Black Jack

by Mari Carr

  A few years ago Liz had finally acknowledged that regular sex just wasn’t enough. She’d brought up her desire to be more sexually adventurous with her then-boyfriend, but he hadn’t been into it. He was willing to do what she asked, but the point was she didn’t want to have to ask or direct the play. In the end, the relationship hadn’t lasted, and since then she’d only dated casually, never sure how to bring up the issue. Realizing that it might be easier to separate her sexual and romantic lives, Liz had signed up for the class. She was hoping to get her sexual needs met by someone who was in the BDSM lifestyle, and that would alleviate the pressure on her romantic relationships.

  Liz had paid the $500 fee with her Visa after they assured her “Vineyard Educational Services,” as opposed to “BDSM 101,” would show up on her statement. The ten-week class had been divided into Doms and subs, to keep it from turning into a mixer. Each session was a one-hour lecture with Q and A and then discussion time.

  Many of the “rules” they taught seemed more like common sense. Most handouts had titles like, Why It’s Important to Have a Way to Say No—Safewords, or The Difference between RACK—Risk Aware Consensual Kink—and SSC—Safe, Sane, Consensual. At the end of the course they had a few guest lecturers, including a Dom who lived the BDSM lifestyle fulltime. Though she wasn’t looking to change her whole life, it was the memory of him that kept Liz from giving up all hope. While his stiff formality and four-page list of rules weren’t the traits of her ideal Dom, he was much closer than any of the pricks in the community center tonight. Clearly there were good Doms out there. She just had to find one.

  Liz was looking for a man who could handle her desires—who didn’t make her feel like a freak. She didn’t need or want a BDSM boyfriend. When your sexual desires were this dark you didn’t get to have love and sex with the same man.

  As far as Liz was concerned, there had been no one there tonight she would have had sex with after six tequila shots, let alone with the cold calculation needed to embark on a BDSM affair. She’d come to The Gathering hoping to find her Mr. Right—er—Dom Right. The itching sexual need that burned inside her, that beast that girls were taught from an early age to deny existed because society fears female sexuality, was awake and howling. Tonight was supposed to mark the beginning of the end of her self-imposed celibacy.

  And it was a disaster.

  With quickening steps, Liz passed other rooms filled with members of the BDSM community, both seasoned players and new hopefuls.

  A less-determined, less-sexually-frustrated person would have given up, but even as she pushed through the double doors leading to the parking lot, Liz was forming a new plan of action. This was only the first one of these events she had attended. There would be another one in a few months. Until then she would go through some of the contacts that they had been given in class—online message boards and groups dedicated to and run by the local BDSM community.

  She was so focused on formulating a new plan of action that she almost didn’t see the man who stood slumped against the grill of an SUV, though he was clearly visible in the security light illuminating the parking lot. When she did see him, she stopped. Her first impression was one of size. This guy was BIG. His slumped posture made it all the more apparent that when he straightened, he would tower over her. Dark hair hung down to his neck, a few strands had fallen in front of his face, shielding it from view. He wore jeans and a t-shirt, which was pulled taut across the swell of muscle on his arms and shoulders.

  Liz froze—her heart picking up speed as hope bloomed. It was unlikely that someone not in the scene would be standing outside the community center at nine p.m. on a Thursday night. Could he be a Dom? He was the perfect physical embodiment of what Liz wanted in her Dom—physically attractive, with plenty of muscles to sink her fingers and teeth into—someone whom she could trust not only emotionally but physically.

  Knowing her luck, he was probably a sub waiting for one of the Dommes inside. With a disgruntled sigh, Liz started walking again, headed toward her car, which she now realized was parked only two spaces down from the SUV. As her heels clicked closer, the dark-haired dream looked up.

  The way he moved, his head snapping up, eyes bright and sharp, made Liz think of a predator. Raising her own chin a notch, Liz kept walking, but as she got closer and saw his face, her steps slowed.

  Straight, dark eyebrows pulled together over his nose as he frowned at her. Liz stopped, sure she knew him from somewhere. He remembered first, his features relaxing, his lips curled in a devastatingly sexy smile.

  “Liz? Liz Brown?”

  It was the deep, rumbling voice that triggered her memory, and his name came back to her. “Marcus Palmer?”

  With a few long strides he was at her side, his arms coming around her in a rib-crunching hug. On instinct Liz’s arms went up around his shoulders, returning the fierce embrace. It was not the greeting an adult woman would give to an old acquaintance but the hug of a twenty-year-old college student to a good friend. After a final squeeze, Marc held her at arm’s length, his big hands spanning and cupping her waist.

  “Lizzy, wow, how are you?”

  “Marc, it’s been so long. I’m fine, how are you?”

  “I’m good, I’m good, thanks.”

  Marc’s gaze made a slow, easy sweep over her, from the crown of her head to her toes. With a smile, Liz returned the favor. His dark hair was longer than she remembered, curling against the nape of his neck, the sides pulled back behind his ears. It should have looked boyish but instead he looked like a warrior. The breadth of his shoulders tapered to a nice waist. His pants were tight around his thighs, outlining the powerful muscles there.

  Liz could see appreciation reflected in his eyes. She found nothing offensive in his examination, merely an acknowledgement of her beauty, and she returned the favor. They had given each other similar perusals while in college. They had met in class, each from very different parts of their university community—she an involved student leader and crusader, he the star wide receiver of their national championship football team. Back then they had both been in other relationships. Only with their frank appraisal of each other had they acknowledged that if the situation were different they might have been together. But they’d been committed to other people, which meant their friendship had grown strong without an underlying need to posture and pose.

  *

  Marc let his gaze sweep over the stunning blonde. She’d changed from the sweatshirt-and jeans-clad co-ed he’d known into a polished and professional woman. They’d parted ways after college, both knowing when they said goodbye the last time that theirs was a friendship that would not survive the transition into their adult lives. She had gone on to corporate America and he to the boys’ club of professional football. There’d been some regret for the friendship lost but he had appreciated the time they spent together enough to celebrate it for having existed rather than mourn its passing.

  Then Marc remembered where he was, and more importantly he remembered what was going on in the community center. He grinned slowly, until he showed teeth. For a moment Liz looked uncomfortable. She turned her head slightly, as if embarrassed. She shifted her feet, heels clicking against the pavement of the parking lot, but as Marc watched, she straightened her shoulders and met his gaze. Her look said that she would not be afraid or ashamed for having been found here. Indeed, Liz raised one eyebrow and tilted her head, giving him a questioning look, her posture inquiring what he was doing here. Then it was his turn to feel slightly uncomfortable at having been caught.

  “Well, this is certainly an interesting situation,” Liz said.

  “Yeah, well, I guess you could say that. But I would have said ‘fucking embarrassing’ instead of interesting.”

  Liz laughed, her head falling back, exposing the long smooth line of her throat. The slow burn that had started in Marc’s belly when he first saw the stunning woman walking toward him fired a little bit hotter.

  “So, I figure there ar
e three things we can do.” She raised her index finger. “One—we can walk away and pretend this never happened. Two—we can exchange business cards, renew our friendship by e-mail and just pretend that we didn’t meet each other here. Three—we can go and get a cup of coffee and catch up.”

  “You always were direct.”

  “No point in being any other way.”

  “It’s good to see you, Liz.”

  “It’s good to see you, too, Marc.”

  He rolled his shoulders, a habit left over from his playing days. “I say number three. There’s a good place down the street or we can go downtown,” he offered.

  “Let’s go to that place on the corner of Ninth and Fig. You remember it?”

  “Yeah, I remember. You always drank Diet Coke. When did you grow up and start drinking coffee?”

  “As soon as I realized how much more caffeine there was in a cup of coffee than a Diet Coke.” Liz was smiling softly, the memories sweet and mellow with age. “There are times at night when I crave that sweet fake-sugar taste.”

  “Then let’s get you some.”

  Liz headed toward her black SLR, hips swaying. Marc watched her walk away, his eyes tracing the outline of her tight ass through her pants.

  Now that is one fine-looking, sassy woman. Too damn bad she’s a Domme.

  * * * *

  An hour later, Marc and Liz were sitting comfortably in a booth at a 24/7 diner that served all-you-can-eat waffles and coffee between midnight and five a.m., which made it a favorite venue for a late-night carbohydrate fix among the students at the university.

  With a nod to nostalgia, Liz had skipped the coffee and ordered a Diet Coke. She was slouched on the bench, one leg tucked under her, the other swinging free, her heel making a rhythmic thump against the booth with every swing. Her pumps lay discarded under the table. Marc had assumed a familiar pose, his back against the window, long legs stretched out along the bench with ankles crossed. He was so tall that every time the waitress came by, she had to dodge his feet because they stuck out so far. One thickly muscled arm rested along the back of the booth, the other along the tabletop. His big, rough hands were relaxed. Occasionally he would lift the arm that rested on the back of the booth and use it for emphasis when making a point.

  They had been sitting here for over forty minutes, reminiscing. There were tears of laughter in Liz’s eyes as Marc retold the story of Liz going toe-to-toe with the evil TA of their class. His colorful retelling, with Liz as a warrior of Arthurian proportions crusading for the repressed members of BUAD 428—Advanced Biz Development—was wildly inaccurate and hysterically funny.

  When he wound down, Liz went to wipe her eyes with her sleeve, a habit from the time when sweatshirts made up most of her wardrobe. She stopped herself just in time and plucked a napkin from the dispenser.

  Liz examined Marc’s face. Maturity had slimmed it down, refined it, but that wolfish grin was still the same. Though humor sparkled in his eyes and his posture was relaxed, the bulk of his physical presence combined with the grin was vaguely threatening.

  As the echo of her laughter faded, they fell into a companionable silence. It was amazing how easy it had been to fall back into her old friendship with him. It had always been a friendship that had included simply the two of them. They had no mutual friends, so when they were together there had been no one there to expect them to act like the star football player and student leader. What started out as an assigned partnership for a class project grew into a refuge—a chance to vent frustrations and worries.

  Bending her head, Liz took a long drink, letting the bubbles fill her mouth. She glanced up from beneath her lashes to see that Marc was studying her with cool appraisal. With a sigh she lifted her head, flicking her tongue across the tip of her straw to catch any stray drops. Leaning back against the creaky vinyl, Liz prepared herself for what would undoubtedly be an embarrassing conversation, though oddly she didn’t feel as embarrassed as she thought she would have.

  “So, how did you get an invitation to The Gathering?” she asked, wincing at the end. The name seemed melodramatic in the cheery warmth of the diner.

  Marc snorted. “It is a stupid name, isn’t it?”

  Liz smiled. “It really is.”

  Marc returned her sunny smile with his own darker one. “I got the invitation because I’ve been to a couple of parties hosted by the group that runs the class.”

  “How did you get involved in that?”

  This time Marc’s smile was wicked. “A few years ago I saw a notice online about a conference and demonstration they were holding at their club. You had to go through a bunch of hoops to get tickets but I had been curious for a long time so I kept asking, pushing. Eventually someone recognized me from my pro years and like magic I was invited to the inner circle.” He shrugged off the ease with which his fame had given him entry to an exclusive clique.

  “Weren’t you concerned about tabloids finding out?”

  He grimaced, but said, “Not really. Now that I’m not playing ball anymore, I’m not really news, and everything I read said these people like their privacy. It would be worse if I tried a BDSM relationship with a woman who wasn’t into it. If she thought there was money in the story, or just got scared and told someone who told someone else, I’d have a problem—that’s why all my subs sign a nondisclosure agreement with a multimillion-dollar penalty.”

  Liz stared at him in amazement. She had never considered how hard it would have been for a guy like him, so physically imposing, to treat a woman like a submissive without scaring her.

  “Going opened my eyes. I realized that all my life I had been treating the girls I slept with like submissives, except I always felt like an abuser. Every time I ordered a woman to spread her legs, I felt like I was raping her, even though I was always careful to make sure she was into it. Once I found BDSM, I had a name for what I wanted, a name that came with a certain set of expectations.

  “I started looking for submissive women, women who wouldn’t freak out if they ended up tied to the bed.”

  “So why were you there tonight? Just looking for a play date?” she asked.

  “Naw, I’ve had plenty of those. There were always unattached girls at the parties, or girls who had Masters, but whose Masters were willing to share. That was fine for a while, but I’ve discovered that it’s the guys who have just one sub, who know their girl like the back of their hand, who really have the good life. I went tonight looking for a girl I could keep for myself.”

  Liz shifted on the bench, sliding her foot out from beneath her so she could press her legs together. His casual talk of dominating a woman—tying her up, ordering her to spread her legs—had her incredibly aroused.

  She could hardly believe that her ideal partner seemed to be sitting across the booth from her. The problem was that now she didn’t know how to broach the subject. She wasn’t prepared to do it while sitting in a diner. She had been prepared to deal with this back at the community center, but not here. If she was to start a sexual relationship with Marc, it would take away some of the danger—she was fairly sure he wasn’t a serial killer.

  Then a horrible thought occurred to her—he may be just what she was looking for, but what if she was not what HE was looking for?

  Liz figured it would be just her luck to find the Dom of her dreams and then find out he had an Asian fetish.

  “So what about you?”

  Liz looked up with a start. “Me?”

  “Yeah, how did you get invited?”

  “Oh, I took the BDSM 101 class. I haven’t had much luck with real-life BDSM and got tired of being dissatisfied. It seemed like the safest way to meet someone who was already into it.”

  “You just felt safe taking a class. You always were a school nerd.”

  Liz threw a napkin at him that he caught with hands well accustomed to accepting a thrown item.

  “Okay, maybe you’re right, I know how to take classes, and it’s something I was good at.”<
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  “Didn’t find what you were looking for?”

  Liz moaned in exaggerated anguish. “Not even close. That’s why I left early, but what about you?”

  He shook his head. “Nothing.”

  “So you didn’t find any subs you liked?” she asked, fishing for information on his preferences.

  “I met a bunch of girls who were nice and quiet and submissive. They probably would have done exactly what I told them every fucking moment of the day.” He shook his head in disgust, or maybe it was frustration. The boy she’d known was there in the man, but buried under the years that separated this moment from the last they’d spent in the diner. She no longer knew him well enough to read his expressions with any confidence.

  “Isn’t that what you want?”

  He shifted on the bench, uncrossing and then re-crossing his legs with the opposite leg on top. “I don’t want a girl who lies there. I want someone with more something.” He ran a hand through his hair, and this time she had no trouble telling it was frustration that furrowed his brow. “Sometimes I don’t know if what I want is really a submissive girl, because the girls who were there tonight…” He trailed off and shrugged as if he were unable to find the words he wanted.

  Liz’s heart leapt into a fast tempo. She wanted to scream that she was different from the girls who were there. She wanted, no—craved, the domination of a strong man but she wouldn’t, couldn’t, simply drop to her knees. She needed a man strong enough to take her.

  Can he really be this perfect?

  The Dominant of her dreams was sitting on the other side of the table and he seemed completely unaware of her as anything other than an old friend. She wanted to jump across the table and say, “Look! What about me?”

  It was fear that stopped her. He knew the girl she had been, and wouldn’t be surprised to find out she was now a ruthless venture capitalist. Nothing about her would indicate that she’d be a good sexual submissive. Maybe if they didn’t have a past, if he had no idea who she was…