Feint and Misdirection

by Helena Maeve

  Partner? Engaged? Imogen felt like she’d stepped through the looking glass and nothing made sense anymore. Only Paul seemed to share her skepticism. It was a strange world when she found a kindred spirit in the guy who had revealed himself for a creep within minutes of their first meeting. He shot her a withering, contemptuous sneer when no one was glancing his way. No love lost there, Imogen thought, returning his disdain with a bright smile.

  “Oh, have you had the tour yet?” Paula gushed. “No? Well, then come with me. Maybe if I can convince you, Jaime will come around.” She looped an arm around Imogen’s, drawing her gently but firmly away. “Did you know he doesn’t care for modern art? I’ve tried telling him all art is modern art, but…”

  Imogen shot a plaintive glance over her shoulder, but Jaime smiled, as if he didn’t register the despair in her gaze. He was already being co-opted into listening to Paul’s hushed, frantic whispers. Imogen could only guess what they were discussing, but she was willing to bet money that she’d feature in the top five topics.

  “So it’s Paul and Paula, huh?” she asked, seizing a break in her companion’s chatter. Art really wasn’t her domain and she worried about saying something dumb.

  Paula tittered. “Believe me, I know how ridiculous it sounds. On the other hand, Jaime and Imogen, Imogen and Jaime…that has a much better ring to it, don’t you think?”

  Imogen bit the inside of her cheek. They think I’m a trophy. She couldn’t pretend the thought hadn’t crossed her mind before, but being here—being introduced as Jaime’s partner—put the final nail in that coffin.

  The slow-simmering pressure cooker of the day’s events ramped up a notch. Imogen found herself wondering what Russell would make of seeing her like this, rubbing shoulders with Chicago’s elite.

  The first words out of his mouth would probably have been I told you so.

  Chapter Eight

  “You’re very quiet,” Jaime said, as they pulled to a stop in the parking lot. “Did you have a good time?” It had taken him long enough to notice that Imogen wasn’t her usual talkative self. Then again, he had spent most of the evening working the crowd while Imogen had stuffed her face with canapés.

  Her diet was ruined. Her mood had been spoiled since she’d stepped through the door of the party only to be greeted like an old friend by people who wouldn’t have given her the time of day if she hadn’t been there as Jaime’s plus one.

  Jaime killed the engine. “Imogen?”

  “I’m fine,” she lied. “I think I’d just like to go to bed.” She should’ve asked Jaime to take her home, back to the apartment she shared with Desiree. Too late now.

  She expected to see him sigh, disgruntled at being refused his due, but Jaime only nodded. “Right. Okay.”

  They rode up to the penthouse in perfect silence. Imogen made no move to reach out to Jaime. Perhaps sensing her mood, he didn’t try to steal so much as a kiss. She was sure he’d get fed up sooner or later. His apartment wasn’t a hotel and he had already spent the evening providing her with entertainment—albeit of the kind that left her feeling like an imposter.

  But Jaime left off complaining as they undressed for bed. He brushed his teeth without the added bonus of pointed, exasperated sighs. Imogen found him propped up against the pillows by the time she’d finished removing her make-up. Her bruises showed once again, mottling her face and peeking under the hem of the baggy sleep shirt he’d loaned her.

  Jaime glanced up from his book, gazing at her over the rim of his reading glasses. “Do you mind the light? I can—”

  “Why did you tell those people I was your partner?” Imogen probed, her smothered indignation finally capsizing.

  “I’m sorry,” Jaime said, sidestepping the question. “I know it was premature.”

  “You think? We’ve known each other all of ten days!” And slept together for most of the nights in between, true, but that didn’t a relationship make. Imogen had said as much to Russell. She told herself she believed it.

  Jaime dog-eared the page he was reading and set the book aside. “What do you suggest I should’ve done? I didn’t want to introduce you as the woman I sometimes sleep with.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with that,” Imogen snapped.

  “Of course there’s not,” Jaime scoffed. “But I’d like to think we’re slowly moving beyond the casual.” He sat up, folding his legs in front of him. “I like you, Imogen…and I’d like to think you like me.”

  Imogen clamped her mouth shut against the eager acquiescence that wanted to slip out. She didn’t know why she always felt so compelled to give in to Jaime when he used that soft, patient tone with her. She just did—and that was enough to make her chafe against imaginary fetters. “You couldn’t say that to me first?”

  “I was planning to.”

  “When?”

  “Tonight.” Jaime smiled wearily, one corner of his lips tipping up. “You’ve noticed that I haven’t had a girlfriend in a while. Truth be told, I’ve never felt very comfortable setting parameters in a relationship.”

  “Really? You seem to do it easily enough when you’re talking about tying me up.”

  He blushed, looking away as his cheeks flushed pink in the low amber lamplight. “That’s different. I just have to pay attention to what you’re asking me, whether it’s with your body or your voice… When it comes to a relationship, there’s so much more guesswork. I get confused, I tend to misread the signs.” He shrugged, discomfort obvious in his posture.

  “Not with me.” Imogen crossed the distance from the bathroom door to the bed and climbed onto the mattress beside him. “I like sleeping with you.”

  “That’s good—”

  “I wasn’t finished.” Laying her heart on the line didn’t come half as easily as entering the ring knowing she would emerge with a few new bruises. “I like sleeping with you and I like being with you. You’re nice.”

  “I’d like to think so,” Jaime quipped, his eyes going wide. “Oh, shit, sorry. Go on.”

  Imogen did, but the speechifying portion of what she had to communicate had come to an end. She snagged a hand into his gel-stiff hair, bringing their lips together in a fairly explicit kiss. She was only in control for a heartbeat, before Jaime pulled away for breath.

  “I think I see what you mean,” he wheezed. “So…we’re dating?”

  Imogen opened her mouth to answer, but Jaime kissed her before she could get the chance. Strangely, she didn’t mind being interrupted.

  The mattress dipped beneath them, a heavy thump announcing that Jaime’s book had landed on the floor.

  “This—this doesn’t mean we stop with the kinky stuff, right?” Imogen gasped as Jaime pushed up her shirt and pressed his lips to her navel. A shiver coursed up her spine when he worried the discoloration on her belly, but it wasn’t reluctance and it wasn’t nerves that triggered the tremor.

  Jaime dipped his tongue into her belly button, tracing the pink contour of an old scar. “We’ll have to talk about it more.”

  It wasn’t the answer Imogen had been hoping to hear and she whined—partly because Jaime had seized her nipple between his teeth and partly to make him acknowledge her discontent. “W-what’s there to talk about?” I like being on my back, you like putting me there.

  “Limits,” Jaime murmured, his warm breath gusting over her flushed skin. “Safewords.”

  “Safe what?” Imogen’s experience with kink began and ended with what Desiree had seen fit to tell her. It didn’t include any practical experience outside of what she had done with Jaime, because the one boyfriend she’d had who wanted her to spank him with her hairbrush hadn’t lasted longer than a week. She carded her fingers through Jaime’s hair, pleading for an answer.

  She still made a low, protesting noise when he pulled away, propping himself up on one elbow.

  “We can’t play and talk at the same time.”

  “Then I pick play,” Imogen said quickly. “Definitely play. Go back to what you were do
ing.”

  Jaime laughed—possibly at her—and pinched her nipple between thumb and forefinger. It had the desired effect. Imogen found herself short for breath, tongues of fire licking at her veins as she squirmed over the sheets. She was naked from the waist down and the fact that Jaime could still speak at all was somewhat worrying.

  “A safeword is the thing you’d say now if you wanted me to stop.”

  Why would I want you to stop? Imogen pressed a hand over her mound to take the edge off. She was itching to touch herself, both for her pleasure and Jaime’s. If she resisted, it was only to satisfy that weird, timid voice at the back of her mind that insisted she would enjoy the tentative brush of her fingertips more when Jaime told her to do it.

  She tried to focus on the topic at hand. “Couldn’t I just ask you to stop?”

  “Sometimes you will and sometimes you’ll ask me because you want to tease, but you won’t actually be interested in calling a stop to our play.” He released her nipple and moved his hand gingerly to the other, visiting the same torture over that cluster of nerves.

  “I could make you,” Imogen ventured.

  “Not if I have you tied up…” Like he’d promised the other night, a vision of surrender and control that had cost Imogen many hours of sleep. Jaime grinned. “Even you can’t tear through rope or steel.”

  “You’d cuff me?” The thought was like the brush of an ice cube against her clit—scary, slightly painful but ultimately electrifying.

  Jaime nodded. “I’d even gag you if you let me.”

  “You’re one dirty freak, you know that?” Imogen grinned. “Tell me more.”

  She had never imagined herself taking pleasure from letting someone manhandle her in bed, but when Jaime pushed and prodded, Imogen found herself relenting. She wanted to roll over and let him fold her knees under her hips, spreading her wide.

  “I’m not hurting you, am I?” Jaime breathed against the small of her back. He raked his teeth down her spine, clearly savoring the sharp intake of breath that stole through her lungs. It was comforting to know he was enjoying himself as much as Imogen. It made it that much easier to let him take charge.

  “You’re not,” Imogen breathed, sparing him a glance over her bent shoulder. “Not yet.” She pursed her lips into a pout, the closest she could get to acting the ingénue. She didn’t have the lips for it, much less the inclination.

  Jaime rewarded her with a sharp, stinging swat of his palm against her bare behind. Pleasure and pain reached out their tangled limbs, snaring Imogen into a trap she had no desire to evade. “Oh—”

  “You like that, you little minx?”

  Imogen giggled despite herself and rolled back her hips. She was rewarded with another swat, only this time Jaime’s fingers came dangerously close to swatting her bare cunt. Imogen gasped, a tremor of fear and anticipation twisting like a live wire in her belly.

  “You really like to hurt me, huh?”

  “You really like to hurt me, Sir,” Jaime corrected.

  “What?” No sooner was the question torn from her lips than Imogen heard the sound of skin slapping skin. The burning sensation of a sharp swat left her reeling. “Fuck!” Her cunt throbbed with the blow. She could tangle her fists in the sheets all she wanted. There was no escape, no lessening of the sharp, delicious sting of the slap.

  Jaime cupped her pussy in the palm of his hand, parting her labia with his fingers. For a man who hadn’t had a girlfriend in some time, he certainly knew how to touch a woman to drive her out of her mind. Imogen writhed, gasping, and couldn’t remember if she was trying to escape his touch or prolong the sweet agony he intimated.

  “I’m not—I’m not calling you Sir,” she bit out.

  “Why not?” Jaime asked with almost detached interest. “Do you think I don’t deserve it?”

  He did, naturally, but Imogen had no desire to cave on this one. She felt her arms tremble and for a second thought they might give out. Jaime’s talented fingers weren’t helping her keep a clear head. “Stop,” Imogen choked, grimacing as she pulled away.

  She didn’t know why, but she expected Jaime to give chase, or perhaps to try and pin her down.

  That he hung back with hands raised and a look of utter confusion twisting at his features was more than unexpected. “Did I—? I’m so sorry. We don’t have to do that. I should’ve asked. It’s not your fault, Imogen.”

  “Of course it’s not,” Imogen said, scowling.

  Jaime nodded, not trying very hard to conceal his smile. “Right, so…”

  “I’m not calling you Sir.”

  “I gathered. That’s fine. Do you want to call me something else?” He groped for the words to explain what he meant. “Some of the women I’ve been with—in the past—they sort of liked to have certain honorifics reserved for the bedroom. Helped them mark the difference between what was kinky play and what was—”

  “Vanilla?” Imogen suggested helpfully. Seeing Jaime take her reluctance in stride went a long way toward lessening her misgivings.

  He tipped his head in acquiescence. “This is one of those things we should probably talk about. Fortunately,” Jaime added as he snagged a pillow and propped himself up against the headboard, “I’ve got all night.

  * * * *

  The shrill trilling of the intercom roused her. Jaime must’ve left the door open when he kicked off the bed sheets and went downstairs to work, because the din came through loud and clear, like the clanging of pots right beside her. Imogen threw an arm over her head, desperate to ignore the hubbub. She could see, peeking just under the curve of her arm, that the sky outside Jaime’s bedroom windows was still pitch black. She had at least a couple of more hours before she needed to head to the gym.

  Maybe, she thought, time enough to drag Jaime back to bed.

  As if he’d heard her, his voice echoed from below. “A bit late for house calls, don’t you think?” He sounded amused, but Imogen could read his confusion.

  “Don’t worry,” someone said, “I won’t keep you long.”

  It took Imogen a moment to put name to voice. She had spent the past six months being shouted at, being cajoled and ordered around by that voice. She would’ve known it coming out of a dead sleep.

  What was Russ doing there?

  Whatever it is, it can’t be good. Imogen sat up in bed and pushed the covers aside with a hasty shove. She found her underwear on the floor and donned Jaime’s shirt over it for the sake of propriety. The soft, ivory cotton smelled soothingly of his aftershave. It enveloped her in a cocoon of warmth and comfort as fragile as the silky weave of the fabric.

  There was no shouting filtering up from the foyer. Imogen didn’t know what to make of that as she inched, barefoot, to the bedroom door. Below, she could make out Jaime’s backlit form leaning casually in the open doorway of his study. Russell was pacing the foyer with clenched fists, a bull confined to a too-narrow pen.

  “If you’re here to see Imogen—”

  “Then I would’ve called her, wouldn’t I?” Russell snapped. He seemed to be struggling with something. Imogen watched him quit his pacing when he noticed her jacket strewn across the back of a chair in the living room. It wasn’t like he didn’t suspect she’d be with Jaime tonight. “Do you care about her?” Russell asked, his voice so soft that Imogen almost missed the question altogether.

  Jaime, too, seemed surprised. “What?”

  “Do you care about her?” Russell repeated, whirling around to face him. “Do you love her?”

  Imogen’s breath caught. She wanted to make her presence known, to interject, but her body wouldn’t obey. She was frozen still in the bedroom doorway, one hand digging into the wooden frame.

  She bristled. What gave Russell the right to force ultimatums in her love life? This was none of his business.

  “Do you?” Jaime wondered. He didn’t even flinch when Russell took a menacing step toward him, though Russell had a good eighty pounds on him and fists that could knock him out in a fla
sh. Jaime just waited him out.

  It was Russell who backed down in the end, his shoulders slumping as he retreated. “If you love her, you’ll leave her be. She needs to focus on the fight, on her form, not—”

  “On being a woman?” Jaime suggested. The curve of a smile tipped up the corners of his lips. “You don’t want her having sex, is that it? Or is it more that you don’t want her having sex with me?”

  Imogen flushed. This was becoming intolerable. Listening to her trainer and her boyfriend talk about her like she couldn’t make her own choices lit a spark of annoyance in her belly. She had every intention of marching down there and setting them straight, when she heard Jaime laugh. It was a sharp, mirthless bark of sound. It seemed to cost him.

  “Oh, so that’s what this is all about? Fuck…” He shook his head, pushing away from the wall with a restless twitch. “You’re in love with her.”

  What? Imogen felt the air evaporate from her lungs, insides jolting against her diaphragm as though with a gut punch.

  Far from denying it, Russell shook his head. “Doesn’t matter. You’re the one she wants. You’re her partner. That means you have to do what’s best for her, even if you don’t like it.” He flexed his fists, but somehow Imogen knew he wouldn’t take a swing at Jaime. The threat had passed—and Jaime appeared more dismayed than pleased with his discovery.

  “Why not tell her? Let her make her own choice?” he wondered.

  “Because she’s already picked you,” Russell snarled. His dislike for Jaime made all the more sense now. It was born of jealousy. Imogen was still struggling to comprehend that when he added, “I didn’t come here to try and drive you out of her life, but as long as I train her, she’s my responsibility. I need to know she’s safe going into the ring.”

  Jaime narrowed his slate-gray eyes. “And sleeping with me means she’s not? That’s convenient for you.”

  “She unwinds through sex. She always has. But if she’s got no drive, no aggression, she’s going to get her ass handed to her. Luz is no rookie. She’ll smell weakness the minute Genie walks into the ring and she’ll give her a thrashing. If you want to visit her in the hospital, that’s your business, but I’ve reset her bones too many times. I’m not letting her fight if she’s not ready.”