by Lilac James
“Excellent! How soon can you leave?”
“I have to convince Joe first.”
Some of Reece’s excitement drained away. “Oh.”
“And I need you to help me. Dinner tonight, and after I get him full of his favorite dinner and a postprandial brandy or three, we can—”
The words shot out before he knew it. “Absolutely not. Not tonight,” he interrupted her happy planning.
“But dear, the sooner the better, don’t you think? I mean, getting Joe out of town before there’s anything in the news…”
“I certainly agree, Mother. But not tonight.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow,” he agreed.
“Good.” His mother rose. “I’ll get out of your office then and let you go to work.” As she walked to the door, she gave him an impish grin. “You must have a date. Anybody I know?”
“Good-bye, Mother,” Reece said pointedly and leaned down to kiss her cheek. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
* * * *
Bessie faked a headache and went home early. No way could she stay in the office and pretend to be the prim, proper, old-maid admin they all knew and didn’t care about. She stood on the edge of her new life. It felt like a precipice, the jumping-off place that would let her soar to new heights. Or dash her against the rocks of fate thousands of feet below.
Anxiety, dread, fear, panic, terror…choose one. She needed a new word for the war going on somewhere between her history and her determination to change her life.
Her hands shook so much she couldn’t fix dinner. Her stomach wouldn’t have accepted food anyway. She headed for the shower. Maybe water therapy would bring back the adventurous woman, the one who said things like, “It’s gonna be passion all the way.” And “Fuck tomorrow.”
It didn’t help. She stood under the warm spray until it ran cold, scarcely able to believe she’d been handcuffed and naked with a strange man. She wrapped a towel around herself and headed for the bedroom to call the club and cancel.
But when she opened the closet door to get her robe, she looked at herself in the full-length mirror. The towel fell to the floor, and she remembered appraising her body the night she’d resolved to change. Lots had changed since then but not the basic, physical Bessie. Biggish boobs, little waist, the bush of red hair, so unlike the sober brown mother had insisted she dye the hair people saw at work, because “That red hair is…singular, dear. People will look at you.”
About time people looked at her. The brown made her look boring. Boring color, boring shoulder length, boring lack of style. All she ever did with it was sweep it up into an old-maid bun.
At least Mr. X had never seen it. All he’d seen was the do-me red curls that no one else had ever viewed, and he’d seemed to find them pretty attractive. She decided to wear the new, most seductive outfit in the closet, just in case Mr. X liked to unwrap his own presents.
She stepped into the midnight-blue satin thong and fastened the matching bra. The dress of dark-blue jersey clung to every curve. Go, Bessie. That’s more like it. Shoes. Thin strips of bronze-colored leather with unbelievably high spiky heels and a short jacket of sequins the color of the shoes completed the outfit. From the neck down, the perfect siren.
From the neck up—well, she’d be wearing that damn mask/hood contraption. If anyone ever identified her at the club… She shuddered. Mr. Ferguson’s attitudes were notorious. If he had his way, he would have abolished sex years ago. In fact—she tilted her head and grinned at her reflection—if Mother were still alive, the two of them would be a perfect, if chaste, couple.
She tossed her head, picked up her tiny glittery evening clutch and wobbled out the door.
* * * *
Reece had read a report once about some scientists who had done a study of a lighthouse keeper in some godforsaken place. He got to go to town every two weeks to buy groceries and see his girlfriend. The finding was that his beard growth was measurably heavier for a couple of days before each trip as a result of increased testosterone triggered by thoughts of the girlfriend.
Reece could relate. He figured his blood must be at least 50 percent testosterone based on his anticipation of what would happen in that private little room at Milady’s Pleasure. Even trying to keep his mind occupied with the Hendricks mess barely subdued a raging hard-on.
How would Ms. Mystery act? She had to be a virgin. At least she knew what he had to offer. Virgin or no, she’d handled the merchandise, and if she’d been worried about his size, she’d had plenty of opportunity to decline.
He arrived early. “Ah, Mr. X,” Lafcadio purred when he answered the door. “A bit eager tonight, are we?”
Reece resisted the urge to punch him. “It’s not polite to be late. I wouldn’t want to keep the lady waiting,” he said and followed his host to the private changing room. Every time he came here, he thanked his lucky stars for the strict secrecy that surrounded the identity of the workers. Only Diego and Lafcadio had ever seen him unmasked. And much as he wanted to see if Ms. Mystery’s face lived up to her hot bod, he wasn’t about to risk his career by letting her see him from the neck up.
He put his wallet and watch in the locker but didn’t disrobe.
Lafcadio dropped the hood over Reece’s head and fastened the neck buckles.
“Hey. I can see through this,” Reece exclaimed.
“Yes. Your hood permits you some vision, but you will not be able to see her face. A one-way blindfold, if you will. Ms. Mystery will wear one also. For tonight’s scenario you will be allowed the continuation of the—ah—visual stimulation of the previous evenings. At the lady’s suggestion.”
“Excellent.”
Lafcadio paused and looked at Reece. “You look very nice tonight, Mr. X. The tuxedo is an excellent touch. I’m sure that Ms. Mystery will be flattered.”
“Has she arrived?”
“Yes. She is readying herself.”
Much as it troubled Reece to say anything about what went on in the little room, he asked, “Does the lady intend to undress herself? I’ve always felt that undressing a lady piece by piece, slowly and seductively, is a good thing.”
Lafcadio laughed. “Indeed, Mr. X. I will recommend that she enter fully clothed. From the conversations I’ve had with her, it’s likely she is a virgin,” he continued. “You must take that into account and make the experience a good one for her. She seems to be an open-minded and eager participant but did refuse my offer to include any of a variety of toys.”
Fine with him. He’d bet he could stay happy with nothing more than the delights of that slender, creamy-skinned body with its startling bush of siren-red curls. And he was curious to see what she’d wear. He’d bet she looked like a million bucks dressed as well as spread starkers on a table—or a bed—for his delectation.
“Would you care to wait here or in the scenario room we have chosen for you tonight?”
Reece chose the scenario room. Lafcadio closed the door and left him alone with the big bed. He couldn’t drag his gaze away from the acre of pristine white playground. Just looking at it had his mouth dry and his dick twitching with eagerness.
Nothing like a fancy hotel bed, this one had a wrought-iron headboard. Someone had thoughtfully left fur-lined handcuffs dangling from one of the ornate curlicues. And he could see loops at various places on the side rails and footboard where they could be fastened. Wow. He’d thought he’d experienced many of the delights of sex. Apparently he still had a lot to learn.
Maybe he and Ms. Mystery could learn together. The idea caused another, more extreme twitch of anticipation.
The ceiling and one wall were covered with mirrors. He’d be able to watch her. Them.
He was still trying to recover from that when the door opened and Ms. Mystery came in.
Chapter Eight
This was it. Through the hood, she saw him across the room. Should she run to him and throw herself in his arms? Turning and bolting back out sounded like a better option, bu
t she knew she’d regret doing that. She wanted this. She did. She’d made the decision the night of her birthday. No cold feet allowed.
He might have read her mind about the bolting part, because he crossed the room and took her hands in his. “I was afraid you would change your mind,” he said in that rough, sexy whisper.
“I almost did. I started to call and cancel.”
“Thank you for staying. I’ve been looking forward to this since our first meeting.”
She was sure he had. Even if Mother had been only half right, men wanted sex whenever and however they could get it. She didn’t want to remind him of how that had ended. No point in asking if he always had a problem with premature ejaculation. That would be rude. And she was only minutes away from finding out. The thought made her shiver.
“Are you cold?”
She shook her head.
“Nervous?”
Might as well be truthful. “Yes.”
He led her to a table in one corner. A couple of chairs stood by it, in a casual conversational grouping. As if anything about this night would be casual. At least for her.
“It’s a nuisance having to whisper, but we could get a little bit acquainted before we…”
Bessie drew in a deep breath. “Before we fuck?” Her voice cracked on the last word.
“Yes,” he said gravely. “Before we fuck.”
His voice didn’t falter at all. “You must be very experienced,” she hazarded.
He chuckled, a deep rumble in his chest.
She liked it.
“Yes, Ms. Mystery. And believe me, this will be much more enjoyable for you since one of us will know what we are doing.”
The hood turned out to be a blessing. Heat blazed up her face, probably turning her the scarlet of deep embarrassment. “Did Maurice tell you…?”
“He did mention it, but I was pretty sure of it from the way you reacted to the seeing and touching.”
How humiliating. She’d tried to be matter-of-fact. Tried to act knowledgeable. “I may not have ever done this before,” she said, anger lending an edge to her whisper, “but I do know what to expect.”
“Then perhaps we should begin.” He took her hand and pulled her up with him as he stood.
Her heart thundered so hard she shook, and she realized what a gap there was between reading about something and actually experiencing it. She had no idea what he’d do next. Or what she should do. All the books started with the people naked and lying together on a bed. Her glance cut across the room to the bed, which seemed to have gotten bigger and bigger.
“Not yet.” He raised her hand but stopped and made a strangled noise. “You probably don’t appreciate this yet, but I had never realized how important faces and mouths are to this activity.”
She supposed he’d been intending to kiss her hand. Yes, he brought it up to his mask, and she was sure she felt his lips through the fabric.
“You’ll just have to imagine what I could be doing with my mouth.”
The memory of what he’d done with that mouth last night weakened her knees until she thought she might collapse. Whatever she might have said emerged as a strangled “Urk.”
He ignored it. “Your hands are so soft. You must imagine that I am using my mouth to pleasure every nerve even though I cannot touch you. If I could, I would kiss the inside of your wrist and feel with my lips the speeding of your heart.”
He got that right. Her heart sped like Saturday night at the race track just thinking about what he might do.
“I would taste the exquisite softness of your skin. Do you know how sensitive that spot is? Would you shiver with desire from the touch of my tongue if I drew my tongue between your fingers?”
Part of her didn’t like the dominance in his words, his certainty that he could reduce her to a lump of desire with a touch. Another part knew damn well he could do it in a heartbeat. “Yes,” she whispered.
“Since I cannot do any of those things, however, I must make do with my hands. Come,” he said and ran a finger up her arm, a featherlight lingering on the sensitive skin of the inside of her elbow. He drew her into his arms as the soft music she hadn’t been aware of before segued into a waltz. Something classical and wordless that frosted the planned encounter with a glaze of romance.
He danced beautifully. After a few bars, he pulled her closer, until her breasts brushed his chest, and closer, until she pressed against him completely.
Her breath strangled in her throat.
“I haven’t told you how beautiful you are tonight,” he said. “The color suits your red hair.”
She blushed again when she realized how he knew she had red hair. “You look magnificent,” she said. “As if you were born to wear a tuxedo.” Any other words she might have said died unborn as the hardness of his erection against her stomach distracted her.
He spun her out into a turn. When she came back to him, he caught her tightly against him.
By the time the song ended, feeling his body against hers seemed completely natural. Completely arousing, in fact. A tingle had started when her breasts brushed him the first time. Now it settled between her legs and left her wanting something more.
She heard the smile in his voice when he put his hands on her back. “Someday we will dance again. If it were not for these hoods, I would kiss you now, and I think you would kiss me back.”
“Yes, I think so too. Is it too gauche to wonder how many women you have…been with…to know so much?”
That subterranean chuckle rumbled through him again. “Yes, it certainly is. But the answer is, fewer than you are imagining right now. And only one woman interests me tonight.” He ran his hands down her back and cupped her rear.
Instead of the witty repartee she wanted, what emerged was a breathless, “Oh yes.”
He laughed, that whisper of amusement that she seemed to provoke from him.
“You have magic hands,” she said.
“I’m glad you think so,” he said. “Last night was only the beginning. I think you will be very well acquainted with them by the end of the evening.”
Everything he said provoked a spasm of lust in her. She wanted desperately to kiss him and let out a frustrated huff.
He stepped back. “Beautiful as that dress is, I think perhaps we might dispense with it at this point.”
She’d thought—feared?—hoped?—his fingers would unerringly find the zipper. That he would make her clothes disappear magically, the way they did in some of the novels she’d read. But his supersophisticated, in-control persona was beginning to annoy her. He’d morphed from the gorgeous, submissive subject of her first exploration to a…a dom, that was the term Maurice had used.
Well, he’d certainly dominated her last night. And really, tonight would be a farce if she were in control. So be it.
Mr. Sophisticated fumbled with the zipper and she realized his hands quivered.
“Your hands are shaking,” she pointed out.
“I know.”
“Why?”
“You’re supposed to pretend you didn’t notice.”
“I noticed. So, why?”
He gripped her shoulders.
Far more gently than he wanted to, she surmised, because the trembling had spread from his hands to his whole body.
“Because, damn it, I haven’t had sex in longer than I can remember, and I want to throw you on that bed and fuck you blind.”
She should probably be offended. But Mr. X had never been anything but kind and considerate, especially last night. And Maurice had assured her over and over that she would be completely safe. So oh, wow. Hooray. “Well, that’s honest, at least. What’s stopping you?”
“I want this to be good for you. I’m not a damn rapist.”
She stepped up to him and buried her face in his shoulder. “You are a nice man, that’s what you are. What can we do to make this good for you too?”
“It’ll be good for me. Trust me.”
He sounded so grim, she s
uppressed a giggle.
He lowered his head, presumably to kiss her, but only achieved a meeting of the masks. “Damn it, I can’t do this,” he muttered.
She couldn’t suppress her first reaction—going stiff as a board—but she did manage to clamp her lips closed and keep the “No-o-o-o” from emerging. “I’m sorry,” she said. Her voice came out high and uncertain, but she ignored it and hoped he would do the same. “Is it that I’m so unattractive? I’d really like to know, so—”
He paid no attention to her as he walked to the door, and opened it a crack. “Lafcadio,” he bellowed.
What in the world?
She heard footsteps hurry along the hall, heard Mr. X say something in a low voice. She couldn’t make out the words. He stepped through the door and closed it behind him.
This was not the way the evening was supposed to go. Her initial disbelief dissolved into the misery of rejection, and a tear trickled down her cheek. So much for all the time and effort she’d put into preparing for the scenario, as he insisted on calling it. She hadn’t planned a scenario. She’d planned the biggest, most important, most explosive night of her life. Dammit.
She crept back across the room to sit at the little table. If she didn’t have the damn hood on, she’d ask for a drink. Even some of Maurice’s tea would help ease the slap Mr. X had just administered to her ego.
Was she supposed to sit here until someone came to escort her out? Please no. She’d just leave. It felt like running away, retreating from the field of a lost battle, but at least no one would see her and know her failure. Walking down the hall wouldn’t be a risk since she still wore the concealing hood.
Before she reached the door, it opened, and one of her guides entered. “I brought you a different mask,” she said. “Sorry for the delay, but it took a few minutes to find one that would go with your lovely dress.”
What? Why would Mr. X stop what had seemed to her to be a very promising beginning to change masks? “I thought we couldn’t change the rules in the middle.”
“Absolutely correct. But the type of mask was not specified, and your companion thought he could bring you greater pleasure with this one. It leaves your mouths free. You can refuse, of course.”
