Love's Masquerade

by Radclyffe

  The stranger nodded once and then moved purposefully to the side of the bed, reached somewhere beneath the frame, and pulled out soft, padded leather restraints. Deftly, the stranger bound her left hand, then moved to the other side and repeated the actions, leaving her securely but not painfully bound with her arms spread wide.

  The stranger stood once again at the foot of the bed, slowly removing her own shirt, methodically baring her upper body. Small high breasts accentuated the finely muscled torso, and a pulse beat close to the surface of a pale throat. Silence enclosed them in the cone of blue light.

  She was bombarded by conflicting sensations. The feeling of being helplessly bound was at once frightening and exhilarating. She wanted this woman on top of her, she wanted her inside of her, she wanted more than she could put words to. Her inability to actually seek her own release made her even more acutely aware of her desires. Her clitoris strained against the seam of her pants, threatening to explode just from the constant contact as her hips rocked back and forth. She stifled a groan as she stared transfixed at the stranger’s body, so close to her and yet so completely untouchable.

  After what seemed like hours, all sense of time lost, the stranger placed both hands firmly on either side of her jaw and moved surprisingly gentle fingers over the flesh and bones of her face. Then, with one hand under her chin, the stranger tilted her head back, exposing her neck to its fullest.

  “Close your eyes and keep them closed.”

  Fingers traced the vulnerable structures of her throat, resting on the fragile windpipe as the blood rippled through the pulsating arteries just below the skin. A tongue ran lightly from her collarbone to her ear.

  A voice, barely a whisper. “I don't want you to move. Just remember my hands on your throat while I’m making you come.”

  The words made her hips jerk, and as her pants were stripped away, she bit her lip to stifle a cry. She had never felt so physically vulnerable in her life. The restraints, on her ankles now as well as her arms, were barely perceptible, yet she was totally immobilized. Now, with her throat exposed, locked in darkness, she felt as if she had lost control of her very life. Despite the helplessness of her position, she was powerfully excited. She feared that the merest touch would set her off.

  Dimly, in the last fragment of her thinking mind, she knew she could break the spell of her own bondage by a word to the stranger. But she didn't want to escape. She wanted to feel what the stranger aroused in her. She wanted to know how far into her physical self the stranger could take her.

  More than she wanted to come, she wanted to know.

  Suddenly, a sharp sensation centered in each breast as hands enclosed them, fingers squeezing the erect nipples hard. She gasped at the unexpected contact, her back arching. The entire surface of her body was sensitized with need. Her clitoris twitched urgently.

  Just as suddenly, the small pinpoints of almost-pain disappeared, and a leather belt was placed the length of her abdomen, the buckle resting between her breasts. The soft tongue of leather was pressed into the triangle between her legs. The edges of the belt rode against her distended clitoris, and the roughness against the exposed nerves pushed her close to orgasm. She pulled against her restraints for the first time, wanting connection, needing to feel the heat of a body against her own.

  “Please, no more,” she groaned. “Please, I have to come.”

  “I'll decide.”

  When lips finally claimed hers, their tongues met in a probing duel. When fingers slipped inside her, the belt trapped beneath the palm rubbed the length of her distended flesh, and she moaned frantically. Her inner muscles contracted hard around the hand. When a thumb slipped beside the leather to beat an insistent rhythm against her clitoris, she closed her eyes tightly, jaws clenching, and tried to resist the aching need to come. But she was too far gone; her body arched and bucked as she closed around the fullness within, ripples of sensation flooding into her thighs, coiling through her belly. A strangled cry escaped her lips as the pounding in her head fused with that in her body, and her orgasm crested in one wave of unbound fury.

  She was drifting on the edge of consciousness when the stranger straddled her, a leather-clad leg on either side of her thigh. She pushed her hips upward to meet the desperate downward thrusts, all of her energy immediately focused on bringing the same pleasure to the stranger that she had just experienced. The stranger gasped brokenly, jerking erratically, fingers clenched on her upper arms. There would be bruises. When the stranger stiffened, then climaxed, moaning uncontrollably, she smiled, triumphant.

  Auden rested the manuscript in her lap and closed her eyes. She’d read enough of the first draft of Dark Passions to know that it wasn’t at all what she’d expected. She’d been interested in the story from the first line, just as quickly captivated by the sharply drawn characters with their thinly veiled pain as she had been when reading Dyre’s romance, Secret Storm. But the tone of this story had taken an unexpected turn into an area she rarely associated with romance fiction. The anonymous liaison between two women, who had met for the first time in a bar where strangers gathered for no other purpose than to explore each other sexually, produced reactions Auden was at a loss to decipher. She’d never before considered sex reduced to only sensation without emotion, the physical with no greater context than sensual satisfaction.

  In fact, she’d given very little thought to her own intimate relationships, or lack thereof, physical or otherwise. She’d dated but not seriously, and she’d never suffered from the absence of some deeper connection. At least not in a way that she’d wanted to explore too closely. She had friends, like Gayle, and a life that suited her. If something vital had indeed been missing, its absence had hovered on the edges of her consciousness where she had been able to ignore it by immersing herself in the routine of her daily life.

  Now these books, these lives, these women had drawn her into worlds she’d never thought to visit. Their dreams and desires left her wondering why she had none of her own. Her reactions to the passion and intimacy she’d discovered in Secret Storm had left her in turmoil, but her reaction to this first encounter in Dark Passions unsettled her even more. She’d read the scene, in fact reread it, several times and was taken aback to find herself stirred both emotionally and physically. Not stimulated to the extent that the love scene in Secret Storm had excited her, but there was no question that she had been aroused by some of the images created by Dyre’s words. That very fact confused her. If she had been asked, she would’ve answered categorically that such a scenario—sex without love, surrender without commitment—would never have stimulated her. Now she knew differently, and yet she could not fathom what that meant.

  When she had fantasized, she’d imagined a lover’s touch, but never a face. She’d envisioned connection, but never the kind of intense union she’d experienced in her dream looking into—

  A knock on her open door caused Auden to jump in surprise. She turned, falling unexpectedly into Haydon Palmer’s eyes. She caught her breath, her heart racing with sudden pleasure.

  “Hello!”

  “I’m sorry to disturb you,” Hays said quietly. “I saw the light on in here.”

  “That’s no problem,” Auden said quickly. Her voice sounded breathless to her own ears. She indicated the sofa with a sweep of her hand. “Please, come in.”

  Hays carried a cup of coffee in her hand, and after a second of hesitation, she entered. She sat on the opposite end of the sofa, faced Auden, and smiled. “You look right at home.”

  Auden was suddenly conscious of the fact that she was wearing a faded pair of jeans and a Penn sweatshirt that had seen far better days. When she’d dressed earlier, she hadn’t expected to see anyone else in the office. Hays, Auden noticed, was dressed far less formally than during the workweek as well, but even in jeans, a button-down cotton shirt, and low-heeled, square-toed black boots, she looked splendid.

  “I feel at home, too,” Auden replied, realizing just how much she m
eant it. She wasn’t even certain why she’d come herself, except that she hadn’t yet transferred many of her work files to her home computer. Once there, she’d gotten caught up in the manuscript and had forgotten all about work.

  “How are things going?” Hays asked, surprised and pleased to see her new director. Three days’ absence had not diminished her memory of how attractive Auden was. Seeing her now, relaxed and casually attired, Hays realized that she was truly beautiful.

  “Very well, I think,” Auden said with a small laugh. “Actually, better than I really expected at this early point.” She wanted to ask Hays how she was feeling but was acutely aware that that kind of question was inappropriate. The publisher looked much the same as when Auden had last seen her. Her complexion always had a slight pallor, but the shadows beneath her eyes seemed no deeper. Her dark eyes, too, were lustrous and clear. Auden realized she’d fallen silent and suddenly added, “I met with Liz Nixon yesterday afternoon. I like her. She has some good ideas.”

  Hays raised her coffee cup and nodded. She regretted having been absent for the interview. One of the most frustrating things about the illness was the inability to concentrate. It stole from her the one thing she valued the most, her ability to work. Frowning slightly, cradling the cup in both hands, she asked, “So, did you offer Liz the position as head of marketing for Destiny?”

  “No,” Auden said swiftly. “But I want to.”

  Hays laughed. “Then by all means, go ahead. I’ve talked with her several times, and if she seems like a good match to you, I’m all for it.”

  “I’m not entirely certain that Mr. Pritchard—”

  “Don’t worry about Abel,” Hays said. “He has very definite opinions about almost everything, but in the end, the business is mine to run.”

  “I appreciate that, believe me. Nevertheless, I don’t want to create conflict.”

  “Is there any?” Hays studied Auden’s face intently.

  “No, but I have a feeling that he isn’t entirely pleased with me as your selection to head Destiny.”

  Hays grinned, an utterly disarming grin. “Abel doesn’t see what I see in you.”

  Completely nonplussed, Auden blushed. “What is that?”

  “Enthusiasm. Desire. Drive. The things that we need to make this work. I never wanted an overly experienced director, because too often they come with preconceived notions of problems. You don’t have that. You’re fresh and optimistic.”

  Auden wasn’t certain how to reply. She certainly had never seen herself that way. Am I those things? It pleased her enormously that Hays viewed her so. “Thank you for that. So far, I’m loving every minute of it.”

  “Yes, I can see that you are,” Hays said softly. And I can feel your enthusiasm. It fills the places that have felt empty for so long. Hays gestured to the pile of papers in Auden’s lap. “What are you reading?”

  “Rune Dyre’s manuscript.”

  “Dark Passions?”

  “Yes.”

  “How’s it going with the pending works from WomenWords?”

  “I’m just getting started,” Auden confided. “I’m not entirely certain about this book, though.”

  “Why not?” Hays asked neutrally.

  “It’s not exactly what I expected. I’ve only had a chance this week to read through a handful of the popular published titles, but this one is...different. Are you familiar with it?”

  “I’ve seen the Web version.”

  “Then you know that it’s a very dark story, rather outside the common experience of sexual expression.”

  “Auden,” Hays said with a short laugh, “we’re talking about lesbian love stories. Don’t you think they’re outside the common experience of sexual expression?”

  “No, I don’t,” Auden said with absolute seriousness. “And neither, I’ll wager, do ninety-nine percent of the people who will be reading Destiny’s publications. But this book is about power relationships, or perhaps I should say, the imbalance of power. The very topic is going to prevent some people from reading it.”

  “And you think that’s a reason not to publish it?”

  Auden was brought up short by the question. Because that was exactly what she had been thinking. “Destiny is a brand-new imprint. I assume our goal is to establish a profitable division. To me, that means that every book needs to be a bestseller. Or at least, we need to believe that it can be.”

  Hays said nothing, waiting, watching Auden’s face.

  “I’m not sure that this book will ever fall into that category.”

  “You dislike the book?”

  “What?” Auden was momentarily confused by what seemed like a change in the direction of the conversation. “No, actually, it’s very well written. Rune Dyre is an excellent author, obviously. That’s clear from her previous work. But this is quite a departure from her other works.”

  “Have you read them all?”

  “Yes,” Auden said. “Secret Storm, for example, is a beautiful book. A glorious romance.”

  Hays smiled and studied her coffee. “It has done well, according to Liz Nixon.”

  “According to everything,” Auden stated. “But this book, however well written, is not standard fare.”

  “Finish reading Dark Passions,” Hays suggested. “If you still feel the same after you’ve read it in its entirety, do whatever you think is best.”

  “Of course.” Auden appreciated that Hays was giving her veto power, and she had every intention of using that power well. “It’s not fair to judge a book by...oh God...I was about to say something stupid like ‘by its cover.’”

  “No, it probably isn’t.” Hays grinned, and they both laughed. “You’re coming this evening?”

  “Yes, of course. I’m very much looking forward to it.”

  Hays stood, placed her cup on the table, and walked to the window. “It’s snowing quite heavily now. It’s late in the season for this kind of weather, but a spring blizzard is not unheard of.” She turned, leaning a shoulder against the window casing. “Are you driving tonight?”

  “No,” Auden said. “I was going to take a cab.”

  “I can have a car come around for you.”

  Surprised, Auden shook head. “No, that’s all right. I’m bringing a friend, and I’m not certain precisely when she will be available.”

  A friend. Of course, she would have a date. Hays pushed away from the window, her expression remote. “I’ll e-mail you a list of the attendees, in case there’s something you want to review before this evening.”

  “Thank you,” Auden said, watching as Hays crossed the room, leaned down to grasp her empty cup, and swiftly left.

  Her departure left Auden once more feeling slightly bewildered and oddly bereft.

  Chapter Eight

  Secret Passions – Scene Four

  Outside, the snow is falling, but here inside, there is warmth. Not just warmth, but light. It astounds me that I have not noticed before the terminal absence of heat, for I know now that I have grown cold. I realize, too, that shadows have served as the only illumination for so long that I have forgotten the brilliance of the sun.

  She has no idea, of course, that I draw close to her warmth like the homeless on a street corner gathered around a dying fire, their hands out-stretched to the guttering flames. Beseeching—hope long gone. The walking dead, unaware that life passes by on the other side of the street. Hours, days, may pass, yet I am unaware of my living presence. My body moves through time, but my mind does not register that the moments of my life are ticking away, unnoticed.

  Then, with a word, she stops the clock, and I can almost see the hands turning backward, returning to me what I thought I had lost. I am embarrassed that she might guess how I wait for each smile, hunger for the light that dances in her eyes, thirst for the fire in her voice that makes my heart beat hard enough for me to feel it, reminding me that blood still flows, that life resides within me still.

  Unaware, she reminds me that it is not time that we
need, but the belief, however false, that we have time. When love is a distant memory, we cling to the belief that it exists around the corner—untarnished and unspoiled—waiting there to save us.

  I wonder that she does not see beneath my charade and recognize that I clutch each word, grasping each spark with desperate fingers, happy for the flame that sears my flesh. I wonder if I were to touch her skin if it would burn, knowing I would not care, if only I were to feel—

  Hays swiveled away from the monitor toward the sound at the door, sliding instantly into the blue-green seas of Auden’s eyes. She might have made a sound as she tightened inside, pulled too quickly from the dimension of sensation and unfettered emotion, unguarded and undefended. She closed her fingers to hide their trembling, her fists resting on her desktop.

  Auden stood at the door, lips parted, poised to speak, staring into Hays’s face. Hays looked dazed, but her expression was not one of pain or fatigue, the way it had been that afternoon when she had found her asleep on the sofa. Now, her dark eyes were filled with longing—and something else. Something that even from across the room looked to Auden like desire. Flushing, Auden said hastily, “I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize—”

  “No,” Hays said quickly, her throat sounding thick to her own ears. “It’s all right. I was just...catching up on some correspondence.”

  Auden hadn’t moved, and neither had Hays. They continued to look at one another across the office, both barely breathing. The air was filled with questions.

  What do you see in my eyes?

  Do you know how you look right now? So beautiful.

  Do you sense what I feel?

  Why can’t I seem to hide from you?

  How can you make me feel so much, without a word?

  “There’s something I want to talk to you about with regard to our new authors,” Auden said quietly, forcing out each word with deliberation. What she really wanted to do was run. Because the other thing that she wanted to do was walk across the room and place her palm against Hays’s cheek. She’d never wanted to touch another human being as much as she wanted to touch Haydon Palmer in that moment.