by Madeleine Oh
Sassy nodded. He couldn’t reschedule. No problem. She could use the free time this afternoon to write up a draft of her first article. She’d at least have an outline to show Bryce on Monday.
Neither of them stepped away.
“When can I see you again?” Sassy asked.
“I’ll be working tomorrow and Tuesday, pretty much dawn to dusk. How’s Wednesday?”
“An eon away. I’ll ache for you every night until then.”
He smiled, the familiar warmth kindling in his eyes. “You’ll ache for me even more come Wednesday night.”
Sassy’s legs quivered, threatening to drop her to her knees. Her nipples tightened, and her stomach clenched. She longed to be spread before him, tied to his bed or across a whipping bench, as he wrung scream after scream from her, plumbing the depths of her passion.
He wrapped an arm around her shoulders and guided her back to the lobby of the hotel. “I’ll walk you to your car.”
The chill of her duplicity shocked her out of her passionate daydream. If she told him she’d walked to the party, he’d want to drive her home. She couldn’t let that happen. If he saw where she lived, he’d know she couldn’t afford the Briar Rose fees. Then he’d want to know where the money had come from. And she’d have to tell him why she’d gone to the party.
“Sasha?” he prompted.
She’d stopped, forcing him to stop, too. Now he was looking at her with concern.
“I walked to the party. But I don’t feel like going home. I think I’ll go shopping instead.”
“For anything in particular?”
“Mmm, something to wear Wednesday.”
Michael laughed. “I know just the place. I’ll drive you.”
* * * * *
Sighing, she left the store and walked home. Before leaving the brunch, she’d changed into her dress and strappy shoes. Now the humid air caused the fabric to cling damply to the small of her back, and tangle awkwardly between her legs. The thin dress seemed to grow heavier with every block.
She spent the rest of the day working on her article for South Beach Sun Daze, struggling to find the right balance between titillation and dry facts. Shortly before midnight, she finally gave up, filled with a new respect for the journalists at the paper. She drifted off to sleep with dreams of a future where her skillfully worded articles of one woman’s adventures in BDSM lured both readers and advertisers to the paper, while safely protecting everyone involved behind a screen of impenetrable anonymity. Then she slid into the arms of Morpheus, and dreamed of all the ways Michael had yet to master her.
Monday morning, after her morning yoga stretches worked the stiffness out of her muscles and a thick cup of coffee opened her eyes, she grabbed the pages of her article and headed for the office. She’d type it up on the office computer, then show it to Bryce.
He was waiting for her, bolting out of his office in the back and reaching her desk at the front of the reception area before she’d had a chance to sit down.
“Well? Did you decide? Article or review?”
“Actually, I was thinking I’d do the article.”
“Yes!” Bryce pumped his fist exuberantly, earning curious glances from the reporters already at their desks.
“But not the one you’d suggested.”
Bryce’s glee evaporated. “What do you mean?”
“Instead of an exposé , I was thinking of more of a human-interest story.” Sassy looked at exotic leather and lace costumes in the erotic boutique Michael drove her to. Her pulse quickened at the thought of Michael kissing and licking her exposed skin, teasing her flesh with gentle lashes and stinging slaps. But even the cheapest outfit on the clearance rack was well outside her price range.
“Human-interest? I wanted edgy and provocative, not wholesome family fare. We’re trying to gain readers, not put the ones we already have to sleep.”
Sassy’s cheeks blazed. The background hum of telephone conversations and clacking keyboards fell silent as everyone watched them.
“I can’t discuss this here,” she protested. “Can we go to your office?”
Bryce glanced at his slim gold watch, reminding her of Michael’s pragmatic timepiece. The sudden hunger that gripped her stole her breath away. But more surprising than her physical need for Michael, she was filled with a desperate desire to keep him safe, to protect him. The cops would never call on him because of anything she said in the paper.
Bryce shook his head. “No, I’ve got a meeting. I won’t be free until two o’clock. We can talk over lunch.”
“You’re buying?”
“If you review the restaurant.”
“Deal.”
Chapter Seven
By the time two o’clock rolled around, Sassy had typed, proofread, and printed her first draft of the article. It was the story of a submissive, S., and the Master, M., who helped her explore her undiscovered sexuality. Hopefully, readers would assume the S. and M. stood for submissive and Master, rather than their real names. Even so, the style was different enough from her usual smart-mouth attitude as Sassy D. that no one should connect the two.
She folded the papers and tucked them into her purse. She’d show them to Bryce after lunch, after she’d had a chance to warm him up to the idea.
He joined her at her desk. “Ready? There’s a new bistro on Ocean Boulevard that’s supposed to be a very trendy watering hole.”
Sassy laughed. “Everything on Ocean is trendy.”
“Ah, but this is trendy for locals, not just tourists.”
“Should be good, then.”
Bryce drove them to the bistro, easily finding a parking space now that the lunch crowd was gone. Some tourists were still lingering, though, watching the activity in the park across the street. A portable generator chugged rhythmically, cables snaking away from it to power lights, fans, and a variety of black and silver boxes whose purposes escaped her. Beautiful women relaxed in tall director’s chairs as makeup artists touched up their faces, listening intently to a tall man dressed in a formfitting black shirt and tight black pants. His black ponytail, bound in a black Hair Glove, reminded her of Michael, making her body instantly hot and eager for his touch.
They took seats at a marble-topped table shaded by a market umbrella where they could face the action.
“What’s going on?” she asked their waiter when he brought menus to them.
“They’re shooting a perfume ad. For Ocean Breezes.”
“Never heard of it.”
“It’s new. Some movie star is endorsing it. They wouldn’t say who, though. It’s supposed to be a big secret. Are you ready to order, or do you want your drinks first?”
Sassy glanced over her menu, quickly deciding on iced tea and gazpacho. She needed something cold to counteract the heat that thoughts of Michael were generating.
After they ordered, Bryce turned to her and rested his chin in his palms. “Well?”
“You know who Briar Rose caters to.”
“The A-list.”
“The A-list who are into BDSM.”
“Yeah.” He leered at her. “And our readers want the vicarious thrill of knowing what they do behind closed doors.”
“What if you got a series all about what exactly went on behind those doors?”
Bryce’s eyebrows lifted. “I thought you weren’t going to do an exposé?”
“I’m not. My articles would follow one person, starting from her introduction to the scene, and describe everything that happened to her.”
“You?” He frowned. “You said you’d review the Briar Rose party only if there was no dating and no sex.”
“I changed my mind once I got there.”
His gaze dropped to her clinging “Goddess” T-shirt, noting how her nipples had pebbled just talking about the party.
“So I see.”
Sassy reached into her pocketbook and withdrew her article, sliding it across the table to him. “Here.”
The waiter arrived with their d
rinks. She traced condensation circles on the table as Bryce read, eventually tearing her gaze away from his expression and forcing herself to look at the activity in the park. He’d tell her what he thought of the story when he finished.
The man in black gestured fluidly with one hand, catching Sassy’s attention. She recognized the graceful ease of movement. Then he turned, and she saw his profile. Michael.
Her body kicked into overdrive. He’d said he’d be working, but she’d never thought to ask what he’d be photographing, or where.
His face glowed with intensity, his passion for his art evident in every line of his body. The two models listened to his explanation with rapt attention, their eyes slightly glazed and their glistening raspberry lips parted.
Sassy wanted to go over there and slap them for poaching. He was hers.
But he wasn’t. He couldn’t be, until she could be honest with him.
As if he felt her eyes upon him, Michael turned, scanning the crowd in the bistro. His gaze passed over her, then returned, his eyes widening. They smiled at each other, the rest of the world dropping away as they traded hungry promises with their eyes.
“This is great!” Bryce brought her back to reality with a snap.
She turned to face the editor. “You really think so?”
“Well, not the writing. That’s still rough. But I’ll work on that with you. The story, though. That’s great. You’ll take our readers along on your sexual journey of discovery. They’ll be right with you every step of the way. We’ll have advertisers wetting themselves to place ads on those pages.”
Bryce smiled dreamily.
“It’ll be anonymous,” she warned.
“Of course.”
She lifted her half-empty glass of iced tea, and he clinked the rim of his lemon water against it.
“Deal,” she said.
Michael’s voice cut through the quiet. “No, no, no! Jeannette, turn to your LEFT, and extend your RIGHT hand. Palm UP!”
Bryce glanced over at the park, his expression quickly sharpening in interest. “Do you know who that it? Jack Jackman. He’d be A-list if he ever went to parties. Rumor has it he’s still in the closet.”
Sassy stared at her boss in shock. Michael, gay? “Why?”
“There’s no shortage of beautiful woman who’d sleep with him in an instant if he’d shoot their portfolio. But he doesn’t bite.”
Sassy hid a smile behind a sip of tea. Oh, he bit all right. She could still feel his teeth sinking into her shoulder as his cock plowed into her from behind. She shifted restlessly on the hard wooden slats of her chair.
Oblivious to her discomfort, Bryce continued with his story. “Last year, he did finally date one, a hungry up-and-comer that rumor had it would do anything to advance her career. A few weeks later, they broke up, and she suddenly had enough money to move to LA and start a career as an actress. The story is he couldn’t get it up with a girl, and he paid her off so she wouldn’t tell anyone.”
Sassy blinked. Michael was insatiable. He didn’t have a problem getting it up, he had a problem keeping it down. God, she’d lost count of how many times he’d made love to her over the weekend.
She wondered at the source of this rumor. His friends at the Briar Rose party had clearly known the details of his breakup, and that he was heterosexual. But they’d also called him Michael, his real name, rather than the name he used for his art.
Jack was his cover. A gay man still in the closet. People would think they’d guessed his secret, and not probe any deeper to uncover his BDSM lifestyle.
Bryce sucked in a quick breath. “He’s coming this way. How do I look?”
“Fine,” she answered without looking at her boss. Instead, she turned toward the park. Michael was heading straight toward her.
If Bryce found out they knew each other, she’d blow Michael’s cover. She couldn’t do that to him. Bryce lived for gossip. If he knew the truth about Michael, everyone in Miami would know.
She met Michael’s gaze as he waited on the other side of Ocean to cross the street. The heat in his eyes both thrilled and terrified her. If Bryce saw that, he’d guess Michael’s secret for sure.
Locking gazes with him, she waited until she was certain she had his full attention. Then she hardened her expression and turned her face away. From the corner of her eye, she saw his brows crease in confusion. But he was still crossing the street as soon as the light changed, heading for her table.
She twisted slightly in her chair, turning her shoulder toward him. She couldn’t signal any more clearly that she didn’t want to talk to him.
Bryce practically stopped breathing when Michael stopped in front of their table.
“Mr. Jackman, I’m a huge fan of your work. The photos you did for A Dozen Dead Rats were inspired.”
“Thank you. It’s a pleasure working with young, vibrant musicians.” The polished response contained none of the passion and excitement that had filled his voice when he discussed his work with her. “And you are?”
“Bryce Fontaine, editor of South Beach Sun Daze. We’d love to interview you, if—”
“I don’t do interviews.” His cold gaze speared Sassy’s heart. “Are you a Sun Daze reporter?”
“No.” Oh God, this was worse than she’d feared. But how could she reassure him without letting Bryce know they were acquainted? “My name’s Sassy. I’m the restaurant reviewer.”
Bryce chuckled meaningfully. “Oh, she’s much more than that. Her new series…”
Sassy kicked him under the table. Belatedly, he remembered that her articles were supposed to be anonymous.
“…is going to be fantastic. A totally different kind of review.”
Fury smoldered in Michael’s eyes, but his blandly polite facial expression never changed. “I’m sure. If you’ll excuse me, I need to check the visual composition of my shoot, and this is the best angle and distance. I’ll be out of your way in a moment.”
He turned to face the park, lifting his hands before his eyes in a framing square like a Hollywood director. A moment later, he dropped his hands, muttered, “Too much green,” and stalked back to the park.
Sassy let out the breath she’d been holding. Michael’s quick thinking had invented a plausible reason for why he’d come over to their table. His secret was safe. But her secret was out. She wanted to cry. She’d known their relationship would end if she wasn’t able to be truthful, but she’d inadvertently implied something even worse than her real reason for being at the Briar Rose party. Now Michael probably thought she was trying to get material for an interview, to lift herself up through the ranks at the paper.
Her gazpacho settled in her stomach with a greasy chill that had nothing to do with the quality of the food. Now, on top of everything, she was going to have to foot the bill for dinner at the bistro, to give it a fair review.
Back at the paper, she waited for the office to clear out. Most of the reporters only worked part-days, since there wasn’t that much news in a weekly paper, even with the additional articles for the website. Bryce had an understanding with the reporters that they could use the additional time to write freelance articles for other papers or magazines, so long as they weren’t in direct competition with Sun Daze, and they turned in their primary assignments for him on time. It allowed him to keep a higher caliber of writer for the pay he was willing to give them. But while they were in the Sun Daze offices, they were supposed to be working on Sun Daze material.
Sassy only cared that this gave her relative privacy to call Michael’s answering machine.
“Jack Jackman, Fashion Photographer. Leave your name, number and message at the beep, and I’ll call you back.”
“Michael, hi. It’s Sasha. I’m sorry about what happened today. That wasn’t how I wanted you to find out. Remember, on the patio at the party, I told you how I was worried about work? They sent me there to review the party, and a Sun Daze review names names and gives juicy details. After what you said, I realized that c
ould get people in trouble. But I had to give Bryce something, because he’s the one who put up the money for the Briar Rose membership. I convinced him to take a series of anonymous articles about my experience, but I kept your name out of it. If he found out we knew each other, he’d have guessed you were the Master I was writing about. You saw what a blabbermouth he is. I was trying to protect you.”
She paused, wishing she could see his face when he listened to the message. Wishing she knew how he was going to react. She sighed, and hurried to keep speaking before the machine cut her off.
“That doesn’t have anything to do with why I want to see you again on Wednesday. You set me on fire. Please, call me. Let me know if you still want to see me.”
She recited her home and work phone numbers, and fell silent. There was nothing more to say.
The machine clicked and hung up on her, but she continued holding the silent phone to her ear, unwilling to relinquish that last tenuous contact with Michael, until it began bleating its loud, annoying phone-off-hook signal.
She hung up the phone, and tried to focus on her work. Every time the phone rang, her heart leapt, hoping it was Michael. That he’d checked his messages during a break in the shoot and was calling her on his cell. But every time she was disappointed, and it was just people calling to place classified ads, or a video store wanting to be transferred to the advertising department, or a restaurant asking to have the number of copies they received increased.
By the time she went home, she was thoroughly depressed. She tried convincing herself that he hadn’t had a chance to listen to his messages yet. After all, hadn’t he said he’d be working dawn to dusk? But she was afraid that he had listened to her message, and was ignoring her.
He hadn’t called her home number, either. Full dark came, and still he didn’t call. She heated up a package of Ramen noodles, then sat picking at the food rather than eating it. When it congealed into a cold, sticky mass, she gave up and threw it out. If she got hungry later while she was out clubbing, she could always chow down on pretzels from a sympathetic bartender.
Opening her closet door, she stared unseeing at the clothing. Tonight was Monday. Tantra. A wild orgy of self-indulgence. Everything would remind her of Michael. She couldn’t go.