Forbidden Fantasy

by Tiffany White

  Making a supreme effort, Grey leaned forward long enough to refill their glasses. “What?” he asked, seeing the considering look she gave him.

  Zoe took a sip of her wine and studied him over the rim of her glass. “I was wondering…”

  “About what?” he asked, settling back.

  “Men,” she said with a shrug.

  He shook his finger at her. “Oh, no, you’re not allowed to wonder about other men while you’re my mistress.”

  “Who says?” she said on a warm, giggly laugh.

  He glanced at the library shelves. “I read it somewhere. I think it was in a very thick book of rules for female behavior,” he said, squinting as if trying to pick out the very book.

  “Probably written by a man,” she grumbled.

  “Probably.”

  “Okay, since I can’t talk about men in general, let’s talk about you.”

  “Let’s not.”

  She laughed. There was nothing more absurd than the joke nature had played on the sexes—making women verbal and men not. “Okay, then let’s talk about men in general.”

  “What about men?”

  “Well, for instance…do men have preconceived ideas about women and marriage?”

  “Sure. Women want marriage.”

  “And men don’t?”

  “Yeah, after a fashion. But men don’t think of marriage the way women do.”

  “So tell me, what do men think marriage will be like?”

  Grey twirled the stem of his wineglass in his hand as he considered her question. Finally he said, “Most men probably want the tradition.”

  She glanced at him. “Tradition?”

  “You know, fresh clothes, hot meals…” he grinned lasciviously “… great sex.”

  “All of this available on demand, right?”

  “Of course.”

  She turned away from him. “There’s just one thing wrong with that.”

  “What?”

  “Everything.”

  “Okay, so what do women want?”

  “Most women would like some control over their lives. You know, like a hot meal waiting for them… or great sex… the way they want it… a little romance. Why couldn’t men sometimes put a woman’s needs over their own, instead of taking them for granted? Why couldn’t men sometimes be the care givers?”

  “Is that what it would take for you to give marriage another try?”

  “Is it too much to ask? Is it so hard for a man to allow a woman to be all she can be? What are men so damn afraid of, anyway?”

  “Their feelings,” he said quietly.

  “Women have feelings too…”

  The silence stretched out between them. Grey picked up the journal by his side. “We forgot to read to each other.” He began paging through the journal.

  “What are you looking for?”

  “The good parts,” he answered. He paused then. “Ah, here’s one…” He pretended to read from the page. “She would make a perfect wife. He could tell by the way she kept her eyes downcast in his presence and never spoke unless spoken to…”

  “That’s not funny.” Zoe threw a brocade pillow at him.

  He dodged the pillow and continued reading out loud. “She was properly veiled and knew how to anoint his feet with oils.”

  “In your dreams.” Zoe aimed another pillow that scored a direct hit.

  Grey set down the journal and picked up the pillows, retaliating.

  Within moments they were turning the library topsyturvy in a raging pillow fight that dissolved into shrieks and rich, wicked laughter.

  7

  ZOE AWOKE the next morning naked once again. She had the feeling she was in a recurring dream. A very pretty one, though it seemed to be shot through gauze, as it was fuzzy around the edges. Then she remembered the bottle of wine. And Grey.

  Who was he, anyway? Was he the cool, aloof charmer who had seduced her into agreeing to be his mistress for a week? Or was he the sweet, caring man who’d listened to her last night. A man who’d shown a sensitivity her husband hadn’t. What did Grey want? What did she want?

  She knew only what she didn’t want. She didn’t want a marriage like the one she’d had. Her husband had been a good man, but he’d neglected her. Love wasn’t enough; it had to be tempered with a willingness to share and grow.

  Rubbing her eyes, the room came into focus. Sunlight streamed in through the tall casement windows.

  Looking over to the bedroom door she saw that it was. closed, locked once again, no doubt. She was beginning to feel as though she was in a Gothic novel.

  What was this thing he had about locking her in?

  Surely he must realize he couldn’t keep her, if she didn’t want to stay?

  Yawning widely, she stretched, the action causing the comforter to fall away. Shivering at the chill she resigned herself to the fact that the clothing she’d worn the day before wouldn’t be in the room. She got out of bed to see what the armoire could provide in the way of warmth.

  The best she could come up with was the kittenish, pale pink soft cotton hipster panties and matching cropped top.

  After pulling them on, she rummaged around in the bottom of the armoire, eyeing the lock on the oblong wooden box. Holding out against curiosity, she picked a pair of matching slouchy pink socks instead of the lock. She felt only marginally warmer, as the thrust of her nipples against the soft cropped top showed.

  Going to the dressing table, she studied her reflection in the mirror above it. She looked all of seventeen. As if determined to be perverse, she pulled her hair up into a ponytail.

  A knock at the door surprised her.

  “Come in,” she called, going to sit down cross-legged on the bed.

  The door opened. It hadn’t been locked, after all.

  Grey entered, carrying a white wicker bed tray. A mouth-watering aroma wafted from beneath the linen-covered tray.

  Now this is my idea of room service, Zoe thought, noting he’d reverted to wearing washed-out jeans and not much else. And wearing them very well.

  “You’re up already. I had planned to wake you and surprise you with breakfast in bed.” He raised his eyebrows. “I guess I’ve blown the surprise, huh?”

  “No,” she said, shaking her head. “I’m surprised. Where did an American like you discover the joys of breakfast in bed? Isn’t it against the work ethic, or something?” Picking up the pale pink rose atop the linen covering” her breakfast, she wondered if he’d known she would be wearing the pink undies she had on, or if the matching color was coincidental.

  He laughed, his voice low and sexy. “I guess I must have a decadent streak in me that you bring out.”

  “Speaking of which, you didn’t lock the door….”

  “I wasn’t going anywhere.” He knelt on the bed to set the wicker bed tray before her. “Besides, you’d just pick the lock again and get out.”

  “Aren’t you cold?” she asked, trailing the pink rose across his bare chest.

  “Not hardly. While you’ve been a layabed sleepyhead, some of us have been slaving over a hot stove.”

  She threw the rose at him and he caught it one-handed, showing very quick reflexes. “Now, now. Play nice, or I’ll have to make you go back to bed without your breakfast,” he admonished, stretching out beside her, propping his head upon his bent wrist.

  “Let me see what’s under here first,” she hedged, lifting the linen cover on the tray.

  “I could make the same request,” he said, running his fingertip beneath the edge of her crop top that ended inches above her narrow waist, then seductively palming her breast through the soft material.

  She slapped his marauding hand away. “I think you surpassed your weekly allowance for decadence yesterday. What’s this?” she asked, uncovering a pile of colored ribbons along with a plate of cookies and a pot of tea.

  “Sugar and spice and everything nice.”

  “My,
what a lot of ribbons you have,” she said, picking up the pile of colorful streamers and sifting them through her fingers.

  “I bought some in every color. I wasn’t sure what your favorite color was.”

  “How long have you had this ribbon fetish?” she asked on a laugh, picking up a jelly-centered cookie dusted with powdered sugar and taking a bite. Bits of powdered sugar touched her nose and sprinkled onto her crop top.

  “Mmm…you look good enough to eat,” Grey said, dusting the powdered sugar from her nose with the delicate petals of the rose, its sweet scent teasing her nostrils.

  “About your ribbon fetish…” she reminded him, pouring a cup of the steaming orange spice tea into a flowered teacup.

  “Oh, that. If you must know, there was this girl in fourth grade named Jennifer something or other who sat in front of me in English class. She had long hair that she wore in braids with ribbons on the ends. I used to tease her by stealing her ribbons. One day she cornered me on the school grounds and sort of beat me up.”

  “A girl beat you up?”

  “I kind of let her. I mean, she couldn’t really hurt me and I did have it coming. Besides, she was having such a good time of it, I didn’t have the heart to try to stop her.” He said it with such disarming charm that Zoe didn’t know if it was a true story or an invention.

  She took a sip of tea and considered him. “And ever since you’ve had a penchant for long hair, ribbons and—”

  “A woman who gets out of control on occasion….”

  “You know what I think?” she asked, polishing off the rest of the sugary cookie and picking another.

  “What…?”

  “I think you’re full of it, that’s what I think,” she answered, licking at the jelly center, knowing what a provocative picture she made in her pink underwear, framed in the ruffled white bed.

  “Do you, now?” He was silent for a moment, watching her. Pushing himself into a sitting position, he took away the cookie she was toying with. “You won’t mind if I brush your hair out and braid it then, will you?” Having issued the challenge, he popped the cookie into his mouth, devouring it like Little Red Riding Hood’s big, bad wolf.

  She laughed. “Yeah, right.” Did he really think she was buying his outrageous story?

  “I’m not kidding,” he insisted. “Come sit here,” he coaxed, taking her wrist and leading her to the skirted dressing table.

  “I’m not wearing my hair in little-girl braids,” she objected.

  “No problem. I graduated to French braids my sophomore year in high school.”

  “Still Jennifer?” Zoe asked, sitting down in front of the dressing table, not believing a word of it as she looked at his reflection in the mirror.

  He grinned and winked. “No, Kirsten and Jill.”

  “You lie.”

  “Do I? Hand me the hairbrush.”

  Still not believing a word of it, she handed him the brush.

  Releasing her hair from the ponytail, he began brushing it out until it settled in a soft cloud about her shoulders.

  She watched him in the dressing-table mirror, giving herself up to the sensual stroking of his hands. Strong hands that could be gentle and caressing.

  After a while he set aside the hairbrush and motioned to her to hand him the comb. Starting at the crown, he sectioned her hair into three even parts and began attempting to French-braid it.

  His early efforts met with some success, but when he’d added several strands pulled from either side, he ran into trouble.

  He started again with determination.

  When it happened .again on the second try, Zoe smiled openly.

  By the third try, he was swearing beneath his breath and she was laughing out loud, having trouble sitting still enough for him to work as he began yet again. .

  “It’s not funny.”

  “I think it is.”

  “Well, I don’t. I’m telling you, I used to know how to do this. I can do this.”

  “Yeah, but in this lifetime?”

  He shot her a pained look. “Wait, I know what’s wrong.”

  “So do I—you can’t braid hair.”

  “No… I can’t braid dry hair. Let’s go to the bathroom sink and wet your hair. I just remembered when I learned how to braid—it was on wet hair. I spent a lot of lazy summer afternoons swimming in the community swimming pool.”

  “With Kirsten and Jill.”

  “Right. The two of them were best friends and inseparable. They did absolutely everything together. Both of them were seniors…older women…and they sort of adopted me that summer. They thought I was cute.”

  “That made three of you,” Zoe muttered, bending her head beneath the faucet so he could wet her hair.

  He turned the water on full force, drenching her for her smart remark.

  “Grey! Now look what you’ve gone and done!” The skimpy crop top was soaked, clinging to her provocatively.

  “I’m looking, I’m looking,” he said with a lascivious grin, holding the towel she wanted just out of her reach.

  “If you don’t give me that towel right now, I’m not going to let you braid my hair.”

  “Deal.”

  “Grey, give me the towel,” she said, advancing on him. “Quit playing games.”

  He backed into the bedroom, holding the towel behind him.

  She picked up the brush from the dressing table and threw it at him.

  He ducked, avoiding it easily.

  “Grey, give me the towel,” she demanded again, enunciating each word slowly, her hands on her hips. “My hair is dripping all over me.”

  “I know.” His eyes darkened and danced over her appreciatively.

  “I mean it, Grey. Give me the towel.”

  He shook his head.

  “Okay,” she said, pretending to give in. Feigning a step to her left, she moved with deceptive speed and lunged for the towel.

  She was fast, but his reflexes were faster. He dropped the towel and grabbed her, lifting her easily and tossing her onto the bed, rattling the contents of the breakfast tray.

  “No!” she cried, trying to scramble away as he advanced upon her.

  He was too quick, covering her and pinning her wrists above her head.

  She squirmed beneath him, the action only serving to raise her skimpy crop top to expose the lower curve of her breasts.

  “Get off me, you beast! You’re going to upset the teapot!”

  “Oh, you’re not really concerned about the teapot being upset, now are you, chérie? Come on, admit it! What you’re really concerned about is the sexpot being upset,” he said, smiling down at her with a devilish glint in his eyes.

  “I am not a… a… sexpot.”

  “Really?” He levered his long body for a quick, sweeping look down her disheveled one, warm and flushed from her struggles to free herself from him.

  “Couldn’t prove it by me.”

  “Let me go,” she insisted, trying to throw him off balance.

  “Uh-uh. You wanted to play games… so we’ll play games,” he said, releasing her only long enough to reach for the pile of ribbons on the tray.

  She immediately scooted up to the top of the bed and braced her back against the mound of pillows at the iron headboard.

  “Wait, what do you think you’re doing?” she demanded, trying unsuccessfully to twist her wrist free of his grasp as he knelt over her and placed it against the headboard, proceeding to loop one of the ribbons around both her wrist and the ironwork, effectively fastening her there with a pretty bow.

  “You call this a game?” she asked, as he fastened her other wrist with a matching bow, despite her squirming efforts.

  “I’m sure you’ve heard of it. It’s called playing doctor,” he said, playfully snapping the elastic of her pink panties as he got up from the bed and walked over to the satinwood writing desk.

  “I don’t remember playing doctor going like this
…” she said, watching him pull up the chair from the desk and sit down beside the bed. “And now I suppose you’re going to treat me to a sample of your warm bedside manner.”

  “Couchside manner would be more apt. I’m going to ask questions…very personal questions…and you’re going to answer them. Just think of me as Dr. Sigmund,” he said, leaning back in the chair and propping his bare feet upon the bed.

  “Ah, that kind of doctor.” She tugged at the ribbons tying her wrists, wishing her hands were free, so she could smack him. He was looking way too smug and pleased with himself as he sat there, drumming his fingers on his taut, flat belly.

  “I guess I should consider myself lucky you haven’t tied my feet,” she said, looking at the soft pink cotton socks slouched at her ankles.

  “I only do that if I have to resort to tickling to get the answers I want.”

  “You wouldn’t.” She looked at the ribbon ties again. She could probably reach them with her mouth, using her teeth to untie the bows and free herself—if she wanted.

  She wasn’t completely surprised to find she didn’t want to. There was something nonthreatening and exciting going on between them. Despite the playacting, choice was involved. The pretty pastel ribbons he’d used to secure her wrists were satiny slick and would work loose with any effort at all on her part.

  She knew it and so did he.

  The pretense that they didn’t was the sensual kick.

  This then played to the dangerous limits of her wildest fantasies. It allowed her to surrender without responsibility to the lure of breaking through the bonds of convention to explore her intimate boundaries.

  “What are you thinking about?” Grey asked.

  “My husband.”

  “Your husband? Do you think that’s proper protocol when you’re with your lover? Should I be insulted? What were you thinking about him?”

  “That he was a gentle, considerate lover. That he loved me….”

  “And yet you left him….”

  She nodded. “I left him.”