by Eden Bradley
A job you walked away from, left behind.
But that didn’t mean he was any different. Did it? Or was Marina simply a different kind of risk?
MARINA STARED at her ringing cell phone, watching the screen light up with James’s name. Her heart fluttered in her chest. Like some schoolgirl. She felt foolish. But she smiled as she picked up the phone, flipped it open, the anticipation of talking to him chasing away the doubts that had plagued her all day.
She took a long breath before answering. “Hello?”
“Marina.”
Pure pleasure, hearing him say her name.
“Hi, James.”
“You’re there.”
“Yes, I finished at six tonight.”
“How was work?”
“It was fine. Good.” She got up from the sofa and went to stand by the windows, watching the evening fog roll in like a soft, gray blanket. “I found a piece I’d been looking for for one of my clients for months. A Mexican painter, a surrealist. This client wanted a particular piece, a very large canvas. I was lucky to track it down.” She could still see the painting in her mind, the image that had been e-mailed to her from the dealer in Lisbon. The bold strokes and slashes of color, the disturbingly beautiful distorted forms. Something frankly sexual about the piece. Or maybe that was simply where her mind was, after last night. Last night … She shivered. “God, I’m sorry, James. I’m babbling. I guess I still have work on my mind.”
Or she was so spun by the sound of James’s voice in her ear, by the memory of him pushing into her body, she couldn’t think straight.
“No, it’s fine. I like hearing about your work. We haven’t really talked much about it. How long have you been an art dealer? How did you get into it?”
“My degree is in art; I think we talked about that before. I’ve been doing this for over ten years. I worked in galleries before that, since I was very young. Ever since I left home.”
“When was that?”
“The summer I turned eighteen. A week after my birthday.”
“Your parents didn’t find that disturbing?”
“They were both gone by then. It was just me and my sister, Elizabeth.”
“I’m sorry. What happened to them? If you don’t mind my asking.”
“No, it’s fine.” She reached up and traced her fingertips over the cool glass of the window, her eyes on the darkening sky. “It’s been a long time. My parents were in an accident when I was a baby. My grandmother raised us. She was good to us, saw that we had everything we needed, but I’ve never been particularly close to her. She still lives in North Carolina, where I was raised.”
“And your sister?”
“She’s in New York, an interior designer.”
“Ah, you have a lot in common, then.”
“Not really. She’s twelve years older than I am. She was always more like an aunt than a sister. We don’t talk much.”
“I’m not close to my family, either.”
“Where are they?”
“It’s just my dad. He left San Francisco a good ten years ago; he’s retired in Puerto Vallarta with wife number four. We get along well enough. Well, Dad and I do. I don’t like the wife much. But he seems happy.”
“So, you were raised here?”
“Yes. I got my journalism degree at U.C. Santa Cruz, but the city has always been my home base.”
“I love this city. I haven’t left since I arrived.”
“And when was that?”
“I must have been twenty-two, twenty-three. I studied at the Academy of Art here, right after I finished my associate’s degree.”
“So, it was always art for you.”
“I did branch off to study cultural anthropology, initially. Then a few years ago I went back to school for it, but I … I never got my degree.” She didn’t want to talk about why she’d dropped out of school. Didn’t want to tell him it was because Nathan got sick. She didn’t want to get into that with him. Not now. “But I’ve always loved art. I have no talent for it myself, and always wished I did.”
“The Shibari is art,” he said simply.
“I suppose it is, yes. There is an aesthetic to it. There’s form and balance, and even color choice, in the ropes, in the contrast of it against the skin.”
“So, you are an artist, of sorts.”
“Well, maybe. But I think that’s a stretch.”
It was nice, talking to him like this. As though they were normal people.
Weren’t they?
It had been a very long time since she’d felt normal.
She realized suddenly that her sense of being separated from the rest of the world had nothing to do with her sexual proclivities, with her interest in rope bondage. It was that she had separated herself, had made an effort to hold herself apart, ever since she’d lost Nathan.
Four years was a long time to feel like an outsider. Long enough, maybe.
“Are you still there, Marina?”
“What? Yes, I’m here. I’m sorry, what did you say?”
“I said I want to see you. I need to see you.”
Yes, she needed to see him, too. Absolutely needed to. And that felt like an enormous risk to her. Acknowledging it, even to herself, made her shaky inside, a combination of overpowering lust and undeniable fear.
“Tonight, Marina? Can you see me tonight?”
“Yes.”
Could it really be that easy?
Oh, no, can’t resist him … impossible.
Impossible that she was feeling this way about him. About anyone. Impossible that she was allowing herself to. But she was right, he was irresistible. The only question was how far she was willing to take this. How much was she willing to risk? And if her desire for him drove her to surpass that boundary, would she be able to stop it?
“Marina.” His voice was a husky murmur that sent a shudder of desire through her, heating her up inside. “I can’t wait to see you.”
God, what this man did to her! She could hardly think, her mind melting away on a sea of desire.
“Um … when?”
“As soon as you’re free. Now. You tell me.”
Yes, get some semblance of control back.
“I have a few things to do.” Liar. Again. The control thing is all crap now, isn’t it? All you want to do is see him. “How about nine? And come here, to my place.”
“As you wish,” he said.
Yes, that was better. Even if his tone was far from subservient. But she didn’t want that from him, did she? No, she wanted strength, wanted his struggle, wanted the power of his anger in her hands, wanted to be the one to shape it.
“I’ll see you in a few hours, then.”
She hung up before he could reply. Before he could stir her up any further. There would be time for that once he arrived.
She groaned. He would stir her up, stir her blood, stir her mind. And she would be helpless against it. It didn’t matter which one of them was in the ropes.
Hell.
But she wasn’t going to turn away from him. She couldn’t. Taking in a deep breath, she flattened her hand against the chilly window, trying to ground herself. Just let it happen. See where it goes.
Why did she feel that with James she was being driven toward the edge of a yawning chasm, and if she wasn’t careful, she would go toppling off, flying into … nothing? A dark place she didn’t want to know about, one she’d done a very good job of ignoring for the last four years. A place of loss, of loneliness.
But she would see him. Be with him. She had to. She would deal with the fear later. Deal with the fallout, if there was going to be any.
She slid her palm down the glass, feeling the chill of it on her skin, creeping over her wrist, up her arm. There would be fallout. Had to be, with everything James was already making her feel. How much more would she feel before it was over? She was afraid to know.
She was more afraid to stop.
EIGHT FIFTY-FIVE, and her pulse was hammering in he
r veins. She’d dressed all too carefully in a knee-length pencil skirt, her high black boots with the narrow heels, a body-hugging black top, a blood-red garnet on a long silver chain around her neck. Sexy clothes. Things she wore when she was in Domme role. They hadn’t really addressed playing tonight, only talking. But if she didn’t get her hands on him—or feel his hands on her—she really would lose her mind.
She paced the kitchen, sat down at the table, where a small potted geranium bloomed in the center in a Chinese porcelain bowl. She reached out and stroked the soft petals with her fingertips, the red blossom releasing its spicy fragrance. With the petals still between her fingers, she looked out at the dark street. There was a full moon; it hung in the sky like a luminous disk of pale gold, like some sort of guardian over the city, ever watchful.
She should watch herself tonight, with him. But she felt completely unable to do it. If she was going to allow him near her—and there was no question that she would—it meant a struggle to maintain any semblance of control. She was okay when he was in the ropes, if not quite as solid as she should be. But once she let him out …
Her sex gave a sudden, hard squeeze.
Oh, yes, once she let him out he was the one in command of the situation. Of her body.
A small shudder went through her: fear and lust again.
When the doorbell rang, she jumped, accidentally pulling two petals from the geranium plant. She swore under her breath, stood, smoothed down her skirt. With her heart an uneven patter in her chest, she went to answer the door.
He looked as great as ever. Better, maybe, now that she knew the taste of his mouth, the hard planes of his body pressed against hers. He was smiling at her, an honest expression she found irresistible.
Just like everything else about him.
She wanted to take his smiling face between her hands and kiss him. She wanted him to sweep her into his arms.
Stop it.
What was wrong with her? “James, hi. Please, come in.”
“You look beautiful, Marina.”
“You don’t have to say that just because we slept together.”
“I don’t have to say it at all. But I happen to think you’re beautiful.” He’d stopped just inside the door; he was staring down at her, his gaze dark, glittering. Intense as ever, as though there were some deeper meaning behind whatever he was saying. “Surely I’m not the first man to tell you how beautiful you are.”
“No, but …” Why was she so flustered? “I just … thank you. Come in; I’ll get you something to drink. What would you like?”
“Are we playing tonight?”
“I don’t know.”
Her pulse sped up.
Please, yes.
“Just water, then.” He smiled again, his teeth a white flash between his lush lips. She wanted to run her tongue over his teeth …
She turned and led him into the kitchen; it felt safer than the living room. All too easy to make out on the sofa.
When was the last time she’d made out with a man on the sofa?
She gestured, and he sat at the table, looking larger than ever in her apartment, sitting in the white-painted ladder-back chair. She went to the refrigerator, returned with a bottle of San Pellegrino and two glasses with ice, set them on the table.
James picked up the bottle. “Allow me.”
He poured for them both, and she sat down in the chair next to him. Too close. Not close enough.
“So,” she began, “you wanted to talk about last night.”
“Yes. Last night. About what’s happening with us in general. About what happens to me when … when you tie me up. I want to tell you. It feels … significant.”
“Tell me, then.”
He paused, watching her, and she felt as though he could see right inside her, could see how her body heated under his gaze, how damp her panties were already, with him simply sitting next to her.
But he was talking again and she had to concentrate. “When I came to you I wanted something very specific. To hit subspace, to go really deeply in, to lose myself. To find peace.” She nodded. “We discussed all of that at our first meeting.”
“Yes. But I didn’t know exactly what it was I needed until it happened.”
“Are you saying you’ve found that peace already?”
“In a way. But it didn’t happen the way I expected.”
“What do you mean?”
He ran a hand through his dark hair, leaving it a little mussed and spiky on top. “I was looking for a way to find a sort of mindless space, an escape. But what I needed, ultimately, was to face the shit going on in my head. The part I didn’t want to face. The anger.”
“I felt that in you last night.”
“I hope I didn’t frighten you.”
“No, not at all. You seemed to be able to channel it.”
He leaned in a little, and she caught the male scent of him. Something about the way this man smelled … She took in a slow, deep lungful, careful that he not see what she was doing.
Lovely.
“Marina.” His voice was low, a little rough, urgent, making the tiny hairs on the back of her neck stand up as he reached over and wrapped his hand around her wrist. “I need to go there again. With you. Tonight, if possible. I know I am not in a position to make demands.”
Oh, if he only knew.
“No, I mean … it’s fine. I’m glad I’m able to help.”
“Marina, stop it.”
“What?”
“Stop trying to remain so damn aloof. We both know you’re not so indifferent. This is not a pro job, for God’s sake. I feel something, with you. Something powerful. I don’t even know what it is. But this dynamic could not happen unless we were on the same page. And I’m pretty damn sure I’m not making it up, that this is not something my mind has invented. This is the power play, but it goes beyond that usual kind of being in sync. Tell me you don’t feel it, too,” he demanded. “Tell me.”
He was gripping her wrist hard, and she had to resist the urge to pull away. It was all too intense, suddenly. But he was right.
“Okay. Yes. There is something happening. And yes, I feel it, too. Of course I do.”
He sat and stared at her, unblinking, his eyes liquid gold and chocolate brown in the bright light of the kitchen. She couldn’t look away.
“I need to do it again.” He said it once more, quietly. She nodded her head once, stood. He came up with her, still holding on to her wrist.
“Take me there, Marina.”
Chapter Eight
JAMES WATCHED MARINA as she worked, bent over him, moving her hands as though in some sort of dance: kinky, beautiful. She’d stripped him down with her own hands, and he’d been hard before she laid the first rope on his body. Now he was bound to the long, narrow bench in her guest room. He was on his back, so much rope on him he was immobilized. He felt that sliding sensation as his mind let go, yet he was acutely aware of Marina at his side, her soft hands on him, working the ropes, the occasional stroke of her fingertips against his skin.
Fucking amazing, what this woman’s touch did to him. And even as conscious thought began to slip away, his mind to loosen, the awareness of his state of arousal anchored him in his body, holding him to the earth.
He took one last look at Marina, the fall of auburn hair around her shoulders, her cool, crystalline gray eyes, the silken curve of cheekbone. The softness and concentration of expression on her face. He felt her watching him, and watching over him. As soothing as she was stimulating.
He was going warm all over, his skin heating, as it often did when he was bound. It crept over his body and into his head, and he opened himself to it. He felt himself drifting and had a moment of panic, that fear of letting it all go, but Marina was right there.
“James, you have to let it happen if this is going to work. Do your breathing. Come on, follow my voice, my breath. You know how to do it.”
She wrapped one hand around the back of his neck; her palm wa
s warm. His cock grew harder, but it didn’t distract him from what was happening in his head. If anything, it made it easier somehow.
Her voice was soft, nearly a whisper. “Good, James. You’re going down.”
He sank into it, into subspace, letting his vision blur, fade into blackness, his mind emptying even faster than it had with her before. Her hand was still on the back of his neck, keeping him in his body, so that his mind was free to roam.
The places came first in a jumble: Baghdad, San Salvador, Angola, Timor, Bosnia, and finally the red dirt road leading out of Bujumbura.
There was a small herd of goats, a brown-and-white kid kicking up its heels as it followed its mother, the only happy creature he’d seen in Burundi—hell, anywhere he’d been in Africa—and it made him smile.
That was the last time he’d smiled for a very long time.
The Jeeps racing up the road from behind them. Three of them, driving up alongside their van, the rapid demand over and over for them to pull over. So many of them, dressed as soldiers, spilling from the Jeeps almost as though they were clown cars. Except there was nothing funny about it. It was hard to tell if they were government troops or guerillas. Didn’t matter. Things happening in a blur after that: yelling; he didn’t know what they were saying, just the certainty that this was going to be very bad.
They were pulled from their van, forced to their knees on the side of the road, lined up like paper targets in a shooting gallery. Brian Reynolds first, being pushed face-first into the red dust, a booted foot on the back of his head, then the first gunshot, God damn it, and Reynolds was dead.
His gut clenched.
God damn it!
Blood everywhere, the metallic smell of it, mixing with the dust. Fucking helpless, not a damn thing he could do, just watch out of the corner of his eye as they shot their Burundian guide in the head. Then squeezing his eyes shut while they killed Foster and Garman, waiting for his turn.
It never came.
Blood everywhere, and none of it his. Those fuckers driving off, just leaving him there with his hands clasped behind his neck.
But no, it was Marina’s hand at the back of his neck.
“James, it’s okay,” she whispered.
