“Check it out.” Charlie lifts his shirt, and treats me to a view of
his jiggly white belly covered in a smattering of hair, and eight long red
streaks cutting across the middle.
“Holy cow.”
He drops his shirt and lowers his voice. “She ATTACKED me like
a wild animal.”
“Did you call pest control?”
“I couldn’t.”
“Why not?”
Charlie’s cheeks redden. “She had me in a…compromising position.”
Oh God. All my stress and anxiety disappear in a snort of laughter.
My head bangs on the table, and the man in the brown jacket drops his
donut in apparent alarm.
“It’s not funny,” Charlie says, miffed. “I was afraid. She was totally
out of control. She isn’t sane.”
I lift my head to wipe away the tears. “If you really thought that,
you wouldn’t have put yourself in a compromising position. I mean,
who does that? Who puts their most precious and delicate…item in the
jaws of a crazed wild animal?”
“A desperate man,” Charlie moans.
“So after you extricated yourself from the compromising position,
why didn’t you throw her back into the wild?”
“She wanted to have sex.”
“Seriously?” I widen my eyes in mock horror. “She is crazy.”
Charlie frowns. “You don’t know what it’s like. I had a long dry
spell. A parched man does not turn down a glass of water even if the
glass is broken.”
“So how was it?” I shouldn’t, but I have to ask.
“Wild,” he rasps. “But afterward, I snuck out.”
“Smooth. Love ’em and leave ’em. You’ve become a real player.”
“It wasn’t like that.” He leans forward and lowers his voice. “In the
heat of passion she called me by the wrong name.”
“Oh. My. God. How crass. Whose name did she call?”
The door opens. Heads turn. Max appears in the doorway. He
spots us and his eyes narrow. Charlie drops his donut. “Hot damn he
looks so good in that suit.”
“Paws off, tiger. He’s mine. I can hardly wait to see him in his
tux again.”
Charlie dabs at his cheek with a napkin. “He’s not looking too
happy. Maybe he thinks I’m putting the moves on you, or maybe he
doesn’t like his girlfriends eating carbs.”
My cell buzzes, but before I can check the message, a glowering
Max is hovering over our table. The man in the brown coat looks up
from his newspaper. His eyes widen when he catches sight of Max and
he turns away.
“What the hell is this?” Max holds up his phone and I catch sight
of a run of tweets.
“Hey!” I give him an encouraging smile. “You’re finally on Twitter.
Good for you.”
“THIS.” He holds the phone closer to us and Charlie whistles.
“Hey Makayla, that looks like your ass.”
Max shoots daggers at Charlie. “How would you know what her
ass looks like?”
Charlie doesn’t miss a beat. “I see it every weekend when we play
strip poker.”
Before Max can react, I snatch the phone and check out the picture.
Yup. That’s my ass. The picture is titled “Makayla’s Ass” and is posted
courtesy of @Toots69 who must have been at the Redemption party on
the weekend when I flipped a cheek at Blade Saw.
“Looks like someone was drinking again.” Charlie pokes me in the
shoulder. “And you told me you had matured.”
I pull out my own phone and check my messages. Oh God. So many.
Everyone has seen my ass on Twitter— Amanda, Rob, all my house-
mates, work colleagues, friends, my fifth-grade pen pal from Norway,
Susie in London, and my cousin in Nebraska. I hate social media.
“It’s trending,” Charlie shouts, holding up his cell phone.
The man in the brown coat has given up any pretense of pretend-
ing not to overhear. He stares at us, following our conversation with
avid interest.
Max frowns. “What does that mean?”
“It means Makayla’s ass is very popular and is going around the
world at lightning speed.” Charlie grins.
Max’s jaw clenches so hard I fear he might break his teeth. “What
the hell were you thinking? That’s my ass out there.”
Charlie chortles. “I like your purple panties, Huntington. They
looked good with your green skirt.”
Max leans across the table and grabs Charlie’s collar. I jump up
and push him away with two hands. “Max. Listen to me. I didn’t post
that picture on Twitter, and if you even understood how it worked you
would know that.”
“Who posted it?”
“I don’t know. Someone with the handle @Toots69.”
“Aaaargh.” Max slams his fist on the table so hard our mugs fly off
and crash to the ground. Charlie’s eyes widen and he squeezes my hand.
“I should have known she would do something like this,” Max
bellows. “And calling herself @Toots69!”
@Toots69 is a she? There was only one other she at the Redemption
party besides me.
Everyone in the donut store pulls out a phone. No doubt @Toots69
is suddenly going to get a lot of followers, and my ass is going to get
some extra viewings.
Max pounds his finger on his phone. Seconds later he holds his cell
to his ear and shouts loud enough for everyone to hear, “What the hell
were you thinking? You take it down right now. I don’t care what you
want. We’re finished. I made that clear. And if you ever do anything to
hurt her again, I will never—” He storms out the door and we miss the
rest of the conversation.
“He’s pissed.” Charlie snatches the last donut. “He’s going to yell at
you next. Doesn’t bode well for the evening.”
I grab my sweater and slide out of the booth. “I can handle him.”
Charlie raises an eyebrow. “You can always call me if you need a
ride home.”
“I can handle him.”
“Don’t drink anything until after he’s blown off some steam. You
know what you’re like.”
“I can handle him.”
“Yeah? So why are you shaking so badly?”
“Take a deep breath, baby. The feeding frenzy is about to begin.”
Max helps me out of the limo and onto the red carpet outside
Davies Symphony Hall. Cameras flash and people stare, as San
Francisco’s high society parade down the sidewalk at one of the city’s
most anticipated society events. And me. Makayla Delaney. Imposter.
What I wouldn’t give to be home on my couch in my sweats eating ice
cream. I concentrate on not catching my three-and-a-half-inch emerald
stilettos on the carpet.
“Huntington, over here.”
Max stops and turns us to the right, his hand firm around my waist.
“Pose and smile,” he whispers. Millions of cameras flash, and suddenly
I can’t see.
“Aaaaagh. Turn out the sun,” I throw my hand over my face to
shield myself and Max grabs my arm and pulls it down. “They want to
see your face, not your hand.”
“I didn’t realize a look of sheer terror would sell papers,” I mut
ter
under my breath.
Max gives my name to no less than a dozen reporters and introduces
me as his girl. Usually, I like to be Max’s girl. Today, however, the
endearment grates on my nerves. In this strapless A-line taffeta and
organza cocktail dress, my face caked in three inches of makeup, and
my hair ironed and teased, all courtesy of the resourceful Eve and her
swanky boutique, I feel much older than a girl—at least twenty-five.
“Maybe you should introduce me as your woman,” I tell him,
when we step inside the lobby. Although only five o’clock, the black-
tie gala is already in full swing, with a sparkling wine reception and a
string quartet.
Max chuckles and hands our ten thousand dollar tickets to the
usher at the door. “You want me to say, ‘this is my woman?’ Should I
grab your hair and grunt, too? Beat my chest?”
“Mmm. I’d like to see that.”
Brushing a kiss over my hair, Max whispers, “No one will doubt
you are my woman. You are exquisite. You’re going to knock their
socks off.”
“None of the women are wearing socks.”
“Then you’ll knock off their panties.”
“Max!” I give him a gentle shove. “What’s got into you this
evening?” He is over-the-top playful tonight. So playful his good humor
almost seems forced. Maybe he’s still angry about Assgate. He still hasn’t
chewed me out. Best get him drunk and stay cheerful, and maybe he’ll
forget about it.
“Just looking forward to an evening with my woman.”
Once inside, we are thronged by curious patrons. I grip Max’s hand
and plaster myself to his side. He introduces me to politicians, movie
stars, directors, authors, CEOs, an assortment of chairwomen, and a
dirty dozen young blondes with bad nose jobs. I perfect air-kissing by
imagining I am a chicken. Heeding Charlie’s warning, I turn down the
copious amounts of champagne in favor of water. By the time we are
called for dinner in the Tent Pavilion, I am ready to float away.
The tent has been decorated as a two-level supper club, glowing
with thousands of yards of azure-draped fabric. The canopy is crowned
with a huge metal frame smothered in thousands of blue peonies, which
also adorn white-draped tabletops.
“This is unreal,” I breathe, spinning around.
“This is unreal,” Max slides his hand under my skirt to caress my
bottom. “It’s so short. Barely enough to cover you, and yet it does.”
“Stop it.” I slap his hand away. “What if someone sees you?”
“They’ll wish their hand was up your easy-access skirt, too.” He
leans over and whispers in my ear. “Go to the restroom and take off
your panties.”
“What?”
“Take them off.”
“Are you on drugs?” I stand in front of him and check his eyes to
see if his pupils are dilated. Nope. Normal, except for the wicked glint.
“I don’t do things like that.”
He runs his hand up and down my bare back, his fingers tickling
my spine until I arch toward him. “You did this morning, and last
night, and the night before that, and the night before that.” My body
goes from calm to shaking with sexual hunger in a heartbeat.
Max threads his fingers through my hair and tugs my head back,
exposing my neck to his featherlight kisses. “Bring them to me,”
he rasps.
My heat rises quickly as if he had kindled my fire. I take a deep
breath and pull away from him, my body trembling inside and out.
My token resistance is crushed beneath his creativity, and my body’s
unquenchable need to be devoured by him again. I am a bad, bad girl.
Ten minutes later I am back at the table, bare. My panties are
tucked inside my tiny apple-shaped evening bag. “I hope we don’t have
a car accident on the way home,” I grumble. “My mother would be
horrified to find out not only was I not wearing clean panties, I wasn’t
wearing panties at all.”
Max pulls out my chair and leans over to whisper in my ear. “Don’t
sit on your skirt.”
“Why?”
His voice drops, nearly to a whisper. “It’ll get wet.”
All the blood in my body races downward. Moisture pools between
my thighs. I surreptitiously flip up the back of my skirt and take my
seat. The soft, silk chair cover is cool on my heated skin. Naughty
sensations ripple through my core. I am going to ruin this chair, and I
can hardly wait.
Wine is poured and the parade of tiny, artfully presented dishes
arrives, starting with a caviar and egg thing. Yech. Fish eggs. Disgusting.
I brush the tiny, black, gel-like mass off the egg with my fork.
“That’s the best part,” my dinner companion points out. Seated to
my left, he is tall and slim, with thinning, silver hair and a long nose.
He has a shiny gold tooth and thick glasses. He looks familiar, but I
can’t place him.
Max slides his hand under my skirt, and traces lazy circles up my
inner thighs. I glance down to ensure his naughty meanderings are
hidden by the tablecloth. My relief is short lived. His fingers reach their
target. I jump in my seat and squeal.
“You really have an aversion to caviar,” Gold Tooth chuckles.
Max strokes his finger along my folds. “This one is quite wet.”
“True. I do prefer mine dry.”
Breathe. In. Out. Slow. Easy. My teeth are clenched so tight the Jaws
of Life couldn’t pry them apart. Yet another phrase to add to the “How
to Intensely Arouse Makayla” list.
My white wine is replaced with red. Food comes and goes. I talk
to Gold Tooth’s wife about the hospital and the lack of funding. The
table conversation turns to whether children should be allowed two or
three horses each and where the best place is to buy a fourth home.
Max’s fingers continue their incessant stroking, slicking through my
folds and around my swollen nub. Sweat trickles down my back. My
body is coiled so tight I am sure I will detonate.
When Max’s finger slides inside me, I can’t stifle my gasp. My
hips jerk at the unexpected intrusion, and every nerve in my body jolts
into awareness.
“I thought I saw the president,” I explain when everyone looks at
me. Heads turn in the direction of my gaze, and I slap Max’s hand away.
He pushes out his chair.
“I think we’ll step outside for a breath of air before the next course.”
Max excuses us and escorts me out of the tent.
Five minutes later, we are locked away inside a small storage room
at the end of a long, marble hallway. The room is packed with music
stands, boxes, musical instruments, and an assortment of costumes
hung from a rail attached to chains in the ceiling. A mirror, a big table,
and a few chairs fill the rest of the dusty space.
Max locks the door and turns to give me a wicked grin. “Alone
at last.”
“How did you find this place?”
“Advance scouting.”
“You planned this in advance?”
Max wraps an arm around my waist and pulls me int
o his chest. “I
like to be prepared for all eventualities.”
“What if I didn’t want to play your game?”
“You always want to play, baby. That’s what I like about you.” He
slides his hand under my dress and along my wet folds.
“Bad Max. I can’t believe you did that at the table.”
“Bad Makayla,” Max whispers, his breath hot and moist in my ear.
“Running around a big society event without any panties. You need to
be punished.” He spins me around and pushes me down on the table.
My breasts and belly press tight again the hard surface. He flips up my
skirt and runs his warm hand over my cheeks. “You have such a beauti-
ful ass, baby. It just begs to be spanked.”
I glare at him over my shoulder. “Don’t you dare.”
“You showed it to the world. Why shouldn’t I get a little bit more?”
Oh God. Charlie was right. He is pissed at me. I naively thought he
was going to let it slide.
He holds me down with a firm hand on my back. My heart beats
frantically against the table, and I shudder so violently my teeth chatter.
“No. You’re angry. Please. Not when you’re angry.”
“What’s your safe word?”
My entire body goes rigid. My lungs tighten so hard I can barely
speak. “Ag—”
Something soft and fluffy tickles my legs, running over the backs
of my thighs and then down again. Soft, sensual, and very arousing. My
breath whooshes out of me and I slump on the table.
“What is that?” I look back over my shoulder. Max grins and holds
up a giant feather duster. He tickles it along the juncture of my thighs,
and I squirm on the table as abject terror becomes abject need.
“More?” he whispers, brushing the soft feathers along my folds.
I moan at the delicious sensation. “More.”
Max puts down the duster and removes all the costumes from the
rail. He tugs on a rope at the side of the wall and the rail lifts into the
air, swinging back and forth on the chains.
“Go hold onto the rail, baby. I won’t restrain you this time.
Something is going on with you and until you tell me what it is, the
farthest I’ll go is honor bondage.”
“Honor bondage? Sounds like a bad Japanese film.”
Max snorts a laugh. “Go. Stop cracking jokes. You’re spoiling
the mood.”
“What mood?” I ask as I round the table. “The Makayla pretends
Against the Ropes Page 28
