by Lila Dubois
Sasha’s heart clenched. “When did you get into BDSM?” she asked quickly.
Emory sat up, pulling his shorts up. Sasha sat up too. Her underwear was still around one ankle, so she put it on and pulled her top down. They sat with their backs against the foyer wall. The door was only a few feet away—they hadn’t made it very far before they fell upon each other like ravenous beasts.
“In college.” Emory took her hand, lacing their fingers together. “My parents were fairly strict growing up, and I’d never managed to get my hands on Playboy or anything of that nature, so when I went to college I made up for it. In a big way. I’d joined a fraternity that had strong connections and alumni within the legal community. I hadn’t joined for the fraternity lifestyle, but once I was there—”
Emory grinned at her, and she saw the young man he’d been, reveling in hedonistic pleasure. She laughed.
“Like I said, once I was there I partied hard. One night we had a Playboy-themed party—which meant that the girls all had to wear their underwear and we wore smoking jackets. Someone had gotten a bunch of porn to play in the background. One of the DVDs we had was a fairly hard-core bondage one. I remember looking over at the screen and seeing this pretty girl on her knees, her arms tied to her sides. Her legs were spread and the Dom was tapping the insides of her thighs and her pussy with a crop.
“I was fascinated—totally aroused of course. I walked away from whatever conversation I was having and watched the rest of the DVD. When it ended I found the first willing girl at the party and hauled her up to my room. I used the sash from the robe I was pretending was a smoking jacket and tied her up and played with her.
“That’s when I realized that while all the other guys seemed to be most turned-on by the idea of having a woman be the aggressor, or at least aggressive, I wanted complete control. I wanted to have her at my mercy, and use that to pleasure us both.”
His story had brought a fresh throb of arousal to her previously replete body.
“What about you?”
Sasha let out a breath. Part of her wanted to tell Emory, and this felt like a safe place to do it.
Her phone rang.
Sasha didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
She grabbed her jeans, fishing the phone out of the pocket. She checked the time before answering.
“I know I’m late.”
“Do you need help, or a ride? Did you crash?” Jayne’s words were hard and short, the worry clear in her voice, which added a stab of guilt.
“No. I got caught up with something else. Do I have time to make it to the salon and then to the studio?”
“Where are you?”
“Marina Del Rey.”
“Barely, but you need to be at the salon in fifteen minutes.”
“Okay, tell them I’ll be there and I’m sorry.”
She hung up and toyed with the phone. “I’m sorry to do this again, but I have to go.”
“Okay, give me a second to change.” Emory jumped to his feet and headed deeper into the condo.
“What?”
“I’m coming with you.”
“You are?” Sasha felt stupid, but she didn’t know what he was talking about, what his plan was. She trailed behind him, following him through a living and dining room, down a hall to the bedroom.
“Yes. Unless you don’t want me there.”
“I like spending time with you.”
Emory paused in the process of pulling on an undershirt and looked at her.
Sasha started to look away, embarrassment heating her face, but she made herself face him, wanting to see his reaction to her admission.
Emory took two long steps, grabbed her by the arms and kissed her hard. “You look so damned sexy when you’re unsure of yourself.”
“I hate being unsure of myself.”
“Then know this.” He kissed her cheeks, her eyelids, her nose, her lips. “I like spending time with you too.”
That statement raised more questions than it answered. Did he mean he liked having sex with her? Did he want to formalize their BDSM relationship? Did he want to date her? Did he want to date her secretly?
Emory pulled on a blue button-down shirt and gray slacks.
Sasha abandoned the bedroom and found a bathroom, cleaning up as much as she could. Her panties were soaked so she left them on his bathroom counter. It would be better to go commando rather than have the wardrobe department confronted with such obvious evidence of what she’d been doing.
They met at the front door, both dressed and looking more or less respectable. Sasha cast a critical eye over him, then unbuttoned and rolled up his cuffs. He looked at her as if she’d just stripped his pants off his ass in the middle of the 405.
“You looked stuffy.”
“I am stuffy. I’m a lawyer.”
“Nope. You’re my lawyer.”
There was a pregnant silence, and by seeming mutual consent they left her statement alone.
“I’m driving,” he said, holding out his hand for keys.
“Nice try. I’ll get us there faster.”
Emory didn’t pray. Normally.
Riding in the car with Sasha could drive any sane person to call for help from the creators. He said prayers he remembered his mother saying, though he had only vague ideas about who they were to and for what. Hopefully one of them was to the god who looked over those poor souls who fell in love with lunatics.
Poor souls like himself, who fell for lunatics like Sasha Brazil.
It was just past ten on a Saturday night, and the streets were packed with people going out. And yet, Sasha still seemed to find a way to drive sixty miles an hour on surface streets. He was pretty sure a cop had tried to pull her over but hadn’t been able to catch her. He vaguely wondered when her business manager would send over that ticket, demanding that Emory get it off her record.
When they hit the Santa Monica border, he started to breathe easier. There was less traffic and they were almost at her house.
His relaxation was premature, as she blew through an intersection as the light turned red.
“Sasha!”
“What?”
“I am going to turn you over my knee if you don’t slow down.”
“Promises, promises.”
They pulled into her driveway and Emory had to resist the urge to throw himself from the vehicle and hug the ground in relief. He’d always considered himself secretly adventurous—his staid lawyer exterior hiding the passionate Dom. He realized now that he was, in fact, very staid and stuffy. Sasha was a level of adventurous he hoped never to be.
“You need a keeper,” he said as he climbed out of the car.
“I have about twenty keepers.”
“No, they’re your entourage. I said a keeper. Someone to keep you from doing stuff like that.” He gestured vaguely at the car. “Someone to protect you from yourself. And your damned entourage.”
“You mean like a boyfriend?”
“I think the term keeper is more accurate, but boyfriend is close.”
Sasha laughed as the front door opened for them. She nodded to the security guy who’d opened it. “Thanks, Kenyon, you and the others can wrap it up for the night.”
“Yes, Ms. Brazil.”
Kenyon’s eyes slid over Emory and he felt the threat. Her security team was still suspicious after she’d laid him out earlier.
She threw a saucy look over her shoulder and headed deeper into the house, toward, he hoped, the kitchen.
They’d gone from the salon to the studio, where he’d watched as she was unceremoniously stripped naked by the wardrobe department and stuffed into a variety of outfits. He’d been shocked by the way they’d handled her, as if she were a Barbie for them to dress up. Each outfit had to be tested in still photos, on camera, and then she had to run through a fight routine.
Through all of it, no one except Jayne seemed to care how she felt or what she needed. They actually talked about her as if she weren’t standing right
there. When he saw a free moment, he asked her if she was okay with how they were treating her, and she’d told him it actually made it easier when it was all business like this.
Emory still didn’t like it, but he realized there was nothing he could do about that except make sure that she got to be Sasha—not the movie star or the sub—just plain Sasha, with him.
“You think I need a boyfriend. So are you volunteering for the job?” she asked. Her tone was light but her shoulders were hunched. They passed under the light and he could see the tattoos on her back and the yellow, faded bruises.
Emory reached out and took her arm. They stopped, though she didn’t turn to face him.
Still holding her elbow, Emory circled to face her. He forced her to meet his gaze with a hand under her chin. Her thick lashes lay on her cheeks, proving that though he could bring her face to his, he couldn’t make her look at him.
She sighed, a soft, sad sound, and opened her eyes. Emory could see the flecks of gold in the brown irises.
“Yes, Sasha, I am.”
“You’re volunteering to be my boy—”
He didn’t let her finish. “No. I’m telling you that I want to be with you, both sexually as your Dom, and in a traditional romantic relationship. You’re beautiful, fascinating and incredibly sexy.”
“Oh Emory.”
Sasha threw herself against his chest, tucking her head under his chin. Emory hugged her close, amazed by how small and fragile she felt in his arms. She was so vibrant that it was easy to forget how delicate she was.
Her cheek rubbed his shoulder before she pulled back. “This might not work.”
“From a purely analytical point of view this seems highly unlikely to succeed,” he agreed.
She threw back her head and laughed. “You’re right. We’ll drive each other to drink and violence. But actually I was talking about something specific.”
Emory examined her face, seeing the worry that tightened the corners of her eyes. Remembering their earlier conversation, he voiced something he’d long suspected. “You mean why you don’t have BDSM partners in L.A.”
“Yes.”
“All right. Perhaps a glass of wine and something to eat will make it easier to tell the story.”
Sasha laughed again. “Maybe it will. Plus, you’re hungry, aren’t you?”
“Starving. There was nothing but veggie smoothies at the caterer.”
“First of all, it’s called craft services on set, and that’s my fault. It’s one of my diva things. I don’t want to see or smell food I can’t eat on set. It makes it hard for me, because long days on set either make me tired and hungry or bored and hungry. I suspect that they have regular food somewhere I can’t see it, but they don’t ever tell me.”
“Ah, well, that seems only fair that you not be tempted by food you can’t have.”
“It’s probably not fair but, like I said,” she pointed to herself, “diva.”
In the end she didn’t tell him the story, and though neither admitted it, they were both relieved. They sat in the kitchen drinking and laughing late into the night. At 3:00 a.m., Emory admitted defeat. He had to work in the morning, and Sasha was expecting the trainer at nine. She drove him home, overruling his protests that he’d take a cab. Their night ended with a long kiss standing beside her car in his parking garage.
Chapter Eight
What are you wearing?
Sasha giggled as she read the message. The manicurist had her right hand, so she clumsily typed out a reply with her left thumb.
I look like a sexy housewife. I went back to that store you mentioned and bought a dress.
Emory’s reply came almost immediately. I’m having trouble picturing you as a housewife. I’ll need photographic proof.
When Sasha giggled again, Jayne cleared her throat. Sasha looked over, then followed Jayne’s gaze to the manicurist, who was looking at Sasha’s phone with avid curiosity.
Sasha twitched her fingers in the other woman’s hand. The manicurist looked up guiltily.
“What did you say your name was?”
“Uh, Pepper, Sas— Ms. Brazil.”
“Be careful, Pepper.” The woman’s eyes widened. Sasha smiled menacingly and felt the other woman’s hands start to shake. “I meant with the manicure. My cuticles are sensitive.”
When they were done—Sasha had insisted Jayne get a pedicure, knowing her assistant spent most of her time on her feet—they hustled to the waiting SUV while bodyguards held back the cluster of photographers that had found her.
Once inside, Jayne checked her schedule, had a conversation with the security detail, then pressed the button that raised the panel between the driver’s seat and the rear seats.
“Are you ever going to tell me?” Jayne asked.
“Tell you what?” Sasha fluttered her lashes at her assistant, who rolled her eyes.
With a little smile, Sasha smoothed the skirt of her new dress. Knee-length with capped sleeves and a sweetheart neckline, it was tight, but the seams gave Sasha voluptuous curves she didn’t really have and made her feel both prim and wild. There was black lace at the hem, almost as if she had a slip that was showing.
“It’s the lawyer, isn’t it?”
“Am I that obvious?” Sasha put her hand in her purse, holding her phone as if in doing so she could hold on to Emory.
“Yes. Especially to anyone who’s seen you together.”
“Well, I just wish I’d known how much fun he was sooner,” Sasha said.
“So are you… I mean I know he’s, uh, a good match for you in the, uh, bedroom, but are you seeing each other?”
“We haven’t managed to actually see each other in days.” Since the night they’d stayed up talking. “But yes, I’m not just fucking him.”
Jayne smiled. “That’s nice. You’ve never had a normal boyfriend before.”
Sasha had been linked with plenty of different men in tabloids. Some of them she’d even actually had dinner with. She’d never slept with any of them, though a few had progressed as far as heavy petting or drunk groping. Others had been publicity stunts to promote movies.
“No, I haven’t.”
Her phone buzzed in her hand and Sasha pulled it out.
Where’s my evidence?
“Jayne, will you take a picture of me?” Her assistant managed, just barely, to hold back a smile as she snapped a photo of Sasha posing in her “housewife” dress to send to Emory.
“Phone sex?”
“My arms hurt too much for that.”
Emory clenched his fist at the weariness he heard in her voice. “I’m coming over.”
“No, it’s okay. I’ve got ice on the parts that really hurt. Plus, they’ll be back in the morning.”
“Have I mentioned how frustrating I find only seeing you once a week?” Emory sat on the side of his bed, phone to his ear. Since the day he’d declared his intention to be more than just a sexual partner or lawyer to her he’d seen her only once.
They’d gone to dinner last night, then returned to her place for a round of captured prisoner. Emory had smartly started the session with Sasha firmly bound so she couldn’t destroy his masculinity for a third time by beating him up as he “tortured” a confession from her.
“I know.” There was a pause, then she said, “I wish you were here.”
“So do I.” Emory lay back on the bed. “You’re tired. I’ll let you sleep.”
“I’m tired but I don’t want to sleep. Talk to me.”
He considered for a moment before replying. “There is something I want to talk to you about, but it’s you, not me, who would do the talking.”
Tension hummed in the silence after his comment.
“You mean me telling you about why I don’t play in L.A., and how I got into BDSM.” Her voice was grim.
“Yes.”
Sasha dropped the phone to her lap and closed her eyes. She’d avoided this conversation longer than she should have. She needed, wanted to tell Emory—b
ut that didn’t make it easy.
She adjusted the ice she had on her aching shoulder and raised the phone to her ear.
“Sasha?”
“I’m here, just getting comfortable.”
“Sasha, you have a right to your privacy. If you’d prefer not to tell me that’s fine. I only ask because I got the impression that you wanted to share this information.”
“It’s just a hard story to tell.” Sasha laughed at herself. “I make it sound like it’s something really horrible, and it’s not.”
“Hmm.”
She could tell that Emory didn’t believe her.
“I came to L.A. when I was eighteen. I’d studied acting in school, and had been successful in theater in São Paulo. I did commercials too, even acted in a few films there. But of course I wanted to be a movie star in America.
“I had an American teacher in school. He helped me make contact with agents here. I was far luckier than most people who come to L.A. hoping to break into movies. Almost from the beginning I was successful—I got cast in commercials, some walk-on parts in TV. Agents liked me because they said I could play any ethnicity. I was cast as Latin, Middle Eastern and even Indian characters.”
Sasha was stalling, because none of this really had anything to do with what he wanted to know, but she needed the space and time telling the story of her early career provided.
“How very like Hollywood,” he said.
“Isn’t it? I thought it was strange, but didn’t really care. I was making more money than I’d imagined just from commercial residuals.”
“What did you do with the money?”
“I sent it home. My brother was in school, and my mother had given me all her savings to bring with me to America.” Sasha grimaced as she remembered the conversation she’d had with her mother when the wire transfer went through. “My mama was sure that I’d become a prostitute. She demanded that I come home.
“It took a week but I was finally able to email her a video and help her find someplace to watch it. The first thing I sent her was a commercial I did for dog food.” Sasha smiled. “She laughed and laughed when she realized I’d made all that money by jogging around with a dog.”
