Crossing the Line

by Megan Hart

  “So you see,” Caite said as she demonstrated, “You have to keep your finger pressed to the screen to record. You only get a few seconds. And then the video records, and it makes a loop.”

  Margeurite Miles was one of the leading concert pianists in the country. She’d forged her name as a child prodigy, performing complicated pieces of music even masters found difficult, and had continued her career by creating an image of herself as something beyond the stereotypical classical musician. Her shows were full of theatrics and special celebrity guests, air cannons of confetti or bubble machines.

  She was also technologically incompetent.

  “Like this?” Mags held up her phone, a brand-new model she’d brought into Caite’s office without even taking it out of the box.

  “No...you have to hold in the... Press on the...” Caite demonstrated.

  Mags tried again. And failed. But she didn’t get frustrated, which was a quality Caite appreciated about her. The older woman wanted to reach out to her younger audience, and if that meant Connex and Buzzvid and Twitter, by golly, she was going to learn how to do it.

  Caite had already gone over how to schedule social media updates and some basic training, but so far Mags was simply not getting it. With a sigh, Caite shook her head. Mags laughed, embarrassed.

  “I’ll practice.” Mags held up both hands, wiggling her fingers. “I’m supposed to be good with my hands.”

  Caite laughed and patted her on the shoulder. “You’ll get the hang of it, I’m sure.”

  “Is our time up?” Mags peered at her phone. “Darn, is the time even right on this thing?”

  “The time should almost always be right on that because it’s supposed to update automatically. Even if you change time zones.” Caite slid a checklist of phone apps and websites across the desk. Normally she’d have emailed it, but Mags never checked her email.

  Still, she’d become one of Caite’s favorite clients. Helping Mags reach and entertain a new audience felt good. As Caite showed the older woman out, Mags shuffled in her purse, pulling out an envelope.

  “This is for you. Two tickets to one of my shows.” Mags looked at her. “You have a date, right?”

  “I think I can find one.”

  “If not, I have a really handsome nephew about your age,” Mags began as they walked down the hall, only to be interrupted by Jamison coming out of his office. “Oh, Mr. Wolfe. Hello!”

  “What’s this about tickets to your show?”

  Caite held up the envelope. “Mags gave us two tickets. She’s trying to set me up with her nephew. Think I can get a better offer than that?”

  “My nephew is very handsome,” Mags said again, “though...now that I think about it, he’s not very funny. Takes after my sister that way, which is really too bad. A man who makes you laugh is a keeper.”

  “I think we can find you someone who can make you laugh,” Jamison said with a straight face, his gaze piercing Caite’s.

  Mags waved a hand as she headed for the lobby, leaving them both behind. “Just so long as he doesn’t make you cry!”

  Caite watched her go, waiting until Mags had turned the corner before facing him. “You do make me laugh.”

  “Good.” He pulled her close for a kiss, nuzzling her neck until she gasped and pushed him away.

  “You’re the one who said we had to be discreet in the office,” Caite muttered, shaking a finger. “Though I’m sure Bobby’s got his suspicions.”

  “Nobody’s here to see us. Mags was your last client of the day. And I told Bobby that once she was gone, he could knock off early, too.” Jamison bent to nuzzle her again.

  Caite held him off and took a step back, out of reach. Since Jamison had been so adamant in the beginning about workplace relationships, she’d made sure to keep any sort of physical hanky-panky to a minimum. Partly to assuage him. Partly to frustrate him. It had been delicious.

  “So you think that you’re going to get lucky in the office? Is that it? A little afternoon delight?”

  “A guy can dream, can’t he?” He flashed her a charming grin that threatened to melt her panties, though she didn’t so much as bat an eyelash to show him how hot she thought it was.

  “Did you finish the list I gave you this morning?”

  And just like that, the inferno that constantly simmered between them flared to life.

  “I did. Come with me.”

  His grin, wide and bright, made Caite melt, mostly because she’d seen him smile at a lot of people, and he didn’t look at anyone the way he looked at her. No man had ever looked at her the way Jamison did. It didn’t only set her on fire. It made her feel adored. Cherished.

  Loved.

  Which scared her, but she wasn’t going to think about that now. Instead she followed him into the conference room, where she let out a small gasp at what lay in front of her. She turned to him, stunned.

  “You...did this? All of this?”

  His smile was her answer. Caite took an unsteady step toward him, not sure if she meant to laugh or cry. Surprise me, she’d told him. He’d done more than that. He’d blown her mind.

  Jamison had set the table with a vase of crimson roses in a crystal vase tied with a thick purple ribbon. The flowers were standard—any woman might love red roses—but the ribbon...that was all Caite. Two plates of thin china, matching the ones she had in her apartment, held thick slices of cherry cheesecake. Her favorite. Two wine glasses filled with red wine. A platter of savory crackers and sliced cheeses, along with small bowls of Greek olives.

  “Cheesecake for dinner?”

  “Dessert first, because you’re the sort of woman who breaks the rules,” he said. “And just a little appetizer. Dinner reservations are for later, at Serrano. And tickets to see that guy you like. The one who plays the guitar.”

  Caite couldn’t move. She tried to breathe and found the best she could manage was tiny sips of air. She was going to burst into tears, and she didn’t want to do that. She swallowed her emotions around the lump in her throat and opened her mouth to thank him.

  “There’s more,” he said before she could say a word. “Open the box.”

  She’d missed the sleek black box, about the size of a cereal box, though made of much heavier cardboard. Another purple ribbon was tied around it in a crisp bow. Caite went around the table to look at it.

  Jamison followed her. “Open it.”

  All at once, she didn’t want to. Her hands shook so much she had to fist them, hiding them in the folds of her full skirt. She couldn’t look at him. He’d done so much, all of it proving he knew her exactly. Whatever was in this box would be more of the same or a disappointment, and Caite was suddenly terrified of being disappointed.

  “Jamison,” she said, but couldn’t make herself continue.

  He fit himself along her body from behind, his hands slipping around her to press flat on her belly and pull her against him. His kiss found the smooth curve of her neck and shoulder. He didn’t nuzzle or try to feel her up. He held her. Offering her his warmth. His support, though he couldn’t possibly know her reason for hesitating. Could he?

  “I’m scared to open it,” she whispered.

  “Don’t be scared.”

  “What if I don’t like it, whatever it is?”

  His gaze, dark with desire, softened. “You wanted me to surprise you. To show I know you. I’m doing the best I can.”

  “And so far, everything...is perfect.” She twisted in his arms to kiss him.

  “Shouldn’t I be the one who’s worried if you won’t like it?” His tone was light, but she saw a hint of seriousness in his eyes. “What if I failed?”

  “What if you didn’t?” Caite asked. “What if you got it just right, because you know me so well?”

  Something was changing between them,
right there in that moment. Caite could feel it. So could Jamison—she saw it in his eyes and heard it in the catch of his breath. She felt it in his mouth on hers, firm yet somehow searching.

  “Open the box, Caite. Please.”

  So she did.

  * * *

  Jamison didn’t imagine her sigh of relief when she undid the ribbon and lifted the box’s lid to reveal a matching bra, panty and garter belt set of black lace and emerald-green satin. Caite lifted the scanty underthings from their nest of crumpled tissue paper, along with the pair of sheer nude stockings. The salesgirl had assured him the nude was better than black—Caite was almost certain to already have several sets of black stockings but might need a neutral pair. It had been a bunch of technical jargon to Jamison, but the girl in the shop had convinced him.

  “You know my size,” Caite said.

  “That was the easy part.” Jamison watched her stroke the material. She was smiling. That was a good sign. “But there’s more.”

  She looked up at him, then set aside the lingerie carefully on the table. She pulled aside the tissue paper. His stomach lurched, waiting for her to discover what else he’d bought. Two items, chosen even more carefully than the stockings.

  Caite pulled out the first and gave a delighted laugh as she held up the red satin and let it run through her fingers. At first she held it to her throat, but before he had to explain what the scarf’s true purpose was, she figured it out. Snapping it taut between her fists, she held it up.

  “A blindfold.” She sounded pleased and, yes, surprised. Something like tears glinted in her eyes for a second before she blinked them away. “How naughty.”

  “There’s one more thing.”

  Brushing the satin against her lips for a second before putting it aside, Caite nodded. This time, when she found the final item, she gasped. Mouth open, she stared at him for a few seconds before getting herself under control. She pulled her hand out of the box and held up what she’d brought out with her.

  Jamison had never been in a sex-toy shop before this morning, when he went in to fulfill Caite’s list. The rows of dildos and vibrators hadn’t turned his head. Nor had the selection of fetish wear, most of it cheaply made. She was worth more than a catsuit that would split at the seams the first time she wore it. He’d about given up, but then in the back room, a separate section of the store run by a different vendor who was renting space, he’d found what he was looking for. Handcrafted of smooth, supple leather. No buckles, but instead thin silk cord wound through punched holes. The cuffs were unique and beautiful, just like Caite.

  But they weren’t for her.

  “Jamison,” she said in low voice, letting her fingers toy with the cords that closed the cuffs. “Oh, my God. Oh.”

  Sewn into the leather’s edge were genuine pearls, three on each cuff. He could’ve special-ordered them with other jewels, diamonds, rubies. Embroidered with his name or hers. But the moment Jamison had seen the pearl-edged cuffs, he’d known they were the ones.

  Caite brought them to her face and sniffed, eyes closed. “I love the smell of leather. I love pearls.”

  “I know.”

  “These are gorgeous,” she murmured, holding the cuffs to her cheek for a second or so before looking at him. “And unexpected. I mean, completely not at all what I was expecting. You really surprised me.”

  When Jamison was closing in on the end of a deal, his world shifted. Vision narrowed. When he had the other guy in his sights, everything going the way he wanted it to, the guarantee of success became so close he could taste it, thick like honey but sweeter. In those moments, winning, he felt as though he were in a different universe. He felt that way now, too, though instead of sweetness, an anxious bitterness teased his tongue.

  “You’d like to use them on me,” he said aloud. He didn’t stutter or stumble; the words came out of him with as much confidence as anything he’d ever said while sealing a negotiation. On the inside, though, everything had gone dark and swimming. Uncertain. “You’d like to bind my hands, Caite. You’d like to get me on my knees with my hands behind my back, using those cuffs.”

  A slow creeping flush eased up her throat to paint her face. She licked her lips, and the sight of her tongue moving across them sent a wave of desire flooding straight to his already half-hard cock. She stroked the leather again, then the shimmering, creamy pearls.

  “And they don’t lock,” she said under her breath, almost as though she were talking to herself. “You’d be bound more by my desire than by the cuffs themselves. Oh, fuck, Jamison. Oh, God, I love them. But will you?”

  Of everything they’d done, her desire to control him in this way had been the one thing he’d felt certain he’d deny her if she asked. The lists, the commands, the hours he’d spent worshipping her body before ever even getting close to achieving his own release—all of that had seemed like something from a dream. If you’d asked him months ago if he’d ever submit sexually to a woman in that way, Jamison might’ve laughed or even thrown a punch, depending on who was doing the asking. Nothing Caite had asked of him had ever felt cheap or abusive or castrating. But this...

  “It’s crossing the line,” he said.

  Caite nodded, then tilted her head to study him. Her eyes were bright, her mouth lush and moist. The quickness of her breathing was echoed in the rise and fall of her shoulders.

  “You’re not sure about it,” she told him. “I understand. And I don’t want to ever force you into something you don’t like. But you bought these for me. You knew how much I would love them even though I’ve never asked this of you. You knew it anyway.”

  “Yes.”

  “This, between us. It’s not a game,” Caite whispered, moving closer. “Is it.”

  “No, Caite.” He kissed her. Hard. Taking it, not asking for it or waiting for permission. His thoughts were rough-and-tumble, his conflicting desires fighting with each other. He didn’t want this to be a game.

  But what did he want, exactly?

  “Take off your clothes,” Caite said in a firm, low voice. She put a hand between them to hold off another kiss.

  He could’ve refused her, but then, that was what turned them both on so much, wasn’t it? That he should have all the power. Bigger, stronger...her boss, for fuck’s sake. But he gave it up to please her, and she took it to please them both.

  Jamison loosened his tie and tugged it free. He took off his jacket and laid it over a chair. Then opened his shirt buttons, one by one, and added his shirt to the pile. His cock had begun to strain at his pants, and when he slipped out of them, the bulge in his briefs drew Caite’s gaze.

  “Hold,” she said in that voice, the darker tone that got him rock hard in seconds. “I want to admire you for a minute.”

  And she did, walking all around him in a circle, occasionally touching him. A light drift of fingers from shoulder to shoulder along his collarbone, then down his center line to the first hint of hair leading into his briefs. Her touch tickled but aroused.

  “So beautiful,” she told him.

  His first instinct was to bristle. Beautiful was a word for women. But when she stopped in front of him to look up at him, no hint of mockery in her gaze, only appreciation, Jamison relaxed into Caite’s adoration.

  “Take off the briefs.”

  He did, slowly, adding a little bump and grind to make her laugh. She did, breathlessly. Her eyes shone.

  “Put this on.” She handed him the blindfold. He tied it over his eyes.

  He stood in front of her naked, cock so hard it tapped his belly when he moved. With the blindfold on, every other sense became slowly heightened. He remembered that first night with her. How she’d urged him to let go and how, though it went against everything he’d ever done, he had.

  “I never thought,” Caite breathed into his ear, “how much I needed th
is until you gave it to me.”

  The leather was smooth on his wrists. When she touched his hands, he put them automatically behind him, crossed at the base of his spine. His heart thundered in his ears. His breath grew short. Once he did this, once he gave in to her this way...

  “Crossing the line.” Her voice teased his ear again. Her lips brushed it. Her touch, gentle but firm, shackled him. “Oh, Jamison, you have made me so, so happy.”

  That made it worth it. To be naked and bound in the conference room where he was usually the king, to make her the queen, instead. Whatever she wanted to do, he was willing to let her. When she told him to get on his knees, he did. Because he...

  “Are you okay?” Caite’s whisper, coming from the side opposite of where she’d been, startled him. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

  He tensed, swallowing against a dry throat. “I know.”

  “What are you thinking, sweetheart?”

  It was the perfect time to tell her that he wanted to make this something permanent between them. Not an office affair they had to hide. It was the perfect time to tell her that he loved her.

  But then the creak of the office door alerted him that they weren’t alone.

  “Holy shit, sorry,” came Tommy’s familiar voice. “Sorry, Caite. Shit, I was just driving past and wanted to see if you’d come with us...”

  Us. Shit. Jamison was on his feet, unable to tear at the blindfold or do a fucking thing with the cuffs on his wrists. He yanked, feeling the silk cord give, thanking every fucking god that would listen and even the ones that wouldn’t that he hadn’t bought the ones with metal buckles.

  “Get out,” Caite said, but it was too late.

  “Hey, look at that,” came Nellie’s voice, full of giggles. Which meant Paxton was right behind her. “Wow!”

  “Sorry,” Tommy said again, and Jamison wanted to rip the guy to shreds. “Nellie, get the hell out of here. This isn’t your business.”

  Caite’s hands were on him, but Jamison shrugged away from her touch, turning, furious and ashamed. He yanked again on the cuffs, hard enough to worry that he might break something in his wrists before he broke the cord. His struggle had loosened them enough, though, so that he could peel one off. He ripped at the blindfold and tossed it down. Breathing hard, feeling sick, he started grabbing at his clothes without looking to see who was still there.