The Principal's Office

by Jasmine Haynes

  “Tell me your fantasies.”

  “That’s a rule?”

  “I’m done with the rules. Now I want to know”—he reached over to push her hair back and tapped her temple—“how your mind works.”

  The touch was slight yet somehow intimate, as if they were the only two people in the room. She thought about the massage fantasy, but she couldn’t tell him that one. Because of the way Gary had reacted. Not that she thought the Viking—Rand—would think the same thing, but because it was embarrassing that her husband had had so little faith in her that he thought she’d do something in a massage parlor. “I’m not sure I have any fantasies,” she evaded.

  “Now, that’s another rule.”

  “What?”

  “We only speak the truth.”

  She snorted. “Well, that’s pretty darn scary.”

  Putting a finger under her chin, he was so close she could see tiny flecks of brown in the blue irises. She could smell him, not soap or aftershave or even toothpaste, but him: man, sex, testosterone.

  “You tell me your fantasies, and I will make everything we do so good for you, you won’t be able to get enough.”

  She felt herself falling, falling, into his gaze, his thoughts, his mind. He’d said their meeting wasn’t coincidence, and she suddenly believed he was right, that this was meant to be, that he was the perfect man and this was the perfect time. She wanted to follow any rule he set down.

  Okay, and the first was to give him the truth. “I do have one fantasy.” She had others besides the masseur, but they were vanilla, and that wasn’t what he was asking for. “But I’m not ready to tell you about it.”

  “Fair enough.” He dropped his hand, picked up his coffee. “But you were at Pleasure Time, and that bag contained more than a pair of sexy panties.”

  She couldn’t help blushing.

  “And you said you’d been thinking about us. I’m assuming we weren’t just holding hands in those thoughts.”

  “No. But it didn’t qualify as pushing any limits.” And imagining him as a Viking raider was a bit too juvenile. She pursed her lips. “I should admit I’m pretty vanilla.”

  He winked. “Then we’ve got so many things to try. Let’s start with the basics. I’ll list a few things. You tell me what appeals to you.”

  “All right.”

  “Voyeurism,” he said in that low, deep, sexy voice.

  She shot a look at the tables close by. No one cared. Besides, the roar of the espresso machine would drown out their words. “You mean like a Peeping Tom?”

  “That’s negative. I’m talking about watching people who want to be seen.”

  “Oh.” She absently stirred the plastic stick in her mocha and imagined taking a walk at night and passing a house with open curtains. Oh my God, she remembered a story a friend had told her. She hadn’t seen Laurie in ages, but she remembered the account Laurie had given.

  “What?” he prompted.

  “Something a friend once related to me.”

  “Tell me.”

  She felt a kick inside. “She lived in an apartment on the third floor, and from her living room she could see straight down into an apartment on the second floor across the way, especially at night, when the lights were on.”

  “Into the bedroom?”

  “No, it was a spare room the woman did her ironing in. One night the woman’s boyfriend came in, lifted her dress over her hips, and went down on his knees.” She was suddenly wet, thinking of the story, the woman, what her boyfriend was doing. And Rand sitting so very close while she talked about sex.

  “He went down on her.”

  “Yes.” Laurie said he went to town. They didn’t switch off the lights, and the woman never turned around. She simply stopped ironing and spread her legs wider for him.

  Rachel looked at Rand, and it was like that moment on Santana Row, or in the bar when Bree plunked down the condom. Everything faded. There was only him, his eyes on her face, the sound of his breath. And how wet she was between her thighs.

  “How did it make you feel?”

  She swallowed. “Like I wanted to touch myself.”

  “Did you go home and do that?”

  She hadn’t. She wasn’t in the habit. She was married, and you weren’t supposed to do that anymore because it meant your husband didn’t satisfy you. Besides, she’d arrived home to find that Gary had had another bad day at work, and any sexual thrill she might have felt died a very quick death.

  “No” was all she told him, because she wasn’t going to get into complaining about her ex-husband. Talk about a buzz kill.

  He sat back, crossed his arms over his chest, and regarded her. “I can see we’re going to need to start tonight.”

  She gulped. Oh God, yes. Otherwise she’d have to wait another week. But what exactly was she agreeing to? This could be a huge mistake. She could get in over her head. She didn’t know him. What if something happened? She was the one who’d said no names, but she hadn’t even thought about physical safety. She was a mother, for God’s sake. She shouldn’t be taking risks like this. They should spend time in public places first.

  But that would be too much like dating.

  “It will be all right,” he said softly, as if everything that suddenly rushed through her mind was written all over her panic-stricken face. “Call a friend. Give her my phone number and address. Check in with her.”

  She didn’t have any friends to call. When things at home had gotten worse, when Gary said he was leaving, during the divorce, she’d lost contact with all her friends. No, that wasn’t fair. She’d drawn away because she didn’t want to complain all the time. She didn’t want to keep saying over and over how angry she was. People got sick of that, even friends. And later, she didn’t want to admit to anyone that it was actually a relief not to have to deal with Gary’s depression anymore. She’d have felt guilty saying that out loud. Then she’d gone to work, and time became precious. And…she sounded pathetic. Of course, she couldn’t have talked to any of her old friends about this. But she could call Bree. Bree was a friend, one who’d supplied her with a condom.

  “One more thing,” he said. “I won’t touch you tonight.”

  She opened her mouth, closed it, opened it again. Like a fish. “Then what’s the point?”

  He gave her an indulgent-older-brother smile. “Leave that to me. I promise not to disappoint you.”

  Rachel thought a moment, a long moment. Then she retrieved the paper with his phone number. “Write your address on here. I’ll call my friend to let her know where I am.”

  She was going to do this. She was going to be bold. She was going to cut loose.

  4

  BREE HAD BEEN ENCOURAGING. SHE SAID SHE’D LEAVE HER CELL phone on to take Rachel’s call. No matter where she was or what she was doing, Rachel was to contact Bree at ten p.m. If she didn’t check in, it was time to bring in the cavalry. Maybe she was being overly cautious, but Rachel felt better knowing Bree had her back, so to speak.

  She’d mapped the address in Los Gatos that Rand had given her. For the most part, Los Gatos was a well-to-do little suburb that clung to the foot of the Santa Cruz Mountains. The drive didn’t take long, and she arrived five minutes before seven. She was always early for everything, so she sat in her minivan one door down from her destination on the opposite side of the street. The neighborhood was older but well maintained, with huge oaks creating an arbor over the road. Manicured lawns were lined with bushes that would flower beautifully in the spring, and lights blazed in most of the houses. Classical music drifted out from the one she’d parked in front of.

  In a neighborhood like this, if she screamed loud enough, she’d be heard.

  Rand’s home was a Tudor style with a mullioned front window, pitched roof, and dormered windows on the second story. If he’d lived here only a few months, he’d bought in the down market, but the houses could still be pricey. She wondered once again what he did for a living, and if he had kids from a div
orce who stayed with him sometimes. The house was certainly more than big enough for one person.

  A single lamp was lit in the front window and the porch light was on over the door, but the upstairs windows were dark. She checked her watch. It was seven. They weren’t having dinner, just drinks. Of course, he could spike her wine with something, but at some point, you made a decision to either trust or not trust. She had Bree for backup, and that was enough.

  She climbed out of the minivan and locked the door. Her attire had been a problem. Not having been on a date with a new man in almost twenty years, she didn’t own anything provocative or sexy.

  Could that have been part of the problem with her marriage? She’d stopped trying?

  It was academic now. She’d chosen to wear the leopard-print dress the boys had bought her for Christmas. Not sexy per se, it nevertheless hugged her breasts, then flared out in a flirty skirt that was see-through if she stood in the light without wearing a slip underneath. She’d paired it with black pumps and topped it with a short black sweater. When she’d twirled in front of the mirror back at home, she’d decided she didn’t look half bad.

  She stopped for a Mercedes driving past, then crossed the road. By the time she’d rung the bell, her heart was beating hard and fast with nerves.

  She wanted and she didn’t want. She was scared, and her fear wasn’t of a spiked drink or a man who meant her harm. It was of whether she was good enough. For him. For any man.

  She was just stepping back off the brick front stoop, getting ready to turn and run, when he opened the door. Rachel couldn’t move.

  A teal and black shirt made his chest seem broader. The two inches of heel on her shoes only made his height that much more impressive, because she still had to look up, up, and up to meet his gaze. His eyes glowed the same teal as his shirt, as if they’d changed color to match, and his hair was golden in the front hall light.

  She was enchanted by him.

  “I like your house.” The comment was pathetically inane. She should have been scintillating.

  “It suits.”

  “Do you have kids?” she blurted out without thinking.

  “I’ve never been married.”

  “Oh.” She paused, wanting to know why he’d never married, but she was the one who’d said no personal stuff. “Don’t you like kids?” That wasn’t personal, just general.

  He laughed, a hearty sound that carried on the night air. “Yes. I like kids.”

  She didn’t quite know why it was so funny, except that he might think she was fishing because she’d told him she had children. “I was just wondering because the house is so big,” she tried to explain.

  “It’s only twenty-two hundred square feet. I have a home office, a spare bedroom, and a separate living room because sometimes I have to entertain for work. Other than that, it’s pretty standard.”

  He had to entertain. Was he a salesman? “Well, it’s very nice.” She wanted to roll her eyes at herself. This was not going well.

  He gave a courtly flourish of his hand. “Come in and see the whole thing.”

  Said the spider to the fly? Why did she keep thinking like that? She was a worrier, about money, about whether everyone was happy, about everything. You need to stop, Rachel. For tonight, she would cease all the worrying.

  She followed his lead and stepped inside.

  IT WAS NO BIGGER THAN HER HOME, BUT WHERE HERS SEEMED A bit dowdy because they hadn’t remodeled since they’d moved in—and it had needed it even then—his was crisp and modern. The kitchen was outfitted with a stainless steel oven and glass cooktop, copper pots hanging on big brass hooks over the center island, shiny black marble counters, and a black fridge with the freezer on the bottom. The rest of the rooms were equally well adorned: white sofa and love seat in the living room, heavy oak furniture in the formal dining room, and hardwood floors everywhere.

  His office was equipped with a big wooden desk, a manly leather reading chair, and built-in bookcases crammed with volumes from floor to ceiling. Upstairs, one of the guest bedrooms doubled as a den, with more leather furniture, a large flat screen TV, and an assortment of Blu-ray discs in the cabinet. She couldn’t read the titles.

  She didn’t know if he was rich, but he definitely enjoyed his creature comforts. No kids, no wife, no alimony, he could spend his money as he liked.

  Then he led her into the master bedroom. She started to feel uncomfortable again.

  He knew it. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to tie you to the bed.” It was a big bed with a large headboard and bedposts at the head and foot that could be put to good use. “Yet,” he added.

  She bit her lip until she saw the glint in his eye. “You want to tie me up, don’t you?”

  He nodded, a cheeky grin growing.

  “And you’re hoping one of the fantasies I tell you is about being tied to your bed.”

  He nodded again, and the dimples by his mouth deepened. “And perhaps a little spanking, too.”

  Somehow that look and his mischievous smile blunted her discomfort. A man with evil intentions just couldn’t grin like that. She turned, her skirt flaring. “I’ve never been spanked.” But it sounded kinky and fun. “I’m not into anything painful.”

  “It can be quite erotic and exciting.” He quirked one eyebrow. “The minuscule amount of pain is worth it.”

  “Hah. That’s because you’d be giving it, and I’d be receiving it.”

  He stepped nearer, closing in on her. She could smell his sexy male scent again. “You’ll receive so much more than pain,” he said, his voice low and hypnotic.

  Oh yes, she knew there were so many delicious things he could show her. But not everything all at once. She flounced away. “Maybe, maybe not. We’ll have to see.”

  His lips curved in a slight smile. “Fair enough.” He put out a hand, but didn’t touch her. The way he’d promised not to touch her.

  His bedroom was heavy dark wood furniture and white walls. The photos on the walls were all nature scenes, no people. In fact, she hadn’t seen any family photographs in the house. Here, there were shots of majestic redwoods, Yosemite’s Half Dome, and a framed trio of a bear drinking from a backyard fountain. She moved closer to examine the pictures.

  “I rented a house in Tahoe, and he visited every day for his morning drink.”

  She tipped her head to look back at him. “You took all these?”

  “Yes. I like the outdoors.”

  They were good. Like something you’d find in a coffee-table book. She’d noticed some nature pictures downstairs but had given them only a glance. “You’re pretty good at photography.”

  “It simply takes patience. And I have a lot of that.” He was looking at her with a subliminal message; he’d be patient with her, too.

  He was big, and somehow that very fact made him seem comforting, caring—as if, because of his size, he’d always had to exercise caution in how he dealt with people. She wanted to know more about him. Where he was from, if he had family back there, what hobbies he had besides photography, what books he enjoyed, what movies he liked.

  All of that was off-limits. She’d set the rule herself. Yet when did simple conversation blur into personal questioning?

  Instead of voicing any of that, she peeked into his bathroom to find white tile with a gray wainscoting, an old-fashioned claw-foot tub, and a wood vanity with a marble sink.

  “This doesn’t look like you.” Too girly.

  He was close when he spoke, his breath whispering through her hair. “The house was recently remodeled. I didn’t think it worth changing. Though the tub is a little short.”

  It was too short for him to stretch out, but with the taps on the side, it would be absolutely perfect for two to sit facing each other, his knees along the outsides of hers. Oh yes, she could picture bubbles and candlelight and ruby wineglasses and lots of wet skin.

  But she was getting ahead of herself.

  “Come out to the deck. I’ve got wine for us.”


  She hadn’t noticed the outside door, but when he flipped a switch, soft light streamed across a wood deck, chairs, two wine bottles and two glasses, and, by the side of a table, a standing heater that already glowed warm and red in the evening.

  “I forgot to ask if you like red or white,” he said as he opened the door and waved a hand for her to precede him. “So I put out both.”

  “Aren’t you thoughtful.” She felt special. Always the one to ask what someone else wanted, she found it nice to have a man take care of her needs. “I’m not terribly fond of red.”

  “Then I’ve got a nice white I think you’ll approve of.” At the table, he poured two glasses from the same bottle, and she thought again of a spiked drink. Was he trying to reassure her by drinking the same and letting her watch him pour?

  Rachel smiled her thanks as she took the glass, then wandered to the railing. Below, the backyard wasn’t terribly large, but the grass was green and neat, bordered by a hedge of rhododendrons. “You haven’t seen them bloom yet, have you?” The sight would be amazing in a few months when the rainy season was over and the sun was out every day.

  “I’m waiting for that, but there are plenty of other things to see in the meantime.” He pulled one of the deck chairs closer to the railing and gestured for her to sit.

  When she did, he pulled the second chair next to hers. He smelled so good, the scent not an aftershave, just something light and clean and male.

  She sipped. The wine wasn’t too dry or too sweet, but smooth going down. She didn’t have wine at home. It put her to sleep when she had so much to do in the evenings.

  “Good?” he asked, taking a larger drink of his own.

  “Very. Perfect. What is it?”

  “Something I got at one of the smaller wineries down in Paso Robles.”

  She wanted to ask if he’d gone to the central coast on his own or with a female friend. He wasn’t married, but she hadn’t asked about other women. Because they weren’t dating. It wasn’t her business.

  “I did a bike trip with a group,” he supplied as if he could see the question mark above her head. He stretched out his legs, crossing them at the ankles, and balanced his heels on the bottom rail.