A Matter of Discipline

by DawnMarie Richards

  A Matter of Discipline

  The Studio, Book 1

  DawnMarie Richards

  Published 2016

  ISBN: 978-1-62210-294-5

  Published by Liquid Silver Books, imprint of Atlantic Bridge Publishing, 10509 Sedgegrass Dr, Indianapolis, Indiana 46235. Copyright © Published 2016, DawnMarie Richards. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  Liquid Silver Books

  http://LSbooks.com

  This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and dialogues in this book are of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is completely coincidental.

  Blurb

  Life holds few surprises for unconventional photographer Blake Vince. But when he’s bowled over by the new town librarian, and catches sight of the less than proper novel she’s reading, he makes the naughty little bookworm an indecent proposal.

  Marion Hertz is resigned to confining her dark desires between the covers of her racy paperbacks. After all, she has her reputation to consider. But when the dark and mysterious Mr. Vince makes her a shocking offer, she finds it impossible to refuse.

  The two soon discover passion plays by its own rules. Marion’s naïve submission tempts Blake at every turn, and what was meant to be a lesson in restraint for her becomes, for him, A Matter of Discipline.

  Dedication

  To Mr. Richards, because he likes the sound of it.

  Acknowledgements

  Thank you to the professional and patient team at Liquid Silver Books, whose help and support have been indispensable in bringing my slightly twisted tales to the digital marketplace. Thank you!

  In Medias Res

  (Into the Middle of Things…)

  He stood close as he checked her bindings, his breath ruffling the hair at the crown of her head. The inadvertent brush of his shirt over her nipples provided a potent reminder of her vulnerability. A hand-tied rope shackle connected her wrists and had been secured to the iron hook of an antique block and tackle hanging from the ceiling. The rigging pulled taut, stretching her long. Only the balls of her feet made contact with the barn board floor. Her toes sputtered over the coarse surface like beads of water on a hot fry pan.

  With the indifference of a physician, he smoothed his hands over her, adjusting her angle and position. He prodded and explored the delicate boughs of her ribs, the receptive slope at her lower back, and the sensitive curves of her hips. It triggered in her a lip-biting indignation, the process as humiliating as it was erotic. He treated her body as if it belonged to him. Given the situation, she had to concede for all intents and purposes it did.

  “Perfect,” he whispered close to her ear. “Now, keep still for me.”

  He stepped away, settling into the rush seat of the puritan ladder back chair at the opposite side of the room. Tipping to the side, he scooped up the sketch pad and pencil from the floor, taking his time opening the cover of the oversized notebook before sitting back.

  She watched the movement of his hand over the paper with rapt fascination. Over and over, he caressed the sheet, brushing away defects she couldn’t imagine. He turned his attention to the pencil, testing its tip on the pad of his middle finger before rolling it in a corner of the page and then checking it once again. Apparently satisfied, he took it into his long, tanned fingers and centered his hand on the tablet resting in his lap. She heard his deep breath, the mild shudder in his exhalation.

  And then he lifted his head, his focus set on her. By excruciating degrees he took her in, his dark omnipotent gaze threatening to invade her last bit of privacy—her thoughts. The impulse to flee collided squarely with the truth of her powerlessness. Every muscle drew taut, pressing in on her lungs and constricting her airways. Heat flashed over her skin. He had to notice the artless response of her body—the puckered swell of her nipples, the glossy dampness of her thighs.

  But he said nothing, simply toggled his glance between her and the sketch pad. At last, he began to draw. Short scruffs and sustained swipes echoed in the nearly empty room, a strange and hypnotic undertone to the piano sonata playing softly in the background.

  Once begun, there was no pause as he committed her contours to paper, the artist at work as indifferent to her disquiet as to her arousal.

  Chapter 1

  A small ping alerted Blake to an incoming text as he exited the coffee shop. Reaching into the inner pocket of his suit coat, he retrieved the phone. He used both hands to unlock the screen, bumping open the door with his hip.

  As he stopped to read the message, dipping his head to see over his sunglasses, the door closed behind him. Two more pieces sold. Smiling, he resituated his phone and started forward. But before he took a step, an unknown force stopped him cold.

  With a grunt of shock, he realized someone had plowed into him—a woman. The force of impact knocked the glasses off her face and a book from her hands. Curiously, her concern seemed solely for the tumbling novel. He watched her fumble for it, the frantic, futile grasping of her hands. She only succeeded in dislodging the dust jacket so it landed separately from the other two items.

  For a stunned moment, neither of them moved.

  Then Blake’s gaze wandered to the stripped book on the pavement between their feet. Black gothic lettering proclaimed the title, A Matter of Discipline. Provocative, but relatively ambiguous, if not for the rest of the art work: a woman in silhouette, wearing a corset and bending over a whipping bench, in the foreground. Behind her—arranged on the wall like a masochistic coat of arms—hung cuffs, a ball gag, and clamps underscored by a crisscrossed crop and whip.

  Blake’s glance jumped to the other cover, tented on the sidewalk and skittering in the light breeze. Sense and Sensibility. He turned to her, tempering the smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth and wondering what other secrets the seemingly demure young woman might be hiding.

  Without warning, she dropped to her knees in front of him, becoming part of the chaotic tableau, tendrils of sweet strawberry blonde hair screening her expression. His gaze wandered to her jutting bottom and the valiant struggle of her tan pencil skirt to maintain modesty as she bent forward, her fingers stretching wide. The innocent off-center bow on the neckline of her short-sleeve black sweater failed to distract him from the amazing curve and push of her breasts as her hands came down over the paperback in an obvious, though pointless, attempt to shield it from view. A beautiful disaster. He wished he had his camera.

  Angling over her, he slid his hand beneath her elbow. The innocuous touch sent her scrambling over the cement on her knees, making him wince. She snatched up the wayward dust jacket and novel and hugged them to her heaving chest.

  When she showed no sign of moving, Blake squatted down next to her, reaching for the forgotten glasses. After checking them for damage, he placed them on her face, trailing his fingers over the shells of her ears before cupping her cheeks, his thumbs framing her mother of pearl pink lips. He tipped her head up, taking in the startling cool green of her eyes and the warm heat kissing her cheeks. The tension he’d first felt in her melted away, her shoulders sinking low. She wrapped his wrist with the fingers of her free hand, the skin smooth and soft as it cuffed him.

  Slowly, he got to his feet bringing her up with him, their gazes locked. Her lips parted slightly. The power of the invitation stunned Blake. Without thought, he began to lower his head.

  Her eyes went wider, still, before slanting to the side,
lids sliding low.

  “Thank you.”

  The two whispered words dispelled the trance. He dropped his hands to his sides, her withdrawn touch a phantom on his skin. She mumbled an apology before brushing past him, eyes squarely on the tips of her sensible ballet flats.

  Blake turned to watch her go, the pneumatic door allowing him enough time to see her take her place in line. She kept her back to him, her shoulders hunched forward as if she were trying to disappear into herself. The door shut with a quiet click, screening her from view behind its tinted glass.

  He shook his head. What the hell was that? He looked at the smoky glass in confusion and then spun on his heel, intent on leaving. He got no more than a few steps before turning back to the door, hoping for another glance. When no one entered or exited, he shoved his hands into his pants’ pockets and concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other.

  He’d taken about twenty steps before giving in to the urge to check once more. She’d emerged, somehow managing to juggle a coffee cup and small brown pastry bag while opening her book and turning in the opposite direction. Without questioning the logic, he pivoted, telling himself he simply wanted to be sure she got wherever she was going without any other incidents. The thought of her body pressed to a random stranger’s had him lengthening his stride.

  She made herself an easy target being so oblivious to her surroundings, he reasoned. Didn’t she have someone in her life to tell her what an unsafe habit she’d developed? If she were his, he’d cure her of the practice in a hurry, putting her over his knee and giving her a good spanking with the book from her very own hand.

  Blake stopped in his tracks. What the fuck am I doing?

  His eyes continued to track her without really seeing, head turning as she took a sharp right, crossed the street, and trotted up the front steps of a large brick building. In a fog, his gaze ascended the façade. Etched into a marble slab over the door were the words, Eaton Public Library.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  His curious morning diversion had devolved into sitcom absurdity. Did the naughty little book worm actually work at the library? He had to find out.

  Taking off his sunglasses as he entered the cool quiet, he waited while his eyes adjusted to the muted lighting. After a quick scan of the cavernous room he spotted her behind the front desk, chatting amicably with another woman.

  He sidled behind the nearest stack and watched. The focus of his attention attended to every word the other woman spoke, making occasional and brief responses. She appeared at ease, authoritative, and in control. Completely at odds to the bumbling creature she’d been in front of the coffee shop. The contradiction fascinated him.

  And then she laughed. The chiming lilt made him hard, zipper-teeth-gnawing-into-turgid-flesh hard. Stifling a groan, he leaned into the shelving.

  When he hazarded another peek, she was shaking her head, as if in disapproval of her unguarded outburst. Still chuckling, she pivoted and went through the doorway behind the desk. The door closed with a tiny click, the scripted, gold lettering on the door identifying the object of his unexpected obsession–Marion Hertz, Managing Librarian.

  Chapter 2

  “Venti citrus mint and a blueberry scone!”

  Marion glanced up over the rim of her glasses, nodding ownership while she closed her book and carefully tucked it beneath her arm. She picked up the paper cup and small brown bag the barista set on the edge of the counter, bringing the sweet morning concoction to her nose and taking an appreciative sniff. A smile on her lips, she turned, eager to make the short walk to work.

  She got no more than two steps before she noticed him, the disturbingly attractive man she’d crashed into yesterday. His piercing brown eyes—almost black, like bittersweet chocolate—seemed to bore into her from across the room. Her heartbeat ratcheted into overdrive.

  He looked at ease despite having folded his large frame into one of the café’s metal chairs, infamous for their uncomfortable design. The table where he sat adjoined the front door. With a gulp, she realized there was no way out except past him. She managed a nod of acknowledgement, hoping it would be enough. Instead of responding, he stretched out his long legs and crossed them at the ankles, continuing to stare, his expression open and unapologetic.

  She started toward the door, praying she wouldn’t trip. As she came even with his table, she managed to side step his expensive-looking leather monk straps, only to stumble over her own two feet. He was out of his chair and by her side in an instant.

  She sensed, rather than felt, his hand beneath her elbow. It was enough to help her right herself.

  “Join me…” The nearly imperceptible dip of his chin made the invitation into a command, notwithstanding his quiet, “Please.”

  His rich baritone resonated in a startling way with parts south, robbing her of speech. It didn’t matter, she couldn’t form a damn thought anyway. She nodded, hoping her mouth wasn’t actually hanging open and, if it was, at least she’d be granted the small concession of being able to keep her saliva contained.

  Still not touching, he guided her with some strange force field to the extra chair at his table. As she sat, he lifted the cup from her numb and useless fingers, placing it to the side. Marion put down the bag containing her breakfast, pushing it away with a trembling hand. Unable to break eye contact, she took the book wedged beneath her elbow and laid it on the table in front of her, as if a pulp fiction talisman could counter the inexplicable effect he had on her. His gaze touched on the Sense and Sensibility cover and a knowing grin curved his lips, but he made no comment. Instead, he rounded the table and retook his seat, the distance allowing her a modicum of reason.

  “I’m sorry,” she managed, taking off her glasses and setting them on top of her book. “I tripped over my own feet.”

  “I’m the one who should apologize. My staring distracted you, Marion.”

  Her name on his lips was a shock. Not because he knew it—working with the public as she did, she’d become accustomed to unfamiliar people calling her by name—but because she’d never heard the staid moniker sound so goddamn sexy.

  “I’m still sorry for disturbing you.” She hated how breathless she sounded, like talking to him required great effort. “And for yesterday, as well,” she rattled on. “I should have been watching where I was going.”

  “It does seem like a rather dangerous habit, reading while you’re walking.”

  “I know. Ilene’s forever telling me I’m going to step out into traffic one of these days.”

  His gaze sharpened and a white line edged his full lips. “You should listen to Ilene.”

  “Yes, well, I am sorry, for both…um…incidents.”

  His expression softened, though his eyes still threatened to devour her.

  “I’m not.”

  He leaned back in his chair, seemingly content to let the enigmatic confession hang between them.

  At a loss, Marion simply stared. Who is he? Is he new in town or just new to me? He can’t possibly be a townie. I would have run into him before and no way would I forget. He doesn’t fit. He’s one of those…what is it? I just read that article…in the magazine I found in the bottom drawer…it was ridiculously old…I’ve got to clean out my desk…it’s been six months for heav…metro sexual! That’s it! His hair and his beard are exactly the same length. And the precise trimming around his ears and his sideburns and cheeks…it must take him hours to get ready in the morning. Competition for the bathroom must be fierce. Oh, so now I’m worried about sharing a bathroom with him. As if! Those curls over his forehead, though. They look so soft. And really, why’d he leave them long if he didn’t want them touched. What if I…

  The scrape of his chair over the tile floor broke into her thoughts. Peeping up at him through her lashes, she saw him reach into his suit coat as he stood. He stepped close and then angled over her, bracing against the edge of the table with one hand while he reached for one of hers with the other. T
he corners of a business card bit into the flesh of her palm.

  “I’d very much like to take your picture, Marion Hertz.”

  Her eyelids fluttered at his low, honeyed tone, as if her brain wanted to shut out other distractions.

  “If you’d be interested”—he glanced at her hand—“you have my number.”

  Chapter 3

  I’d very much like to take your picture, Marion Hertz.

  By the time Marion got to her office, she’d convinced herself the whole incident had been some kind of sadistic joke. She’d been so embarrassed yesterday, she hadn’t been able to think beyond grabbing up her book and escaping. Apparently, she hadn’t been sufficiently apologetic for the egomaniac, and he’d decided to humiliate her for his own amusement. Had he really expected her to be taken in by such a cheesy line?

  She crushed the card she’d been cradling in her palm as soon as she walked in the door, tossing it into the trash can next to her desk. The echo of it hitting the metal base didn’t give her as much satisfaction as she’d hoped.

  Shrugging, she turned her attention to the tasks for the day, determined to forget the whole crazy episode. Next month’s schedule needed to be finalized and then emailed to the events’ editor at the newspaper by noon. She put her things away before dropping into her desk chair, turning on her computer, and getting to work.

  But after the third time her focus wandered to the black mesh receptacle, she let out an exasperated huff. Leaning over, she snatched the crumpled ball from the bottom of the waste basket and smoothed it out with her fingertips. Sleek slate-on-slate gloss lettering proclaimed:

  Blake Vince

  Photographer

  Blake Vince? The name sounded vaguely familiar. The idea of him looking at her through the lens of a camera did funny things to her insides. She turned the card over. A phone number occupied the center of the rectangle—nothing more.