10 Shades of Seduction

by Tiffany Reisz

  What the hell’s happened to the man who was my James? He was my childhood sweetheart. We dated here at Walton Wood, and wed later, when we’d got our degrees, and had what I thought was the whole world at our feet. Now I feel as if some kind of Stepford Husband scenario has happened in reverse. And the mild-mannered, so often too-tired-to-fight-or-fuck man I married has turned into a dangerous stranger, a new breed of steely, threatening cyborg. Sort of like the Terminator, but with emotions. Lots of emotions, and most of them sexual confidence and charisma.

  Opening my mouth to retort...something...anything...I snap it shut again when a group of circulating reunion guests pitch up beside us. It’s all “Hello,” “How are you?,” “What are you doing these days?” between James and I, and the newcomers. Under other circumstances, I’d be interested, nosy even, genuinely wanting to know how people have fared, especially one of our teachers, the cute but quirky Mr. Laurence, who seems to have been in the wars, poor man, and now walks with a stick. He had us all laughing with a surprisingly funny math joke, and even though James seemed to be laughing along, when I glanced at him, he was smiling at me. Only at me. His eyes were steady, steel in the blue, and the way they speared into me made me tremble in my smart pumps, and a fresh rush of blood made my face and ears and chest turn rosy pink.

  I’m sweating now, when I look at him, and I can’t think straight. I thought I was over him that way. We grew apart. I can’t still want him, now we’ve split...or can I?

  And yet like a hunter, he’s watching me, sizing me up. As the chat goes on, I try glaring at him, to make him stop, but he only gives me that smile, that goddamn smile!

  “Drink, madam?”

  The server, superefficient, is at my elbow with more drinks. I have to hand it to my old classmate Caitlyn, her catering firm’s really organized this shindig to perfection. As I reach for more Chardonnay, I make a note to seek her out and congratulate her on a job well done. At least her future’s turned out well, she’s met her goals.

  But just as my fingers almost make contact with a glass, a hand catches me by the wrist, gentle but unyielding. I know that touch, even after three years of not feeling it, and I forget about my former classmates, I forget about wine, I forget about everything. There’s nothing in the world but the heat in those strong fingers, and a contact that’s intimately familiar, yet totally new.

  “Don’t have another,” James says very quietly, making me face him. His words don’t carry beyond the air between him and me, and I realize our companions have drifted away, as if sensing our tension. “We need to get out of here,” he goes on. “I think it’s time we talked.”

  I feel like a whirlwind inside. How dare he? He doesn’t have the right to order me around anymore. Not that he ever did. To my shame, it was me who always did the ordering, and far too damn much of it. I realize that now, but it doesn’t stop old, hard-dying instincts from making me flare at him.

  “I don’t think we have anything to say, James,” I say airily, while the whirlwind picks up speed inside me, emotions spinning round and round, fueled by the mad, unexpected hormones pumping and sluicing through me.

  I want sex all of a sudden. Sex with my ex. It doesn’t make sense, but that doesn’t make the ache between my thighs less keen, the state of my nipples less peaked where they fight against the lace of my bra, suddenly too tight. The reunion party slips out of phase slightly and I see James naked again, in our shared bed, his thick cock risen and rampant.

  The sex was good, I can never deny that. Always satisfying. Plenty of orgasms. Even though James forever avoided confrontation with me, and that in turn made me confused, annoyed, desperate to goad him, he was nothing if not strong, and enduring, between the sheets.

  “Please, Willa, come on.”

  The words are old James, steady and nonconfrontational.

  But the tone is new James, all unyielding, dark and deliciously threatening. My world shifts around me and I allow myself to be led.

  Old classmates watch us as we cross the room.

  And why not? New James doesn’t look like old James either.

  Gone is the conservative suit, the understated shirt and tie, and the floppy banker’s hair. Now he’s in black jeans and a leather jacket, with a black silk shirt beneath, stark, uncompromising and macho. His hair is short, a bit spiky in the front, and his face is bronzed and healthy looking, rugged. He looks every inch the outdoorsman he’s become in the last three years, rather than the rather pale, harassed junior executive he was before we parted. Keeping track of him, I know his garden-design business is thriving. He’s doing far, far better for himself now than in the kinds of jobs I pushed him into to further our status as a “golden couple.”

  He’s golden in his own right now. It’s in the way he walks and in his gilded, sun-bleached hair. He doesn’t need me anymore. He doesn’t need my ambition for him. He never did.

  “What do you want, James?”

  I finally face up to him in the lobby. He’s still holding my wrist, the grip light, but I can’t seem to shake him off. I can’t make myself want to shake him off. And how is it he seems taller now than he did? A grim thought needles me. Did my constant drive forward diminish him somehow? I have a horrible feeling it might have done. It seemed like the right thing at the time, but with hindsight, I can see that free of me, he’s flourished. He’s proud and strong and utterly male and sexy.

  All I ever really wanted but was just too blind to see.

  I open my mouth, to say I know not what, probably an attempt to be more amenable, perhaps show him that I’m trying to grow too. But he places the fingers of his free hand over my lips for a moment, and the touch of them makes me shake, literally shake.

  James seems to note this. His fingertips smooth across my mouth, and insanely, I’m tempted to kiss them. Too late, he’s drawn back.

  “Well, I’m pretty sure I want to fuck you, Willa,” he says conversationally, then he pauses, does a thing with his tongue around his lower lip that looks positively obscene, “but before that...well...you’ll have to come with me and see, won’t you?”

  My world reels faster, harder.

  “But, James,” protests old me, still trying to shake loose, and trying to cling to some semblance of control and normality, even though I don’t want it, I don’t want it, I don’t want it! “We can’t just walk out on the party. People will talk.”

  James smiles, wide, his white teeth dazzling against his tan. He’s relaxed, unfazed by the kind of crap that he used to just accept from me. He was always too weary of it to fight it then. But now he’s like a dynamo, humming with energy.

  “So let them.”

  He’s still not letting go, and the Willa of old, who just won’t quit, gears herself to struggle and assert herself. But then the rapid tap, tap, tap of high heels behind me makes me turn, anxious, intrigued, grasping at a moment of respite. Whoever it is, she’s in a tearing hurry.

  It’s Caitlyn, the caterer, and she’s dazzling-eyed and happy, a broad smile on her face. She looks literally illuminated. What’s all that about?

  “Where are you going, Caitlyn? Are you leaving the party already?” I ask, aware of James watching me, not her. “Is something going on?”

  “Yes...yes, it is,” she hurls over her shoulder, dashing for the open doors and the large chauffeured car I can see beyond it. “But I can’t explain because I don’t know what it is yet.”

  Suddenly, I want what she seems to have. An adventure, something sexy and new and mysterious. And I want it with my ex-husband, with James.

  “Look, James, let’s go and have a quiet chat somewhere. Drinks maybe, and a bit of dinner? The restaurant at my hotel is quite good. Then perhaps afterward...”

  He looks at me, still smiling that devastating but secretive smile. The one that tells me my efforts to steer the situation are meaningless. He tugs lightly on my hand.

  “Yes, let’s go somewhere. But never mind drinks and bits of dinner. We need to get a few things strai
ghtened out first.”

  I’m totally disorientated. This is a man I’ve known for years, and yet he’s a stranger. His touch makes me all wound up and twittery as if I’m with a movie star or some other celebrity, or just some man I’ve fancied for years and years but never actually met before.

  I don’t think I’m “me” at all, either.

  For the first time in our relationship, I follow him silently. Almost meekly. He looks over his shoulder, and winks, his smile slow and knowing as he heads for the stairs.

  At first I think we’re heading for the dorms, empty now, out-of-term time, but within seconds I realize where we’re going. It’s the old music room, one of our favorite haunts from our time here. It was never used much, even back then, as they’d just refurbished a much larger room, with better acoustics, as a music laboratory.

  It’s small, shabby, with stained wooden paneling adorned by a selection of dog-eared posters. A few rows of chairs, some askew now, facing the wrong way. There’s an air of forlorn neglect about the place, dim and dusty—but somehow, against the odds, a strange electricity too.

  Without looking back, James strides across the room and throws himself down on one of the chairs, facing the back of the room. He nods amiably to a rather bad-tempered portrait of Beethoven on the rear wall. He appears totally relaxed on the hard old chair, and in tight denim, his thighs and crotch look astounding.

  Good God, he’s got an erection! Part of me can’t believe it. But there’s another part of me that was expecting it. I feel a shudder of response, between my legs, and suddenly I’m wetter than ever. If I shifted from foot to foot, I swear I’d squelch...and he’d hear it.

  What’s going on? What’s going on? My heart thuds hard, and it’s like there’s a tightening band of iron around my chest.

  “Don’t stand over there, love. Come closer, where I can see you.”

  I jump, and stare around like a startled rabbit, realizing that I’ve been standing at the door as if waiting for permission to move farther into the room.

  Me, wait for permission? My legs feel weak, they’ll barely carry me, but I obey him and stride toward the haphazard line of chairs. I feel as if I’m floating, and my head’s gone all light. Something very strange is happening to me, and I can barely look at James, much less meet his eyes.

  When I make as if to move toward a chair, the one next to him, he goes, “Uh-uh...” and shakes his head. I do meet his eyes then, and they’re fiery, electric blue, yet dark.

  Battling an overwhelming urge to pant for breath, I just stand there in front of him, fiddling with my bag on its strap. His eyes narrow and he reaches out and waggles his fingers, indicating that I give it to him. When I do so, he sets it down, alongside his chair.

  Why can’t I speak? Why can’t I move? It’s as if he’s controlling me with his eyes, and that slight smile playing around his lips. I can’t believe the way my body is going crazy simply from a glance, a narrowing of his eyes, the tap of his fingertip on the side of his wooden chair seat. Oh, God, it’s as if he’s reached between my legs and begun to stroke me, slowly and tantalizingly. My clit throbs and aches, and my nipples are like hard little stones in my bra.

  “I want you back, Willa.” His voice is low and velvety, the rich tones of it confident now, assured. The last bit of old Willa opens her mouth to say something, some stupid protest she doesn’t mean, but he arches his dark blond brows and almost, but not quite laughs at my inability to get out the words. I realize he’s always known me better than I’ve known him.

  “And I think you want me back too, don’t you, love?”

  Even though he wants me to speak now, I can’t, but he nods as if he’s heard the yes I can’t manage to utter.

  “I’ve learned a lot about myself while we’ve been apart. I’ve learned to accept parts of me I’d been suppressing,” he continues, clasping his hands lightly in front of him, thumb of one resting in the palm of the other. They look sinewy and strong, hardened by work, yet capable of great delicacy. I want to kiss them, but the notion astonishes me, and I suppress a gasp, amazed at the bizarre, bizarre thoughts that are forming in my head. I see myself kneeling before him, pressing my lips to those beautiful hands, then allowing them to do anything they want with me. And still kneeling, I imagine opening his jeans and drawing out his cock, so I can suck and worship it.

  I sway again. I actually sway. Inches.

  “Do you want to sit down, Willa?” He says it softly, yet with weight, as if suggesting that by saying “yes, I do want to sit,” I’ll incur some penalty.

  So I brace my knees, shake my head—and just stand there, aching, aching in every nerve and cell, and mostly between my legs, where my pussy is swimming wet.

  I do not know what has happened to me. I do not know what has happened to James. But I know we’re two new people, transformed forever.

  “Good girl, good girl.” He flexes his fingers and the small action is beautiful, evocative. “Yes, I’ve learned a lot about me...and a lot about you, too. About what you need.”

  My face must show my confusion, because he chuckles.

  “You probably don’t even know it yourself yet, but if you’ll let me, I’ll show you. If you’re brave enough.”

  Like I had a chance. I’m suddenly helpless before him. And I like it.

  I manage a nod this time. And I keep on nodding, like some penitent, anxious to please.

  “Very well, then. Take off your panties.”

  What?

  My mouth opens in one last dying gasp of the old me, wanting to question or protest, but he quells me with a level, old-fashioned look.

  “Willa, take off your panties.”

  Quiet tones. That thrill.

  My heels are high and I glance around, looking for support, then realize I’m to be offered none. Awkward, like some half-grown gazelle not sure of its ability to stay upright, I rummage up my skirt, tug my knickers down, and step out of them, teetering from one foot to the other, nearly toppling over as I catch one stiletto in the elastic at the last moment. But I manage to right myself, and then straighten up and just stand there, clutching a little bundle of white lace in my hands, not sure what to do with it.

  “Hand them to me.”

  I step forward, fighting not to give in to vertigo and topple over. I feel yearning and confusion, and I feel so very, very horny that I can barely see straight. I’m right in front of him, all senses ramped up. He’s giving off waves and waves of power that lap across the tender surfaces of my now-exposed pussy and excite it unbearably. He puts out a hand, waggles his fingers, and obediently I drop my panties into it. I feel even fainter as a waft of strong woman-smell drifts up from the fabric.

  Oh, God, how long have I been so turned on? They’re saturated with juice, stained dark, revealing. He crumples them in his long fingers, wafts them quickly in front of his face, his eyes closing a moment. Then he stuffs them into the pocket of his leather jacket and returns his attention to me, only me.

  “Have you been with a man since me?”

  Regret sluices through me, even though it shouldn’t. We weren’t married. I was lonely. I took a man home, a work colleague who seemed nice. Who was nice, but not James. We fooled around and it was okay, just okay. But I couldn’t go through with it and fuck him when the moment came.

  “You can answer, sweetheart. I’m not going to punish you.” His eyes are level and inquisitive. I wonder why I seem to add the word yet to that last sentence. “I’ll only punish you if you lie to me. If you deceive me.”

  Punish? Oh... Oh...

  I’m very, very conscious that I’m standing here without my knickers and my husband is talking about punishing me. It seems strange and surreal to be doing so, but also right in a way I cannot seem to quantify. I love James. I always will. And even though I understand the reasons why we parted, I want that parting to be over. To make things right.

  And it’s right and good and exciting and fitting that my pussy should be naked, beneath my skirt,
to suit his will.

  “There was one guy...I didn’t fuck him. But we...we kissed and played around a bit.”

  James tips his head to one side, eyeing me. That smile’s back, flirting around his lips. Is he pleased I didn’t fuck someone else, or pleased I allowed some liberties? I really can’t tell.

  “Did you let him touch you there?” he nods toward my crotch. “Between your legs?”

  “Yes, sort of...but not much. I thought I wanted it, but when it came to it, I didn’t.”

  He shakes his head slowly. “Now you’re prevaricating, Willa. Keeping the full truth from me.” Standing up suddenly, he’s right in my face, looking down at me. “I don’t mind if he played with your pussy. I just want you to be honest with me.”

  I open my mouth to answer, but his lips come down on mine, hard and fast and unequivocal. Gasping around his tongue, I let him take me with his mouth, possessive and hungry. I put my arms around his neck to hold myself up, to hold myself against him, and as he continues to subdue me with the kiss, I feel his hand on my bottom, working my skirt up quickly and efficiently.

  When the cool air hits my bare skin, I start to struggle, unable to control the automatic urge to cover myself.

  “Someone might come in!” I protest, trying to break the kiss, but he kisses harder, a hand on the back of my head, holding me, while his other cups my bottom cheek, squeezing and massaging it in a way that’s delicious, delicious, delicious...rude but intensely arousing.

  “Ah, Willa, Willa, Willa,” he purrs when he eventually ends the kiss. “Always worrying what people will think, worrying what other people do.” He’s looking at me, talking to me in a normal way, but as he stares into my eyes, he’s running his fingertips up and down into the cleft of my sex, teasing me, tickling me. “You mustn’t do that, love. It only spoils things for you. Just relax, let things happen, cease to strive and fret.” He’s petting my perineum now, stroking it, his fingers sliding on my juices.

  I let out a little whimper, unable to contain myself. I feel a thick rush of lubrication slither down the inside of my thigh, wetting my stocking top.