Taking on Tabytha
Reese Gabriel
Book 2 in the Tall, Dark and Dominant series.
Tabytha Quillen is used to having the last word, both in the bedroom and in her sassy column, “Tabytha Takes On”. Self-described sexual dominant and a trainer of submissive females, Harlan Blake is exactly the kind of target she lives for. A quick interview over coffee ought to be all it takes to make mincemeat of the man and his ideas, but when he turns out to be handsome as sin and as quick on his feet as she is, all bets are off.
Tabytha can hardly get a word in or a breath out. Is she a subconscious submissive? Harlan intends to find out by inviting her to his BDSM club for a little innocent entertainment. Tabytha knows she’s playing with fire but surely she can keep the upper hand with Harlan for a single night? It’s the ultimate cat-and-mouse, and fate may have a surprise for both of them in the form of a passion far deeper than mere sex.
Ellora’s Cave Publishing
www.ellorascave.com
Taking on Tabytha
ISBN 9781419936128
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Taking on Tabytha Copyright © 2011 Reese Gabriel
Edited by Shannon Combs
Cover design by Syneca
Photography: vgstudio/Shutterstock.com
Electronic book publication October 2011
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Taking on Tabytha
Reese Gabriel
Chapter One
Tabytha Quillen almost felt sorry for this Harlan Blake character, agreeing to an interview for her cheeky column, “Tabytha Takes On”. Almost. Because when it came down to it, any man who claimed to be an expert in training submissive women deserved everything he got.
Training! Seriously?
Did this Harlan Blake character not know she was an advocate for the uber-sophisticated and savvy, tongue-in-cheeking her way across the mottled landscape of modern culture—the metro area a specialty?
He was going to come across as a joke, he had to know that. Or was he that delusional? Some guys were after all—cocksure and inflated with more hot air than a Thanksgiving Day parade float.
She should know, she’d been engaged to one—and dated two or three others.
But they were ancient history. It was all about Mr. Harlan Thomas Blake, Esquire, now, the unsuspecting Goliath to her David, pen mightier than the sword, etcetera, etcetera, deadline Thursday midnight for the Sunday magazine feature.
Talk about a prime chop to sink one’s teeth into. And to think she’d found him in one of her random online sex and relationship searches. An entire site devoted to the ideas and practices of this one man, who claimed he could bring out the best in any sub, making her ready for any and all activities, including the 24/7 BDSM lifestyle.
Lions and tigers and whips and chains, oh my.
Unreal.
It was no wonder he had no photos of himself. He was probably a troll.
Blake had agreed to meet her at Nouvelle Java, one of those trendy post-internet cafés that featured pads of paper and antique typewriters for customers to write back and forth. Imagine that. You could bet that little innovation was worth a fifty-cent hike or more on a cup of coffee.
Face it, nouvelle was in. Heck, at this rate, Blake’s nouvelle slavery might make a go of it too.
One thing about Nouvelle Java, it was central, lots of witnesses, minimal chance of being hijacked to the Barbary Coast or wherever else her latest subject plied his sordid trade.
Entering the establishment precisely on time—Tabytha time that is—she scanned the arrayed Javites, a half dozen in all, two talking sports, one using a laptop and a couple engaged in an activity halfway between kissing and a YouTube flash dance.
That left the lone man sipping espresso at a table on the far wall, midway back. It was a power position, designed to give clear view of everyone and everything.
It had to be him.
Heavens to Jimmy Olson Cub Reporter, he was a looker, a million miles from the Ted Bundy, bearded Neanderthal type she’d expected. The tailored suit, impeccable haircut and beautiful baby-blue eyes didn’t hurt either.
No, scratch that, it was a deeper shade, like some unnamed gem or faraway star capable of cutting through any darkness.
The potential Harlan stood to welcome her, perfectly poised, like he’d had a lifetime to prepare for this moment. “You must be Tabytha Quillen.”
“Yes,” she replied, too stunned to prevent him taking her hand.
His grip was enveloping, not overwhelming.
It was precisely the kind of contact that put ideas in a woman’s mind, especially a woman who hadn’t been to the café in some time, so to speak.
“I see you ordered for me.”
He smiled. What a package he was, with that deep musk cologne and the way he’d said her name, rolling it off his tongue with such authority, like, if she hadn’t actually been Tabytha Quillen she would have felt obligated to run straight to the courthouse to get her name legally changed.
“I took a guess,” he said, referencing the steaming cup in front of the empty seat across from his. “Sort of a hobby of mine, coffee black, three sugars, right?”
She hid her shock. As a matter of fact that was exactly how she took it.
“Sorry, I prefer tea.”
“Allow me.” He outflanked her, pulling out the chair as she tried to make a dive for the wicker-back seat.
Showboater.
“Be right back with that tea,” he chimed, already halfway to the counter with those long, easy strides of his.
Tabytha watched his back end, firm muscles, narrow waist and broad shoulders, he was probably ripped as hell underneath. Guys like this always were.
He didn’t look like a gym rat though. His muscles looked…honest, if that made any sense.
One thing was for sure. A man like Harlan Blake was in no need of whips or chains to get women into his bed.
She tried to sneak some of the coffee before he came back. It smelled so damn good and she was jonesing for caffeine.
The contents were way hotter than she’d expected.
Crap.
She sputtered it on the table.
Great.
“I’ve got it,” said Sir Galahad, magically appearing with napkins.
Thankfully her pearl white blouse had been spar
ed.
“You burn yourself?”
“No, I’m fine.”
Other than her bruised ego, because not only did she end up revealing she really liked coffee, she’d made it clear she was trying to hide the fact just to prove him wrong.
Setting the fresh cup of tea in front of her, he went to work cleaning the puddle of coffee.
“Happens to the best of us,” he quipped, giving her an eyeful of his large, capable hand sweeping the surface—ring-less.
She kicked herself mentally for noticing that.
What is it with us females, she thought, why can’t we ogle body parts like guys, treating the opposite sex like so much scrap metal to be dissected—chassis, engine, whatever.
Relationships.
Blah.
“I’d like to get started if we could.” Tabytha pulled a micro-recorder from her purse, a clear violation of Nouvelle Java’s au naturel policy, but rather a necessity in her profession.
Later she could sort through—read pick apart—his answers.
The man wouldn’t know what hit him.
“How about we get down to brass tacks, Mr. Blake? I can see the male appeal to your line of work—helpless girls, bosoms all asway, swooning over the Great White Hunter, but what’s in it for us females? Any particular reason I should surrender all those pesky little rights of mine and hop in the Way Back Machine so we can all party down in the land of ‘Me, Caveman, You Pretty Little Chattel’?”
Harlan smiled, which really annoyed her, first because her opening salvo wasn’t meant to be cute and amusing and second because he had dimples to die for.
She thought of her best friend cum perpetual thorn in the side Martinique. Get his number, for Neptune’s sake, he’s hot so screw the BDSM, fake it, Lord knows we’ve faked enough other things for their gender over the centuries.
“I’ve never heard it put quite that way, Miss Quillen, but really the words that come to me are unbridled pleasure.”
“Yours, of course.” She tried not to gloat. This was going to be like taking the perpetual candy from a baby.
Harlan shook his head. “No, it’s not the dominant’s power. The submissive controls all things, time, mood, intensity, the lead is entirely hers, the dominant must follow. Truth be known, he is the slave, not her. Your average vanilla woman has much less power if you think about it. In the BDSM world absolutely everything is negotiated, no room whatsoever for male abuse, plus there is a safety word to stop things at any point.”
Tabytha screwed up her face. A telltale sign she was over-thinking—and therefore vulnerable. She’d make a terrible poker player. All her friends had told her that.
“Well that sounds nice,” she stalled.
Harlan’s eyes locked on hers. Did the man never blink?
“No, Miss Quillen, it is nice, spectacular as a matter of fact.”
So much for shock and awe, if anything he was picking up steam while she felt more and more off base.
Was it the gem-sharp glare, his voice, or was it the stupid way she’d rattled herself, spitting up the coffee she’d claimed not to want?
“You should try your tea,” he suggested.
“Sweetened to perfection, I’m sure.”
He laughed. “Actually I cheated on the coffee thing. You mentioned it once in your column.”
Tabytha frowned. It hadn’t occurred to her Google worked both ways.
The thought of a man like this, knowing detailed things about her.
What made her tick, what made her hum.
He wouldn’t fight fair, he’d take advantage, pressing and pressing until…
“You went to Yale,” she said, steering Harlan away from her and onto him. “Summa cum laude, followed by Harvard Law School, after which you clerked for a Supreme Court justice and went to work for a prestigious law firm in Manhattan, and then…”
She trailed off at this point, lost somewhere in his expression, trying to guess what really made him tick. Why make women kneel? Why demand they come to his bed to be bound and gagged? Why excite their flesh with the sting of pain, poignant and bittersweet? Surely he could manage to conquer with just those lips, a mere suggestion of his pleasure?
He arched a brow. “And then what?”
Tabytha shot back her reply only to find herself tongue tied midway through. “You tell me. You gave it all up, went off the grid, somewhere in Asia the rumor goes, only to resurface a couple of years ago as…”
Harlan smiled, enigmatic. “Go on, say it, Tabytha, you won’t offend me. I’ve heard it all. I’m a whip-wielding Svengali, a whacked-out playboy pervert, a giant political stain on the cultural conscience.”
Wow. He had heard it all.
“I don’t worry about politics or labels.”
He nodded. “Good girl.”
She frowned. Something about the remark, glib, patronizing but intimate at the same time, ticked her off all over again. “Do I get a cookie, Mr. Blake, or just a pat on the head?”
“So…” He leaned back. “Now we get to the heart of things. You take my work personally.”
“Personally?” She laughed icily. “I assure you, I am about as personally connected to you as I am to the average python. Feel free to verify with anyone in my life. I am anything but submissive.”
“I never said you were. But if you are truly curious, BDSM isn’t about letting people run your life, in bed or out. It’s only the strongest of women, and men, for that matter, who can open themselves to their fantasies of letting go and trust another to fulfill them. For some people it’s a lifestyle, while others simply seek a discreet refuge from the daily pressure, pretending just for a few hours. Do you ever think about a refuge, Miss Quillen?”
She rolled her eyes. “Oh I just knew it would come to this. Deep down I really want you to whip me, please, Master, don’t keep me waiting.”
Harlan’s face held no expression. It was maddening.
“Give me your hand.”
“Excuse me?” The sheer gall of the request caught her off guard, making her cheeks feel instantly hot.
“I won’t bite, Tabytha.”
He was using her first name, rolling it off his tongue like it belonged to him, like it was his to give—or take away.
She stared down at his waiting palms.
What could it hurt, just to touch him, for a minute or so?
She looked about. None of the other Javites were watching and if they were to turn this way they’d have no idea what was happening anyway.
Drawing a breath, surprisingly ragged, she extended her fingers, her hand so soft and delicate in comparison to his.
He took hold of it without reservation—like they’d done it a hundred times before.
At once she felt wanted, treasured…desired.
“Close your eyes, Tabytha. Go on, don’t be frightened.”
She was about to tell him she wasn’t the least bit frightened, just cautious, but her lids just felt so heavy, and hadn’t she been fighting for so long, so many battles against the world and all the people in it?
Yes, a little peace, a little darkness would be nice.
“Good girl.”
There he’d said it again and this time Tabytha’s toes curled. She wanted to be good for Harlan Blake, god help her, just for this little instant, for purposes of this totally meaningless game.
Would she be good for him too, kissing him, caressing his bare chest with her tongue, feeling his hand stroking her hair, relieving the tension?
“I want you to let go of everything. Just picture yourself on a beach, the sun is setting. You are barefoot, Tabytha, your beautiful golden hair is down around your shoulders. You can feel the sunshine, the breeze, the sound of the birds skimming over the water, you can smell the salt and feel the sand, you’ve never felt more alive, never had your beauty shine so much, indeed you have never felt more like a woman.”
The compliment stunned her, even as she felt the invisible sun on her cheeks and the sand between her bare toes.
“This place is not our world, Tabytha, but deep down you know it should be.”
He was murmuring the words. She could feel him move closer, his head, his face, leaning toward her, intimate, confident. “It is a place where true feminine beauty is recognized, where it needn’t hide out of political correctness. And you, Tabytha, are the truest, most beautiful creature. Your body, your smile, your mind, all of it is a million times more potent and men notice you for it, they aspire to you, they want you more than anything. And they aren’t the kind of men we have here, they aren’t tame men.”
Her heart thudded. She wanted to run, breaking this spell and the implications of his words, not to mention the destination it might take her.
It’s a trap, you fool! He’s a master manipulator.
“You are wearing a white gown. It is translucent. The silk caresses your skin, your hips and your smooth belly.”
A moan escaped her lips. The silk was making her nipples hard too, or was that happening right here in this world?
“You’re walking along the shore, Tabytha, the water licks at your heels. You are walking into the sunset. A breeze blows at your back and everything is silent, no signs of civilization, no worry. It’s paradise. You feel like the only person alive. But you aren’t alone.”
She bit her lip in anticipation.
“Yes, Tabytha, a man is coming for you, as you breathe, your pulse quickening, you hear him as he rides on his horse, so fast, faster as he approaches from behind. He has purpose. His blood beats, his heart is pure and singular and focused. He cares about no one else, Tabytha. He would overcome any obstacle. He desires you. Only you. You hear the hoof beats. You won’t outrun him. It is a matter of time. And the question is why? What does he want? And who…who is he, Tabytha?”
Tabytha’s heart slammed in her chest, her pulse marking the time of that rider’s approach, the powerful mystery man, closer, closer. She was running, feeling the water soaking her as he gained on her, just a matter of time. And then…
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