“Not exactly.”
After being good and truly ravaged, Blake had unfastened her. She’d crumpled around him. His diminished heft still inside her, he’d carried her into the changing room where he’d allowed her to undress before the first sitting. Laying her out on the chaise lounge, he’d eased her legs from around his waist. Marion’s sore and satiated pussy had clutched convulsively around him as he’d withdrawn. She’d groaned in embarrassment even as he’d grinned sheepishly. He’d gone into the separate cubicle housing the toilet, reappearing with jeans zipped and T-shirt covering his centerfold-worthy abs. He’d crossed to the generous bathtub in the center of the room and turned on the taps. While the tub had filled, Blake had returned to tenderly untie her.
He’d handled her like a precious treasure, guiding her to the tub and helping her settle into the warm, soapy bath. Giving her no option, he’d washed her as if by right, taking special care with the red grooves the rope had left on her wrists. And then he’d made her come again, his eyes daring her to object, his fingers slippery and knowing beneath the roiling water.
Marion had needed the weekend to recover.
“Chicklet, you’re blushing.”
“Ilene,” Marion pleaded with her friend.
“Okay. I get it. No details. Just tell me, did you enjoy it?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Not sure? What does that mean?”
“It was very intense. He’s very intense. And things didn’t go according to plan.”
“What do you mean?”
“We had sex.”
Ilene smirked. “And you don’t think that was part of the plan?”
An unfamiliar irritation at her friend welled inside Marion. “I know it wasn’t.”
When he’d returned to the changing room after retrieving her clothes, setting the neat pile on the vanity counter before facing her, his expression had been guarded. He’d told her she should take her time, had even shown her the hair dryer located beneath the vanity, but he had a hard deadline and needed to be in the darkroom. Kissing her on the forehead, he’d told her he’d see her in a week, same time. And then he’d left.
In a daze, she’d gotten dressed. The stricken woman who’d peered at her in the mirror as she’d towel dried and finger combed her hair saddened her battered heart.
She’d crept past the darkroom, the illuminated red light over the door corroborating his story even as it magnified her shame. His attention had lasted the duration of his erection, and no longer. Even as she’d pulled into the street she’d hoped he’d appear for a last look, continuing to glance in the rearview mirror long after the studio was out of sight.
“Hey! What’s with the sad face?”
“Nothing.” Marion reached for her wine, sensing Ilene’s stare as she drank. “No sad face here.”
“Cheese and crackers!”
“What?”
“You’re falling for him.”
Placing the glass on the coffee table, Marion sank into the couch.
“Falling for him?” she scoffed. “How could I possibly fall for a man I hardly know?”
“There’s something in your voice…” Ilene reached for Marion’s hands, clasping them in hers and drawing them to rest on the cushion between them. “Promise me you’ll be careful. I’m pretty sure once the painting is done, the two of you will be as well. Blake Vince isn’t exactly relationship material…”
“I know that.”
Doubt pinched Ilene’s face.
“I do! It’s just…the way I feel…the way he makes me feel…when I’m in the studio…It’s not going to be easy to quit it cold turkey.”
“Who says you have to quit, chicklet? We’ll just find you one of those kinky sex clubs and get you signed up.”
“Sure.” Marion laughed. “That’ll be easy to do in Eaton.”
“It will,” Ilene insisted, reaching for her glass. “Don’t you know? It doesn’t get any more twisted than the suburbs.”
Chapter 14
Blake struggled to focus, each passing moment added to the danger he would do something terminally stupid. Make Marion tell him where she went when her gaze became soft and sad, or what caused the sparking outrage he often caught in her eyes and the set of her shoulders. Or, even more idiotic, confess he found it impossible to imagine, after tonight’s session, he wouldn’t be seeing her again.
She’d already settled into the suspension. Her muscles stretched long and relaxed between wrists and toes. At least he’d given her that much—the opportunity to learn to trust the ropes. It could be a difficult lesson, but she’d taken to it with ease. More proof of her natural affinity and the improbability her experience with bondage and discipline would end with him.
Gritting his teeth, he studied her face. She blinked slowly, her gaze on him but her eyes unseeing. She’d retreated to her secrets, far beyond his reach.
He picked up a super fine brush from the work table and drew it through one of the three newly blended shades on the palette. Turning to the canvas, he flecked the image’s irises with sea foam. He whisked the brush in turpentine before dragging it over a rag and changing color to sugar the center of the lips with a light frosting of peach before cleaning the brush once more. He rolled the tip in paint, bringing the bristles to a pin point which allowed him to ring the nipples in feathery wisps of garnet.
He sat back, glancing between original and reproduction to assess his efforts. With a small nod, he dropped the brush, top down, to join its brethren in the paint thinner jelly jar. It was done.
Without a doubt his best work, in canvas or print. And the credit belonged to her. Marion had brought it out of him. He got up quietly, not wanting to startle her. They’d gone over two hours and he knew she had to be spent.
At least she isn’t crying.
He’d blamed her tears for last week’s madness. Looking up to discover pools of grief in her eyes and trails lining her cheeks had hit him hard. Reason had told him she had to have been thinking of her parents. But as he’d crossed the room toward her, he’d known he wouldn’t be taking her down until he’d annihilated the look on her face. And he had, only to have it replaced with wide-eyed abandonment when, desperate to escape, he’d left her alone in the changing room.
He wouldn’t be making the same mistake twice. From the beginning, he’d suspected tangling with the kinky town librarian may not be in either of their best interest, but he hadn’t been able to resist her. His concerns had proved well-founded. Sexually synced to the point of psychic connection, Blake knew they flirted with disaster the longer they stayed together.
The sex would be legendary, he had no doubt. But then what? They were too different, their expectations too far apart. Marion’s future lay in white picket fencing and box lunches and Saturday soccer games. A concept of life so far removed, it seemed like science fiction to him. Her foray into the sexual fringe was an ephemeral thing, something for her to look back on when her husband of twenty years gave it to her in grand missionary style, lights out, every Saturday night, maybe the occasional Thursday thrown in for good measure. He shook the image out of his head. He simply couldn’t think of her with another man, no matter how demeaning he tried to make it.
Her eyes tracked his approach, but, even when he stood in front of her, he could tell she hadn’t registered his presence. Stepping close, like he had after their first sitting, he wrapped an arm around her, reaching up with the other to let her go.
Arms floated over his shoulders, and palms cupped his head, fingers threading through his hair. Her innocent embrace proved more powerful than any seduction. Compulsively, Blake pulled her close and she fit herself to him, legs wrapping his waist. Her face buried in his neck.
Two halves becoming whole.
The thought shook him, making the floor unsteady beneath his feet. He needed to sit down. He’d meant to go to the sitting room, he’d been sure of it. But before he knew it, he’d carried her through to his room, the master suite, her slumberin
g weight inconsequential in his agitated state.
Standing beside the bed, he set her on her feet. She sighed in protest as he swept aside the covers and, again, with contentment when he lifted her and slipped her between the sheets.
Her still-bound hands rested above her head, her hair a spill of pennies across his pillow. The gunmetal bedding provided a jarring contrast to her porcelain skin. Like a pearl set in lead, she didn’t belong. His heart beat uncomfortably in his chest. What was he doing? He’d meant to send her home, tell her they were done.
As if sensing his struggle, she sleepily lifted her eyelids. The entreaty in her light green eyes compelled him as surely as any accord or binding. Under her expectant gaze, he undressed, retrieving a strip of condoms from the drawer in the bedside table and placing it on top before sliding into the bed beside her.
He angled his body over hers and looked at her, savoring the sliver of time marking the before and after of his life. When he finally brought his lips to hers, sorrow edged the kiss. He reached for her, desperate for some distraction from the sadness. He cupped her breasts, each in turn, coaxing the nipples into tight buds before brushing over them with the pad of his thumb. As he played, her sighing moans blended into one another, becoming a sustained hum of desire. When he trailed his fingertips lower, teasing the quivering skin of her belly, hips, and thighs, she parted her legs. He tested the smooth-shaved slit of her pussy and, finding a warm, wet welcome, slid two fingers inside her. Her throaty groans echoed in the cavern of his mouth, his tongue and fingers moving in and out of her in concert.
Before long, she began to tremble beneath him. He tore himself away, rolling onto his back and reaching for the condoms. Tearing one from the strip, he ripped it open between his teeth. Sticky rubber pinched between his fingers, he reached down and discovered he wasn’t hard enough. As he slid his fingertips up and down his length, cursing his conscience, he turned his head and discovered Marion watching him. The look of lewd rapture on her face brought a dizzying rush of blood to his groin. In one fluid motion, he sheathed his suddenly eager erection and pulled her on top of him.
She straddled him, her tied hands coming to rest in the center of his chest. Gripping her hips, he urged her down over him, but she resisted. Her sly smile told him she understood the subtle shift of power between them. Blake released her, letting his hands fall onto the pillow on either side of his head in surrender.
Watching him closely, Marion took him in by degrees. He managed to hold her raw and unguarded gaze but couldn’t suppress his groan of pleasure when she settled on top of him, burying him in her languid heat. And then she began to move, a spellbinding roll of her hips, her every ridge and ripple making itself known along his length, branding him. He couldn’t think, could barely breathe. Eyes rolling beneath shuttering lids, he gave himself over to her control.
“Blake.”
The hitch in her voice brought his eyes open with a start. She stared at him, her gaze bright with unshed tears. He sat up, hands cupping her face, his thumbs brushing the moisture from her lower lashes.
“What is it?”
“I…I can’t explain…I just…I need you…I…”
He kissed away her stammering, pulling back to hear her whisper, “You’re the only one who’s ever really seen me.”
His heart came to a deafening stop at the wrenching confession, before taking up a pounding thrum in his chest.
He knew he should put a stop to the madness before any more damage could be done. But his hands had already skimmed the length of Marion’s back and the curve of her hips. Resigned, he smoothed her legs around his waist.
“I see you,” he told her.
Bending his knees slightly, he tipped her farther into his lap, her folded arms becoming trapped between their bodies. She tangled her fingertips in his chest hair, tugging gently as he began to move beneath her. He lifted his hands, brushing at the wayward strands lofting her face.
“I see you.”
He lost his breath when she began to sway her hips in time with his subtle thrusts, but kept his gaze, tight, on her face. Before long, her lips parted by panting breaths, he saw her eyes disappear beneath the shuddering fall of their lids.
Blake let her go, reassuring her once more, “I see you, Marion Hertz, every bit of you.”
She exploded around him and, without intent or effort, he tumbled after her, driven to his own release by her clasping heat.
Chapter 15
“Marion.”
She shook her head, denying the pull of his honeyed voice to leave the warmth and safety of sleep.
“Marion, I want to talk to you, sweetheart. Please wake up for me.”
She groaned, knowing she wouldn’t be able to resist the command beneath his gentle urging. Cautiously, she opened her eyes. Bright sunlight edged the window shade, a few golden rays angling over her.
She tried to turn to look at him, but he held her fast, their bodies spooned together, his cheek resting lightly on her temple.
“Good morning,” he whispered against her.
“Good morning,” she rasped, letting him know she was awake and listening.
“How are you feeling?”
His hand smoothed down her arm, his fingers gently encircling her wrist. She curled the fingers of her opposite hand over his.
“I’m fine. A little sore, but fine.”
“Good. That’s good.”
She felt his heavy sigh travel the length of her spine and braced herself for whatever came next.
“The painting’s finished.”
“Yes.”
“You knew?”
“I assumed.”
He nodded against her and then shifted, his arm lifting off her. The air seemed cold as his heat fell away.
“What did you think of the…experience?”
She rolled onto her other side to face him. He laid flat, hands behind his head, staring at the ceiling.
“Hmm.” Clasping her hands beneath her chin, she drew up her knees, bumping his hip. “I suppose it’s been instructive.”
He looked down at her, a wry smile twisting his mouth.
“Instructive?”
“Yes, I learned a lot.” Damning the consequences, she wiggled closer, propping her head on the underside of his arm. She rested her palm over his heart, her fingers splaying through the moss of his chest hair. “About myself…and about you.”
“Marion.”
“Blake.” She tried to mimic his warning tone but couldn’t keep out her breathy contentment.
“Marion,” he sighed, slipping a hand from beneath his head to grab her fingers. He rose up on an elbow and pressed the offending hand to her chest before rolling on his hip and sitting up, his back to her.
“What’s happening right now?”
He turned to look at her over his shoulder, his dark eyes so remote, she realized with a shrinking heart he’d already left her.
“We’re saying goodbye.”
“But last night…when you…when we…I thought…”
“What, Marion?” he snapped, turning away. “What did you think? We’d share a tender moment and you’d wake up and everything would be different? I’d be a hero straight out of one of your naughty little love stories, suddenly aware of my every shortcoming and how you are the one woman capable of making me a better man? It doesn’t work like that in the real world, sweetheart.”
“I know that. I don’t expect anything different. I just thought we might be able to continue seeing each other.”
“No!” He jolted to his feet, turning to face her, bared and beautiful and angrier than she’d ever seen. “Look…”
An uncomfortable staccato began in the space between her breasts when she saw the terror and resignation twisting his handsome features.
“I wish I hadn’t lost my fucking mind and made love to you last night, Marion. But I did. It doesn’t change anything. Just like it doesn’t make any difference I wish I’d been watching where I was going that morni
ng, had known I was in the path of imminent disaster. I wish I hadn’t seen the real cover of that fucking book when it fell out of your hands, your face when I helped you up off the pavement. I wish I’d never seen you naked, never roped that perfect skin, sketched those lines, or painted those curves. I wish I’d been smart enough and strong enough to let it go. I knew from the beginning…goddamn it.” His head came down, his shoulders slumping in defeat.
The posture was so foreign for him, he became a stranger before her eyes.
He continued, hushed, “I knew from the start, you were going to need more than I could ever give you. But I couldn’t let it go, let you go. More than anything, I wish I’d let you go. But wishing isn’t going to do either one of us a fucking bit of good, is it?”
He shook his head slowly from side to side as if answering his own question. When he faced her, once again, resolve flashed in his eyes.
“We had a moment, but that’s all it was…a moment. I’m always going to be a filthy-mouthed pornographer. And you’re destined to be a pillar of our little community, despite your brief walk on the wild side. The painting’s done, Marion, and so are we.”
The sob lodged in the base of Marion’s throat blocked the upsurge of pain radiating from the center of her chest. She had no idea what might come out of her if it were loosened. Moving carefully, fingers crushing lips against gritted teeth, she got out of the bed still warm from their bodies.
“Marion!”
Despite his demand, she didn’t hesitate…just kept walking, out of the room and out of Blake’s life. He did not come after her.
Chapter 16
Blake Vince stood outside the Eaton Public Library, a guilty man loitering before the pearly gates.
He’d thought he’d done the right thing, the noble thing, chasing Marion away their last morning together. They had no future together, and prolonging the inevitable would only make things harder. Eventually, one way or another, he would have to let her go.
A Matter of Discipline Page 6
