“He loves you,” she said. “From what you’ve told me, he probably feels like you’re shutting him out. You know him—he doesn’t force himself anywhere. He’s giving you the space he thinks you want.”
“I don’t feel well.” Amy lowered the empty glass to the table. Her hand shook.
“That feeling is awareness that you’re being a coward. It’s self-shame. It’s not going to win you a ‘go home sick’ note.”
“What am I supposed to do?”
“Tell him you want to give him control. You need his strength to support you.” The waiter arrived with a new bottle of wine. Elizabeth paused, waiting for him to clear away the empty bottle, and said, “Tell him the same thing you’ve told me.”
“You don’t understand! We almost didn’t get married because of this. He asked our officiate to change the ceremony, getting rid of submission and obedience. The reverend refused. He called off the wedding until his mother promised him that a civil ceremony wouldn’t disgrace him.” Amy poured herself another glass of cabernet, downed it in two swallows, and said, “He didn’t even want me to give myself to him in the ceremonial sense. He certainly won’t put a collar on me and let me call him ‘sir.’”
Elizabeth snorted. “You know the submissive/dominant relationship is more than that.”
“I do, but Mac doesn’t. He is equality through and through. Equal obligations, equal responsibilities—even equal turns for being on top.” She’d asked her husband, once, if he’d tie her up while they made love and he withdrew completely. They weren’t intimate for three weeks afterward. “I just need to learn to deal with it on my own,” she said, dejected.
“Or you could be honest with him.”
Amy shook her head. “He’ll leave.”
“He’s on the verge of leaving now.” Impatience sharpened Elizabeth’s tone. Amy winced.
“There must be a way to let him know without confronting him. Writing a letter seems weak.”
“In this situation, it is weak.”
“I don’t want to trick him.” Trickery and deceit would sever the fragile bond they still shared. She didn’t want to put their marriage vows on the line.
Elizabeth’s smile caught Amy’s attention. She narrowed her eyes. “What are you thinking?”
“Seduction isn’t trickery. Figure out a way to introduce him to what you’d like, using your physical relationship as a doorway to your emotional relationship.”
“I don’t want ‘kinky sex,’” Amy whispered, glancing to her left to make sure the nearest dining couple wasn’t listening. She hesitated and added, “Not just that.”
“I know. My point is that some people are more comfortable with physical stimulus than verbal, emotional, or mental stimulus. Maybe Mac isn’t thrilled with the idea of discussing your submission. That doesn’t mean he can’t be excited by it. Introduce him to it by touch, and investigate the possibilities later, if he’s more agreeable.”
“Should I use some sort of toy?” Amy ventured, uncertain. “I don’t even have a vibrator.”
Elizabeth eyed her askance. “You’re thirty-two years old. You’ve been having sex with the same man for far too long.”
She blushed. Sixteen years had passed since the first time she and Mac were together, on his parents’ living room couch while they were away for a wedding. They’d both been teenagers. Sex had been the same ever since—intense, hot and fantastic, but not adventurous at all.
* * *
Mac worked the nightshift and hadn’t come home by the time Amy left their apartment the next morning. She’d hoped to see him on his way in, but work called her out too early. It had also presented her with an idea that wouldn’t leave her be.
As she sat in her car, waiting for it to warm up, she dialed her husband’s dispatcher. Mac worked for a corporate systems support firm that ensured round-the-clock tech support, and she had to reach him through the office if she wanted to reach him at all.
A woman’s cheerful voice came on the line and asked her to hold. Amy pushed her glasses up into her hair, lifting the deliberately wispy strands of magenta away from her face. She angled the rearview mirror to examine her hairline, making sure the temporary dye hadn’t stained her scalp pink. The morning’s photo shoot requirements included magenta hair, not magenta skin, but she hadn’t had time to visit a salon. She’d had barely enough time to race to the pharmacy, still in pajamas, to buy the hair color kit after her agent’s 4 a.m. phone call.
Satisfied her skin was the right hue, she dumped the contents of her cosmetics bag on the passenger seat and started the car. Mellow music played in her ear, thankfully unobtrusive, and she applied her makeup. The receptionist returned to the phone, chiming a cheerful, “Hello, thanks for holding! What’s your account number?”
Amy almost stabbed herself in the eye with an eyeliner pencil; a navy blue streak jogged down the side of her nose. Her stomach knotted up at the question. Her plan could be dead in the water. She grimaced at her reflection and tossed the pencil aside. “I don’t have it on me,” she bluffed. “I’m not in the office yet. I’ve worked with Mac before. Is he available?”
“One moment please.” The receptionist put her back on hold. Amy distracted herself from nervous anxiety by rifling through the assortment of creams, cloths, powders and brushes on the seat until she found a wet wipe. She carefully cleaned the blue streak from her nose, keeping an eye on the dashboard clock. The receptionist was gone so long she began to wonder whether she’d been disconnected; the hold music had cut out ages ago. No, it only seemed like ages ago. Amy had painting her face in the front seat of a car down to a science, and she could get from foundation to lip gloss, all layers between included, in seven minutes—coincidentally the same amount of time it took the rear and front windows of her car to defrost in the winter.
“Hello, Miss? I need your account number in order to determine which of our technicians has worked with your company before. Once I have that information, I can send somebody out.”
“Not ‘somebody.’ Mac. Is he available?”
“Who we send depends upon the nature of the problem,” the receptionist said politely.
Amy rolled her eyes. Procedure drove her nuts. “Look, it’s very important that I have Mac.”
“Oh, um.” Another phone line started ringing on the receptionist’s end. “Can you hold again?”
“No. I’m running late. Please send him to 1743 Franklin Boulevard, Suite 25-C. It’s on the third floor.”
“Can you call back as soon as possible with your account number, Miss…?”
“Corcoran. Amy Corcoran.”
“Oh! Are you-”
“I really need to go; please send Mac as soon as possible.”
“Of course, Mrs. Corcoran. Have a good morning!”
“You too.” Amy exhaled slowly and pulled the wire clip off her jacket and plucked the ear bud from her ear. She fastened her seatbelt and, moments later, pulled into traffic. She preferred to show up for photo shoots early, and this morning, she’d need the extra time to compose herself. “Flustered” wasn’t a good look on camera.
A Rose of Any Color: MaleDom: A BDSM Anthology
Chapter Two
Mac Corcoran checked the code on his pager twice, once with disbelief and the second time with resignation. He’d just finished troubleshooting a chain of hardware problems for a minor celebrity who had decided 2 a.m. was the perfect time for recording his new album. His ears were still ringing from the client’s music (literally his; the guy was some kind of character, piping his own tunes into every one of the eleven rooms in his downtown brownstone) and he stank of cigarette smoke. He wanted a shower and a long sleep.
The timing for both couldn’t be better; his wife left for work every morning at 6 a.m., leaving Mac with a quiet house and a warm bed, both empty of the woman he couldn’t face. These days, he slept on the couch when they happened to both be in at the same time.
The last-minute assignment that came across his pa
ger blew his sleep plans right out of the water. Mac dialed the dispatch office. Renee, the new receptionist, answered the phone.
“I’m off-shift,” Mac barked, rougher than he’d intended. “Give the call to one of the guys coming on.”
The new girl, halfway through her automatic hello-thanks-for-calling greeting, stammered to a stop. She was quiet a long moment before venturing, “Mac?”
“Yeah. You just paged me with a new assignment. I’m off as of fifteen minutes ago. I’m going home. Give it to someone else.”
“The client requested you,” she said. “She’s one of your regular customers.”
Mac rubbed his jaw, which was scratchy with the beginnings of a beard. Shower, clean clothes, sleep, maybe breakfast—they were all he wanted. That wasn’t asking too much, was it? He and his wife weren’t speaking, and his assignments lately were shit jobs. He deserved a little luxury. He didn’t say any of that to Renee, though. Instead, he asked, “What are the specifics?”
“Um. She didn’t say.”
Code phrase for “the receptionist didn’t ask.” Mac bit back his irritation. “Who’s the client?”
“I, uh…”
“You did get her name, right?”
“Someone else took the call and set it up,” Renee said, rushing the words. “All I have is an address and a time.”
Mac’s jaw clenched. “When’s the job?”
“Forty-five minutes from now.”
He swore. “Location?”
Renee named a site downtown. With the morning commuter traffic in full swing, it would take him the entire forty-five to get there. “I’m going to be late,” he said. “If she calls back, tell her I’m on the way. And try to get a name, will you?”
“S-sure.”
Mac disconnected the call and pocketed his cell phone. He needed a cup of coffee, the bigger and blacker, the better. No, he thought, as he navigated commuter traffic and tried to shake off exhaustion. What he needed was his wife. The coffee was a poor substitute.
A Rose of Any Color: MaleDom: A BDSM Anthology
Chapter Three
Amy had creamy, freckle-free skin. It was perfect for this assignment because it showed every little mark any toy could possibly make, and the photographer didn’t even have to employ the merchandise very heavily to get the desired effect. That’s what her agent said, anyway. He assured Amy the whole affair was product photography for an adult toys mail-order catalog was on the level. She had to sign release paperwork, stating that she wouldn’t sue the distributor for sexual harassment. In turn, the contract promised she wouldn’t actually be penetrated or beaten, and any clamps or other potentially bruising items wouldn’t be realistically employed.
Strictly on the level, Amy told herself as she walked into the studio, which was set up in a leased office space. Framed photographs, all figure work, adorned the beige walls. The receptionist wore a tidy black skirt and blazer. She smiled when Amy checked in and retrieved her paperwork. The professional smile and lack of piercings were a plus. Professional artists who dressed professionally earned points.
Amy checked her wristwatch repeatedly as she filled out the forms. Every time somebody in the corridor walked by, she jerked her head up.
“Relax,” the receptionist said.
Amy glanced at the young woman, who smiled and added, “Christophe is a great photographer. Very professional. And you look fantastic, just like you’re supposed to. It’ll be fine.”
“My agent told me I’m supposed to bring an assistant,” Amy said, a lilt to the last word, making it a question. “I’m worried he’ll be late and hold things up.”
“A third person in a session is standard procedure. Somebody has to arrange the props so he can take pictures. Given the subject matter of this spread, we’ve found most models are more comfortable with their own people. If your assistant’s late, I’ll stand in temporarily. Christophe wants his models to feel safe and secure. It’s all fine to acknowledge liability claims on paper, but paper is no substitute for having a physical presence to ensure that all dealings remain satisfactory for both the photographer and the model.”
“Ah,” Amy said. She didn’t have much more to add to that, except “Thanks.” She even managed a smile, however insincere. She honestly wasn’t as concerned about the shoot as she was about Mac’s reaction. She was gambling her entire marriage on an impulsive decision to bring him into her work life, to show him that she needed him. To show him how she needed him. If it backfired, if he was offended that she brought him into this situation, if she lost him, she didn’t know what she would do.
She’d never loved anybody else. She always knew Mac was the one. From the day his family moved into the vacancy across the hall from her family’s apartment when she was thirteen and he was fifteen. She fell in love with his sullen mouth and wanted to make an ice pack for the black eye he’d earned in an alley brawl with the tougher boys from the complex.
The office door swung open. Amy’s head jerked up, and her heart leapt into her throat. Mac stopped on the threshold, gaze locked on hers. Confusion, followed by anger, sparked in his eyes. “What is this?”
“I’m sorry I tr—didn’t call you directly,” she said in a hurry. “I didn’t know if you had your phone with you.”
He glanced at the receptionist, who had half-stood to greet him, and withdrew into the corridor.
Amy murmured a wordless reassurance to the photographer’s secretary and followed Mac.
“Renee said that a client had phoned in an emergency,” he said. He squinted at the lettering on the name plate beside the door. It bore the photographer’s name and profession and nothing else.
“You don’t need me here,” Mac said, voice flat. He looked past her head, not even acknowledging her with his eyes.
Amy flinched. “Need” was the verb that had begun their current estrangement. His tone imitated her own perfectly, just as it had been the night she had spat out those words during an argument about work. She had told him she didn’t need him. Mac hadn’t looked her in the eye since. That was months ago, and she still didn’t know how to take the words back.
“I need an assistant or I can’t have the job,” Amy whispered, striving to keep the exchange private. She tried to catch Mac’s gaze, but he didn’t give an inch.
“Work that out with your agent.”
“The job started five minutes ago. Please stay.” Her voice hitched on the last word. She couldn’t bring herself to finish it, to add, “with me.” Instead she said, “You have to stay.”
“Amy, I’m tired.” He rubbed his moist and blood shot eyes. Tired tears, she thought, and almost gave in. The strain of the job, of months of working graveyard, marked his rough features with purple shadows and new lines at the corners of his eyes and lips. The rugged quality of his face, the way his jaw showed strength and his brow showed dedication, perfectly fit her definition of beauty. She spent hours and sometimes whole days with men who met the polished standards of male beauty, but Mac was her David. She knew every inch of his face by touch alone.
“What is this really about?” he asked wearily. “You could’ve brought anybody else.”
Amy swallowed. “I want to show you things. To show you me.”
The door to the studio opened. Christophe, the photographer, stood in the doorway. “Is there a problem?”
Mac’s eyes were inscrutable. He set his jaw and moved past the slimmer man into the studio. The photographer raised his brows expectantly at Amy. At a loss, she followed her husband.
Tall, spindly lamps, some illuminated and some dimmed, marked different areas of the room, itself the size of a large corporate office. It could have held a big boardroom table or a few small cubicles. Christophe had divided it into three different sets. He had not, Amy noted, provided even so much as a privacy curtain for disrobing and changing costumes. She briefly considered asking for one. Mac’s presence suddenly made her feel small and shy. Vulnerable. She chanced a quick check of his face and r
egretted it. The tendons in his neck strained, and his cheeks were pale. He was furious; she’d made a stupid, stupid mistake. Her breath shortened and she looked away.
Impervious to the rage heating the space between them, the photographer gestured toward the wardrobe corner. “Amy, let’s get started.”
The wardrobe was a rolling rack of costumes against the wall opposite the windows. The rack tempted her to run and hide behind it. She could move it a little, use it as a makeshift privacy wall and hide from Mac’s glare. Not that she would have privacy once she left the safety of the wardrobe. The straps and buckles, stockings and cups without bras, peeked from amidst an array of role-play costumes were designed to expose rather than conceal. Amy eyed the assortment of fetish wear, trying and failing to picture herself in even the tamest French maid get-up. Maybe if she found something modest, Mac would calm down a little.
God, this was such a mistake. Any minute now, Mac would walk out and she’d get home to find him gone forever. Maybe she should call it off, run out to the office and tear up the release paperwork, call her agent and cancel the job. Gripping the top edge of a straight back chair, upon which the photographer or his assistant had dropped a short dressing gown for her comfort, she willed her knees to stop shaking. She’d had to remove her wedding ring for the pictures, but the white band around her finger reminded her well enough where her priorities lay. She couldn’t back out. This was the only way she knew to show Mac what she wanted. If she called it off now, she wouldn’t have another chance.
She dug deep for strength and headed for the costume rack, shedding her coat. Mac moved into the opposite corner of the office.
She positioned the rack at an angle and edged behind it to unbutton her blouse. The short rack left her shoulders and upper chest visible over the hanger hooks, and she could see Mac clearly over the walls of the cubicle dividers. He stared at her, lips drawn in a tight line. She was so startled by the direct eye contact that she looked away. The first garment that came to hand was a shimmery mermaid costume. She flipped it over her head and emerged a moment later in a shell bra and an iridescent skirt that didn’t reach her thighs.
A Rose of Any Color: MaleDom: A BDSM Anthology Page 14
