I'll Show You Mine

by Lauren Gallagher

  “So, um…” I cleared my throat and glanced at the half-constructed stage. How the hell was I supposed to make conversation with this woman? Without saying something like, You’re even hotter in person or, Holy shit, you look goood in leather?

  Just before I could open my mouth and make an ass of myself, Jim, the director, broke in. “Oh good. You two have been introduced.” He put one hand on my shoulder and the other on Olivia’s. “Pretty straightforward, what you’ll be doing up there”—with his chin, he gestured toward the stage—“but we’ll also be shooting in front of a green screen. Close-up of your faces. Not too much to rehearse there, though. Mostly just different lighting and camera angles for us.” He smiled at her, then at me. “Isn’t a whole lot for you two to do except lip-synch and dance, but do either of you have any questions?”

  Olivia and I shook our heads.

  “Good!” He clapped our shoulders, and we both winced. Oblivious, Jim said, “Let’s get this started, then. Everybody onstage.”

  As ordered, we headed up to the stage. Olivia went ahead of me and made judicious use of the handrail on her way up the six stairs. I cringed on her behalf; those shoes looked excruciating, and I imagined even the slightest stumble could result in a trip to the emergency room.

  She made it onto the stage without incident, though. Front and center, someone had made a small box out of electrical tape on the bare plywood.

  “Need both of you in that box,” Jim shouted.

  I eyed the box, then him. “You…both of us?”

  “Both of you.”

  The tape square was just big enough for one person to stand comfortably with their feet roughly shoulder width apart. But two? Not so much.

  Olivia stood as close to the front of the box as she could. I stayed as close to the back as possible, trying to give her some breathing room. Fat chance of that, though. Even with the balls of her feet on the front and my heels on the opposite side, my chest brushed her back, and her whole body tensed. She stood ramrod straight, drawing as far away from me as her center of gravity would allow.

  “They don’t give us much room to move, do they?” I muttered.

  She turned her head slightly. “Not really, no.”

  “Hands on her waist,” Jim called out from below us.

  I didn’t think Olivia could get any tenser. I was wrong.

  As I rested my hands on her waist, she sucked in a breath, and every muscle in her body stiffened. I gritted my teeth. It was hard to tell if she was repulsed by me, or if she was just uncomfortable with the entire setup, but either way, it didn’t bode well for much onstage chemistry.

  And Jim didn’t help. “Buck, I need you to move in a little closer.”

  Closer? Seriously?

  I cleared my throat. “Uh, how close do you want me to get? This is about as close—”

  “Lean in more,” Jim said. “So you’re almost kissing her neck but not quite.”

  Fuck, dude. Really?

  Olivia blew out a long breath. Over her shoulder, she said, “It’s okay. If he wants us closer, then…” She tilted her head slightly, offering up more of her neck.

  I did as I was told. Thanks to the high heels, I didn’t have to lean down very far to get my lips close to her neck. Well, at least that would be easier on my own neck. I’d already scheduled a massage for tomorrow after the shoot was over, but the less I aggravated that old injury, the better.

  “Music’s about to start,” Jim called up to us. “When it does, you know what to do.”

  Yeah. I do. I resisted the urge to adjust my grasp on Olivia’s waist. No point in reminding her where my hands were, even if the leather was already making my palms sweat.

  I pulled in a deep breath through my nose and caught a whiff of both leather and either a faint perfume or the remnants of a sweet-smelling shampoo, and goose bumps prickled to life beneath my clothes. Forget pretending I wanted to kiss her neck. I did want to. I wanted to breathe her in, taste her skin, kiss beneath the sharp edge of her jaw.

  Just as well she doesn’t like me, I thought, willing myself to focus on anything but lusting after her, or I might be tempted.

  The music started. In a heartbeat, the stiff, tense body in my hands was in motion. In fluid, smooth motion, like the tempo was hardwired into her muscles. Her hips swiveled. One shoulder dipped and came up. Then the other. I followed as best I could, and thank God for years of professionally following women’s leads, because my body instinctively complemented her every move. We probably would have been in perfect synch if not for the constant chorus of don’t touch her too much, don’t touch her too much, don’t touch her too much echoing in the back of my brain. Or the lingering stiffness in her, the slight hitch in her otherwise perfect motion, which was all too conspicuously an effort to keep our contact to a minimum.

  The music stopped abruptly, and our bodies did too. I kept my hands on her waist, but we separated as much as we could, jumping at the opportunity for some breathing room.

  “I need to see more motion.” Jim waved his arms in the air. “I want you two in one place, but I need to see more motion.”

  “Says the man wearing comfortable clothes,” I muttered.

  Olivia snorted. Well, that was a start. At least she had a sense of humor.

  Then Jim said to someone, “Cue up the music and let’s start again.” Instantly, whatever minute relaxation that laugh had brought out of Olivia evaporated, and her body was once again stiff and tense against mine.

  I tried not to think about the uncomfortable tension between us, and when the music started, I focused on that instead. I hadn’t heard the song before today, but I’d listened to it a few times since I’d arrived this morning. If the rest of the songs were half as good as “You Ain’t Even Kissed Me Yet”, this album was going to sell insanely well. Her sound was so much better than her old stuff. The old music was great, but this? This was unreal. Stronger, bolder; her image wasn’t the only thing that had grown up.

  The past can color the future…or wipe the canvas clean.

  French Blue

  © 2014 Natasha Bond

  Study in Seduction, Book 2

  In public, hotshot communications specialist Lisa Archer presents a perfectly polished image. Privately, she harbors a secret desire to shed her restrained exterior—and her business suit—to explore the world of discipline and domination.

  She can’t risk being seen in a BDSM club, but when she’s introduced to the most sought-after Dom in Paris, his powerful presence makes her feel like she’s treading on safe ground. Even better, he has no interest in falling in love, which fits right in with her three-month break between contracts.

  Bored with the club scene, Olivier favors private arrangements with one sub at a time. This keeps anyone from getting too close to emotional scars that run so deep he’s lost the will to paint—or to love. A temporary liaison, staying well within his boundaries while pushing hers, suits him perfectly.

  Lisa’s first visit to Olivier’s apartment is deliciously shocking. Yet as they begin to strip away the layers guarding their souls, the pain and the pleasure could be too much to keep things strictly business…

  Warning: Contains a smart, sassy heroine who thinks she’s in control—and a gorgeous French Dom who knows he is. Lots of gettin’ naked, in private and in public. A bit of voyeurism, a bit more spanking, and more hot sex than you can shake a riding crop at.

  Enjoy the following excerpt for French Blue:

  Lisa hung on the fringes of their conversation, suddenly unsure what to do with any part of her body, hands, feet or brain. She’d been thrust back to the gauche, shy girl that had emerged from her boarding school, not the woman who was almost as sought after—if Mimi was to be believed—as the man now looking at her with intense interest. The tall, lean man with jet-black hair curling onto his collarless white shirt. The man with the
black, buttoned waistcoat that emphasised his broad shoulders and slim waist. The man with the fleur-de-lis pendant hung around his tanned neck. Olivier Lemaitre, artist, renowned patron of the arts and gallery owner.

  And to the privileged few in the know, the most desired Dom in Paris.

  Mimi tucked her arm under Olivier’s. “We can do business later, but I have something even more important than parting you from fifty thousand Euros for my latest good cause. This is my friend, Lisa Archer, to whom I promised to introduce you.”

  “How did I guess? Bonsoir, Lisa.”

  Lisa expected the double kiss. She’d worked in Paris for six months now, but the brush of Olivier’s lips on each cheek, though fleeting, still made the skin tingle all over her body. His greeting was customary, expected and not in any way threatening, but it still didn’t stop her heart from thumping, now she’d finally met—and touched—the man she hoped would fulfil fantasies she’d kept hidden for so long.

  “So. You’re a fan of the French impressionists?” Olivier nodded at the painting next to them on the gallery walls.

  “Who isn’t?” said Lisa, painfully aware that every word she uttered might be a test. “I know some people think they’re unfashionable and populist, not that anyone would admit that at this launch.” She tried to keep her tone light, but the smile on her face was so forced, it almost hurt her face.

  “No one would dare upset Roman after he’s loaned his private collection to the gallery for this charity exhibition,” said Mimi, tucking her arm through a smiling Olivier’s. Mimi had said she and Olivier were just old friends, but Lisa wasn’t so sure, judging by the chemistry she detected between them. Did it bother her that Mimi and Olivier might have been lovers? It shouldn’t concern her at all, because a no-strings and, more importantly, limited-term arrangement was exactly what she was looking for with Olivier.

  “Lisa is being modest. She’s a true Monet connoisseur,” said Mimi.

  Lisa laughed. “I do like Monet and Renoir, but I wouldn’t say I’m a connoisseur. Mimi will give you the wrong impression about me.”

  Olivier’s eyes sparkled. “I hope not.”

  When he spoke, Lisa felt as if she was shimmering inside, just like the beautiful Asian girl’s dress.

  “Oh, Lisa just loves the Impressionists, and she’s very eager to learn more, aren’t you?” Mimi’s innuendo was so heavy-handed that Lisa wanted to dissolve into the marble tiles, and then Olivier smiled again.

  He was old-fashioned handsome, as her grandmother used to say, with eyes the colour of darkest caramel, backlit with a wicked charm. He reminded her of a classic French movie star, laid-back yet effortlessly sexy. As for his voice, Lisa had lived in Paris for the past six months, but she still found his blend of French and English accent mouthwatering. He was the epitome of unself-conscious male allure and, she reminded herself, a Dom.

  The moment she framed the word in her mind, her composure crumbled. If he was a Dom, that meant he enjoyed dominating and disciplining women. Mimi had said he wasn’t into the Paris fetish-club scene and preferred short-term private arrangements with a very select few women.

  Wasn’t that what she wanted too? To abandon her desires and needs to this man? To be stripped of the outward shell she had built up, and become the sensual being she really was? To experience the fantasies that both terrified her and set her on fire with need?

  As her mind struggled to work out her response to Olivier, her body answered loud and clear. Her nipples hardened, nudging the thin fabric of her dress, and the sudden urge to touch herself shocked her. A chill skittered along her spine. If he was as experienced as Mimi claimed, surely he could tell how she felt, no matter how cool she acted?

  “Shall I get you some more champagne? Your glass is almost empty,” he asked, still perfectly at ease and polite.

  “That would be good.” Damn, was that her voice? It sounded higher than usual. She’d trained herself to lower it and suggested many of her female clients do the same. It made you sound calmer, added gravitas to your words and ensured that people took you seriously, both men and women.

  “Bien. Mimi?”

  Mimi popped her hand over her glass. “No, thanks. I’ve reached my limit, and I need a clear head for the rest of the evening, unlike Lisa, who is most definitely off duty tonight. And I see a Paris banker over there who I’ve been trying to persuade to sponsor my medical foundation. Olivier, can I leave Lisa safely in your hands?”

  Olivier raised his eyebrows. “Maybe I’m the one who should ask if I’ll be safe in her hands?”

  Mimi laughed and toasted him. “I doubt it, but you can have fun finding out. A bientot.”

  All she needed now was for Mimi to give a theatrical wink, thought Lisa, but what had she expected? Mimi knew what Lisa was looking for, or thought she did, and it was too late now. Olivier was next to her and no doubt assessing whether he wanted to take her on—or not.

  Realisation slammed into her. He had to take her, no matter how badly her head warned no, she needed this. She wanted him.

  He pointed at Lisa’s almost empty glass. “So, shall I get some more champagne?”

  “Thanks.” She let him take her glass, feeling as if she’d just handed over more than a glass to him.

  He swapped the glass for a full one from a passing waiter and gave it to her. “Then I think it’s best if I put you out of your misery, don’t you agree?”

  Wow. Lisa ran a tongue over her dry lips and then realised he was watching her intently. If she’d thought she was a good student of body language, this man was a native speaker.

  “I don’t normally do this kind of thing, you know…” she stammered.

  “What kind of thing is that? Drink champagne? Come to a gallery opening? No one is forcing you to do anything, and if you want to back out, then say so now. I won’t take on any partner who doesn’t know fully what she’s getting into.”

  “I do know what I’m getting into,” Lisa said, stomach swirling at the idea he might walk away as much as at the sudden bluntness of his words. “I’m just…unsure.”

  His gaze seared into her. “Unsure as in unwilling, or unsure as in curious?”

  “Curious,” she shot back. Wow, that was emphatic. Maybe it was the wine making her bold, or maybe she’d finally decided she wasn’t going to lose this chance.

  “Then, let’s lay our cards on the table. I want you to know how I operate and if what I’m offering is truly what you want.”

  eBooks are not transferable.

  They cannot be sold, shared or given away as it is an infringement on the copyright of this work.

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  Samhain Publishing, Ltd.

  11821 Mason Montgomery Road Suite 4B

  Cincinnati OH 45249

  I’ll Show You Mine

  Copyright © 2014 by Lauren Gallagher

  ISBN: 978-1-61922-086-7

  Edited by Linda Ingmanson

  Cover by Angelique Anderson

  All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  First Samhain Publishing, Ltd. electronic publication: December 2014

  www.samhainpublishing.com

 

 

 
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