by Lilac James
Yeah, he’d better take care of the problem that arose—he snorted—before he went to Milady’s Pleasure. After all, he’d agreed to her scenario for tonight, so he was honor-bound to give the poor woman a good time. Going off like a rocket the first time she touched him wouldn’t be fair.
He wrapped his hand around his rampant erection, and his eyes half closed with relief and anticipation. He’d actually Googled “how men masturbate” in the middle of one sleepless night and found hundreds of suggestions. Not that he’d really thought he was alone in having a temporary—he hoped—dry spell.
And some of the suggestions had been interestingly innovative, although there weren’t any options that he hadn’t already explored. Well, except for the one involving sandpaper. He’d read that one with a certain amount of horror until he’d realized that the writer only meant that the hand part of the handjob was strongly callused. ‘Don’t try this with real sandpaper,’ the note had concluded.
As if.
He moved faster and tilted his hips to thrust into it, his breath speeding up. It wasn’t the mystery woman from the club he saw behind his closed eyelids. Her identity was such a shock his hand stilled and his breath faltered. What the fuck was Bessie doing in his fantasy? Good girls didn’t belong in the shower with their bosses, all water-slicked and soapy. Good girls didn’t run their hands over every inch of a man they’d only met that day, and good girls certainly didn’t do a friendly shimmy that brushed their breasts across his chest.
He didn’t care what good girls did or didn’t do. The heat in Bessie’s blue eyes poured over him like warm syrup, and he couldn’t care less about Uncle Joe’s rules against fraternization. This evening he let the memory of the sleek curves of Bessie’s legs, revealed by the way the skirt of her shapeless suit had hiked up when she took notes at the meeting, add to the tingle beginning to work through his spine. This morning he’d been alarmed by the sight, wondering if Joe would fire her on the spot. Tonight… He could be in some real trouble.
Get that boxy, unattractive gray suit off her, get her hair out of the old-lady bun… He couldn’t even remember noticing what color it was other than drab, and he couldn’t care less. If she’d let it down, if she had any kind of shape at all under the old-maid clothes, he’d be hard-pressed to keep Uncle Joe and his restrictions in mind.
He imagined Bessie with long dark hair loose down her back, just one curl lying tender across her breast. The tingle increased, everything in his body gathered like a river flooding toward his balls. He leaned against the shower wall, his mind blank, lost in the pumping ecstasy of completion.
When he could think again, he got out of the shower to dry off and dress.
And that had better be the last time he ever thought about Bessie as anything except an office machine, sexless as an old black-and-white printer.
* * * *
Bessie spent two hours trying to decide on clothes. Being too nervous to eat left lots of time to dither. Nervous or excited? Anticipating? All of the above. Finally, at last, after years of wondering and yearning, she’d find out what a man felt like. She held out her hands and looked at them. Soft, well cared for. Eager. In the last few days, she’d read everything she could find at the library and online—Mother would have had a fit—about How to Do It. She couldn’t be more ready to take this next step.
Her practical mind insisted that it didn’t matter what she wore. After all, Mr. X would be hooded and gagged again. He’d never see her. Only Maurice and his helpers would, and they had promised to protect her identity.
One of the articles she’d read stressed the importance of wearing sexy underwear. “If you know you look sexy, you’ll feel sexy.” Well, it couldn’t hurt. She unhooked the plain white cotton bra she’d donned out of habit and returned it to the drawer. Beside it lay the set she’d bought on her lunch hour. The low-cut, deep espresso-colored satin and lace bra with matching and very skimpy panties had made her feel like the siren she yearned to be. She brushed the thought of Mother aside and stepped into the panties. Hooked and adjusted the bra and then stepped to the mirror to boldly assess her appearance.
Whoever that was in the mirror, it wasn’t repressed, old-maidish Bessie Edna Baxter. The scanty garments made her skin look luminous, like rich cream by moonlight. When had she become so poetic? What had happened to goody-two-shoes Bessie? The inner siren who had been smoldering beneath that surface was about to break free.
Hooray. About time.
She turned and looked over her shoulder at her reflection. Instead of waist-high white cotton muffling her shape, dark satin barely broke the curve of her hip, barely covered the roundness of her buttocks…buttocks. Such a correct word. So dull. She’d overheard one of the girls from the HR office talking in the lunchroom. About how some new garment made her butt look awesome. These make my butt look awesome. Bessie shifted her weight to jut one hip out. She tilted her head slightly and let her eyelids drift down to a half-closed come-and-get-me bedroom gaze. Excellent. She smiled at her reflection.
Even if he couldn’t see her, this evening would be awesome.
* * * *
Reece arrived at Milady’s Pleasure ten minutes early and as nervous as he’d ever been. Not even that night Cindy Silva had let him go all the way in the backseat of his old Chevy had he had such an attack of nerves. And that, good Lord, had been almost twenty years and he couldn’t remember how many girls ago. He had nothing to be nervous about. Right. Repeat that ten times. Maybe you’ll believe it then.
When Lafcadio greeted him, he wanted to slap the smirk off the guy’s face. Of course good old Maurice knew exactly what had happened in that room a few nights ago. Give him brownie points for being polite. Reece wanted some too, for letting himself be handcuffed and humiliated, for coming back, and especially for not thinking about what Maurice could do to his career with a little blackmail.
At least he’d gotten to see the room this time, and when he asked, they told him politely it wasn’t the same one. If he weren’t terminally embarrassed and uncomfortable, it would be a nice room. Expensive. Polished floor. Rich color on the walls. Expensive lighting. After having his flat in London decorated, he knew firsthand what some of that clobber could cost. Comfortable-looking chairs flanking a small table. And this totally unnerving thing he was fastened to.
Then they’d gagged him and pulled the hood over his head. The room was warm, but one of the goons had tossed a cloud-soft blanket or something over him before they left, closing the door behind them with a soft, final snick.
He waited.
And waited. It felt like hours, but he’d bet it hadn’t been more than a few minutes before the door opened.
He tensed as her footsteps crossed the room and approached him.
As before, she didn’t say anything. After a few minutes, he felt the blanket being lifted away, and he lay exposed to her gaze. His muscles twitched, and he had to force himself to relax. Nothing touched him. This couldn’t hurt. All he had to do was lie quietly.
As before, she stepped close. He heard her soft, rapid breaths, scented her light, fruity perfume, felt her heat. As before, she didn’t hurry, moving around him, taking so much time she should have memorized his body.
And then everything changed. She returned to stand near his left shoulder. He heard her swift intake of breath, like a kid about to take his first dive off the high board, and her hand touched his shoulder.
In spite of the ignominious bindings, in spite of the complete lack of control, in spite of the hood and gag, a shudder of need swept his body. That hand, so small, so soft, withdrew, leaving him shaken and wanting. “Don’t stop,” he tried to say. The gag muffled the words, and he lay still.
She touched him again, just a gentle finger at the junction of neck and shoulder. A shiver ran across his skin, and she sighed.
He waited.
Slowly her hand pressed flat against his back, and she trailed it down his spine to his waist.
He held his breath, w
ondering what she’d do next, if she’d keep going into more personal territory.
But she only traced back up to his shoulder and down his arm. Her touch lingered over the curve of his bicep and riffled the hair on his forearm. She stopped short of touching his hand, and he wondered why. I’ll ask her someday. Strange thought. Surely he’d never see her after this night. Why would he think such a thing?
Her bravery increased, and she began kneading his shoulders with both hands. He relaxed into her touch like melted butter. The sound she made could almost have been a small laugh. The massage continued for a few minutes, working from shoulder down his back to…yes, she did it. Her surprisingly strong hands cupped his butt, tracing the round curves, lingering a few pleasurable minutes before moving on down his legs. He’d had better, more professional massages, but never one he’d enjoyed more.
She worked her way back up his legs, and her touch on the inside of his thighs was way too arousing. The goons had said they’d be back to turn him over when she asked, and this would probably not be the best time for that to happen. He could see further humiliation coming as certainly as death and taxes.
As if she’d read his mind, she moved away. He heard the door easing open, a low murmur of voices, and the goons were back. They didn’t speak, only unfastened the ties that held his arms and legs in position, flipped him over, and re-bound him.
This time when she returned to stand by the table, there was no hesitation. She put both hands on his shoulders and drew them down his chest. She riffled her fingers through the mat of hair and circled his nipples. His arousal throbbed, wanting its turn. He shifted on the table, wishing she’d get on with her exploration, but she wasn’t to be hurried.
His attention returned upward in a hurry when she bunched her fingers and drew them up along the tight bud of one nipple, then the other. He almost came off the table when she leaned over him and replaced the fingers with her tongue. She curled it around one nipple, then covered the nipple with her mouth and sucked. Then she drew away and blew on the spot she’d dampened. The contrast of her hot mouth and the cool breath of air made him squirm. The ghost of her laugh rippled over him, and she repeated the action on the other nipple.
Who was this woman? And what might she do next?
She trailed a finger down the center of his chest, following the arrow of hair running down his belly, pausing only to circle his navel before she drew away.
His dick twitched in anticipation.
She laughed. This time he heard it clearly. Just a little chuckle, but definitely a sound of amusement.
He gritted his teeth, wishing he had some control. Glad you’re finding this funny. babe. I’m about to explode, and you’re laughing.
She laid her hand over his erection. His hips bucked upward, and the whole universe contracted to the few square inches where her hand touched his dick. When it gave an impatient jerk, she jumped away as if it had startled her.
He moaned at the loss of contact. Surely after last night, that hadn’t scared her away. Surely not. But he couldn’t sense her heat, her perfume.
And then he could, as she returned to his side. Before he could frame thoughts of hope, she wrapped her fingers around him. His mind dissolved into blackness shot with fireworks. He struggled to stay still, to keep from scaring her away again, for control.
She had small hands. Soft fingers. The clasp of her hand around him dizzied him with pleasure. Warm. Firm. Soft. She slid her hand down, from tip to root. He sensed her bending over him and throbbed in anticipation of her wet mouth on him, her tongue teasing as that hand…
But she didn’t. He moaned again in disappointment when she released her grip. The moan turned to a gasp when she feathered around the head with those soft fingers and set off a new round of fireworks. She slid her other hand down, circling his sac, exploring as though she’d never touched a man before.
That brought him up short. Judging by the way her tentative touches gradually grew bolder, she almost certainly hadn’t, and he tried to think about that, but her fingers tickled and aroused and wrested control of his thoughts away until he could think of nothing but the new records for pleasure this unseen woman was setting now that she had control of his body.
God knew he didn’t have any control. The explosion bore down on him like an express train about to jump the track, much as he tried to control it, stop it, delay it.
She rubbed a finger over the head of his dick, spreading a drop of moisture, just as though she readied him for what she hadn’t promised. Completely blind with need, he pumped his hips upward, thrusting and wishing she were on top of him. He couldn’t hold off any longer. In some tiny remaining corner of his mind he knew he’d be embarrassed later. Right now, he didn’t care.
Everything in him coalesced, arrowing through him, aimed at a mighty explosion of pleasure beyond imagination. Just before he exploded, her hot, wet mouth closed over his throbbing, jerking dick, and he completely lost it.
Chapter Five
The next morning, Bessie stepped out of the shower at the usual time. Got dressed. Made breakfast. All the normal, get-ready-for-work routine. The only thing not-normal was Bessie herself. She kept sneaking peeks at herself in the mirror to see if she actually glowed. She felt luminous. Incandescent. Almost radioactive.
What an evening. She’d turned a big, beautiful man, an Adonis, into a moaning, out-of-control mass of lust. Well, to be honest, he did seem to get turned on pretty easily. But maybe all men were that way. And she had been the one to do it.
She could have spent the whole day remembering her wonderful evening, but the TV news concluded, and she’d better hurry or she’d be late to work. Thank goodness it was a beautiful day and she could walk. Her body practically demanded some action this morning, and if walking wasn’t the action it wanted, well, better than sitting on a jerky—her mind veered to Mr. X, and she forced herself to concentrate—smelly bus, smashed in with a bunch of strangers.
She wanted to skip and dance along the street when she remembered last night.
She wanted to throw up when she remembered what she’d agreed to.
Mr. X had asked to talk to her, and she’d agreed. Masked and speaking in whispers, he’d asked for one more night. “Turnabout is fair play,” he had said, and even at a whisper, his dark-chocolate voice had lured her, tempted her, and she’d known this was what she had come to the club for.
Tonight she’d be the one in the mask, the one handcuffed to the table, the one lying quiescent and silent while he touched wherever and however he wanted.
She shivered.
She thought about canceling. And knew she couldn’t pass up this chance.
She could hardly wait.
Instead of arriving at a mostly deserted office as usual, she stepped through the door into a buzzing mass of gossip. Damn. What a day to be a few minutes late instead of half an hour early. She grabbed Anne’s arm as the woman dashed past her. “What’s going on?”
“I don’t know. Something bad, though. All the muckety-mucks are in Mr. F.’s office, and your boss is yelling for the legal team.” She shook her arm free. “I’ve got to go. They sent me for coffee.”
Bessie rushed down the hall to her office. Reece’s door stood open. Nickelback played to the empty room, and a scatter of papers lay across the floor where he’d apparently dropped them. Anne must have been right…something bad had hit.
Once she’d turned off the music, picked up the papers, reordered them, and stacked them neatly on Reece’s desk, she went back to her own workstation and booted up the computer. She’d printed out a list of Reece’s appointments for the day and put it on his desk last night, so she’d just get started—
The phone rang, and the general office tension had infected her enough that she jumped and dropped the notepad she’d just picked up.
“Thank goodness you’re here,” Reece said when she answered. “Get up to Mr. Ferguson’s office right away. I need someone to take notes.”
W
ith only one day of experience with him, she shouldn’t have been surprised at his peremptory tone, but she was. “Uh—”
“Please,” he added.
“On my way, sir. I mean, Reece.” The “sir” had just popped out, and probably always would when he sounded that authoritarian. Nothing like the submissive Mr. X. She swallowed a smile, grabbed a notepad and pen, and hurried up to Mr. Ferguson’s office.
Reece paced the room, glaring at the four members of the legal team and his uncle, who sat around the small conference table at one end of the office. A lock of dark hair hung over his forehead and she wanted to brush it back. It looked soft and…and…touchable. She wondered briefly if Mr. X had dark hair like Reece’s. But of course he must have, since the hair on his body was so dark. She shivered.
“That’s not proof,” Joe Ferguson said, startling her. Pay attention, Bessie. “How could you let—”
She slipped past the table, took a seat in an out-of-the-way corner, and began taking notes. She hoped the recorder was on. With this many people, she’d never keep up, especially if they all started talking at once, which looked like a good bet at this point.
Reece wheeled and glared at his uncle, like an enraged bull. “I didn’t let anything,” he snarled. “I—”
“Please, Mr. Ferguson.” Mark Hibben, head of the legal department, spoke in a voice designed to soothe. “If you would, tell us again exactly what happened.”
Reece threw himself into his chair and closed his eyes. After a moment, he opened them, took a long drink from the glass of water in front of him, and said, “I arrived at quarter of seven, before anyone else was here. I parked in my parking spot and walked toward the front door. A car turned into the lot, but I didn’t pay much attention because I thought it was an employee. In fact,” he said, “I thought it might be Bessie and was pleased because we have a busy day today.”
