by Linda Barlow
The driveway curved around and came upon the house with a suddenness that startled her. It was on a hill overlooking the sea. It was modern—built since he had begun making money on his books, she guessed. A gray clapboard saltbox, it had huge plate-glass windows and solar panels in the sharply angled roof. A low deck encircled the entire house. Beyond the building stretched sand dunes and the wide blue arc of Cape Cod Bay.
There was a smaller structure at the end of the driveway. She presumed it was a garage. She wondered if he had more than one car, since his was parked outside that building.
As she maneuvered her plebeian Honda beside his spiffy sports car, Stephen appeared on the deck. He smiled and waved. He was clad in cutoff blue jeans, a gray sweat shirt, and a pair of battered running shoes.
He vaulted over the railing of the deck and landed easily below in the sand. When she climbed out of her car he was there at her side, holding open the door. She noticed a wealth of tiny details at once: the warmth in his green eyes, the dark sprinkles of hair on his forearms where his sleeves were rolled up, the strong, sculpted muscles in his powerful legs.
"Hi," he said, grinning. "You're earlier than I expected."
"The traffic was light."
His eyes were sparkling, and a good-humored smile hovered about his sensuous, well-shaped lips. "Venturing alone into Bart’s creator’s lair with who knows what terrors awaiting you. You're a brave woman, Professor."
"I’m on a mission to redeem old Bart. I figure, if I can make him take pity on me, maybe he’ll be kinder to his prisoners and torture them less."
He laughed and pulled her to him for a long, lovely kiss. "I’m afraid you’ll fail at that. Bart is infamous for being pitiless, and he loves that rack of his."
There was a clatter behind them and then a whirl of activity around their knees as a big, grinning dog came bounding over to investigate. "Rusty, no," Stephen said, laughing as the excited dog poked his nose into her crotch. "Sorry ‘bout that."
Giggling, she squatted down to make friends and pet him. "He’s beautiful. What a lovely reddish gold coat. Hullo, Rusty, hullo, boy. Aren’t you the sweet puppy!"
"He’s no puppy; he weighs about 50 pounds. Rusty, behave yourself! He’s shedding, I’m afraid, as usual. You’re going to get dog hair all over your clothes."
"I don’t mind. How old is he?"
"Just turned three. I got him from a shelter when he was about a year old. I think he’s part setter, too, which is why his coat is darker than purebred goldens."
"He’s a beauty! D’you have a stick or something I can throw for him?"
"Sure. You know the way to a dog’s heart. But why don’t you come up and see the house first."
"Okay. Wait a little, Rusty, boy. Your master has a prior claim on me."
Stephen laughed. "I knew it—I’m going to have to fight him for you." He glanced into the rear seat of her car. "Where's your suitcase? In the trunk?"
"Yup." She straightened and tossed him the key. "It’s just a backpack, actually; I didn’t bring a lot of stuff."
"You travel light, huh?" He retrieved her backpack, slinging it over one shoulder and offering her his hand. "Or did you rightly figure you wouldn’t need a lot of clothes?"
He spoke the last phrase with an almost boyish grin. The sea breeze lifted his dark, curly hair at his brow. He was a strange combination of the youthful and the mature, she thought. He dressed like a college kid, yet there was a confidence about him that could only come with maturity.
He led her up the flagstone path to the steps to the wide-planked deck. Rusty bounded along beside them. "The view’s better on this side," he said, leading her around to the ocean side of the building.
"It's awesome," she said when she saw the smooth sands rolling down an incline to merge with the choppy sea. Green wisps of sand grass swelled back and forth on the dunes, ruffled by the stiff spring breeze. The air was clear and tangy. It was late afternoon now, and the sun was lowering in the western sky. "Is it a good place to write? I think I’d be distracted by the view and stare out the window all day instead of working."
"That happens sometimes, but generally the sound of the waves calms me and helps me concentrate."
He opened the sliding door to the living room, and they went inside. The room was a large, airy oblong, entirely walled by glass on the ocean side. It was thickly carpeted in beige, and the modern, low-slung furniture was covered in maroons, golds, and other autumn tones. A huge brick island separated the living area from a small, spotless kitchen hung with copper pots and other gourmet cooking utensils, from which a delicious aroma was emanating.
"I’m making supper," he said, in response to her questioning look. "I have one of those slow cookers that I threw a bunch of stuff into. It won’t be ready for another hour or so."
"It smells spicy. Is it some sort of Indian food?"
"Yep. Spicy Indian curry—I hope you don’t mind hot."
"I love spicy food. You like to cook?"
"I like to eat, and I live alone, so I had to learn to cook. But I'm not fanatical about it." He cocked his head to one side. "I'm just trying to impress you, that's all."
"You're succeeding. I'm a rotten cook myself." She looked again at the impeccable surroundings and added, "You're a better housekeeper than I am, too. I should have left my shoes outside. I must be tracking sand all over your spotless carpet."
He laughed. "It's a good thing you didn't arrive any earlier, or you'd have caught me furiously vacuuming in your honor. Usually the place has more of that lived-in look. And Rusty’s hair will be all over everything again soon. Come on, I'll show you the rest."
On that floor, besides the living room, dining room, and kitchen, which were demarcated by islands instead of walls, he showed her a bath and a small library with bookshelves on all four walls. Upstairs there were two bedrooms and another bath. He showed her into the front bedroom, over the living room. It had the same glass walls and magnificent view, but it was dominated by a heavy wooden bedstead that didn't fit the décor of the rest of the house. In fact, it wouldn’t have looked out of place in one of Elizabeth I’s palaces.
"This is my room," he said, his voice neutral but his eyes inviting. He tossed her backpack on a chair in the corner.
She cast a surreptitious glance at the walls and ceiling. No hooks. No oddly shaped pieces of furniture. No gigantic mirrors. No erotic art on the walls. Granted, the massive four-poster bedstead probably provided ample opportunities for restraining somebody, but it didn’t have ropes or straps hanging from it. "That’s a monster bed. Does it have a little plaque on it saying ‘Shakespeare slept here’?"
"You'll like it. Although once you’re trapped within those bedposts, don’t expect to be leaving in a hurry."
Her entire body seemed to flush. "You’ve been enjoying your fantasies," she teased.
"Guilty as charged."
She pretended to retreat. But she was acutely conscious of the looming bed, and of the way his sea-green eyes, darkened by passion, were inviting her to lie down with him there. "What was that about supper?"
"Forget supper. It won’t be ready for a while." He came up against her and possessively ran a hand over her. His other arm encircled her waist and pulled her close. "I want you. Right now. I couldn't sleep last night, imagining you here, in my house, in my bed. The things we would say, the things we would do. Kiss me."
She did, gladly. Stephen backed her to the bed and pressed her down, sitting beside her as he deepened the kiss. From the doorway, Rusty barked softly at them. "Is he going to watch?"
"Probably. He’ll soon get bored, though. Rusty. Be a good dog and go amuse yourself. Lie down. Lie down, boy."
Instead of obliging, Rusty trotted into the room, tail wagging furiously, sat down beside the bed, and offered Stephen his paw.
"He’s obedient isn’t he?" she laughed. "And here I was worrying that the big, scary BDSM master might try to dominate me. But if your dog won’t even obey you…"
Rusty must have understood the word "fetch" because he bounded away, nosed under the chair where Stephen had deposited her backpack, and retrieved a tennis ball, which he triumphantly brought to his master, tail thumping.
Stephen broke up. He took the ball, caressed the dog, rose, and threw the toy out the door into the hall. Before Rusty could get back with it, he gently closed the bedroom door. "Go to sleep, boy. We’re busy."
Despite the heavy four-poster and Stephen’s laughing threats, there was nothing unusual about their lovemaking. It happened much too fast for sophisticated role play. No sooner had they stretched out on the bed together than they began tearing at each other’s clothes in a kind of frenzied desperation. She practically crawled under his shirt, and he didn’t even bother with hers. Rough denim pants and silky underwear were tossed on the floor, but the rest of their things stayed on, forgotten. He stopped only long enough to jerk on a condom before plunging inside her.
She was so slick that he slid in smoothly and easily while her hips arched to welcome him, flesh to flesh, bone to bone. In seconds, they were both moaning, clutching one another tightly, nails biting into skin, mouths sealed in hot, frantic kisses. They writhed together fiercely as their merged bodies strove to obliterate the physical boundaries separating male from female.
It was too intense to last for more than a couple of minutes, but it was long enough. Viola seemed to be melting in pleasure as her orgasm came on; there was a moment of absolute bliss just before the delicious pulsations began. He finished just after her, his body rigid, his heartbeat slamming into her chest.
Damp with sweat, they were still joined when they both started to laugh. "Damn, we’re like horny teenagers," he said. "This would be embarrassing if it didn’t feel so amazingly good."
"It’s crazy good."
"I didn’t plan this, you know. I didn’t intend to jump your bones as soon as you set foot in my house."
"Sure you didn’t."
"Hey, I’m way more suave and sophisticated than that."
This set her off again giggling.
"I do confess that I’ve been looking forward to this all week. It’s been hard to work on my novel because I kept getting distracted by memories of last weekend and plans for everything I’d do with you this weekend."
"What sort of plans? Sailing? Windsurfing? Beach volleyball?"
"All of the above. Now that I’ve got you here, though, I think I’ll just keep you prisoner here in bed."
"Ha! So you’re addicted to sex, are you?"
"If so I’m not gonna apologize. Are you addicted to anything?"
"Books and chocolate."
"Hard to criticize those vices."
"It has to be dark chocolate. Preferably imported from Belgium or Switzerland. Not too sweet—a little bitter and velvety as it melts on the tongue."
"I’m taking notes for the Good Boyfriend app on my smartphone. Velvety dark chocolate, check. What are your favorite flowers?"
"Tulips. There’s a Good Boyfriend App?" She was laughing openly again.
"If there isn’t, there should be. An alarm goes off on birthdays and important anniversaries, and there’s a little Google map of the female anatomy so you know exactly where to flick your tongue during oral sex."
She pulled his head down to hers and kissed him. His lips were velvety, yummy as her chocolate. "Trust me, you don’t need one of those."
Chapter 15
"I thought I might try one or two of those things we talked about when I take you to bed tonight," Stephen said.
"One or two of those deviant things, you mean?"
"Yep." He treated her to a look that made her tingle all the way to her fingertips. "Is that okay with you?"
He had invited her to sit down at the table, but she hadn't settled yet, and he was attending to some final detail at the stove. He had playfully donned a chef's apron, and his glasses were getting a little steamy, so he had to keep pushing them up from his nose and into his hair, which she found absolutely adorable.
"Sure," she said, grinning at him. "I've been curious ever since you told me you were into that stuff."
"So what are you curious about?"
"I'm not sure, exactly. You were kinda vague last weekend about what you do when you’re feeling kinky."
"All the usual things," he said with a smile.
"They’re not so usual to me."
"I know. You’re blushing." He stopped stirring his pot and leaned close. With the hand that was not holding the wooden spoon, his finger brushed over her hot cheek and down her throat to her collarbone. "I love the thought of teaching you all sorts of wicked things."
"Hey, I'm the professor here, remember?" she laughed. "Stop being older than me."
His laughter joined hers. With one more kiss, he reluctantly turned back to the stove.
"Anyway," she added, "I did some reading on the internet."
"Some Dark Side web surfing? I’m delighted to hear it. D’you have questions that Google couldn’t answer? Did you see anything you’d like to try? You’re still blushing."
"It’s my complexion. We redheads flush a lot. Doesn’t mean a thing."
"Uh huh." He grinned at her. "Everything's finally ready. Take a seat and I'll serve you."
She sat down at the place he had indicated. He had given her the best view; she could see the moon rising over the water. "There, you see, that's one of the things I'm curious about—you serving me? From everything I read about this domination and submission stuff, I'd have expected you to want me to serve you."
"Maybe in the bedroom." He spooned some thick, fragrant curry onto her plate. "I don't require a steady diet of it, though."
"Aren't you one of those dominant master types?"
"I enjoy playing that role. But I prefer not to define myself in BDSM terms. Melanie, my former girlfriend, wanted me to dom her 24/7, but I didn't want that much control. I don't need a subservient partner." He picked up his wine glass and nodded to hers. "Shall we have a toast?"
"Sure. To second chances?" She picked up her own wine glass and touched it to his. There was a soft hum of crystal as he clinked back.
"I'll happily drink to that."
They smiled at each other and she felt as if she were falling into the depths of his eyes. They drank the wine, a smooth, full-bodied red. There was a pleasant tingle in her belly and a lovely feeling of warmth and happiness that zipped around in her veins.
"How long were you and Melanie together?"
He winced, and she wondered if she'd asked an awkward question. But he'd been the one to mention his former girlfriend. He answered readily enough, though. "About a year. She was looking for a master, and I was looking for a partner who liked kinky sex. We had our ups and downs. Broke up a couple times, got back together, finally broke up for good when she kept pressuring me to do stuff that I wasn’t comfortable with."
"Pressuring you? That doesn't sound very submissive."
He shrugged. "Relationships are relationships, no matter what the flavor. You're bound to have some conflicts."
Had he been in love with Melanie? She nearly asked, but cut herself off before the words slipped out. It was too early to talk about being in love.
He continued, as if he needed to explain, "She and I didn’t have much in common besides the sex, and even that wasn’t right in the end. She left me for a lifestyle dominant who had another full-time submissive. Last I heard, that hadn't worked out too well."
"I'm not surprised! How could one man possibly keep two women satisfied?"
"I’m sure I don’t know. Sounds exhausting."
She considered what he had told her, wondering whether to keep questioning him. She got the feeling that discussing his ex made him uncomfortable. She could certainly understand that.
"The important thing," he said after a short pause, "is that I regard my kinkiness in a playful sort of way. Some folks tak
e the lifestyle very seriously, trying to incorporate it into all aspects of their lives. That’s not what I want. I don’t demand that anyone surrender her power to me for more than a few hours at a time."
"It makes me nervous to think about surrendering my power at all."
"I get that. You have to trust your partner, and trust takes time."
"Have you always been this way? That summer, when you tied me up—"
He nodded. "My brain has always been wired to find the rough stuff hot. A scene is like writing for me, in a way. I like to plan it, set it up, put my characters into their places and then see what they do. It's another way for me to be creative."
Again, she thought of Bart and his torture chamber of horrors. She felt a little uneasy.
"Does it make you uncomfortable to discuss this with me?"
"A little. You’re easy to talk to, though." She took another big swallow of the delicious red wine. "And the wine helps."
He smiled at her—that friendly, easygoing smile that she loved. "I love the fact that you’re a strong, confident woman and my equal. That’s what I want in a partner. The dom/sub thing is a pathway to pleasure for me, not a way of structuring a relationship."
He had now stated this in multiple ways, and she was beginning to believe him. "So, what do you want to try tonight?"
His eyes glinted mischievously. "I think I'll surprise you."
Heat shot through her, but there was a thread of apprehension, too. "What if I don't like the surprise?"
"Anything you don't like, I will stop doing." His voice was serious as he added, "You can use your safeword if something pushes you past your comfort zone."
"Okay."
"There are a couple of things I should ask you, for safety's sake, okay? Like, do you have any health issues? Are you on any medication?"
"Nope. I'm healthy. No STDs or anything, if you're wondering about that. And I'm on the pill. Not that I've needed it lately."
"I'm healthy, too. Regular checkups, negative blood tests, and all that. So, no asthma or blood pressure problems?"
