Spice Box: Sixteen Steamy Stories

by Raine Miller

  Wait—what? “I don’t think—what did you say?’”

  “Bruno was the master to a sexual submissive, Sara Braverman. I drew up the agreement between them. He’s left her to you.”

  “Can you leave someone to…uh, to someone else? Is that even legal?”

  Mackenzie Lyon smiled, a wide curve of his lips. Cal’s question amused him. “Of course not. Bruno and Sara’s arrangement was a fully consensual relationship that could have been terminated at any time by either party without legal penalty. The Thirteenth Amendment of the Constitution has outlawed the ownership of human beings. Furthermore, it is contrary to societal norms to enter into a master-slave relationship. Thus, their legal arrangement could not be enforced in a court of law.”

  “Why enter into it, then?” Cal was still struggling with the idea of a sexual submissive. His brain skittered away from even the images it conjured up.

  “Because they wanted a piece of paper that documented their agreement.” Lyon waited for Cal to say something.

  “And Bruno expects—expected—me to do what with this woman?”

  Lyon reached for a file folder on top of his desk. “That’s not specified in his will. I’ll read the relevant language. ‘I further leave to my nephew, Calder Jacob Raynes, the slave known as Sara Braverman. Subject to Sara’s acceptance, it is my intention that the agreement dated January twenty-fifth, two thousand eleven, be honored by both parties.’”

  Sexual slavery. Holy shit. “That’s why my mother wouldn’t have anything to do with him,” Cal blurted out.

  Lyon inclined his head in a neutral gesture.

  Cal tried to drag his head around what he was hearing. “I’m inheriting a fortune…and a slave. A sex slave.”

  “Roughly, yes.”

  “But I don’t want her. I wouldn’t know what to do with a sex slave. And I can’t think—whoever she is—that she wants to be handed over like the keys to a lightly used Maserati.”

  Lyon leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. “Cal. May I call you Cal?”

  Cal nodded.

  “Cal, here’s what the law says. You are going to own a great deal of property and liquid assets in a relatively short period of time. As the executor, I can get the probate court to authorize the dispersal of sufficient funds to allow you to live in the Georgetown house while probate is proceeding. I don’t anticipate probate taking more than a year, assuming there are no other relatives to claim any rights to the estate.”

  Cal shook his head. He certainly didn’t know of any other relatives.

  “With regard to Ms. Braverman, she’s been living in that house for the past two years. It’s her home. As far as I know, she doesn’t have any other place to live.”

  “What about all the other property? Surely she can live in one of those places.”

  Lyon shook his head. “The other properties are currently occupied. You will be able to evict the current tenants, but not until probate clears.”

  Oh. So much for the fantasy of living on a Caribbean island while finishing the concerto.

  “Why didn’t Uncle Bruno leave everything to Ms.—” sex slave “Ms. Braverman?”

  “He didn’t confide his reasons to me when he drew up this will.”

  Cal tipped his head back and considered the crown moldings. “He left me his girlfriend, in effect.”

  “No. That was not the nature of their relationship.”

  “They slept together.”

  “Actually, I don’t know that.”

  Cal’s chin dropped. “Wait. She was his sex slave but they didn’t have sex?”

  Lyon rubbed his chin slowly. “A master-slave relationship can take many forms. I observed your uncle and Ms. Braverman at The Club, but I—”

  “The club?”

  “Your uncle was a member of The Club, as am I.”

  Cal could hear Lyon’s stress on the words, as though the club was actually called “The Club.” “A kinky sex club?”

  “A private club for adults who share an interest in BDSM.”

  Cal’s mouth curved up on one side. “Like I said.” He glanced around the office. “Could I change my mind and have that coffee now? I need to fiddle with something.”

  “Of course.” Lyon went around to the desk, spoke into the phone, then returned to his chair by Cal. “It’s a lot to take in.”

  Cal’s fingers tapped the arm of his chair. “Yeah, you can say that again.”

  Lyon’s secretary brought in the coffee tray, fussed with the cups and saucers, explained how the French press worked, and left.

  As soon as Cal had a spoon in his hand, he felt better. More in control. Not a conductor’s baton, but better than having his hand free. He stirred his coffee with a lento rhythm.

  “Okay. Let me see if I have this straight,” he said. “I’m suddenly rich, or will be after probate is completed.”

  Lyon dipped his chin, an almost-nod.

  “There are no restrictions on the bequest. No High Gothic language about my only getting the money if I agree to live with this woman—Ms. Braverman—for a year or whatever.”

  “No, nothing like that.”

  “But it’s her home. Uncle Bruno would know I couldn’t just kick her out. Can I give her the house?”

  “Technically, you’d have to sell it to her for a nominal sum, but yes, after probate, you could do that.”

  “Why can’t she continue to live there and I—live somewhere else?”

  Lyon’s gaze, cool and keen, held Cal’s for a long moment. “I’ve looked at your financial situation, so I know how close to eviction you are. As the executor, it’s my job to ensure that Bruno’s wishes are respected. He wanted you in the Georgetown house, preferably with Sara. You don’t have to move in, but as the executor, I don’t have to advance you any funds in anticipation of probate.”

  Probate. That was the sticking point. Cal was going to be rich, but he wasn’t rich yet.

  “So until probate, I only get money if you deem it appropriate?”

  “I have the sole power to advance funds within reason. For example, to maintain the Georgetown house. Say, twenty thousand? Each month, that is.” Holy shit. That was more than Cal had made in the last year. “Of course, you only get that as the occupant of the house. And I can’t advance funds to Ms. Braverman no matter where she’s living. If you aren’t living in the house, she will have to vacate the premises.”

  Crap. “Okay, so I can move in, and she wouldn’t have to move out, but if I don’t move in, she can’t stay.”

  “That’s approximately the case, yes.”

  “And she won’t think it odd that she’s been passed along to her former, uh, friend’s nephew.”

  “I really can’t say what Ms. Braverman will think.”

  “Were she and my uncle in love?”

  Lyon shook his head slowly. He didn’t speak. No, they weren’t in love? Or, no, Lyon doesn’t know if they were. Cal didn’t bother asking.

  Finally, Cal shrugged. “Okay.”

  The lawyer’s eyes narrowed. “Okay?”

  “Okay, I’ll take Ms. Braverman along with the house and the rest of it. I figure we can be roommates for however long it takes for probate to clear. Then I’ll decide whether to let her have the house. I mean, even if probate happened tomorrow, I can’t decide that until I’ve gotten to know her. She could be an opportunist who was just in it for the money.”

  “Not Sara,” Lyon started to say.

  “Hey, you’ve met her. I haven’t.” Cal stood up. “When can I move in? I’ll have to go back to the Catskills and pack, but you were right—I’m happy to have a rent-free place to live.”

  “As soon as you like. I have the keys here, and I’ll transfer funds into your checking account as soon as you give me the details.”

  Just like that, all Cal’s money worries disappeared. He wasn’t getting evicted. He was moving south.

  CHAPTER 2

  Sara peered out the windows, looking for a car. No idea what that man
drove, so it was a futile gesture but it gave her something to do.

  According to Mac, Master’s nephew had packed up his home in New York and would arrive this afternoon. She looked over at her suitcase sitting at the foot of the stairs. She could leave now, but that seemed rude. She’d greet this guy, explain about the pantry door that stuck when it rained, then leave. She had a room booked at the Sofitel. Five minutes with Master’s nephew and she was out the door.

  She perched on the arm of the sofa, her eyes trained on the street.

  What had Master Bruno been thinking? They’d discussed him sharing her with other Doms and she’d been reluctant, which Bruno said was fine with him. He had no trouble accepting that as a hard limit in their agreement. So why did he write his will that way? Who was this nephew that Bruno had picked to get everything—including her?

  Sara twitched the curtains back into place and resumed pacing the floor. Bruno’s death had been a shock, of course, and she did miss him. Sort of. Their arrangement had worked well. They had their separate lives until Sara got home each afternoon, then they played their parts until it was time to go to bed. Alone, in different bedrooms, on different floors. They hadn’t been emotionally close, but Sara had trusted him and been comfortable with their relationship.

  Relationship.

  Hah. If the neighbors only knew the nature of that relationship.

  Bruno’s house was on a quiet Georgetown street lined with old money and new political power couples. Sara knew the nosy biddies on their block assumed she was either a beard (because a middle-aged single man in possession of a good fortune must be gay) or a wanton hussy looking to marry a rich man with a bad heart. None of them could possibly have guessed what Sara had really been to Bruno.

  She couldn’t sit still, so she went over to the mantel and twitched a small jade statue into place. She’d been in the house for two years, and still no one knew who she was or why Bruno kept her.

  Sara loved leaving the house dressed for work in an Armani suit and running into one of the bored neighbors. The politician’s wife or lobbyist’s mistress would be wearing Neiman Marcus active wear, pretending to go for a run while really checking to see who had new window treatments. There’d be a moment, a frigid exchange of phony smiles, and Sara could almost read the “WTF?” in the other woman’s mind. Why did a rich man who stayed at home keep a young woman who worked?

  Too bad Sara was leaving. She’d have thrown a party for Calder Raynes, renowned composer. “Bruno’s nephew, you know,” she could have said as she introduced him to the local barracudas. Sara laughed at the image. He was a good-looking man, according to Google Images. He’d be chum, a tasty morsel in the local feeding frenzy for gossip, if she introduced him as a single man and Bruno’s heir.

  Sara paced all the way around to Bruno’s study, where even the books seemed imbued with his scent. He’d been her first Dom and master. He’d showed her how it could be done, to live a “normal” life when they weren’t in his beautifully-appointed dungeon. She’d go to work, be the competent professional, then come back to this house, kneel and serve him. That he was—had been—old enough to be her father, well, maybe that had been part of his allure.

  The age difference also meant that her heart hadn’t been involved. She missed him deeply, but if she was completely honest, she missed having him top her more than she missed him as a person. After all, they’d hardly talked about anything mundane. And they never met as equals. No intimate dinners out, no romance, no hearts and flowers. Just a wonderfully kinky relationship, all spelled out in a contract.

  What the hell had Bruno been thinking, leaving her to his nephew like she was a particularly fine bit of furniture? She’d asked Mac—he’d insisted she call him Mac outside The Club—but he’d just shrugged. “Bruno didn’t say much on that point,” was all she got.

  A noise at the back of the house startled her. Then she recognized it. That man was letting himself into the house from the garage. Why had she thought he’d ring the front doorbell? It was his house now. Mac must have given him a key.

  She made her way to the kitchen where she leaned against a counter, elaborate in her effort to look casual.

  She was expecting the lean face and shock of dark hair, but he was enormous. Not fat. Tall. Really tall. She was five-ten. From the angle of her head looking up at him, he had to be six-five, easy.

  “Ms. Braverman?” One dark eyebrow rose, giving him a sardonic look. God, he was good-looking. Gorgeous dark eyes under those slashing eyebrows, straight nose, firm chin and wide mouth. His lips were curled in an almost-smile that reflected the absurdity of the situation.

  “Mr. Raynes?” She attempted a polite expression.

  “Cal, please.” He held out a hand.

  She shook his hand—large and elegant, with strong fingers. She loved men’s hands, the way they flexed as they were fastening restraints or stroking her flesh.

  She looked up at his face. His smile was restrained, even cool. It made the skin around her nipples crinkle and her cheeks flush. Maybe he was a Dom. Maybe this was a set-up by her master.

  Wait, had he said something? Oh, right. She was to call him Cal. Not a Dom, then. Or rather, not one who insisted on high protocol.

  “May I get you some iced tea?” She checked the clock. Close enough to “grown-up drink time,” as Master Bruno had called it. “Perhaps something stronger?”

  “Iced tea would be great, thanks. I should get my bags in from the car.” He placed a computer bag and another piece of luggage on the floor near the door leading to the front hall.

  Sara fussed with fresh mint and a tall glass of unsweetened tea over ice cubes. She fetched a napkin, the sugar bowl, a small plate in the wafer-thin china Bruno had brought back from a trip to Japan, and a long-handled spoon. She considered the kitchen table with its view overlooking the terrace and gardens, but it wasn’t formal enough. She loaded everything onto a tray and carried it into the parlor overlooking N Street. She felt the door from the garage open behind her as she walked to the front of the house.

  She put the tray on the coffee table in the parlor and turned in time to see Cal place two large suitcases next to hers at the foot of the stairs. When he bent over, she could see he had a very fine ass. She imagined him naked, his lean muscles flexing with the effort of carrying his luggage. Or carrying her over his shoulder. Her mouth went dry.

  He joined her. “You’re not having any?” He pointed at the tray.

  Sara stared at his hand, unable to think of anything other than how graceful his gesture was. “What? Oh, no, thank you.”

  She expected him to get right to the point, but his attention had fallen on Bruno’s Steinway.

  “Did he play?” Cal walked over to the instrument, brushing his fingers on the keys.

  “Yes. Not often. But he kept it in tune.”

  Cal reached both hands toward the keyboard, his fingers spread like he was going to start playing. Instead, he closed the lid over the keys slowly. She guessed he had to remove even the temptation. He turned back to face her.

  They stood awkwardly for a long moment before Sara realized he was too well-bred to sit before she did. She fell into one of the Queen Anne chairs. He took the sofa.

  “Did Mr. Lyon explain Uncle Bruno’s will to you?” He picked up the spoon and held it. Didn’t stir his iced tea, which he hadn’t sweetened. Just held the spoon.

  She nodded. His dark eyes seemed to skewer her in place, making it hard for Sara to think about anything other than what it would be like to submit to this man. As Master Bruno had clearly intended her to do.

  She looked at her suitcase, slightly battered from work travel. Reassuringly full and ready to go. She thought of Master Bruno.

  Sorry, Master.

  She wasn’t going to go along with that crazy condition in the will. Mac had said it wasn’t binding. She’d make polite conversation for a few more minutes, then leave for the hotel.

  Cal took a long drink of iced tea. “What are
your plans?” His voice was very precise, each word perfectly formed.

  “I’ve packed—not everything, but enough for a week or so, until I can find an apartment of my own. I stayed to welcome you and give you my keys.”

  He took another drink, frowning at her words. “But this is your home.”

  She looked around. Was it her home? She’d lived here for almost two years, sure, but was that enough to make it a home?

  “I can live someplace else. It’s your house now.” She could hear the uncertainty in her voice, even though what she said was obvious. She didn’t have a claim on the house or his hospitality. Now, if he said he wanted to keep her, as Master Bruno had, that might be a different matter…

  Her eyes opened wide at the thought. She’d only just met this man. Insanity to think about him that way.

  They stared at each other. She had no idea what he was thinking. His expression was unreadable, and just for a second he reminded her of Bruno. They looked nothing alike, but Cal had a similar self-contained demeanor. As though he had it all worked out in his mind and would tell her what to do when the time was right.

  Then Cal looked down as he set the glass on the cork-lined coaster. She watched the condensation trickle down the sides.

  He sat back, crossed his legs and clasped his hands in his lap. “You should stay. Mac Lyon says I can deed the house to you after the estate clears probate but I can’t just let you stay here alone. And, to be honest, I need to live here. I was this close to getting evicted when I learned of Uncle Bruno’s will.” His hands lifted briefly, made a vaguely musical gesture and settled in his lap again. “Okay, like you I can live elsewhere. But as executor, Mac controls the purse strings. So it’s this house or nothing.”

  Sara gave her head a sharp shake. “Where were you living before Mast—before your uncle died?” She couldn’t call him Bruno out loud, she just couldn’t.

  Cal smiled, then gave a self-mocking sigh. “Terrible place. It’d been advertised as a ‘cottage.’ Actually it was hardly more than a shack. I’m still amazed it had electricity. I should have had a clue when the lease specified that I pay for heat. I started to compose The Icicle Cantata in January once I figured out which percussion instrument could generate the sound of chattering teeth.”