“I promise I’ll be good if you let me loose,” she whispered as I drew down my zipper with exquisite slowness. “These are hurting my wrists.” I knew that couldn’t be true, but it was part of her scene, and so I played my part.
“No. You’ll be good because I say you will.” I freed the cock for her appreciative eyes. Her expression was smoldering now, and when I stripped the sheet from her body, I caught the first scent of her arousal as her hips once again jerked upward.
She wore the sheerest of tank tops and string bikini briefs. From the pocket of my jeans I withdrew a sharp jackknife and carefully cut the garments free, exposing rigid nipples and a honey-blond patch of hair already glistening with moisture. No further words were spoken, but her breathing was loud and labored, and so was mine, in perfect synchronicity.
For what seemed like hours, I built her arousal to a fevered pitch, lavishing her body with slow sweeps of my tongue and teasing her with the cock between her legs but never entering her. She writhed beneath me, and her loud moans were punctuated by the clinking sound of her strains against the handcuffs.
“Please!” she begged, “I can’t stand any more. Please! Let me loose!”
I was so fevered by this time I would have given in long ago were the positions reversed. She must have held this fantasy for a very long time, just like I had, and wanted it to last. With shaking hands, I withdrew the key from my pocket and released the cuffs, careful to leave the restraints open and exposed on the pillows. My voice was trembling too when I dutifully warned her not to try to escape.
“I don’t want to, anymore,” she promised, rubbing her wrists, and the words didn’t sound as though she’d rehearsed them a hundred times in her head. “I just want to touch you, too.”
I was straddling her, still fully clothed but for the exposed cock, and I could see a brief uncertainty in her eyes as she struggled with her choice. It didn’t take long. Despite the temptation, she stuck close to her original script, easing slowly out from under me, eyes fixed on the cock.
“I’m not ready yet,” she said, clearly a lie from the visible pool of sweet-smelling wetness at the juncture of her thighs. “Can I touch you?”
I nodded my assent with the proper wariness, and remained on my knees on the bed as she reached out to stroke the cock. Her eyes closed, and an almost animalistic grunt escaped the back of her throat as she worked it. The push-pull action did wonderful things to my groin, and I had to bite my lip to keep from coming.
She slipped her free hand beneath my black sweatshirt, and I heard her gasp when she found my bare breasts. I couldn’t contain a moan of my own when she pulled and twisted first one nipple, then the other.
After pulling off the sweatshirt, she trailed her mouth over my throat and down to my breasts. She built me up so high I almost didn’t notice her making her way around my body until she was snuggling up against me from behind, one hand still working the cock while the other raked nails over my flesh. She leaned against me, pushing me forward as she lazily guided my hands to grip the bedposts. It was all part of her pleasing me, and I tried not to stiffen though I knew what came next.
In a flash, I realized she must have practiced this part, because she had the cuffs fixed on me before I could blink. As soon as the restraints clamped shut, a surge of excitement shot through me and I soaked the crotch of my jeans.
“You’re my prisoner now,” she cooed into my ear as she pushed me down onto the bed and deftly removed my jeans. The harness followed. I craned my head around to watch her put it on. There’s absolutely nothing sexier than a femme with a strap-on and I almost lost it right there.
When she was ready, her eyes met mine. And then, for a few seconds, she went entirely off script, leaning over to stroke my face with gentle hands, and whisper, “Thank you.”
Our loud pants of anticipation seemed to echo off the walls. She reverted back to the fantasy and pulled me up to my knees, bent me over, and took me hard, thrusting into me so deep I had to grit my teeth to keep from yelling. I was so open and ready I couldn’t hold back, and I came with a shout. Her nails dug half-moons into my ass as I heard her echoing cry of release.
Neither her fantasy nor mine included breakfast. Or being virtually inseparable in the days to follow. I never expected that Client 451 would so quickly capture my heart as easily as she fulfilled my fantasies. But when I gave Stacey that key, I gave her control of more than my body. Lucky for me, her secret fantasy was my dream come true. And I’m wise enough to know when I’ve met my match.
Lea Santos a.k.a. Lynda Sandoval has authored twenty-four award-winning books. Her first teen novel was an ALA Quick Pick for Reluctant Young Adult Readers, a NY Public Library’s “Books for the Teen Age” honoree, National Readers’ Choice Award winner, and was nominated for the prestigious Colorado Book Award. Her works have garnered more than forty awards and list placements and have sold foreign rights in thirteen countries. She’s been featured in People en Español, Writer’s Digest, The Denver Post Book Review, , and more.
Lea’s a former cop and current 911 medical/fire dispatcher. In her spare time (ha!), Lea volunteers at Rainbow Alley, a LGBTQ teen drop-in center.
The Lies That Bind
Lea Santos
Esme Jaramillo wiped her damp palms down the side seams of her slacks and wondered, briefly, if the taupe pantsuit her friends had insisted she wear had been the proper choice for her first—and probably only—television appearance. They’d fussed through a mountain of clothes in her hotel room that morning while she sat in the corner and reviewed her notes, amused by their fashion-plate antics. She supposed the tailored silk ensemble they’d settled on exuded a conservative enough image to offset her controversial topic: human cloning.
Now, if only she could be cloned from Jessica Biel for this talk show appearance, life would be just peachy. A smirk lifted one corner of her mouth as she glanced around the cramped makeup studio located backstage of the set of The Barry Stillman Show.
Four beige walls adorned with framed photos of previous guests surrounded the beauty parlor chair she occupied. A filing cabinet claimed one corner, with a CD player perched atop it. Rolling metal racks behind her held a mishmash of garments, perhaps for guests who had fashion emergencies before they were due onstage. Along with the rescue clothes hung a few smocks smeared with makeup streaks. Before her stood a long countertop stacked with more pots and jars and bottles of cosmetics than she’d ever seen, and above the counter was a huge mirror that framed the reflection of her un-made-up face.
The hot bulbs circling the mirror glared off the lenses of her supposedly hip wire-framed eyeglasses and melted the creamy cosmetics piled before her. If the makeup lights were hot, Esme could only imagine what it would feel like beneath the strong stage lights in front of All Those People. She shuddered, suddenly nervous. At least her parents and her best friends, Lilly and Pilar, would be out there for moral support. She reminded herself to look for their smiling faces in the audience the minute she got out onstage.
Speaking of faces—Esme pushed her glasses atop her head and leaned forward to squint at her own mug. Ugh.
Bland. Boring. That’s how she looked.
It was always how she looked. And her hair—she twisted her head from side to side and arranged the short wisps with her fingers. The close-cropped style had looked great on Halle Berry. Not quite the same effect on Esme. She sat back in the chair until her reflection was nothing but a myopic blur and sighed. Oh well. No one expected female scientists to be attractive anyway. Still, she was grateful a professional would be applying her makeup for the show. A woman could be vain once in her life, couldn’t she?
She glanced at her watch and wondered where the makeup person was. The producer had stuck her head in the room earlier and told Esme she’d go on in fifteen minutes. That didn’t leave them much time.
As if on cue, the door opened, and in walked— Esme plunked her glasses back on the bridge of her nose and turned. Her breath caught. Lor
d, this woman was sex personified. Broad-shouldered and bronze-skinned, the woman wore faded, form-fitting Levi’s, low-heeled black boots, and a tight black T-shirt emblazoned with The Barry Stillman Show in red lettering. And if her mama only knew what images the woman’s shiny black ponytail brought to her mind, there’d be a chorus of Hail Marys uttered in her soul’s defense within minutes.
“Dr. Jaramillo?”
“Yes?” Her hand fluttered to her throat.
“I’m Gia Mendez, your makeup artist,” said the woman, her husky voice smooth as crème de menthe. “You’re the brilliant scientist I’ve been hearing so much about, yes?” She flashed her a movie star smile and extended a long-fingered hand toward her for a handshake.
Esme nodded slowly, ignoring the heated flush she felt creeping up her neck at Gia’s compliment. Disconcerted, she glanced from her face to her hand, then back at her face before she did her part to complete the handshake.
“Dios mío,” she whispered more than spoke as the makeup artist’s warm palm slid against hers. If women like Gia Mendez were commonplace in Chicago, she’d clone the whole darn city and become the hero of the lesbian population. The thought curved her mouth into a smile.
Gia released her hand and asked, “Nervous?” She turned her back to switch the CD player on, filling the room with hot Celia Cruz tunes, then began assembling brushes and pencils and pots of color, her focus on the tools of her trade.
“A-a little,” Esme admitted, content just to watch Gia move about the close quarters they shared. Her movements were skilled and confident, on the androgynous side, but graceful and definitely all woman. This was probably Esme’s one chance in life to have a woman like Gia Mendez lay hands on her, and she was nothing if not thrilled by the prospect.
“It always seems to hit people once I come in to do their makeup.” Gia winked.
Esme’s heart plunged before snapping back up to lodge in her throat. That wink should be classified as a lethal weapon.
“You have my sympathy,” Gia continued, seemingly oblivious to her admiration. “I much prefer remaining behind the scenes.”
Esme pulled herself out of the lust-induced stupor and cleared her throat. “I’ve, ah, never been on television before.” Esme chastised herself. She probably knows that, silly. This focused sexy female attention was rattling her composure. She wasn’t used to it. “It’s not too often a scientist has such an opportunity. I’m really very flattered.” She nudged her glasses up with the knuckle of her pointer finger. “My parents and friends are in the audience.” She cast her gaze down briefly, not wanting to appear too prideful.
Gia peered at her, her expression darkening for an instant before she turned away. Esme wondered if she’d said something wrong, but the moment quickly passed.
“Tell me about your research, Esme—may I call you that?”
“Of course.”
Gia faced her, crossed toned arms over her chest, then leaned back against the counter, a position that accentuated the sculpted muscles in her upper body. The bright lights shadowed the curves of her jawline and glinted off the single diamond stud in Gia’s earlobe. Esme forced her mind from its slack-jawed awe of this woman and back onto her question.
“Research? Research. Yes. Human cloning, that’s what I research.” She laughed lightly, shaking her head. “And, well, it’s a touchy subject.”
“How so?”
“Lots of moral and religious implications. My grandmother prays daily for my soul. She thinks my colleagues and I are trying to play God. If I ever actually clone a human being, I’ll probably be excommunicated from the church.” Esme ran her fingers through her pixie-short locks and shrugged one shoulder.
Gia chuckled, holding several different colored lipsticks next to her cheek. “Sounds like my grandmother. Let me guess. Catholic?”
“But of course,” Esme told her, tone wry. “So, I continue to do the research, but I feel guilty about it.”
Gia leaned her head back and laughed, giving Esme an excellent view of her long dancer’s neck, her straight white teeth. Talk, Esme. Stay on track.
“We’re not necessarily trying to create people, though,” she blurted, averting her gaze from the seductive hollow at Gia’s throat. “There are a lot of other medically plausible reasons to clone human beings, but it’s still a little too sci-fi for most people to swallow.” She wondered when Gia would get to the part where those long fingers touched her face. She was prepped and ready to file away that particular sensory memory for frequent replays.
“Well, I’m sure there are medical reasons. But it is kind of a scary thought, having little duplicates of yourself running around,” Gia conceded. She inclined her head. “Forgive my ignorance if that’s a misconception. I don’t know much about cloning.”
“Don’t apologize. There’s no doubt Hollywood has put a skewed impression out there. It’ll be hard for the stodgy science community to overcome.”
Gia made a rumbly agreement sound deep in her throat, then said, “Take your glasses off for me, Esme.”
Anything else? she wanted to ask. Her cheeks heated. She didn’t usually have such wanton thoughts in the midst of a normal conversation. Then again, she’d never had a conversation with Gia Mendez before.
Esme watched, mesmerized, as Gia picked up a large makeup brush and dipped it into one of the containers. Poofs of face powder launched into the air around the brush, tiny particles dancing in the light. Gia raised perfectly peaked eyebrows at her, reminding Esme of her request. Request? Glasses. Oh, yeah.
“I’m sorry,” she murmured. She removed her frames and folded them in her lap, then closed her eyes while Gia tickled her face with the powder brush. The sweet fragrance reminded her fondly of playing dress-up as a child, back when she still had hope she’d grow up beautiful. She wanted to smile but didn’t, fearing she’d get powder-caked teeth.
When Gia finished, Esme put her glasses back on and waved her hands to fend off the cloud that still hung in the air. “I just hope the audience is open-minded about the topic and not hostile with me.”
Gia stilled. “I…uh, yeah.”
A thick pause ensued, prompting a seedling of discomfort to sprout in Esme’s middle. Was she missing something here?
“Well, you’ll knock ’em dead, I’m sure.”
“I hope you’re right.”
Gia made careful work of capping the powder container and lining up the compacts before looking back at her. “Can I ask you something, Esme?”
“Sure.”
“Do you ever…watch The Barry Stillman Show?”
“Oh, you would ask me that.” She twisted her mouth to the side apologetically. “I’m ashamed to say that I’ve never seen it. I just don’t have much time for television.”
Gia pressed her full lips into a thin line and nodded.
“Why?” Esme asked.
“I’m… No reason. Just wondering.”
It sure sounded like there was a reason behind the “no reason,” but Esme didn’t want to push the woman. Maybe she was just having a bad day. A fight with her undoubtedly gorgeous girlfriend at the breakfast table, perhaps. An ugly pang struck Esme at the thought, and her gaze fell to Gia’s hands. No rings of any kind. No ring marks. She sighed with relief. As if it mattered. Get a life, Esme.
“I must say, I’m impressed, though,” she told Gia. “I didn’t know any of the talk shows still dealt with legitimate topics these days.”
Gia didn’t comment, so Esme went on. “If it’s not people beating each other up or fake transvestites in love triangles, it never seems to make it to daytime TV. At least, that’s what I thought until I was asked on the show.” Esme glanced at her reflection, which jolted her back to the matter at hand. She pressed her fingers to her cheeks and pulled down slightly. “Aren’t you going to do something with my face? I look awful.”
Gia moved in between her and the mirror and spread her legs until she’d lowered herself to Esme’s eye level. Esme folded her hands in her la
p as her heart thunk-thunked in her chest at the proximity. Wasn’t breathing supposed to be automatic? she wondered, as she reminded herself to pull in air.
Gia reached for her face slowly. Long, warm fingers danced along her cheekbones, her temples, then she smoothed the pad of her thumb over her chin. “No, Dr. Jaramillo, you don’t look awful. You look anything but awful.” Her voice was a gentle caress. “You look beautiful just as you are.”
Her heart triple-timed. “Well…thank you, but—”
“Remember that.” Gia touched the end of her nose, the gesture infinitely intimate. “Okay?”
Esme frowned, a little confused by Gia’s words and spellbound by her touch. “I—sure. But I don’t get it. Does that mean you aren’t going to make up my face?”
The look Gia gave her seemed almost apologetic, Esme decided. “Right. I’m not going to make up your face. But it’s okay. You don’t need war paint.”
So much for her moment of vanity. Disappointment drizzled over Esme before she shrugged it off and decided Gia was tying to tactfully tell her it wouldn’t make much difference. Splashing color on her features would have probably just drawn attention to their plainness. Eh, well, it didn’t matter, and she wasn’t going to pout about it. At least Gia had touched her face. She inhaled the heady mingled scents of makeup and heated feminine skin, and decided a change of subject was in order. “How long have you done this kind of work, Gia?” Was that relief she saw on the other woman’s beautiful face? Why?
“Three long years I’ve worked on this show.” Gia leaned against the counter again, hands spread wide and braced on the edge, and crossed one foot over the other.
“You make it sound like a jail sentence.”
Gia tilted her head to the side in a gesture of indifference. “It pays the bills, but my first love…” Doubt crossed her impeccable features. “You want to hear all this?”
Radclyffe & Stacia Seaman - Romantic Interludes 2 - Secrets Page 24