by Alison Tyler
Jack gave us time to regroup. To shower and dress. To slide back into our selves after being so cleanly flayed by his show of force. Then the three of us went walking. With no real mission that I was aware of. We walked until we felt like stopping, and then we found a café and drank.
I was between the men at every moment, protected by them on the sidewalk, sandwiched by them at the outdoor café. We sat watching people pass, not speaking much, not needing to. Alex smoked more openly in Paris, lighting his cigarettes lazily, taking obvious pleasure in the ritual.
Looking back, the images are like dreams. But I remember feeling as if I were in a dream at the time. My head swam with what had just happened in the hotel room. My heart pounded every time Jack locked eyes with me. He had plans. I could tell. But when I would raise an eyebrow at him, or even say, “What? What are you thinking about?” he’d only smile back at me or tease me with his foot under the table.
There was no banter. No: “How was your flight, dear?” No: “Aren’t you tired?”
Jack was never visibly tired. I’ve known other men like him before. The type who don’t show weakness. Brock was like that. Even in pain, you’d never have known. And why am I drawn to that?
I don’t know how, but I sensed the mood Jack was in. Sensed it the way that some people can sniff the air and tell a storm is coming. I would have thought that we’d gotten through our hellos back in the hotel. But Jack was brewing. Yet there was no way to know what his plans were, or when he might reveal them. So I sat there at the café, drinking the tiny cups of espresso, vibrating with the caffeine and the electricity in the air.
“I need to walk,” Alex said after we’d been sitting for nearly an hour. “I’m restless.”
“Walk,” Jack said, nodding, as if this was some sort of cue. “We’ll meet you back at the hotel. Have a late dinner.”
Alex did something unusual then. He shook Jack’s hand, but he gave me a kiss. I wasn’t expecting the gesture, and it tugged on me. Jack and I watched together as Alex disappeared into the throng of people, the never-ending stream of humanity passing by the café.
“He won’t go with us tonight,” Jack said, gazing at me.
“But you just said…”
“I don’t mean dinner. We’ll all eat together. But he won’t go to the club with us.”
The club.
I didn’t know how to respond to that. I knew what I wanted to ask: What club? Why? Why won’t Alex come?
I managed to sip my coffee in silence, waiting for Jack to continue.
“If you like the place, we’ll go back again,” Jack said next. “We’ll find someone for Alex to bring.”
None of this made any sort of sense to me. But I held my tongue. Jack seemed to appreciate that. “Good girl,” he grinned, trailing his fingertips along my face, the same way he’d touched Alex in the hotel. “You’re drunk with questions aren’t you?”
I nodded.
“And look at you. Sitting there. Waiting for me to explain. I’m impressed.”
A glow worked through me…
“But I’m not going to explain.”
…then instantly faded.
“You’ll see soon enough. You’ll understand right away. There’s no excitement in giving away all the surprises at once.”
He reached for me then, pulling me up and onto his lap. He kissed me, so different from Alex’s quick brush of his lips on mine. Jack kissed me fully, out there on the boulevard, with everyone watching. Where anyone could see. His tenderness was surprising, and I realized that he was still answering my question from the hotel room, with me in the starring role now: Does he touch you gentle?
Oh, yes. Sometimes, yes. Desperately gentle.
But only as an appetizer. Only as a prelude of what was to come.
Bonus excerpt from You Will Be Mine
Did I say I dressed for Paris?
What I meant was that I dressed for Jack. And while the club scene had been unreal to me, like a waking dream, what I needed from Jack was…was the way he treated me now, his grip viselike on my wrist as he led me back to the bed.
“Clever girl,” he said, noting the garters. Easier to deal with than pantyhose. Easier to ignore, anyway. He pulled me over his lap and flipped up the short pleated skirt. His hand rested naturally on the rear of those silky knickers, and I sucked in my breath. Waiting.
Oh, yes, I wanted this. Jack’s hand on my panty-clad bum. Jack spanking me with his firm palm, then sliding those panties down my thighs and letting me feel his flesh on mine. But he didn’t do what I wanted. He didn’t fulfill my need. He only sat there, with me over his lap, and his hand so heavy on my upturned ass.
He made me wait, until I felt ridiculous in that pose, felt myself dying to squirm, to arch, to beg with my body, or maybe with my voice.
But I knew better than that. I'd been well trained by now.
Jack stroked my ass with his fingers, touching me softly, driving me wild with desire. And yet, he didn’t give in. He didn’t take pity on me in the slightest.
“You’ve got a choice,” he said finally.
“Yes, Jack.” My voice hoarse.
“I can spank you now, exactly how you want. Exactly how you crave.”
Oh, those words. What they did to me. And still I managed to respond: “Yes, Jack.”
“But then I will punish you in public sometime today. I won’t tell you where or when. I won't give you any warning.”
Had I been feeling tough only moments before? Now, I held my breath, waiting. Because I could tell there was more.
“Or you can wait until tonight. And I’ll let you slide today.”
Those were my choices? I wanted him to spank me, and it seemed like a no-brainer. And yet… I didn’t know where we were going. What if he chose to punish me at the Louvre? Or in some public gardens, where everyone could watch? What if he chose to pull off his belt at the top of the Eiffel tower? What was Jack thinking?
I felt his hand on me, petting me. So soft.
I hated soft.
“What will it be, Sam?” Jack crooned. “What do you need?”
What did I need?
That was simple.
“Take them down, Jack,” I whispered. “Take them down.”
About the Author
Called a “Trollop with a Laptop” by East Bay Express, a “Literary Siren” by Good Vibrations, and “hot and honest” by Publishers Weekly, Alison Tyler has made being naughty a full-time job. Her sultry short stories have appeared in more than 100 anthologies. She is the editor of more than 75 erotic anthologies, including Kiss My Ass, Smart Ass, and Bad Ass. Her 25 novels include Tiffany Twisted, Melt With You, and Something About Workmen.
Ms. Tyler is loyal to coffee (black), lipstick (red), and tequila (straight). She has tattoos, but no piercings; a wicked tongue, but a quick smile; and bittersweet memories, but no regrets. She believes the rain won’t fall if she doesn’t bring an umbrella, prefers hot and dry to cold and wet, and loves to spout her favorite motto: “You can sleep when you’re dead.” She chooses Led Zeppelin over the Beatles, the Cure over the Smiths, and the Stones over everyone—yet although she appreciates good rock, she has a pitiful weakness for ’80s hair bands.
In all things important, she remains faithful to her husband of twenty years, but she still can’t choose just one perfume.
Find her on the web at www.alisontyler.com and on twitter: @alisontyler
