by Eden Bradley
She poured another cup of coffee, took it into the living room, settled onto the cream-colored suede sofa, and picked up the phone.
Desmond answered right away.
“Desmond Hale.”
“Desmond, it’s Marina.”
“Marina, how are you?”
“I’m fine. Well, I think I am.”
“Can you be a bit more definitive, perhaps?” he teased.
“I know. I don’t know what my problem is. That’s … my problem. Why I’m calling.” She paused, sipped her coffee. “Desmond, I think … I may be in trouble.”
“What is it? What’s wrong?”
“It’s nothing that serious. I just … I’ve gotten myself into a situation. I’ve met a man, James Cortez. He’s looking for a top, someone to work the ropes with him. And he’s … he fascinates me more than I’d like to admit. There’s some sort of odd connection there. But I’ll admit it to you because the attraction is undeniable. And I think I’m in real trouble here.”
Desmond laughed. “Don’t say that like it’s the end of the world. It’s a normal occurrence for most of us.”
“Yes,” she agreed quietly. “But this is me we’re talking about.”
“Maybe it’s time, Marina.”
“Maybe.”
He was silent for several moments. “You know, we can get stuck in these ruts. All of us. I was stuck. Until I met Ava.”
“This isn’t a rut, Desmond. I had a loss.”
“I know, and it was profound. I understand that. But it’s been four years. You haven’t expressed any interest in men the entire time.”
“That’s because I haven’t been interested.”
“And now?”
“And now this man … I want to play him, Desmond. I’m going to.”
“Well, that’s good, then.”
“Maybe.” She shifted on the sofa, pulled a dark blue velvet pillow in close to her body. Why did her stomach ache?
“Marina, it can be good if you choose for it to be. I’ve learned that. Don’t fight your desires. If you’re feeling something, then let that guide you.”
“Words of wisdom from a man who’s newly in love?”
“That I am. It wouldn’t be such a bad thing for you, either.”
“It’s hardly love. I’ve just met him.”
“But it’s something. It’s attraction.”
She nearly moaned aloud. “Yes …”
“And you’re going to play him.”
“Yes.” God, that strong, golden body in the ropes … “Yes, I am.”
“What can I do for you, then?”
Her hand tightened around the telephone. “Talk me out of it.”
“I’m not going to do that. I think you should try this, play him. Be with a man. It’s time, Marina. I know you’ve never really gotten over losing Nathan, but as trite as it may sound, he wouldn’t want you to be alone forever. You know that.”
“I do know it.” She sighed, pulled the pillow in tighter over the vague ache in her chest. “I guess I just needed some validation that I’m doing the right thing.”
“You won’t really know until you get there, will you?”
“I suppose not.”
Desmond’s tone dropped. “Look, I understand what you’re feeling. I’ve been through this, wanting something but not wanting to give in to it, to lose control. We understand that about each other. But sometimes that’s the best thing we can do. Sometimes it’s necessary.”
“Desmond, Ava is the love of your life. This man, James, is … just a man. A stranger.”
“He is now. But perhaps if you give it a chance …”
“Maybe that’s what I’m afraid of.” She had to stop, to take in a deep breath. “You know I wouldn’t admit that to anyone but you.”
“As long as you can admit it to yourself.”
“I don’t like it, Desmond. I don’t like that I can’t predict what might happen with him.”
“Ah, we are the worst sort of control freaks, you and I.”
She had to smile. “Yes, we are. And I like it that way. I’m perfectly comfortable being in control.”
“Don’t we tell submissives that they learn the most about themselves when they push their boundaries? And shouldn’t that apply to us as well?”
“Oh, you’re Mr. Philosophical now, aren’t you?”
“Love will do that to a person.”
“I told you, this is not love.”
“Not yet. But you never know.”
“Desmond!”
“Alright, I’ll stop teasing you. But let me know what happens with this James person.”
“I will. Thanks for talking to me. Even though you haven’t been of any help.”
“Well, you’re welcome for that.” He laughed again.
It was good to hear him so happy. And maybe he was right. Maybe it was time she sought some of that for herself. Not the big, important relationship he had with Ava, certainly. But maybe something …
“I’ll talk to you soon, Desmond.”
They hung up, and she stayed on the sofa, sipping the cooling dregs of her coffee. She should get up, do some work, even though it was Saturday. There were clients she should call, paperwork to file, research to do. Work should distract her.
It should.
She doubted it would. James’s face was imbedded in her mind: his voice, his intensity. Even his need was a palpable thing to her, something that had burrowed under her skin.
Maybe she would send him an e-mail, ask him a few questions, clarify the negotiations for their first time together. Then she would put him out of her mind for the rest of the day, do something constructive.
Like get back into bed, pull out her vibrator, and bring herself to a lovely orgasm thinking about him …
She flung the pillow into the corner of the sofa. God, she had to get up, do something, anything! Had to stop thinking about him, fantasizing. She stood up, carried her coffee cup into the kitchen, set it in the sink. And she stalked determinedly back into her bedroom, pulled a change of clothing from her dresser drawers, yanked her robe off, then her short cotton nightgown. Naked, she stared at the bathroom door, contemplated getting in the shower. Getting dressed, working. And with a moan, she turned back to her unmade bed, sat down hard on the edge, pulling open the nightstand drawer. Inside was a selection of vibrators; she chose the most powerful, a large textured silicone piece in royal blue. Switching it on, she lay down against the pile of satin and brocade pillows.
James …
God, just thinking about him made her wet.
She spread her thighs and slipped her hand down in between them, felt the moisture there. Imagined it was his hand, his brown-and-gold eyes watching her. Oh, yes, to have him on his knees, watching her touch herself …
When had she ever done anything like that?
Didn’t matter. All that mattered was that image of him, his massive body kneeling before her. Her hand spreading open the lips of her sex, the other hand pushing the buzzing phallus in, just the tip, teasing herself.
Pleasure like a rocket surging into her body.
James …
She teased her clit with circling fingers, let the vibe do its job, sending currents of desire through her, pushed it in a little deeper.
She’d order him to kiss her thighs, to move in between them, to lick her …
God …
She moved the vibrator in deeper, angled it until it hit her G-spot. Pleasure like some sweet wave making her feel loose and languid all over. And she pinched her clitoris, hard, imagining it was James taking it between his teeth.
She moaned, arched her hips into her own hand, into his hand, shoved the vibrator hard inside her. And cried out as she came in a sharp torrent.
“James!”
She was shaking, pleasure flooding her in a scorching tide. And his face in her mind, his scent in her head, surrounding her, devouring her.
Just as he would.
God damn it.
He’s just a man.
But her shivering body knew differently. He was the first man to make her feel something in four long years. And those feelings were dangerously out of control.
She pulled the vibe from her body, switched it off, rolled onto her side. She was still trying to catch her breath, to catch her sanity.
She just had to play him, get him out of her system. It was nothing more than simple chemistry.
That and his need. So damn strong she couldn’t resist the pull of it. Couldn’t resist the challenge of fulfilling it. And him.
James.
Her body was heating up again already. No point in fighting it. She lowered the vibrator once more between her thighs, tensed as she touched it to her swollen clit, and gave herself over to desire.
JAMES’S HAYES VALLEY neighborhood was quiet; it was too early on a Saturday morning for most people to be up and about. But he’d woken at six, too restless to stay in bed. After trying to lie still for an hour, he’d gotten up, dressed, and left the house in search of coffee.
He went into the small café on the corner, ordered his usual latte, carried the paper cup back up Gough Street, passing the restaurants, shops, and galleries, all closed now. Later the street would be bustling with activity, which he usually preferred; it was why he lived in the heart of the city.
Today he didn’t mind the stillness; he had too many thoughts running through his head. He’d approached Marina Marchant as a means of dealing with the constant buzz in his brain, but it had only gotten worse since he’d met her.
She was too damn beautiful; he couldn’t forget her face. Fucking perfect, really. He’d never seen anything like it.
And he was going to let her tie him up.
He was getting hard just thinking about it, about her hands running the rope over his skin. His pulse flared with nerves.
Impossible that he was afraid of her. He wasn’t afraid of anything. Except the nightmares that were his memories.
And maybe this woman.
He shook the thought off as he pulled out his keys, let himself into his building. It was a three-story stucco, too old for an elevator, but he never minded the stairs, and now they served to burn off a little excess energy. He crossed the small landing and opened the door to his apartment, which took up the entire top floor. He loved the open feel, with the old, wide-plank wood floors and vaulted ceilings. He’d furnished it sparsely, needing the space around him. And he loved feeling the movement of the city downstairs, even the sound of traffic. It kept him from thinking.
He was thinking now. Too damn much, too damn fast, too damn … Marina.
Kicking the door shut behind him, he crossed the open floor and went to his desk, turned on his computer, waited while it booted up, staring at the blue screen.
He had too much time on his hands this morning. He should work on his next book; he’d been promising himself he’d do it for more than a month but hadn’t done much more than make some notes. He’d spent his time just wandering the city, being in his own head, trying to figure out how to deal with the ugliness in there.
That was the only way he could think of it: “the ugliness,” as though it needed some official title. Flashes of all his travels, the suffering he’d seen. He’d tried a number of techniques to make it stop, but he’d never been entirely free of it.
The one thing he never played in his head was that last trip to Burundi.
God help him, he never wanted to see Africa again. And he never would.
Don’t think of it.
Ever.
No, think of Marina, whether he wanted to or not. That fucking gorgeous skin. Flawless. The mouth like some sort of invitation. Her delicate hands. Even better that he had some idea of what those hands could do. She was nawashi, after all. A rope master. He knew enough about Shibari to understand what that meant. And to truly be nawashi, she had to be more than an expert with the ropes. She had to get it.
Had to, damn it. Because she was his last hope.
Sipping his coffee, he opened the file he kept his notes in for his current project, a book about the homeless in America, the first piece about the U.S. he’d worked on in years. But he couldn’t bear to think about the starker, more tragic issues in the third-world countries in which he’d spent much of his adult life. It was too much; he could admit that to himself. That admission was what had enabled him to quit. Or maybe forced him to.
Stop thinking!
Yeah, turn his mind back to Marina. Why was he getting it all mixed up, anyway? Marina, his job, all the horrible shit he’d seen. Better to focus on her.
Marina.
He had a feeling about her, that she could be some sort of key. Stupid, probably. Maybe wishful thinking. Maybe that lust had kicked him like a punch in the gut the moment he’d set eyes on her.
But the lust wasn’t the important thing. Or it wasn’t supposed to be. The thing was the ropes, the ritual, the headspace.
Closing his eyes, he imagined once more the ropes sliding over his skin, binding him, holding him still. He knew he couldn’t be still any other way. He had to hand over his power, and to really get where he needed to go, he’d have to hand it over completely. Something he had never been able to do before. But with Marina …
Oh, yeah, a lot was going to be different with her.
His computer dinged, and he clicked into his e-mail.
Marina.
He leaned in, scanning her message. A long note asking about his desires, telling him how she operated in a bondage scene. Insisting again that there would be no sex.
The woman was pure sex to him.
But alright, whatever he had to do. He could control his lust, couldn’t he?
But it wouldn’t matter, would it? Because she would be in control. And he would be rendered helpless in the ropes.
If he could only give himself over. If he could only allow himself that much release. Inconceivable. But with Marina, he had a feeling anything was possible.
He started typing his answers to her right away. Yes, he’d had experience in the ropes. Yes, bondage was sexual for him, and yes, it was also spiritual. No, he wasn’t looking for pain play or humiliation; he wanted only to be bound, to have that relief from responsibility forced on him.
His pulse thrummed in his veins as he thought about his answers, typed the words. It was all becoming more real suddenly, that this woman was going to put her hands on him. That he was going to let her.
Too good. Like some sort of gift.
He couldn’t wait.
Chapter Three
SHE HAD MANAGED to wait an entire week somehow. And tonight, finally, she would see him.
James.
Her whole body was vibrating with need.
Control!
Oh, yes, tonight would be all about control. And she would handle it. She always had.
She’d never felt this sort of overpowering lust before. Not for anyone else, ever. Not even for Nathan. That had been a slow, sweet simmer of desire; with James, it was more like an electric shock.
She’d showered, rubbed scented lotion into her skin, brushed her hair until it shone, all the time thinking about how the rituals of preparation were the same, whether as a Domme or as a submissive. Making herself perfect. As a gift for those in the submissive role. As a means to getting in touch with her personal power as a top.
There was power in being a woman, in the sexuality of it. And it was sexual when she was playing a man, even if she’d made a rule about no sex. But sex was power. Power she would use to take this strong man down.
She shivered, a delicate thread of desire spiraling through her system, making her breasts ache, her nipples come up hard.
Oh, yes, this was definitely about sex. But she would use it, channel it.
She would not sleep with him. Not let him touch her.
Oh, how she wanted him to touch her …
Groaning, she shook her head, yanked open her dresser drawer to choose her lingerie. Even though she ha
dn’t been with a man since she’d lost Nathan, her drawer was full of red lace, black silk. She’d never been able to deny that part of her: herself as a sexual being. No, she’d simply chosen to acknowledge it by wearing sexy lingerie, using her collection of vibrators. Everything secreted away where she didn’t really have to deal with it.
One meeting with James Cortez and the issue was brought to the surface with jarring clarity.
Maybe she just needed to get laid, for once?
She almost laughed as she slipped into a black satin bra and matching thong, the fabric cool against her skin.
She was not going to sleep with him!
Going to her tall antique armoire, she chose a body-hugging black knee-length skirt, slid it over her thighs, zipped it up, found a black knit top with a low, lacy neckline, pulled it over her head. When she went back to her dresser to find a pair of black seamed silk stockings, she caught her reflection in the ornate oval gilt mirror. She could see the arousal in her glossy eyes, her dilated pupils enormous, dark. Her cheeks were flushed. And she couldn’t resist smoothing her palms beneath her shirt, over her stomach, her satin-covered breasts.
How long had it been since anyone had touched her?
Too long. Maybe Desmond was right. But there was more at stake for her than simply meeting her sexual needs. Too much. She couldn’t risk allowing anyone to get that close. She’d lost too much to let that ever happen again.
It could just be sex.
Hot, animal sex and sweating bodies crushed skin to skin … She really had to pull herself together. James would be there at any moment.
She dropped her hands, leaving her breasts aching. Needy. Going to her closet, she pulled out a pair of red patent-leather stiletto heels, slipped her feet into them, feeling more like herself. She loved shoes, had an enormous collection of them. Stilettos made her feel powerful. And that’s what the evening ahead was all about. Power. Her personal power. Which she was not going to give up for any man, no matter how tempting he was. No matter how he made her feel, even this raging, heart-thumping lust.
Her hands went back to her breasts, and she closed her eyes, let herself feel that pleasure, let herself imagine it was James’s hands on her …
