Their Discovery (Legally Bound Book 3)

by Rebecca Grace Allen

  “What are we drinking?”

  Sam shimmied onto the barstool next to Cassie. “I’m not sure. The last time I had a drink was when we went out for Lilly and your birthdays.”

  “In September?”

  “Sad, isn’t it.”

  Five months since she’d had a night out. They’d gone to a strip joint, then met up with Brady, Jack and Patrick at a dance club. The night had ended with an argument with Brady, one that had spilled out in front of their friends. They’d gone home early because of it and didn’t speak the rest of the night.

  Hopefully tonight would be better.

  She’d Ubered here after her parents picked up the girls—armed with instructions on Allegra’s plan and a cooler packed with meals for the weekend—and met Cassie in front of Barrel ’n’ Flask. The sports pub next to Fenway was decently packed, the bar top filled with people. She used to find places like this impossible, back when she was overweight and unemployed. But as Sam looked at the high-tops leading to the pool tables in the back, the exposed brick walls and TVs everywhere, conversations loud and boisterous, it felt like she’d come out of hiding.

  “We have to do that again,” Cassie said. “Gabe’s been talking about making a gay bar night happen. Lilly is dying to see him and Nick in drag.”

  “I’d pay to see that.”

  “How have you not seen that by now?”

  “What? Nick in drag, or been to a gay bar?”

  “Either.”

  “Honey, in all the years Brady and Nick have been friends, not once has my husband stepped out of his manly comfort zone far enough for that to happen.”

  Although what was in Brady’s comfort zone might be a whole new ballgame now.

  She’d spent the last two days when she wasn’t getting ready for work poring through her dirty book collection, trying to figure out what the Dominants in those stories did, what step to take next. Brady had been different, too. Off, but not distant, not lost in his work or unaware. He seemed more aware than usual—hanging up his coat, paying more attention when she talked—which she loved, but he was also quiet. Like he was intimidated by her, or waiting for something.

  She wished he would say what he wanted. Fiction only helped so much.

  “I vote for blood-orange cosmos,” Cassie announced. “They’re my fave.”

  Sam laughed. “I’ll have one, but cut me off after that.” A little liquid courage was good, but she wanted to stay sharp. Sloppy drunk was not her plan for tonight. Her plan involved the bikini wax she’d gotten today, and seeing her husband’s reaction.

  “Patrick joining us tonight?” Sam asked as Cassie waved down the bartender.

  Heir to Dunham & Strauss, a local publishing empire, Patrick had been the worst kind of womanizer, a playboy to the fullest. It was a shock, to see just how much falling for Cassie had changed him.

  “Eventually,” Cassie replied. “He’s promised not to act like a douche.”

  “That doesn’t sound like much fun for you.”

  Cassie hid her laugh behind a curtain of her short, shiny brown hair.

  “What?” Sam asked. “Isn’t that what you said last year? He’s a dick sometimes, but you liked it?”

  It was before Thanksgiving, when she’d run into Cassie at Faneuil Hall Marketplace, and they’d had thirty seconds of adult conversation before Allegra was at it again.

  “That’s what I said.”

  Sam wanted to press the issue, but she and Cassie had only been friends a few months, certainly not long enough to ask if her hunch about her and Patrick was true. She’d figured their arguments were nothing more than foreplay—that their kink was having it more than a bit rough, something she’d read about in one particularly dirty book. Consensual non-consent, it was called. Finding out if she was right could mean she had a shot at someone to get advice from on her current situation with Brady. As much as she wanted what was building between them, she felt like a fawn in new stilettos walking into it. She’d thought about calling Jack, but he was on his honeymoon and it was weird anyway, to ask a man how best to dominate his baby brother.

  Cassie ordered their drinks, winked at the bartender, then turned back around.

  “Do you…” Sam began, then twisted her necklace, “…ever read romance novels?”

  “Since I got this new job, I don’t have time to read anything that isn’t legislation or new regulations, but I watched my share of telenovelas with my sister and mother growing up.”

  Cassie was half Cuban, born in Miami, and Sam loved it when she flipped languages, switching easily from English into Spanish. “They’re like Spanish soap operas, right?”

  “Yup. They get pretty racy.”

  Racy, like hot and heavy? Or racy like I want to chain my husband to the bed tonight?

  Yeah, she couldn’t ask that.

  “I’ve only read a few—” liar, liar, pants on fire, “—but I always found it crazy, how in the end the women got it all. The guy, the job, the sex. All those grand, perfect happy endings.”

  “It seems to me that you’ve got that now. The guy, the kids and the job.” Their drinks arrived. Cassie raised her glass. “To working woman with their own real-life happy endings.”

  They clinked glasses. “To working women.”

  “You look fierce, by the way,” Cassie said. “I want those shoes.”

  Sam dangled a foot out. “Allegra calls them my bandage heels.”

  It was because of how the black bands crisscrossed to midway up her calf. Open-toed with a three-inch spike heel, they’d been sitting in the back of her closet for eons. They weren’t the best choice of footwear in tonight’s icy weather, but she’d put them on anyway, along with the jeans she hadn’t believed she’d fit back into.

  “Well,” Cassie said. “You might do some damage with them tonight.”

  Sam had to laugh. Damage wasn’t what she wanted, but maybe inflict a tiny bit of pain?

  Was that how a Dominatrix thought?

  She’d certainly gone through pain herself in preparation for tonight. Once the sting of the wax job had faded, she had to admit she got why women did this. Having that thin strip of hair and bare skin beneath her clothes, with cleavage peeking out from under a leopard-print blouse and her hair in a high ponytail, made her feel sexy. Fearless. Wanton.

  She’d been waiting forever to feel this way—like a butterfly, or Dorothy leaving Kansas, shedding an old, cracked, black-and-white skin. For so long she’d been uncomfortable in her body, working on fumes without a good night’s sleep, cleaning up after her children and feeling guilty for taking a few minutes to shower on her own. She’d watched the world go by without her, everyone else moving forward while she was staying still.

  Not anymore.

  Her phone beeped. She took it out of her purse and read Brady’s text.

  “Just parked. Found Patrick, Nick and Gabe walking up from the T. Be there in a few.”

  “Looks like our boys are about to arrive.”

  They settled up, gathered their things and made their way to a table. “How are things with you and Brady, by the way?”

  I almost got him off standing up in our kitchen the other night, but then he ignored me, so I dunno! “Okay, I guess. Why?”

  “Patrick noticed he wasn’t his usual self at the wedding.”

  “You mean how he didn’t eat half the cake on his own?”

  “No, because he wasn’t joking around.”

  They found a table, pulled out their chairs and sat. “I think we could all use a break from Brady’s jokes once in a while.”

  “Fair point. But you guys are okay?”

  Across the pub, the front door opened. Four men walked in—Nick first with his blond hair and dimpled smile, Gabe behind him looking like a Calvin Klein model. Patrick entered next, all crisp suit and dark hair and goatee. And then there was Brady, pulling up the rear in his favorite leather bomber jacket and Buffalo Plaid shirt, beard full, curly hair mussed from the breeze. They were all laughing,
but then his gaze swept the room, like he was seeking her out. Blue turned to turquoise, eyes bright and beaming as he gave her a sheepish smile.

  “Brady is kind of like a puppy sometimes,” Sam said. “Goofy, loveable and full of energy.” She crossed her legs and took a sip of her drink. “But sometimes puppies need to be reined in.”

  Jesus Christ. Was Sam trying to kill him?

  Seeing her in a dress last week was incredible, but this, tonight, was unreal. Tight jeans. Shirt that dipped low enough to tease. Her hair all swooped up and pretty, showing off her neck and shoulders. And heels he’d had far too many thoughts about when she’d bought them years ago. She looked the part he’d wanted her to play, his wildest fantasy come to life.

  Breathe. He needed to breathe. There was a good chance she was dressed up to celebrate—he would not get his hopes up—but something inside him whispered she was wearing all that for him.

  “There’s Forrester, Schaeffer and Pierce’s newest star,” Patrick said as he, Brady and Gabe neared the table, Nick staying behind to grab a round of beers. “Congratulations, Samantha.”

  Patrick put a hand on Cassie’s shoulder as he said it. Brady was glad the guy’s touch remained on his girlfriend. While he’d never done anything more than kiss Sam’s hand in the past—a thing he’d done more to show off in front of Cassie than anything else—tonight Brady didn’t want Patrick touching his wife. Him or anyone else.

  “Thank you,” Sam said, raising her glass. “I’m rejoining the working world.”

  “And I,” Gabe said, “can’t wait to see your smiling face when I come in every day.”

  “Aww, Gabe. You’re gonna make me blush.” But Sam was looking at Brady when she said it.

  Was she calling out his blush from the other night? He’d never been good at reading subtext. But his pulse was hammering like Animal from the Muppets on a drum solo.

  Nick returned with a round and they all sat. Sam wasn’t touching Brady—she was keeping her body more than a few inches away—but that was okay. He could wait. He could wait all night for her to make a move, if it meant that later she’d drive him trembling over the edge.

  Fuck, he needed a drink. Brady reached for his beer and took a sip. Was it possible to be nervous as shit but incredibly turned on at the same time? He looked at Sam, feeling like he was in quicksand and she was his rope and anchor, but she’d rejoined the conversation around them.

  “So,” Patrick said, “let’s hear about this job.”

  Brady drifted into his own thoughts as everyone talked, glanced at the games on the TV. Going to this pub had become a bit of a tradition, starting back when he and Patrick were trying to get a grieving Jack out of the house.

  Seeing his brother get remarried was a massive relief, and a bit annoying. It was one more perfect thing he’d done. Jack had worried how people would react to the sixteen-year age gap between him and Lilly, but he should’ve known he’d have the full Archer Clan support. Mom and Dad loved her once they’d had a taste of her cooking, and Jack’s son, Josh, had come around after a while. They’d all been visiting this weekend, and as much as Brady loved his nephew, watching everyone fawn over Jack was too much for Brady, and he wasn’t too upset they were all gone.

  He was glad Lilly and Jack weren’t here tonight either, although being around Patrick was no picnic. It was during the lunch in this very bar that Patrick had declared Jack the “authority on getting smacked around,” then followed Brady outside when he’d needed an escape. Stupidly, he’d told Patrick what was going on—the first time he’d gotten the mangled words out. Just like Nick, Patrick had asked if he’d talked to Sam, which of course he couldn’t, and Brady was sure since then that Patrick could see weakness stamped all over him. He’d had two ways of being around his group since that day—full-on comedian, or completely silent.

  He didn’t want to be either tonight. All he wanted was for Sam to give him that smile again, the one that had been in his head all week.

  He kept waiting as the night went on. For a solid hour, everyone was talking, and Brady twisted his ring beneath the table, stuck between being focused on Sam and not really listening. Cassie mentioned how demanding the firm could get, how busy Sam was going to be, and Brady checked the time. Maybe Sam had no intention of anything happening tonight. Maybe she was just enjoying the attention.

  He couldn’t take the disappointment. He wanted her attention. And he wasn’t getting it.

  “How busy are you gonna be?” he asked. “It’s just reception.”

  Sam turned on him, eyes flashing. “Is that what you think?”

  His cheeks heated. It wasn’t the smartest thing, to poke fun at her new job, but he stood a better chance of getting what he wanted if Sam was a little angry. It certainly worked that way the other night.

  “Sure, you’ll have stuff to do,” he said. “But you won’t be as busy as I am at work.”

  Nick snorted. “Dude, I was at your job the other day. You spent half of it playing air hockey. You’re nothing but a glorified webmaster.”

  Brady grinned wider, not minding the way his joke was backfiring if it got Sam’s attention. She was still staring, her chin raised in challenge.

  Take the bait, Sammy. Put me in my place.

  “Air hockey takes skill,” he said to Nick. “And that word is from like 1998.”

  “And why just master?” Gabe added. “Girls can be computer programmers.”

  Nick laughed. “Truth! What do they call female web developers? A web—”

  Sam cut him off. “Mistress.”

  She looked straight at Brady as she said it, perfectly cool and calm. Her tongue came out to moisten her lips, and she finally gave him that hint of a smile, her mouth open in that gotcha way she used to.

  God. That word and look confirmed everything. She knew, and this was happening, and oh fucking God.

  Sam reached for her purse. “I think it’s time for Mr. Funny and me to go home.”

  Mechanically, Brady obeyed, his ears ringing as he threw on his coat. Cassie pouted, saying it was too early, that they should stay, but Sam shook her head politely and slipped on her own jacket. “We need to get to bed.”

  Bed. Not sleep. Bed.

  Brady was suddenly way too turned on to be in public. He fumbled for his wallet, ready to pull out some cash for the single beer he’d had, but Nick waved him off.

  “My treat,” he said. “You guys are a cheap date.”

  They made it to the car without speaking. Sam said nothing as he opened the door for her, the smile still on her face. When they hit the Pike, she placed a hand on his thigh.

  Brady glanced down to see her slim fingers across his leg and gulped. Legit gulped.

  “Eyes on the road,” she scolded. “Keep your hands at nine and three.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” There. He said it. Finally said it. Although it wasn’t the name he really wanted to call her.

  She slapped his thigh lightly. “Behave.”

  It nearly made him swerve into the next lane.

  Brady focused on the road, getting dizzy as Sam made lazy strokes over his jeans, nails drifting with the occasional scratch. He was so damn hard, erection pressing against his zipper through his boxers as her hand got closer and closer. He wanted to ask what brought this on, why she was being like this when she hadn’t wanted anything in ages, but he was so relieved to feel it that he didn’t want to risk mucking it up with a question.

  He banged a left into the driveway, his breathing impossibly fast as he cut the engine. Sam shifted in her seat and replaced her left hand with her right.

  “You looked like you were about to combust tonight,” she said, soft and sexy.

  “I was.”

  Two of her fingers tiptoed upward, until she found his hard-on and mapped it through his jeans. Brady’s hips shot forward into her touch. Jesus. She made that humming noise from the other night, the one that was like jet fuel to his libido, and Brady braced a palm against the steering wheel to ste
ady himself as she unbuttoned his fly.

  Unapologetic. Fast. Like she owned what was beneath it.

  “Did you get yourself all worked up?” She shoved his pants open and snaked her hand into his boxers. His breath shuddered out of him when her fingers met the slick tip of his dick. “Oh, yes you did. Poor thing. We’d better fix that.”

  She began stroking him, right there in the front seat. The sound of her fist on his flesh was too much. Brady huffed out a breath. Pinched his eyes shut.

  “Such a good boy,” she cooed, and his entire body went hot. No, he couldn’t handle this. Couldn’t handle her seeing through him when he’d kept this wall up for so long. His thoughts went in spirals, words he was unable to choke out as she jerked and twisted, pleasure so blinding it hurt.

  Sam stopped stroking. Brady groaned but held himself still, head mashed against the seat.

  She clucked her tongue at him. “Are you dying to come?”

  A strangled noise came out of him. She was taunting him, teasing him again. The mockery in her tone was humiliating, but it felt good and was true, so he nodded.

  “Good.” Sam tucked him, throbbing and desperate, back in his pants. She zipped his fly, then leaned in close and whispered, “Then I guess you’d better unlock that car door and take me inside.”

  Brady opened his eyes and looked at her. His brain, so often all over the place, centered on three little words:

  Take her. Inside.

  Complicated turned simple. Suddenly he knew exactly what to do.

  “May I take you?” he asked quietly. “Inside?”

  A lifetime passed before she answered. “I thought you’d never ask.”

  10

  Brady barely registered the cold as he followed Sam into the house. She pulled her keys from her purse and let them in, the front entrance silent and dark. The emptiness without the kids there was as eerie as it was thrilling. Sam closed the door, then reached out to finger the buttons on Brady’s shirt. His heart pounded as she toyed with them.

  Did she know the power she had over him already?

  She popped a button open and smiled up at him, fiendish like a cat. “I like you like this.”