Unbridled

by D. Jackson Leigh

  She’s right. My face heats with embarrassment, and I sit back in my chair. I type all my research notes and my manuscripts. The only time I handwrite anything is when I sign books. This Raleigh store is my last tour stop, and I’ve signed nearly two hundred today. A hundred for people this afternoon, and a hundred this morning in my hotel room for Sal to shelve in her other two North Carolina stores after I go home. My hand is killing me, but I’m not about to confess sore joints to a woman likely ten years my junior. A woman I’m hoping will warm my sore hand later in the warm, wet heat of her sex while I bring her to a second and third climax.

  I shrug. “Like most writers, I don’t actually write much. I type everything—research notes, manuscripts, edits. I’ve been on this promotional tour for the past five weeks, signing hundreds of books three or four days each week. I guess I’ve been working a different set of muscles in my hand.”

  Her eyes widen. “Your agent must be a slave driver.”

  I laugh. “She is. But I also have a hard time saying no when one of the few remaining independent bookstores asks to be wedged into my schedule. I earn more on ebooks, but I hate to see the demise of neighborhood bookstores.”

  Anna’s gaze drops to my hand again, and I realize I’m rubbing my left thumb into the palm of my sore right hand. I drop my hands to my lap, out of sight below the table where I’ve been signing books, and feign nonchalance. “My aunt owned a bookstore when I was a kid, and I loved spending the afternoon there among the boxes and shelves of books.”

  “That must have been wonderful. When I was in high school, I decided I wanted to be a librarian.”

  I smile and prop my elbow on the table to rest my chin in my left hand, giving her my full attention while leaving the distracting right hand out of sight. “So, that’s what you do when you’re not running a book club?”

  Anna holds out her hands, cupping them together. “May I see your hand?” She is clearly asking for the hand I’m hiding. I hesitate at the shift in dynamic. I’m running this encounter. I initiated the flirt and set the pace. I will carry it to a pleasurable end, or maybe I’ll stop it right now. I sit back in my chair.

  An attractive blush creeps across her cheeks, and she relaxes her hands, palms up, and lowers her gaze to the table. “Sorry. I was only trying to answer your question. When I’m not in charge of a book club, I work as a physical therapist,” she says, her glance darting up to mine . “I do a lot of work with hands and thought some light massage and pressure treatment could help. I apologize if I overstepped.”

  I relax but let her apology hang in the air for an uncomfortable minute, then lay my hand on the table—literally. “I would appreciate your expert assistance, but only if you answer yes to the inscription I wrote in your book.”

  Her smile is shy as her warm fingers gently probe my wrist, palm, and fingers. “I haven’t read it yet.”

  I pick it up from the table where she laid it to take up my hand massage and open it to the inscription with my left hand, then push the book close enough for her to read. Her massage slows as she scrutinizes it and stops when she looks up. I hold her startled gaze.

  “I…I…yes. I would love to have dinner with you, but isn’t your friend expecting to eat with you?

  I shrug, then grimace when she finds a particularly sore tendon in my palm. She clamps down on a pressure point in my wrist that instantly numbs the spot as she continues to massage. I relax again and smile. “Let me worry about that.”

  At that moment, keys rattle in the front-door lock, and LaSalle de Blanc barrels in. She’s a large woman—like a retired pro-football linebacker rather than buxom and curvy—with the soul of a poet and a mouth like the toilet on a dysentery ward. “Where is the goddamn little arrogant twerp? I don’t care if I did promise my sister, this little motherfucker has to get over himself. I’m stuck with him all summer, but I can easily make him clean shitters and mow grass instead of learn the book business.”

  I reluctantly withdraw my hand from Anna’s and catch LaSalle by the arm when she turns and homes in on the vacuum noise. “Hold up a minute, pal.”

  “Don’t defend him, Lauren. You know how hard it is to get big-time authors to do signings in small bookstores. I’m lucky it was you, and not some other writer who’d post on social media the little shit’s insulting offer to pay for you to get your own tea. It’d yank my stores from the A-list and put them on the blacklist of every publicist in the business.”

  I guide her to sit in my chair, and Anna stands up and pushes her chair over so I can sit facing LaSalle. Her fear is real. Independent bookstores are hanging on by a cobweb, trying to find new ways to draw customers away from the convenient internet and into their stores. “Listen, don’t you think it’d be better if you took him to dinner and explained the impact his mistake could have had on your business if it hadn’t been me?”

  She scowls. “Dinner sounds like a reward. I’d rather give him a goddamn kick in the pants.”

  “He apparently has plans with friends. Keeping him from that to have dinner and a lecture from you will be punishment enough. And, hopefully, you’ll stay calm enough to teach him something about the book business.”

  Her scowl deepens.

  “You know he wants to be a writer. He’ll need to understand the industry to be successful, whether he proves to be a great writer or works as a publisher or agent. Make this a teaching moment.”

  LaSalle blinks at me, and then she looks at Anna, who is nodding in agreement behind me. “Hello?” She stands because, while her personality is rough around the edges, LaSalle’s innate chivalry will never let her sit while a lady stands.

  I jump from my chair to make the introductions. “LaSalle, this is Anna Pierson. She’s the organizer of a local mystery book club, and they’ve been reading my latest. She’s agreed to accompany me to dinner so you can take care of your Justin problem.”

  LaSalle cuts me a “you dog” glance before politely taking Anna’s hand in hers to give it a delicate shake. “That’s so very nice of you, Ms. Pierson.” Then her sweet tone turns sarcastic. “Lauren and I can catch up some other time.” This isn’t the first time since we became friends in our youth that one of us has blown off the other for the opportunity of female recreation—uh—company. But I have a bone to throw. A big, juicy bone.

  “Anna also is a physical therapist and just finished an amazing massage on my hand.” I hold it up and flex the fingers. “So, I thought I could stay over another couple of days and sign some books at your Chapel Hill store. That’ll give me time to talk to you about a fantastic marketing idea that came to me while Anna was telling me about her book club.”

  LaSalle’s eyes light up. “Check out of that airport hotel and stay at my house. Justin’s living in the apartment over the garage, so he won’t be in our hair.”

  “I’ll do that first thing tomorrow. Tell Dorine I’ll be there for lunch.” I pause. “You haven’t run her off, have you?” Dorine is LaSalle’s longtime domestic manager who threatens to quit at least twice a month.

  LaSalle slaps me on the shoulder. “As if. She’ll be ecstatic to see you. Don’t be late. You know she hates that.”

  I grab my leather messenger bag and guide Anna toward the door. “Don’t worry. I’ll be early.”

  Chapter Two

  I can’t. Lauren, I can’t.”

  “You can. Relax and just let it happen.” I slick my fingers with lube to sooth the sensitive tissues of her overworked sex, raw from the continuous fucking I’ve been giving her for the past three hours with little respite.

  “I want a chance to please you.” Anna groans, and her sex tightens around my three fingers as I rake them across her G-spot each time I push into her and pull out to thrust again.

  “You are pleasing me. You look so beautiful, giving yourself to me like this.” I stare down at her long, perfect back and the muscles of her buttocks flexing as
I rock her with each aggressive thrust of my hips against hers, my painfully turgid clit rubbing against her ass. I press the tip of my lubricated thumb against her puckered anus and bend to brush my hardened nipples against her back when she raises her head at this new intrusion. “Oh, baby, you feel so good, so tight around my fingers.” I tighten my thighs to support my weight, glad now for the running habit that keeps my legs strong, then find her clit with my other hand. She hardens under my light massage, her breath coming in short pants now. She’s near climax again, but mine is still elusive. Always just beyond reach unless…

  “Give me your hand,” I say, guiding her fingers to the spot that will make my clit explode and using them in my desperate quest for satisfaction. I rut against her with my whole body, our sweat-slicked skin sliding as easily as my fingers invading her, taking her again and again.

  “Oh, Lauren. Oh, God. Oh.” Anna shudders, then goes taut in the vise of orgasm.

  Damn. I know this will be the last I’ll be able to draw out of this poor young woman, and still I hang on the edge. I need my own release to cleanse, to purify myself of stress and frustration.

  When Anna cries out and her cum pours onto my hand, I close my eyes. In my mind, I’m the one on my belly with a strong, long-fingered hand filling me from behind, thrusting in and out, in and out as it inches me up the mountain of pleasure. At last, I can feel the orgasm coalescing in my groin. My thrusts turn erratic because I’m frantic to hold on to the mounting sensation. Yes. Yes! I give voice to my ecstasy, claiming the victory. I stroke myself against Anna’s hand, milking the spasms of pleasure and painting my cum on Anna’s ass.

  “Enough, please.”

  I’m done, too, and roll to my side at Anna’s pleading. I fling an arm over my eyes. I hate the old, submissive Lauren. Finally stepping up and taking control of my life after years of therapy has freed me, then fueled my success in every other aspect of my life. So why do I still desire submission in my sex life?

  * * *

  I stroll into LaSalle’s mansion—er—home promptly at half past noon. Lunch is always at a respectable one o’clock. LaSalle would like to eat earlier, but Dorine—the de Blanc domestic manager descended from a family of executive housekeepers, or managers as they prefer to be called now—insists that noontime lunch is for secretaries and factory workers. So, as long as Dorine reigns in the de Blanc household, lunch is served promptly at one o’clock.

  I sneak quietly into the luxurious chef-quality kitchen, intent on swiping one of the fabulous red-velvet cupcake bites from the platter on the island while Dorine is hunched over the sink, back turned to me and water running as she scrubs away at a broiling pan.

  “Only one before lunch. You’re not too big I can’t still take a switch to you and that big moose that lives here.”

  LaSalle and I were convinced as children that Dorine has eyes in the back of her head. LaSalle’s parents were always busy but great. My parents, not so much. Dorine doctored our scrapes, drove us to after-school activities or dentist appointments. She also had carte blanche to discipline us—from standing us in a corner, to house arrest, or even to cut a switch and apply it to our legs when we’d been deliberately bad. The switch was almost always wielded on LaSalle because she would boldly go where and do what no sensible child dared.

  I grab a mini-cupcake and bend to kiss Dorine’s weathered cheek. “Where is the big moose?”

  She waves a soapy hand toward the French doors. “Outside, mixing mimosas and pretending she’s lord of the manor.”

  I laugh and pop the moist red morsel into my mouth, savoring the cream-cheese icing. “Oh my God. This is so good.” I wrap my arm around her shoulders and rest my head against her soft, tight curls. “Divorce William and marry me?”

  She chuckles and dries her hands. “My answer is still no. I love William, and you lack a certain piece of anatomy that I have a fondness for.” She wraps her arm around my waist and hugs me back. Her brown eyes soften when she steps back to inspect me. “You’re looking good, baby girl. Getting out from under your daddy has let you blossom into a beautiful woman.”

  “Thanks, Dorine. It’s been a long, hard road but worth every therapy session and every dollar of that trust fund I had to give up. God bless Grandmother for leaving me the means to buy my freedom.”

  “You would have eventually earned it on your own.”

  I think about that possibility for a fleeting second, then shrug. “Maybe not. It’s my new editor who helped me grow the wings to really fly. She’s the best.”

  Dorine flicks her hand towel at me. “Go on now, or LaSalle will be in here underfoot looking for you. I need to finish getting lunch together.” She goes to the refrigerator, dismissing me like I’m still the kid she knew years ago. I smile and head for the veranda, snaking out a hand as I pass the kitchen island.

  “I said only one before lunch.” Her back still turned, Dorine’s stern admonishment makes me snatch my hand back empty of the intended second cupcake.

  “Damn.” I swear under my breath.

  “Language, missy. Don’t make me pick a switch.”

  * * *

  LaSalle laughs and holds out a mimosa to me as Dorine’s empty threat drifts through the French doors to the expansive veranda overlooking the manicured lawn bordering the neighborhood’s golf course.

  “Tried for that second cupcake, huh?”

  I grin. “They are so good.”

  “She’ll guard them like a pit bull until you do justice to whatever she’s prepared for lunch. I keep telling her that I’m not six years old anymore and I can damn well eat all the cupcakes I want.”

  “And how’s that working out for you?”

  LaSalle adds more champagne to her own mimosa and shrugs. “She took her apron off and told me I could also bake my own cupcakes in the future because she was too old to work for an uppity woman-child.”

  “You can’t boil water without catching the kitchen on fire.”

  Lasalle’s grin is so wide I wonder how many mimosas she’s consumed before my arrival. “I know, right? But I’m world-class at begging, so I dropped to one knee and held out her apron like a knight swearing her sword and loyalty.” LaSalle slides from her chair onto one knee and lifts a linen napkin in reenactment of the moment. “Please, Ms. Dorine, I’ll shatter if you leave and starve if left to my own cooking. There’s no chef in the Southern states who can compare to you.”

  I laugh heartily at her antics. She should be on a stage somewhere, but Hollywood likes women skinny and pretty, rather than handsome and athletic like LaSalle. And I’m selfishly glad that her bad knees cut short her stint in the women’s professional football league, and she created a new career from her second love—reading. That thought draws me back to my purpose for sharing lunch…other than to spend time with my closest friend. I drain the rest of my drink and hold out the empty glass for LaSalle to refill.

  “So, my new friend last night gave me an idea I think will promote my books and your stores.”

  “Do tell.” LaSalle raises an eyebrow as she hands over my freshened drink. “I’m interested in anything that will bring people into the store instead of have them shop online.”

  “Have you heard about these places where they lock a group of people in a room for an hour, and they have to look for clues and solve a mystery to unlock the door before their time is up?”

  “Sure. We have a few of those around here. I’ve been meaning to get a group together and try one out. It sounds like fun.”

  “What if we work with one of those local businesses and set a series of scenes up in your stores? Each scene will have clues that solve an immediate mystery and contribute to solving a bigger mystery at the end of the series. We can run it locally but also set it up virtually. As the exercise progresses, readers will be asked to submit their ideas about the clues and extrapolate their suspicion of who-done-it. I can incor
porate some of their ideas in my next novel, your stores will get a ton of publicity, and so will the local business we choose to help us set it up.”

  LaSalle’s face lights up. “It’s brilliant.” Then her expression morphs into a grimace. “I can’t imagine the ton of legal paperwork involved to make that happen.”

  “If I can get my publishing house to bite on it, they’ll handle any contracts we need.”

  “How will we decide who gets to physically participate?”

  “Hmm. How about we take applications from groups of three? They have to be avid mystery readers, not just anyone interested. Each group can email in their background and why they read mysteries. We’ll narrow it down to a group of finalists, then interview them to make sure they really are readers before we pick three top groups. Others can play along virtually.”

  LaSalle taps her fingers against the glass-topped table as she mulls this suggestion over. “Just to make it interesting, what if I contact our local cops and see if they want to put a fourth team together and test their skills against the mystery readers?”

  “Excellent idea! Community involvement. And when the book is written, I can dedicate a portion of the proceeds to some worthy local cause.”

  LaSalle holds up her drink, inviting me to clink my glass against hers in an adult version of pinkie swear. “For the love of intrigue.”

  “For local bookstores,” I respond. “Long may they survive.”

  LaSalle agrees with another clink of glasses as Dorine emerges with our lunch.

  Chapter Three

  Marsh Langston paces in a small oval with the grace of a mountain puma, ringmaster to the circus of children trotting their ponies around her.

  “Don’t hunch over, Jillie. Straighten your back. Yes, like that. Robby, let up on the reins. You can’t try to make him trot with your legs and tell him to stop with your hands.”

  I drink her in, the same as I have during all the lessons my niece has taken from her over the summer. She’s wearing the same dusty, scuffed, knee-length brown riding boots—ruggedly elegant. No jeans today. Russet riding breeches hug her long, well-developed thighs and deliciously muscled ass like a second skin. My hands itch to close around her trim waist and draw her to me. Her short-sleeved green polo stretches tight across her broad yet slender shoulders and snug around sinewy biceps as she gestures instructions. Her blond hair, cut short to feather against her neck, is dark with perspiration below the ball cap that shields her head and face from the sun. I despair that dark sunglasses hide her azure eyes from me, then sigh at my dramatic thoughts.