by Devon Hart
His eyes dim. “When?”
Yes, I’ve fantasized about this. Yes, I’d fuck him. And yes, he reminds me of Foster. “Halloween.”
“Is that a guarantee?”
“Maybe,” I say, knowing I can’t really commit to anything. “It’s time for me to go home now.” I’ve endured enough stimulation, ventured further than I ever dreamed possible. I need a hot chocolate, my warm bed, and a good book to regain control.
“I’m disappointed, Erin.”
“Don’t be,” I say. “You’ve made a lasting impression.”
He studies me for a long moment. “Before I walk you to the front doors, I’d like to stop a couple places first.”
I agree, and he escorts me out of the den and down another hallway. “Welcome to the gallery,” he says, taking my arm.
My gaze wanders freely, discovering hooks and ropes hanging from the ceiling. Then I notice a naked woman on all fours, gagged and tethered to the floor. A man with a paddle is standing behind her, and I stare unblinking, completely fascinated. It doesn’t faze me when the paddle connects with her ass and her muted cries sound. Her partner strikes her again and again. I edge closer, eyeing the red angry welts on her pale cheeks. She writhes and cries, surging backward, seeming to beg for more.
Excitement rushes through me, nearly as intense as what I felt watching Catalina. But in here, where only a few people are watching, I feel more comfortable. It’s like a scene from one of the novels I’ve read in secret.
There’s more, and Jeffrey catches my hand. “This way,” he whispers.
In the corner, a woman is strapped to a wall by her ankles, thighs, wrists, and neck. A couple stops in front of her. The woman selects a riding crop from a collection hanging on the wall and whips her thighs, hard. The restrained woman screams, her pleasure sweet and painful. Now the man kisses her.
“An established team,” Jeffrey explains. “Elise is their submissive.”
I nod in acknowledgement, completely inspired by their undaunted display of lust and affection. His fingers wander down Elise’s front, pinching her nipples, then continue lower, until he thrusts a finger inside her.
“Do you want to come, Elise?” he asks.
“Yes.” She can barely speak.
“Ask,” the woman commands.
“May I come, mistress?”
The woman grips the riding crop in her right hand and thrusts the handle between Elise’s thighs. Her hips buck and she tosses her head back, her orgasm fast to follow.
“You enjoy watching.”
“Yes,” I admit, facing Jeffrey. I see the arousal in his eyes. “I never knew.”
“How could you, you’ve never been given a chance to tap into your own sensuality. Whatever happens here is mutually agreed upon. Some teams have been together for years.”
“Like you, Jessica, and Dinah?”
“Yes.” He doesn’t hesitate. “But I’m not the only man they sleep with.”
“But there are monogamous relationships here?”
“We prefer exclusive.”
“Exclusive,” I repeat.
“Yes.” He lifts my hand to his lips. “You could inspire a man to make a long-term commitment, Erin.”
“I could?”
“Easily.”
He guides me out of the gallery, down the hallway, and into a lavish office. I wait for him in the doorway while he searches for something inside a desk. He mumbles and finally brandishes a folder, then slams the drawer shut. “Place should be better organized.”
“What’s in the file?” I ask.
“Worksheets.”
“Are you giving me a test?”
“Someone should have given you this orientation packet before you attended a platinum party. Everything you need to know is here. Create your own experience, or you’ll feel like everything is simulated.” He offers me the folder. “I’m holding you to that promise, Erin.”
I flip through the documents while he makes a quick call. The first page says, Be filled with creativity and spontaneity. Challenge your fears. Resist the temptation to remain silent. Who wrote this propaganda?
“Erin?”
I look up.
“Your driver is ready.”
We take a couple steps, but then I stop him.
“Change your mind about leaving?”
“No, I just forgot to ask you something.”
“Anything.”
“Hold up your hands, please.”
“Do you have a hand fetish?” he asks but happily complies.
I sigh, thrilled with what I see. If Katie’s advice holds true, Jeffrey falls somewhere in the middle—not too big and definitely not too small.
Chapter 12
Erin
Thank God Katie is sleeping when I get home. I kick off my heels and collapse on the sofa, gazing at the family portrait of Dad, Mom, and me hanging over the fireplace, the one they insist I keep. If they only knew . . . I wouldn’t have to worry about marrying Thomas, I’d be disinherited and disowned. What am I going to do? Surrender to the growing need inside, or contain it like a butterfly in a jar?
I struggled for breath inside the public room. But Catalina inspired me. I can’t separate myself from what I felt, listening to her moans and cries or forget the tiny spasms inside my belly after her hands were secured and Robert made her beg for sex. I close my eyes, experiencing the same excitement again. I’m miserable, not relieved. More horny. More desperate to indulge my body.
My cell chimes and I reach inside my purse. Foster?
“Hello?” I ask.
“You’re up late.”
“I-I couldn’t sleep.”
“Why? Thinking about our lunch date?”
“Not exactly . . .” If he only knew I’m lusting after a man who looks just like him. It’s so strange.
“Let me come over, Erin.”
“Now?”
“Yes.”
With Katie in the guest room, I’m safe. “As long as you promise to behave like a gentleman.”
“Scout’s honor.”
I laugh, knowing Foster was never a Boy Scout.
“Be right there.” He disconnects.
“Wait!” I get dial tone.
Twenty minutes later, I’m dressed in shorts and a T-shirt waiting for Foster on my front porch. His sleek black Jaguar creeps into my driveway and my heart races. Why did I let him come over tonight? Time alone, wasn’t that my excuse for leaving the party so early? I had to get away though.
Maybe Foster will help me relax. I just might hold him to watching a chick flick, something heart-wrenching and classic like Bridges of Madison County or even better, Madame Bovary. That’s who I am, a faithless, soon-to-be-wife seeking pleasure in the arms of another man, one I haven’t picked yet.
Shit! The folder Jeffrey gave me is sitting on my coffee table. It’s too late to run inside but if Foster finds it . . . He waves as he gets closer. He’s wearing dark jeans and an extra-slim French-cuffed button-up that hugs his pectorals. Unbearably appealing, especially when I’m about to run inside and go a couple rounds with my vibrator.
“Good evening, Legs.” His grin is infectious.
“Eyes here.” I gesture at my face. “Maybe I should change into something with zippers and pad locks.”
He chuckles and opens his arms. “I know how to pick locks.”
We hug, his body heat more welcome than I imagined.
“You feel right in my arms, Erin.”
I pull back. “Remember what we discussed?”
“Rules you never clarified.”
“Hugs and kisses on the cheek are appropriate.”
His mouth drops open, but his eyes sparkle mischievously. “What a
bout here?”
Before I can get away, our lips connect. So soft, different from Jeffrey’s kiss, yet so reminiscent of what I experienced tonight. And here, that’s what Jeffrey said as he caressed me between the legs. I shiver.
“Cold?” he asks.
“No-no, exhausted.”
He turns to my driveway. “Who drives the BMW?”
“My best friend, Katie.”
“She’s here?” A flash of irritation shows on his face.
“Asleep in the guest bedroom.”
He rubs his chin, shadowed by a couple days’ worth of stubble. “Do you want to take a walk?”
I shake my head. “How about a movie?”
“Not in the mood.”
“Pizza?”
He checks his watch. “It’s midnight.”
“I’m hungry.”
“Shall we compromise?” he offers.
“What do you have in mind?”
“Quick stroll on the beach and then I’ll order whatever pizza your little heart desires.”
He drives a hard bargain, but if we’re engaging in vigorous exercise, and I can speed walk, there’s less chance he’ll touch me so intimately again. “Deal!” I run, taking advantage. I’m in tennis shoes and he’s in cowboy boots.
The beach is a short sprint away. I reach sand and keep running, happy I hit the elliptical in my office four days a week.
“Better slow down!” he calls from somewhere behind me.
I’m breathless and exhilarated, liking the idea of the chase. “Catch me if you—”
A second later I scream as I hit sand, landing on my stomach.
“Foster!”
He flips me over, hovering above. “Football, remember?”
“Asshole.” I giggle, still trying to catch my breath. Although a steady breeze is blowing, whenever Foster is close, my body boils.
“Erin . . .” There it is again, that hoarse, I-want-to-fuck-you voice.
“You played running back, not tackle.” I try to shift the mood.
“I play lots of positions, Erin. And this happens to be one of my favorites.”
He leans in, nibbling my lower lip, then trails light kisses down my right cheek. My core throbs, pleasure threading through me. No. No. No. I can’t engage in any extracurricular activities outside the club. Penetrative intercourse, but kissing and groping weren’t on that list.
I arch into him, offering him my desperate-for-attention mouth.
“Is that an invitation?” he growls.
“Kiss me.”
He shoves a hand through his hair, then gives me what I need. I breathe in his intoxicating scent, spice and sweat, one kiss melting into another. His tongue sweeps over mine, all my hesitation and doubts gone. I tremble underneath him as he grinds his hips.
“Do you know what you do to me, Erin?” he whispers against my lips. “Feel it?”
I nod in silence, remembering the night in his backyard when I ran away. Amazing what a difference eight years can make. Now I’m begging for him to fuck me, hoping he’ll receive a subliminal message and just do it. One of his hands slips underneath my T-shirt, and he drags a fingernail down my tummy. It’s sweet torture.
“Fuck!”
“What?” I lift my head, surprised by his outburst.
“You’re not wearing panties.” His forehead crashes into mine, and I give up, letting the back of my head drop.
His mouth consumes me while his fingers invade my shorts, tickling the sensitive flesh around my pussy. “You’re a goddamned furnace.”
I writhe and moan like Catalina. Oh God. I’ve gotten my wish. He penetrates me with one finger, fucking me with his hand. Our kiss intensifies and I can’t breathe or think. That tongue, those fingers, his eyes . . . Our gazes lock and I can’t read the expression on his face. Is he angry?
“So wet,” he moans into my mouth. “Fucking wet for me.”
His fingers slam into me. Then he releases my lips, lifts my shirt, and shoves the cups of my lace bra down. “Erin . . .”
He bites my nipple, then circles my areola with his tongue. He moves to my other breast, his eyes dark with desire. “Beautiful.”
Under the influence of whatever dark spell he’s woven around me, I let go, desperate to peak, by his mouth or dick if he’ll give it to me. And when the faint pulse of orgasm starts, I scream.
“Come, baby. Come for me now.”
I ride his hand, unafraid of the consequences that are sure to follow. “Fuck me, Foster.” What did I just say? I close my eyes, lost for what feels like forever.
“Erin?”
Please don’t talk. I can’t move, don’t want to.
“Erin,” he says firmer. “Open your eyes, now.”
I do.
He licks his fingers. “You taste sweet.”
When I think sweet, I think cotton candy and pink lemonade. “Please.” I broke all the rules. Ones I set between us, and I’m pretty sure deep fingering is a type of penetrative intercourse. I’m screwed, in more ways than one.
“We can’t ignore what happened.”
Oh yes we can. We have to. “Please.”
“Begging doesn’t suit you, Erin. You never have to plead for anything.”
“I-I’m sorry.” Not for kissing, not even for sharing my first I-didn’t-give-it-to-myself orgasm with him. I’m sorry for denying him, for depriving myself. I’m too embarrassed to admit it though.
“Have you ever been touched and licked like that before?”
What kind of question is that? How can I screw up laying on my back? Is virgin tattooed on my forehead?
He stands, staring down at me. “Answer me.”
I’m sure I look pathetic sprawled in the sand. “I don’t know what came over me.”
“Is that a no?”
I stare at his chest, the lesser of two evils compared to his eyes.
“Want an explanation?” He smirks.
“No.” I stagger to my feet, brushing sand from my backside. It’s everywhere, in my hair, under my shirt, and in my shorts.
“I need to know, Erin.”
“Why?”
“Because I care.”
I can’t answer. He’ll figure it all out if I do. “Please take me home.”
“All right.” He tucks my hand into the crook of his arm and we walk in silence.
As we approach my condo, I can see Katie sitting on the sofa through the windows. Great, how will I ever explain myself?
Foster halts at the end of my driveway and faces me. “We need to—”
“Tomorrow. Call me in the morning.”
He sighs, then digs his car keys from his front pocket. “Don’t disappear on me again,” he says. “I’ll find you.”
We don’t say anything afterward, just stare at each other until he decides he’s had enough. I watch helplessly as he gets into his car, backs out of the driveway, and speeds away.
I’m bad, really bad. Foster Wagner is not the type of man you trifle with.
Chapter 13
Foster
Stupid motherfucker, I’m drenched in Erin’s scent. Hell, I’m drowning in it. I don’t want to wash my hand for a week. My balls ache. Erin was hot and so fucking tight, and I’m probably the first man to get her off. Her virginity has been a point of contention, but after feeling her and tasting that sweet pussy, I’ve changed my mind.
I pull off the highway, stopping on the shoulder, then slam my hands on the steering wheel. I’ve waited eight years for another shot. Eight. There wasn’t a woman I dated or banged that compared to her. This isn’t just about sex, I want her to trust me, need me.
My phone rings and I fish it out of the center console without looking at calle
r ID. “It better be good, it’s fucking late.”
“Foster?”
“Erin?” Should have checked. “Sorry, baby. I’m not in a great mood.”
“If it makes any difference, I don’t regret what happened.”
“Makes all the difference.” I sigh and close my eyes, imagining her sitting on the edge of her bed naked and touching herself. “I can’t stop thinking about you.”
She takes a deep breath. “Ever since you showed up at my store . . .” Her voice fades.
“What?”
“Never mind.”
“Tell me what you’re thinking, Erin.”
“I kinda lied to you at lunch.”
“About what?”
“Thomas Kingsley.”
Focused on us, I never expected to hear his name, certainly not during this conversation. “Don’t say it,” I growl.
“I don’t have a choice.”
She’s trying to open up to me. I should welcome the truth. But anything that involves Kingsley and Erin isn’t okay. I’d rather shoot him.
“Can you hear me?”
“I’m here.” Barely.
“My parents expect me to marry him.”
“Fuck!” I toss the phone on the passenger seat.
“Foster?”
I hear her, but stare away. Entanglements, the very thing I wanted to avoid. I reach for the cell and hold it to my ear. “Tell me one thing, Erin. Why did you open your legs for me if you’re going to marry him?” Rage uncoils in my stomach.
“I don’t want to be his wife.”
“It’s settled then, we don’t need to discuss it any further.”
“Yes, we do. If I don’t marry him, my parents will cut me off.”
Economics is my first language, but using money as leverage to force your only child to marry someone she despises is a new low. “Don’t do it.”