by Joey W. Hill
The way she watched his fingers buckle the strap made his cock twitch again, especially when she licked her lips in unconscious reaction. Insatiable. Just as insatiable as him. And yet…
He slid a fingertip along her bared upper thigh, where he’d intentionally wrapped the cane last night, more than once. “Should I say I’m sorry?”
“For what?” Her attention went to his face, her expression puzzled.
“For what I am. What I want from you so much.”
“Only if I should say I’m sorry for wanting it, just as badly.”
He held her gaze. “No. You shouldn’t.”
“Then neither should you.” Her lashes dropped, fanning her cheeks. “May I get dressed?”
In answer, he took her hand and drew her to her feet. He did it himself, pulling her panties up first, playing along the elastic of the legs, tsking over the dampness of the crotch before guiding her hand to his shoulder. It gave her permission to hold onto him as his rubbing over the sensitized petals of her sex made her sway and tremble.
At length, he pulled the jeans back over her hips, zipping and fastening them. Picking up her shirt, he threaded it back over her head, helping her get her hands through the sleeves. As he tucked the hem of the garment back into the low riding waist band, he caressed her hips and the lace edge of her panties once more.
When he lifted his hand to her face, her smaller fingers curled around his wrist. She turned her head to study his palm, tracing the bite mark she’d left there before she pressed her cheek to it.
“I’m happy and sad when the marks go away,” she said low. “Happy, because it means you’ll mark me again, because you like seeing them on my body. Sad, because I always want your marks there. I want to feel them when I move.”
He swept his thumb down under her chin and caught the chain of her forget-me-not pendant. “Maybe I’ll brand my sub. Over her hip bone, or in the small of her back. Or inside her thigh, so it will brush against her skin when she walks. And every time it fades, I’ll do it again.”
She swallowed, dipping her head to kiss his palm, where the bite marks rested. When she spoke, it was against his callused flesh.
“Thank you, Master. I would love that.”
Leaving the one palm against her face, he slid an arm over her shoulders, drawing her to him to hold her close. Now he said it aloud. Twice in one day. He really was losing his mind and heart over his brat. But there were sure as hell far worse things in life to lose.
“I love you.”
“I am officially worn out,” Rachel pronounced, sitting among a collection of small bags around her ankles. She’d picked out several seedlings at the EarthFirst gardening store, and hadn’t wanted the tender plants in the trunk. “Anyone else have somewhere they want to go?”
“Not me,” Cass responded. She had her legs folded up on the seat, feet tucked against her backside, her shoes on the floorboards, as she sipped a glass of red wine. “Lucas is grilling dinner for all of us and Jon is handling the sides. Since the weather’s so nice, we can eat out on the gazebo.”
A wave of approving commentary greeted that announcement. Ben didn’t disagree with the idea of a nice, thick steak, what he knew Lucas would have set aside for him, no matter their earlier razzing, but there was one more store to visit. Maybe.
He had considered throughout the day whether he should do it or not. Cass’s comments during their shopping trip had tilted the scales somewhat, but it was being with Marcie in that backroom, the way she looked up at him, her heart in her eyes, which told him the answer. Even if it made something odd jump in his stomach.
“Max, I have one more stop to make. The place we discussed.”
The limo driver met his gaze in the rearview mirror. Ben thought he detected a trace of approval in the gray eyes. Not that he cared what the muscle-headed Boy Scout thought.
Dana turned in her seat and reached around the back of Max’s headrest to wrap her arms around his broad shoulders. “So, have you kissed Janet yet?”
The shoulders lifted in a sigh. “Pest. None of your business.”
“That’s a yes,” Savannah observed, tossing the others a smile.
Dana started back as Max hit the button to raise the dark privacy screen between the driver’s area and the rest of the car. He ignored their boos and catcalls as he disappeared from view behind the scrolling glass.
“He’s so totally kissed her,” Dana said.
“Leave the man alone. You women are like piranha,” Ben chided.
“I could have asked him if he’d done other things to her,” Dana pointed out. “I showed a lot of restraint.
Rachel flashed a mischievous smile. “Since Janet is a Mistress, more likely it’s what she’s done to him.”
“But he’s no sub,” Marcie said.
“Exactly. Which makes it so interesting to imagine,” Cass said, drawing out the so in a way that had the women chuckling.
“Or not,” Ben said, affecting a shudder.
“Watch this,” Marcie said conspiratorially to the others. Leaning against Ben’s shoulder, she spoke into his ear in a sultry stage whisper. “But I want to talk about my fantasy starring you and Max. Both of you naked and all oiled up, wrestling until one of you wins, overpowers the other, and then…”
“Lalalalalala,” Ben said, putting his fingers in his ears and rocking his head back and forth, ignoring the peals of feminine laughter. “You are all cruel, terrible women,” he said mournfully.
Chuckling, Marcie glanced toward the storefronts as the limo slowed to a stop. “What are we doing at…”
It was rare for his feisty sub to be without voice, but she stopped in mid-sentence as if the air had been snatched from her. When her cheeks pinkened, his heart accelerated. Telling himself to get a grip, he blew a short, playful puff of air on her ear.
“You know, there is a bagel shop next door. I could just be wanting a sesame seed whole grain with cream cheese.”
Her eyes snapped up to him. Though Ben was sure she’d registered what he’d said, her gaze was wide and questioning. He couldn’t fathom what he saw there, but he knew it wasn’t rejection, so he could handle pretty much everything else. He hoped.
The rest of the car had fallen silent right after Marcie. The level of feminine intuition assembled in this one spot could reorganize civilizations. The women realized he was trying to figure out Marcie’s cues and needed his full attention on that. Otherwise, he expected there would have been squeals of excitement filling the suddenly much smaller, denser area.
Because there was really only one reason he would instruct Max to bring them to one of New Orleans’ oldest and most respected jewelry stores.
Reminding himself that he needed to appear calm and confident, every inch the Master he was supposed to be, he exited the car on the opposite side and circled around to open Marcie’s door. Max hadn’t done the honors, knowing this was Ben’s show. Smart guy. Worth every penny they paid him. When Marcie looked up at him, her eyes still round and lips slightly parted as if she wasn’t sure what to say, he extended his palm, his voice quiet and even.
“Come with me, brat.”
She put her hand in his, and he felt a tremor in her fingers. He brought her to her feet, pulling her out of the doorway so he could shut it, but before he took her any further, he pulled her close. Banding an arm around her shoulders, he dipped his head down to brush his lips against her cheekbone. “Okay?”
She nodded, but her fingers were clutching the front of his shirt. “I just…you took me by surprise.”
“What?” He lifted his head. “I’m just picking up a broken watch they’re fixing for me.”
He took the fist to his gut manfully—fuck, she hit a lot harder than Savannah—because his teasing had served its purpose. A tiny smile appeared on her face.
Stepping back, he clasped her hand and drew her to the store entrance, opening it with his free hand so she could precede him. When he let her go, his palm shifted to rest on her lowe
r back.
The others had remained in the car, as he expected. They would hang back to give him and Marcie this moment. But he had no doubt, unless he’d wisely kept that glass scrolled up, that Max was getting the third degree, since the driver had known the destination without Ben clearly stating it.
As Ben brought Marcie into the jewelry store, its reputation was reflected by the interior. Deep red carpet edged with gold, and a glittering chandelier that threw the right amount of light on the gold cases. An array of wing-backed chairs and cherry-wood tables provided intimate circles for fittings. Oil originals done by some of New Orleans’ premiere artists, featuring different New Orleans landmarks, were mounted on the eggshell-colored plaster walls. An honest-to-God medieval era tapestry was hung on the back wall, depicting a hunting party with well-dressed ladies and lords, and a pack of narrow-waisted hunting hounds.
There was a lot of dark wood molding, and the polished floor revealed at the borders of the carpet was likely over a hundred years old. The building itself was their original store site, a structure dating from the 1800s.
Bernard, the owner, was emerging from the arched doorway to the left of the tapestry. He’d probably been given a heads up on Ben’s arrival by his twenty-eight-year-old son, Winston, who was manning the front.
Bernard had old world style spectacles perched on his craggy nose. He reminded Ben of the tall, gaunt butlers in horror films, only more solid and imposing, like Lurch of the Addams Family. But that was the physical. He had a reassuring way about him that told his clients he would take care of them, whether it was a kid who’d saved three months of his salary for a half-carat engagement ring, or someone like Ben. He wore creased slacks, shoes that shone like polished coal, and a dark green sweater over a white dress shirt and tie.
“Mr. O’Callahan,” he said, and came out from behind the glass counter to shake Ben’s hand with long, bony fingers. Then his gaze turned to Marcie.
“This must be the angel who has agreed to save you from the fires of hell.”
“I’m pretty sure I described her as the woman who put me through the fires of hell,” Ben said.
A long smile creased all of Bernard’s face as he took Marcie’s hand and kissed it. He pulled it off as if he was a count in a Dumas book, which Ben suspected the guy had been, in a past life. The identity simply refused to let go, even in the face of much more modern times.
“You are a woman beyond compare, taking on this rascal,” Bernard told her. He drew her toward one of the seats and gestured her into it, sinking down in the one across from it. He retained her hand, so their clasped fingers rested on the small round table between them. The light of the Tiffany lamp there would warm Marcie’s knuckles.
Bernard was relaxed, as if they’d stopped by merely to have a visit with him. He flicked Ben an amused glance as he came to stand behind Marcie, curling his hand over her shoulder. The amusement became warmer as Marcie automatically reached up to link fingers with Ben, while her other hand remained in the grasp of Bernard’s.
“Has he told you how we met?” the jeweler asked Marcie.
“You know, I can cancel the check,” Ben said.
“You paid with a credit card,” Bernard said without a blink.
Though Ben could still feel the shimmer of tense excitement under his hand, Marcie leaned into Ben’s touch and smiled at Bernard.
“He hasn’t. I’d love to know.”
“I can dispute the charge,” Ben put in. He saw Winston bite back a smile as his father completely ignored Ben.
“When he was a very young lad,” Bernard told Marcie, “he did what grown men could not. He managed to take something from my store. One of my employees, a lovely young lady with a good heart, Emily, had a necklace out on display for Mrs. Butler. She has since left us, God rest her soul—Mrs. Butler, that is—but she had excellent taste in jewelry. It was a heart pendant, silver with a ruby and diamond placed inside the open curve. A piece I designed myself.”
His fingers tightened on Marcie’s hand, his voice reflecting a craftsman’s pride. “That is what makes us so special. I am both a jewelry designer and maker, though I admit, with my eyesight and the steadiness of my hands not what they once were, I have capitulated to my son’s wisdom and now have several trusted people who work with me to bring my designs to life.”
He sent his son a fond look. “He follows in his father’s footsteps, and sometimes surpasses him, such that some of the pieces you see around you were designed and made by him. But,” he brought his attention back to Marcie, “I made Mr. O’Callahan’s order myself. With his input.”
Marcie swallowed, that vibration beneath Ben’s touch increasing. Bernard’s hand tightened on hers, his hazel eyes twinkling. “I won’t go on too long, angel. But I must help him, by building your anticipation.”
Winston had been standing behind the counter in his dress shirt, slacks and tie, as if he could comfortably remain in that position forever. Bernard’s son had already put in a decade of learning the family business, and had his father’s dignified demeanor. However, he appealed to their younger clientele with some subtle differences, like the rolled-up sleeves of his dress shirt and a rakish hair cut with longer side burns. But despite the different look, the store was an equal calling to him.
Proving it, the younger man had somehow disappeared and reappeared without being noticed. He brought out a glass of wine and a small dish of Belgian seashell-shaped chocolates, placing both next to Marcie and Bernard’s clasped hands. He also had a photo album. Circling around Ben to stand before his father and Marcie, Winston opened the album to show the silver heart piece Bernard had described.
“Oh, it was lovely,” she said sincerely. “So delicate.”
“When she commissioned it, Mrs. Butler said that she wanted it no bigger than her largest fingernail, because she said women who wore pendants bigger than a fingernail, or a diamond larger than a teardrop, were gauche, and she was not a gauche woman.” The lines of Bernard’s face crinkled in fond memory. “No, she was not. Not in the least. But very strong-willed, and knowing what she wanted. That’s the best kind of woman.”
Bernard sent Ben another significant look. The cagey old bastard. “Anyhow, the young rascal came in, telling Emily he had lost his mother, and he needed her help. She and Mrs. Butler were so busy clucking over him, they didn’t notice him pocket the necklace. After that very moment, he glanced outside and exclaimed, ‘There she is,’ and darted out. Only then did Emily realize the necklace was gone, but he had disappeared into the ether.” Bernard waved a hand to illustrate.
Marcie tipped her head back to give Ben an incredulous look. “I think he’s suffering from early dementia,” he said in an affected stage whisper.
“I am fifty-nine years old, you impertinent boy,” Bernard said.
“I did say early.”
Marcie chuckled, but returned her attention to Bernard. “So, you caught him eventually?” she ventured.
Ben snorted before Bernard could answer. “No one catches me.”
Well, no one except Jonas Kensington, but he wasn’t going to bring up the exception right now.
“Don’t interrupt the story,” Bernard admonished. He tapped Marcie’s hand. “We did not catch him. A thousand-dollar necklace, poof, gone. I had to write it off as a loss. Had a grown man done it, I would have thought dark thoughts, hoped for his ill-gotten gains to turn on him. But young Emily, when I questioned her, only remembered one thing about him. ‘He looked hungry,’ Mr. Bernard,’ she said. ‘And alone.’”
Okay, that was an unexpected turn. Ben’s gut tightened. He wondered why the old man was getting this personal, but then again, he should have known. Bernard was testing Marcie, seeing what kind of person she was. Ben would have put an end to it, but Bernard met his gaze briefly and lifted a finger, suggesting forbearance.
“Nearly two decades later, this young man walks into my store,” Bernard continued. “In an expensive suit, looking like a well-heeled client, inst
ead of a street urchin. He asks for me, and tells me he was the boy that stole from me. He apologizes, and hands me the price of the necklace. What it would cost today.”
“Lucas helped me with that,” Ben put in.
A smile touched Bernard’s lips. “Another man with excellent taste in jewelry. Cassandra wears one of my creations.”
“So what did you do?” Marcie asked, obviously wanting the rest of the story. “What did you say to him?”
“It was a remarkable moment,” Bernard mused. “Something you do not expect. But as I looked at him, I remembered what Emily said. And then I really looked at him. You know what I’m talking about. Below the surface. I said, ‘You don’t look so hungry anymore. Or as alone. But beneath it all, you still look sad.’”
Bernard now clasped Marcie’s hand in both of his. “Several weeks ago, he came into my store and asked for a special set of rings to be made. And he no longer looked sad.”
Ben’s lips twisted wryly as Marcie’s expression softened, her body nearly melting under Bernard’s touch. The old charmer. Bernard sent him a “you owe me” look and a wink as he straightened. “Winston, son. Let us go get what Mr. O’Callahan asked us to create.”
While Winston likely could have brought it out on his own, Ben suspected the intuitive shopkeeper was giving them a few moments. However, before Bernard followed his son to the back, he paused in the door opening and met Marcie’s gaze.
“I hope I can count on you to keep an eye on him while we’re gone, young lady. Make sure he doesn’t slip anything else in his pockets.”
Though she was obviously reeling over what the man had just said about rings, Ben gave Marcie credit. She rallied enough to toss Bernard one of those devastating smiles that could bring a man to his knees. “Count on it.”
But as the shopkeeper disappeared, Marcie turned around in the chair, standing on her knees on the cushioned seat so she could touch his face, her other hand on his shoulder. “Ben,” she said. “Three weeks ago…”
“Yeah.” Taking both her hands, he guided her back to her feet. She didn’t say anything more, just stood there, gazing up at him, so much in her face. He didn’t say anything either, but somehow, nothing needed to be said.
