakfast, drinking some coffee in a hurry before leaving. He’s not a Dom…He’s not a Dom.
She looked up to see Yvonne’s intense gaze. Sara’s face had to be fire engine red. She tried to sound casual. “He’s talented, but it’s a tough business.”
Yvonne chose to ignore Sara’s embarrassment. “What sort of composer is he? TV commercials, or those idiotic ‘classical’ pieces that sound like a multi-car pile-up on the Beltway?” She even put air quotes around the word “classical.”
Sara wasn’t going to admit that she’d stood listening outside Bruno’s library—now, Cal’s office—when he was noodling around on the keyboard. “I think it’s more accessible than modern music used to be. It’s definitely orchestral. He tried for one of our grants.” She explained about the local orchestra in Poughkeepsie.
“Oh, wow, I remember that one. If the orchestra had been a bit bigger, we’d have given him the money.” Yvonne rested her elbows on her knees. “Hunh. Cal Raynes. Well, I look forward to meeting him.”
She grinned at Sara, then dashed for the door. That was Yvonne’s style. She could look completely relaxed, even sleepy, and two seconds later she was on to the next thing as though she’d been stung by a bee.
Unfortunately, she’d left Sara thinking about Cal. And not about his music, either.
***
Cal found it hard to get started in the mornings after Sara left. He woke up early, listening for her light footsteps on the stairs. That was his cue to get up, dress, and go downstairs to pour himself some of the coffee she made. He wanted to avoid her because the sight of her, either still in silk pajamas or dressed for work, drove him crazy. How did he end up platonic roommates with the most gorgeous woman he’d ever met? Worse, he wanted her and she wanted him. Cal could see it in her face. She’d look at him with those huge blue eyes, then look away shyly. In a teenager, it would be normal flirting. In a twenty-something submissive—well, it was probably still flirting. Just with a different message. Instead of Kiss me. Oh, and I want to go to the prom with you, it was more like Order me to do something really kinky and sexy, please. By the time she left for work, he always seemed to be fully, painfully erect for a long time. It was an effort to get to his music with the right mindset. Although he’d taken to mentally composing the Horny Horn Concerto in the shower. The increasingly cold showers.
Here he was again, at six in the morning, wide awake and unable to stop himself from following Sara downstairs like a well-trained puppy dog. Positively Pavlovian, the sound of her walking around, the slur of her shower running, the faint click of a drawer closing. He pictured her putting on super-sexy lingerie—no way had Uncle Bruno let her wear granny panties—adjusting her breasts in the thinnest of bras, pulling on see-through lace, tugging stockings in place. He ached to touch his cock, but that was grotesque. He should not be lusting after his uncle’s…“friend”…no matter what the will said.
She came down the stairs. He could tell she was trying to make as little noise as possible. If he’d been able to sleep, he never would have heard a thing, that’s how quiet she was. Instead, he’d never been so awake. And, just like Pavlov’s dog, he was salivating. He longed for a taste, just one caress, a kiss. Something.
Instead, he rose and tugged on some jeans and a T-shirt. By the time he was out of the bathroom, he could smell the coffee brewing. Now he was thirsty and horny, all before seven. He went down to the kitchen.
For some reason, even though this happened every fucking morning, Sara always looked startled to see him.
“Oh, hi. Did you sleep well?” She flashed those summer sky eyes at him.
“Sure.” Except for erotic dreams and a morning erection that won’t subside until you’re miles away. “How about you?”
She concentrated on the yogurt she was stirring, a mocking little smile on her lips. “I slept okay, I guess.”
Cal tried hard to remember that she was still grieving. “It must be tough, so soon after Uncle Bruno’s—I mean, it’s been a lot to deal with. My arrival, the, uh, the details of the will, the memorial service.” He could feel his cheeks heating.
“I’m not… I don’t want you to think that I’m…” She looked up from her yogurt. “I did care for your uncle, I did. Uh, it just wasn’t a love match.”
She’d mentioned this before, but Cal still wasn’t sure what she was saying. She didn’t love Bruno? Odd enough that they didn’t sleep together. Then again, what did Cal know about BDSM? Not a lot, that’s for sure. He’d read about it, but that was a far cry from understanding it, and nothing he’d read explained the relationships people found themselves in.
Cal carried his coffee over to the table in the bay window overlooking the garden. The windows were open, letting the fragrant moisture of the morning permeate the kitchen. He could hear birds and, much fainter, cars in the neighborhood. Occasionally, someone would walk by the house and he’d catch a snippet of a conversation.
“Are you okay with this arrangement? You and me, I mean?” He waved his arm to indicate the house with them as roommates.
She sat across from him. She wore the skirt of a pretty pale green suit. The jacket was draped over her briefcase, near the door to the hallway. She had on a sheer blouse, through which he could see her pale pink satin bra. It wasn’t particularly revealing, but Cal had to force his gaze back to her face.
She was looking at him. He knew that glowing expression—the one women had when they were pleased a man thought them pretty. God, if Sara knew how far past “pretty” his opinion of her had gone, she’d run screaming from the house.
“So,” he prompted. “I could talk to Mac. I’m sure there’d be a way for one of us to move out.”
She a
te a spoonful of her yogurt. The sight of her tongue and lips caressing the spoon heated Cal’s blood. She had no idea what she did to him.
“I think it’s okay,” she said slowly. “Don’t you? Do you want me to leave?”
“No. No, of course I don’t.” He hated that note of uncertainty in her voice. She was afraid he’d kick her out, and of course he didn’t want to do that. Even if he was a dickwad for lusting after her, the bottom line hadn’t changed. She deserved the house. It should be her home. He could live anywhere else once the probate went through.
“I like living with you.” She didn’t look up, just kept stirring and stirring. “But if there’s a problem, you need to let me know.”
He had to keep from laughing hysterically. Problem? What problem? Other than that he wanted her pretty much every minute she was in the house, and far too much of the time she was gone. Other than his struggle to get back into his composing because he’d much rather picture her naked and in his bed. Other than the way her smile, rare and private, made his pulse jump.
“No problems.” He smiled, then took a long, slow sip of coffee. Right, like he needed a stimulant with Sara sitting across from him.
She smiled back, relieved and happy.
What were you thinking, Uncle Bruno, to leave me the prettiest woman in the world when you knew she’d want someone to dominate her?
***
Mac Lyon entered Rosanne’s, a nightclub not far from Dupont Circle. He waved off the hostess—no need for a table, thanks—and headed for the bar. Deborah, the bartender, had his usual tonic water with lime waiting for him.
“Quiet night.” He sat and took a sip of his drink. No harm that it looked like a vodka tonic to the casual observer.
Deb lifted a shoulder. “It’s Tuesday. And tonight’s band kind of sucks.”
Mac glanced at the empty stage. “When do they start?”
“Half an hour.”
He grinned at her. “I’ll be gone by then.”
