Managing Macy
Reese Gabriel
Book 1 in the Tall, Dark and Dominant series.
Macy wants sexy Jarit Colson in the worst way. Too bad that she has a dating code forbidding across-the-hall hook-ups. But her dating rules are shot after one look at his lean, sexy, athletic body.
Jarit is cautious for a different reason. He’s a sexual Dominant and he’s not sure the sweet, submissive vibes Macy is giving off are the real thing. Jarit decides to test the waters. Kisses quickly turn to talk of ropes and cuffs and spanking. Macy is intrigued and they try a little bondage. She is easily seduced but scared by how much she likes it. She ends up with buyer’s remorse and begs off.
Jarit isn’t satisfied with just a taste. He knows exactly what he wants and it is a whole lot more of Macy.
Ellora’s Cave Publishing
www.ellorascave.com
Managing Macy
ISBN 9781419936012
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Managing Macy Copyright © 20011 Reese Gabriel
Edited by Pamela Campbell
Cover art, photography and design by Syneca
Models: Lisa and Alex
Electronic book publication August 2011
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Managing Macy
Reese Gabriel
Author’s Note:
In the world of fantasy anything goes, but in reality, remember to always practice safe sex.
Chapter One
Macy’s Rules for Dating, number 1: Never get it on with thy next-door neighbor.
She had eighty-three more, not that she was a control freak or anything.
As far as Macy Lewis was concerned, they were tried and true, especially number 1. Hot and heavy sex led to steamy relationships and relationships invariably went sour. Which left someone having to move, usually the woman, and frankly a good apartment was way harder to find in this city than a boyfriend.
But every rule had its temptations.
Jarit Colson, resident of Apartment 304 just across the hall, was hers.
It didn’t help that he was standing in the doorway right now with a sheepish grin, soaked to the skin, having locked himself out of his humble abode.
“I left a message for the super,” he rasped in that coffee-rich, deep-as-sin voice of his. “Could be hours. You know how Old Man Reynolds is.”
Macy did know. Reynolds was a man and therefore unreliable, but a necessary evil. If women could reproduce on their own and fix pipes, who would need men?
“I could stand in the hall,” he offered, just the right dose of chivalrous gentleman mixed with boyish charm.
Macy frowned and tried to keep her eyes well above the belt line. Jarit Colson was very wet and very, very hot—from his soaked T-shirt to his soggy jeans, solid thighs, rock-hard abs and biceps to die for.
She pictured him naked in a rain forest, glistening, bronzed skin, his muscles tensed ever so subtly as he prepared to make his move on her—also naked.
It would be a very short-lived wrestling match. The sort of match any woman would give her best pair of designer shoes to lose.
And what exactly would a man like Jarit do in the wake of victory? She’d sensed something different, primal about him. He would not compromise. He’d get what he wanted from a woman, giving her pleasure on his terms.
A woman could yield in his arms.
Hell, she would have to yield.
Surrender completely to his whims, his will.
He would restrain, release and—
There were other words, other images of this surrender, but she dared not go further, not here, not now.
Those words and images had to do with leather and maybe steel.
And maybe punishment.
Damn, she had to get hold of herself. Macy stopped looking at Jarit’s chest in the nick of time. Unfortunately Jarit’s eyes were even worse, blue—somewhere between sapphire and cobalt—and bedroom-smoldering.
Talk about making his case.
Jeez, if this was what it was like to have him want to hang out in her apartment until the super came to unlock his door, what would he be like if he were asking for…
Macy dared to think the word.
Sex.
Yes, sex with him, Jarit Colson and her in a bed or on the table or even the floor if they couldn’t make it that far. Hell it wasn’t as though she hadn’t imagined it a thousand times over. Sometimes it would be slow and she would kiss every inch of his body, other times it would be breathtakingly fast as they barely took time to remove their clothes before plunging into the heat of one another’s passions.
But always, always, he would take the lead, controlling.
“Don’t be silly,” she said now, standing aside to give him as wide a berth as possible. “You’re more than welcome.”
“Thanks.” His entrance into her place was palpable, pure unabashed male confidence.
Their arms brushed briefly—his wet, bulging muscular one against her slender, bare one. Never had she felt so naked in a tank top and shorts and bare feet.
“My place is a mess,” she apologized.
Jarit laughed, low and easy, pure cocoa and honey that made her heat up and shiver all at the same time.
“What’s so funny?”
“You women always say your homes are a mess, when honestly, I can’t see a thing out of place.”
“You’re not looking very closely then.”
He shot up a brow. “Is that an invitation?”
Macy folded her arms quickly over her breasts as the nipples tightened to needy little peaks. “Excuse me?”
He laughed again, shaking his head. “Sorry, too much rain, I guess. Made me a little soggy in the brain.”
She cleared her throat. “So how exactly did you get locked out?”
Jarit winced slightly—totally fucking adorable. “Yeah, I was afraid you’d ask. I went out to wash my car. I always do it by hand. I was just getting to the wax when the heavens opened up. See?”
He held out his hands, large and capable.
No ring.
She cursed herself for looking, though it was hardly the first time. Every time she saw him in the hallway, the elevator, at the mailbox, she was looking, always looking, wondering and waiting for the day she’d see that band of gold, officially taking him off the market.
&nbs
p; Not that she cared.
“Would you like a towel?” Macy asked as she imagined wiping his hands clean for him, finger by finger, as she felt their pulsing power. And then, when she was done, he would be so grateful that those same fingers would touch her, running up and down her arms, grazing her flushed cheeks, tracing lines across her shoulders until he reached her upper arms and then across to the swell of her breasts.
And her nipples.
“Yeah, that would be great.” Jarit, totally sexy and wet, palmed his short, dark hair. This was the kind of guy who didn’t need to do a damn thing—just roll out of bed in the morning. Did he do that alone, roll out of bed that is? Macy had never seen anyone with him.
Maybe she could subtly inquire.
So, your girlfriend couldn’t let you in, huh? The one who lives with you? Monogamously?
But that would be both embarrassing and pointless because of rule 48, or 47, or whatever the hell it was—never tempt a guy into wanting you.
“You’re so wet,” she said instead. “Why don’t I dry your clothes?”
His eyes lit up, playful and maybe a little dangerous.
Did he have a rule 47 in his book?
Or didn’t he play by rules at all?
Up went the brow again, making Macy squirm.
“Are you sure? It’s not like I have any spares on me.”
Macy flushed the appropriate shade of red. “Oh yeah, what am I thinking? It’s not like I can loan you anything of mine. You could wrap yourself with a towel though.”
And I could go out of my frigging mind looking at your bare chest, your narrow waist, those thighs, knowing only a tiny knot, requiring only a tiny tug, could render you naked as the day you were born.
Was there a ten-second deal with rule 47, like if you put the guy right back where you found him fast enough it wouldn’t count against you?
What she really wanted was to feel him against her, see how their bodies fit, feel the newness of his muscles, his heartbeat, the strength of his kisses, the contours of her body freshly born and mapped by his caresses.
Oh god, how long had it been since Roger had gone out of her life? That was the one thing she so dearly missed about being in a relationship, knowing there was a man there for her, a loving set of hands, a gorgeous cock, an imagination and the will to use it.
“I could actually do with a bit of a drying out,” he admitted. “I feel like something the cat dragged in.”
Sure, if cats were somehow capable of snagging and retrieving real live Greek gods.
“How about if you go in the bathroom and undress, put on a towel, and hand me your wet stuff?”
Macy tried not to sound desperate and pornographic as she said the words “undress” and “wet”. She would not be masturbating later while thinking of this, thank you very much.
Yeah, right.
“You sure you’re okay with this?”
“It’s no biggie.”
“You’re the best.” He grinned, lighting her world like a firecracker. “It’s Macy, right? I’m sorry we’ve never really talked.”
Holding her feet solid to the ground and repressing the urge to shout He remembered my name! a million times from the rooftop, she laughed drolly. “Yeah, most people forget me. You have a good memory.”
His gaze was smoldering again, seemingly without trying, those eyes speaking volumes of seriousness and intention beneath the surface conversation. “Only if it’s something I want to remember.”
She swallowed. There were different kinds of seriousness and many sorts of intentions. Did he intend to have her hard and fast, thrust up against the nearest wall, or did he seriously want to take off her clothes slowly and sweetly, exploring every inch until they’d both drunk their fill?
Sure, girl, and why don’t you add frigging wedding bells while you’re at it?
Lord, she was losing it.
“And you’re Jared.” She pretended not to know. “No, wait, Jarit, that’s it, right?”
Jarit James Colson, to be precise, but why risk appearing too anxious or borderline creepy? Better to play it cool to the point of disinterest. For the record, she’d first seen his full name on a letter delivered mistakenly to her box. For an hour she’d pored over the decision, should she take it to him, should she make it appear as if it was all a big joke, as though she didn’t care, or maybe act concerned that there was something important inside? At the kitchen table with Simon, her gray-and-white, fluff-ball cat looking on, she’d rehearsed various speeches.
Finally Macy had chickened out and put it in the outgoing box for the post lady to sort out. She’d dreamed a couple of times afterward that she would meet him and they would strike up a discussion. She would ask about the letter, which had come, incidentally, from a mysterious post-office box in New York and whether he had received it. He would realize that she had returned it and, being eternally grateful, he would reveal his identity as a long-lost Russian or English prince in search of a wife to marry in the next sixty minutes.
But there was a catch.
Wasn’t there always?
For the marriage to stick and for him to get his throne, they would have to consummate immediately after the ceremony.
Which meant she would have to marry him in the nude, her hair done up on her head, a diamond choker around her neck. That would allow him to play with her during the ceremony, tweaking her nipples and thrusting his hands between her legs.
Finally she would kneel before him and take his cock into her mouth as a pledge of obedience and the justice of the peace—dressed all in leather, like the doorman at an outrageous BDSM club—would say, “You may use your bride.”
Grabbing her by the hair, sending surges of tight pleasure through her body, he would push her backward and down to the ground where, in the presence of all the royal witnesses, he would ravish her, thrusting his huge cock in and out until she was screaming at the top of her lungs—coming and screaming, screaming and coming.
“I’ll need to gag you next time,” he would say gently, kissing her mouth afterward.
“Yes, my husband.”
“Call me Master.”
The dream ended there with Macy sitting bolt upright in bed. She had dared not return to sleep. The next morning she had actually contemplated looking at apartments for rent, something out of this building but close enough so she could ask him to help her move.
Who was she kidding? Even without rule 47, who was to say he’d have any interest in her? A guy like him could have his pick of models, actresses. Accountants, even a department head like her, kind of paled in comparison.
“Jarit, that’s it exactly.” He seemed pleased. “Most everyone wants to make me a Jared or a Jake or something.”
“You’re a Jarit, definitely.” She flushed again. Great, now she was sounding like a gushing schoolgirl. “Would you like a glass of wine while we wait?” There, she had said it. Now let the universe do its worst.
He seemed momentarily surprised but not appalled. “Sure, that would be great.”
“Fine.” She smiled. “You can take off your clothes in the meantime.”
He smirked. “Shouldn’t you give me the wine before you try to seduce me out of my clothes?”
“Oh god.” She cringed. “That came out so wrong.”
“Don’t worry.” He winked, all dimples, making her knees go instantly weak. “What happens in Apartment 307 stays in Apartment 307.”
It had better stay here. Along with her late-night masturbating, all tangled in the sheets, working her whirring vibrator, pretending it was him doing his worst, doing his best.
“Is zinfandel ok?” she tried to change the subject.
“For seduction, you mean?”
“I have Chianti too.” Her heart thumped in her chest.
“With you, Macy, anything would be a delight.”
Was it her imagination or had his voice lowered to a rasp? Was he interested in her? He’d never made more than a few light comments. Macy had never
seen him with a woman, though they rode the elevator together at least three times a week.
But who was counting?
She was, actually. Jarit had shared that tiny, confined little space with her a total of thirty-one times, and fool that she was, she’d made herself as out of bounds as possible.
All for the sake of rule 1, and the other ones too, many of which centered on knowing a guy’s full pedigree, his relationship quotients and so on.
“You can find your way to the bathroom,” she said, a little too harshly.
“Yes ma’am.” He served up another wink.
Damn, he was flirting for sure. And she was egging him on, big time. This whole situation smacked of something to regret in the morning.
Wine didn’t have to be about sex. It could be a polite distancing thing between them and it could dull her senses so she wouldn’t want him so much—want to feel herself against his solid chest, wrapped in his powerful embrace until she was helpless and wildly crazy, ready to scream and beg, to give…and take everything.
Macy tried not to watch his ass as he moved down the hallway slowly, confidently, swaggering like a big cat.
As if this was his territory now.
And what about her rights?
He would be coming back out in a towel.
Stupid, stupid female, she chided for putting herself in this position.
Maybe she should set off the sprinkler, jump out the window.
But what did she have to fear? She knew the guy pretty well and Mr. Reynolds had vouched for him when he’d moved in, which was saying something.
It was all in her imagination.
Macy went to the kitchen and uncorked the zinfandel. She would tell him it was an already-opened bottle, nothing special. Same with the crystal glasses she’d picked up in Montreal last summer.
“Ahem.”
Macy started at the sound of a throat clearing behind her. She turned to face him, jaw dropping despite her best efforts to stay cool.
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