Boston

by Alexis Alvarez

  When I stay silent, he squeezes my ass harder. “Answer.”

  “I—I don’t know.” My voice quivers, with desire and uncertainty and nerves.

  “What do you want me to do, then?” This time his voice is a sexy drawl. “Don’t forget to say Sir while you reply.” While he speaks, he rolls my skirt up to reveal my tights.

  I’m so wet now that I’m sure he can see it, smell it, through my clothes.

  “I want—I want…” I trail off, terrified to say what I really want.

  He slaps my ass once, hard. “You forgot something.”

  I jump. “Sir,” I breathe out. My eyes are probably glazed and I think I’m hyperventilating.

  “Abby.” His whisper back is rough, excited, harsh. “You really want this?”

  I nod.

  “Say it, then.”

  “I want it.”

  Then he slaps me again, a firm spank right in the middle of both cheeks, and I squeak and twitch. He does it again, experimentally, as if testing his strength, my tolerance for it. Then he rubs where he hit. “Abby? Good?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay.” He rubs me for a few more seconds, then slaps again, a little harder, in the middle of my right ass cheek. I moan and push my hips toward his hand, and he slaps again, on the other side.

  “Aw, fuck, Abby, your ass is magnificent,” he murmurs, then strokes his fingers up and down the crotch of my tights, teasing, rubbing. I try to shift and start to close my legs, because I want to rub on his fingers, but he makes a tsk-ing noise. “No, Abby. Stay open.” He kicks at my foot again with his and I hiss my breath out, taken aback at his easy dominance. He may say he doesn’t play at D/s, and maybe he doesn’t, per se, but this is a man who likes to be in charge in the bedroom, no matter what words he uses to describe it.

  “Baby, I like this,” he whispers, bending down to my ear, his rough stubble tickling my neck. “I like having you bent over for me, doing what I say. And you like this, too.”

  I nod. “Yes.”

  “You don’t just like to write about it, you want to do it, too.”

  “Yes.”

  He spanks me again, nice and hard. “Tell me you’re a dirty girl, Abby.”

  His hand comes down, and his fingers splay out on my ass, touching, teasing. “Tell me you like it rough.” He lets his hand rest on my body, rubbing. “Now, Abby.” It feels so good that I can’t speak; I just moan and push into his touch, telling him without words that I want more. And he obliges.

  “Abby? I’m waiting. I’m not going to stop until you say it.” To illustrate his point, he slaps my ass one more time. I cry out in a mixture of delicious pleasure and pain, a howl of complete enjoyment that feels ripped from my throat. This. This is what I crave with him. Then I force out the words. “Boston, yes, I’m a—dirty girl. I like it rough.”

  “Jesus Christ. That’s the fucking hottest thing I’ve ever heard.” His voice is full of wonder and arousal. He pulls me up to face him, and I know my eyes are wild, my hair a mess, my skirt around my waist. I’m breathing hard, my ass tingles deliciously, and I’m dying for him.

  He’s panting, too, even though it wasn’t that much hard work, spanking me a few times—he must be into this. We stand there staring at each other, then he pulls me to his chest and speaks into my mouth. “Abby, if we keep going, I’m going to strip you naked and give you the fuck of your life right the hell now, right here on this couch. You either call stop now or we’re going to finish this. My way, my terms. Understand?”

  I’m about to say yes or murmur an incoherent reply into his lips, but for some reason my eye catches on the pictures on the wall behind his head. There’s Annalise, more naked than I am right now, and next to her, another gorgeous woman, sinuous and lithe.

  I hesitate. “And then what?”

  “Then?” he murmurs, biting my neck. “Whatever you want.”

  “I mean… after. What will we do… after?” I lift my eyes to his, and find them glazed with passion, glittering.

  “You mean after we…?” He raises one eyebrow.

  “Yeah. After. Are we going to, I mean, will we be… dating? Or something? Or… not?”

  He lifts his head up and his hands soften on my body, releasing me. He flushes and doesn’t meet my eyes. “I don’t know. Abby. I didn’t think that far ahead. If we both want this right now, who’s to say we can’t have it? Aren’t we both grownups, we’ll figure it out?” He bites his lip. What is he thinking?

  I’m the stupidest girl in the world, because all I’ve wanted for months now is Boston in my bed, or me in his, and here’s the chance, and I’m ruining it. It’s just that I’m terrified. Being with him is going to blow my mind, and if it’s just another lay to him, I don’t think I can handle it.

  He’s on the edge, and I can tip him either way. If I pull him back in for a kiss and stop talking, we’ll be back on that couch in a second and he’ll be taking me to the bliss I’ve dreamed of in his arms.

  But I hesitate, and that fatal second is all it take to set a chill between us. The passion congeals quickly into something thick and sour, and he blows out his breath, hard, and steps back. He runs his hands through his hair and his voice is tight. “Abby? So, no?”

  Tears squeeze out of my eyes, and I shake my head. “No. I—I can’t. I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be sorry.” His voice is hard, and I can hear him trying to mask his frustration, irritation. “If you want to stop, we stop. Just… Fuck.” He turns his back to me and blows out his breath again. “Are you okay?”

  I nod, but he can’t see it, so I say, “Everything you did was good. I just can’t do anything—else, right now. I’m sorry.”

  “Stop saying that.” He turns to look at me. “I’m the one who should be sorry. I’m sorry it’s not enough for you, Abby. That I can’t give you enough.”

  I can’t read his tone, don’t know what this means, and I’m too confused to try to figure it out. And then I’m sobbing. I can’t believe my emotions! I’m insane. No wonder he can’t promise me anything beyond one night. Who’d want to, really? I cry like a faucet, I snap, I tease, I taunt, then I pull back. I’m a wreck.

  I clear my throat. “I’m going to just go and work from home, you know? I’m sorry, Boston. I’m just sorry.”

  “No, Abby, please—wait. Let’s talk this out.” His voice is firm with a hint of a plea. “You can’t just walk away from me after this. That’s not right.”

  But I shake my head. “There’s nothing to talk about. I just, I don’t think we should do this again. It’s better if we just keep it professional, you know? Better, easier, for both of us, because then we won’t need to worry about what happens when it ends and stuff. Better for working together.” I’m babbling as I grab my bag and open the door. “Bye.”

  “Abby!” He sounds almost desperate, but I don’t turn. It’s better to just walk away, I think, because if I even entertain a maybe, it’s going to break my heart.

  ***

  Boston asked me to talk again and I shook my head, so he gave up, apparently. And now I’m in hell. I don’t really know what I’m doing with him, I don’t know how it’s going to end up, but I wish I’d let him make love to me. I teased him, he teased me, then we had a real chance to explore our passion, and I turned it down. What was I thinking? If there was ever a chance to convince him that I’m the right girl for him, that might have been it—and I passed.

  I regret it every night I spend alone in my bed, and pretty soon he’s all I can think about. And I know that if the chance comes again, I’m going for it, and to hell with the next day. I want him so much that I don’t even care what happens the morning after.

  The book releases, our big project, and it’s amazing and overwhelming. Boston and I have started shooting some sample pictures for the next book, even though I’m still working on it. Each night after the shoot, we pore over the numbers on Amazon, reading reviews, watching the spike in sales. We scream and cheer when we hit ten thousand
sales the first three days alone. It brings tears to my eyes, tears of gratitude and joy and relief. It worked! This idea, crazy as it was, paid off. We’re the number one book in erotica, in romance, in women’s fiction. We’re on the front page of Amazon. We have the bestseller tag and everything! I’m getting invited to tons of blogs and web interviews; so is Boston. It’s like heaven opened up and rained down treasures on us, so many we can’t even collect them all.

  One night we’re alone again after a shoot with Annalise, and I volunteer to help him put away equipment. I’m giddy with joy about the book, and I can see in his body that he’s feeling the same energy. Still, the equipment needs to be stowed safely away.

  I’ve actually become somewhat of an expert at helping tear down the lights. I know how to unplug the cables and take apart the light boxes, which might not sound like such a big deal, but for someone like me who’s afraid of electrical outlets because she thinks electricity might randomly jump out and zap her, and who doesn’t really know what “Phillips” means when it comes to screwdrivers (I mean, why not “Larry’s” or “Michael’s”?), it’s kind of huge.

  I glance up from a light stand, and he’s at my computer—reading! I remember how I scolded him last time, and I feel a momentary rush of irritation that he’s spying… again. Then I sigh. Does it really matter? He shows me his pictures before they’re polished. I guess it’s okay if he really wants to read my stuff ahead of time. Partners, right? He moves away from the computer as I enter the room and starts sorting through a pile of equipment.

  I feel his eyes on me as I walk over to get a cable, and I spend a few more seconds than necessary bending down, making sure my ass is nice and tight in my jeans. I hope he’s watching; I hope he’s swallowing hard, his eyes blazing. I want him to want me. Even though I said we couldn’t do “this” again, I’ve changed my mind. I can’t help it—I want him so badly, and I think I don’t even care anymore if it will be a one-night stand or not. I need to get him out of my blood, because he’s driving me crazy.

  When I get up, I glance over, and the look on his face is positively feral. He’s still, his camera in his hands, staring. When our eyes meet, he smiles, a little wicked smile, but he doesn’t move a step.

  I feel my face get hot, and I hold the plug in my fist, then wrap the cable around my elbow in neat coils, watching him watch me. When I’m done, I put the roll onto the table with a show of casual nonchalance and sigh.

  “It’s a lot of work,” I remark, “setting up and tearing down.”

  “Yeah,” he says. “A lot of work.” His eyes roam over my body, and I see his finger stroking the camera. I wonder if he’s thinking about touching me. Where does he want to put that finger: My lips? My breast? Between my legs?

  He puts down the camera and rolls up the canvas, and the blank wall faces me again. I figure that he’ll say something now like, “Well, see you tomorrow, Abby,” or “What time in the morning?” A pleasant dismissal.

  Instead, he walks over through the open bedroom door. “Abby, bring my camera in here, please, would you?” he asks. I frown, wondering why he needs it in there, but I do anyway, my heart starting to thump at the idea of being in his bedroom.

  He smiles when he sees me. Then he saunters to the bed and I bite my lip as he sits down and kicks off his boots, then swings his legs up slowly and crosses them, one jean-clad leg over the other. He rests his back against the ornate headboard, and laces his fingers behind his head.

  I suck in my breath, sneaking a glance. His bare chest ripples as he moves. God, that six-pack, those arms. He rubs one hand down his chin, stroking his stubble, then sighs and puts it back behind his head.

  Oh, my God, oh, my fucking God. He’s doing it! He’s doing the pose from the scene I wrote. THIS IS WHAT I WROTE today, what was on my computer when I saw him bending down to look at the screen. I remember the exact words. “Tyler sauntered to the bed and sat down against the headboard, kicked off his boots, and crossed one leg over the other. Lili felt her heart race as he deliberately laced his fingers behind his head, leaned back, and asked, ‘So, sugar, how was your day?’ “

  “So, sugar, how was your day?” His voice is low and husky. I’m the one swallowing hard, because I feel like I’m in an alternate reality. Is Boston seriously acting out my book? Does he know what comes next? I cross my arms over my chest, then put them back down at my sides, feeling a little awkward.

  “Good,” I say. I meet his eyes, and suddenly I feel bold and confident of something, a little something that I feel in the air between us. Maybe it’s the way he slung his legs up onto the bed, looking at me the whole time. You don’t just do that in such a lazy, sensual way if you don’t have intentions. Or maybe it’s the way he’s leaning back against the headboard in such a provocative, deceptively relaxed pose. To me, he seems coiled, tense, ready to strike.

  “Yeah? What did you write about?” His voice is low and sensual. He rubs his lip, and fuck, but I want to do it, too, when I see him touching his mouth. I want that to be my lips tracing his.

  “Oh, Boston, I don’t know if you want to hear about it,” I tell him, smiling. “It’s a pretty racy scene for a vanilla boy.” Without breaking my gaze, I reach behind me and set the camera down on a chair.

  He laughs. “Try me, Abs. You might be surprised.”

  I want to try him, God, but I want to try him. I raise my eyebrows and walk a little closer, swaying my hips. “You want me to tell you a bedtime story, Boston?” My voice comes out sultry.

  “Yeah, Abby. Tell me a dirty story.” His eyes flash at me and he grins. “Tell me what you’re thinking about when I see you tilt your head to the side and get that little smile, right before you go racing for your damn little notebook and scribble the hell out of something with that pen.”

  His voice gets rougher. “Tell me all the kinky, dirty thoughts that go on in the mind of a writer, Abby. I’m curious.”

  I pretend to deliberate. “Well, okay, Boston. In fact, since you’re sitting there,” and I point at him, “no, don’t move. Maybe you can help me out... again.”

  Chapter Eleven

  I can’t fucking believe I’m saying this! But it’s like I’m me and someone else at the same time. I’m me and also Super Abby, the Abby who’s fearless and hot and who knows it. I’m Abby who sees Boston looking at her like he wants to devour her, and she knows just what to do to keep that look coming.

  I come closer and my heart is in my throat. It’s beating so hard it’s like a hummingbird of energy and I’m dizzy with nerves and bravado. But he’s still lounging back like that, all “come hither, baby” with his eyes. If this is how he wants to play it? Game on.

  I perch on the edge of the bed, close to his jean-clad leg, so close that my hip brushes the fabric. I lean in just a bit and feel the warmth and hardness of his leg through the cloth. Just that little touch alone makes adrenaline surge through me and a tickly, prickly feeling suffuses my skin. He casually moves his leg closer, pushing more firmly against my lower back, and I gasp. I feel my eyes widen and he smiles and does a tiny head shake and a chuckle, but he’s still relaxed against the bed, arms behind his head.

  That does it. He’s so cocky—and yes, I love it—but he needs to know that I’m Abby with a capital A right now, Abby who can command him just as well as he commands her. I grab the long gauzy scarf that Annalise wore during the shoot and wind it around one hand, then I lean in and softly brush the tail end over his chest.

  “A story, Boston?” I say. A muscle twitches in his jaw and his eyes narrow slightly, and I see his chest rise a little harder. “Well, today I was writing a scene between my dom and his sub,” I murmur, trailing the scarf down over his abs, then along his side. “I think you know that, though,” I add, “because I saw you looking at my computer. You bad, bad boy.”

  He blushes and ducks his head down. “Aw, Abs, you saw that?” He grins at me and has the grace to look embarrassed. He cocks his head and blinks those crazy long lashes at me. “Fo
rgive me?”

  I raise my eyebrow. “Why don’t you tell me what you read, Boston. Maybe it should be you telling me the story. Did you read the part about how my pretty little sub finds her dom sitting on the bed just… like… this?”

  At each word, I flick the scarf at his nipples. Of course it can’t hurt; it’s silk, but the motion is not wasted. He sucks in his breath and I notice a hardening along his leg.

  “Maybe you read the part where the sub has had enough of being teased for one day, and she decides to turn the tables on her dom?” I ask innocently. Then, in a trance, I climb up onto the bed and straddle Boston’s lap. He makes a noise—surprise? Arousal? I don’t know, but before he can say another word I lean into his body, letting my breasts push against him, and grab his right hand. I use the scarf to tie that hand to one of the ornate swirls of the headboard, and then I lean back to look at his face.

  His eyes are glittering and his look is potent. “Did you read the part where she cuffs him to the bed, Boston?” I whisper into his ear, and suddenly his free arm is iron around my waist.

  “Yeah, Abs, I read that part,” he whispers back, his breath hot on my neck. “And I liked it.” He licks my neck, and it’s bold, raw, and I gasp out loud and shudder. He laughs, a confident, happy laugh, and then bites me hard, right where he licked. “Baby, I fucking loved that part,” he adds, tugging me in hard, opening his palm against my ass and squeezing, rubbing, touching.

  “So all I need from you right now is a little advice,” I say, my voice coming hoarse. “She teases him, Boston. She touches his cock and licks him and gets him so hard, and then she denies him. Over and over again, until he’s begging her, practically crying for it.”

  He tugs me forward and down somehow and I can feel him pushing up between my legs, hard, ready, and I’m aching for him, but I keep talking. “And then he does this thing where he sort of flips her down, locks her down with his leg, and spanks her with his free hand. Now I don’t know if that’s too hardcore for you, Boston, but do you think the mechanics could work?”