He grinned at her indulgently.
“For the record, a masochist is sexually stimulated by experiencing pain…a sadist, by inflicting it. But pain isn’t a factor here. So I wouldn’t say you’re either.”
“Oh.”
“You sound disappointed.”
“I am…a little. I thought I’d found my kink.”
“Oh, you definitely have a kink.”
“I do? But what else is there?”
“You’re a submissive.”
“A submissive?”
“Yes.”
“All right, then, how am I supposed to be a submissive and be in control?”
“Because you’re not afraid to provoke a man into getting what you want.”
His characterization shocked her. She’d never considered herself provocative, but when she thought back over their relationship, she realized he was right. She’d been goading him from the start, overriding his reluctance.
“My kink is manipulation?”
He frowned at her.
“No, fireball,” he insisted. “There’s nothing manipulative about it. It’s no more calculated than my tying your hands tonight. It’s impulsive, instinctual.”
“So, are you normally dominant?”
“Absolutely.” He grinned. “Although, I have to admit it’s been kicked up a notch or two with you.”
How had Lexi put it, her choices before David? The most lukewarm men on the planet? Ephie’d thought of them as good, gentle men. Men her grandmother would have approved of, possessing none of the weaknesses of her beautiful but flawed mother. But, to a one, they’d left her disappointed. Had it been because they’d lacked the fundamental quality necessary to satisfy her darkest desire? A need so deeply buried she’d been unaware of it herself?
But David had known. He’d coaxed it from hiding, nurturing it until it had become too powerful to ever again be ignored. And suddenly, the worry her heart might be shattered into thousands of irreparable pieces when the time came for them to part became overshadowed by a chilling uncertainty. Did another man exist capable of taming the swirling mist of ravenous want her passion had become?
Chapter 16
LIKE most homes of its time and kind, food preparation at Briar House took place in the basement. This was common practice for a number of reasons. The feeding of a large family and staff—the numbers, at times, exceeding a dozen people—generated a certain amount of hustle and bustle. Relegating the commotion to the ground floor allowed daily tasks to be performed without disturbing the rest of the household. It also kept the sometimes embarrassing details of the family’s gastronomic idiosyncrasies, literally, underground. Not to mention, in the age before widespread use of residential refrigeration, it provided ample access to nature’s cooler, the root cellar.
All of that changed in the 1920s when the decision was made for the house to become a full-service funeral parlor. Large-scale renovations affected every room—but none so radically as the kitchen.
The ground-floor quarters would become the site for a different kind of preparation—that of the dead for burial. And on the third floor, the nursery was sacrificed, transformed into a state-of-the-art kitchen, full of the many “modern” conveniences reported to allow one hardworking housewife to do the jobs of several staff members.
The transplanted heart of Briar House would endure a second transformation at the beginning of the new millennium. Great effort was made to preserve as much as possible from previous alterations. The cabinetry, rescued from its modest beginnings, was stripped and refinished, its original, practical beauty restored. The period stove and sink, refitted and resurfaced, found new life beside modern conveniences like the microwave and dishwasher. In time, it would be difficult to discern the present from the past, to tell where history had made way for the future.
* * * *
A low rumble from the pit of her stomach roused Ephie from sleep. Slowly, she opened her eyes, the muted light making it impossible to tell if it were dusk or just before dawn. Either way, it had been hours since her last meal. David had called her early in the afternoon. He’d cleared his day and wanted to know if she could get free. Within the hour, she’d been in his bed.
Her fantasies about him, while prescient, had been naïve. She may have sensed and been attracted to his dominant nature, but she’d had no idea the subtleties of submission. David had given her a crash course, showing her the surprising freedom of surrender, the winding sensuality of being made to wait. Time and again, she’d begged for release, beyond pride or guilt or even shame. Wallowing in decadence, she’d never wanted it to end.
In the end, their bodies had succumbed. They’d collapsed in a tangle of sheets, Ephie unsure which limbs belonged to her and which to him. He curled around her, still, one leg over her hip, an arm draping her waist. His breath, deep and even, rustled the hair at the crown of her head. She smiled. It seemed she’d achieved the impossible. She’d exhausted the inexhaustible David Briar. Wriggling into the curve of his body, she settled in to enjoy the spoils of her victory. But her traitorous tummy had other ideas.
A bubbling gurgle gave prelude to a crude grumble. Ephie tried to stifle the offending organ beneath the heel of her hand. But it was too late; David stirred. His hands traveling north in search of her breasts, he smoothed her to him.
“Sorry,” he whispered, his lips close to her ear.
“For what?”
“Can’t love you.”
Ephie froze, her blood running cold as heat flashed over her skin.
“David.”
He brushed his thumbs over her nipples and, despite her confusion, her body responded. She clamped her hands over his.
“David!”
“Mmm.”
He was still asleep, as unaware of what he was doing as what he’d said. His words meant nothing. Anxiety turned her tummy’s nagging into an impatient growl.
“Okay, okay,” he mumbled, letting her go and turning onto his back. “I’m up.”
Ephie rolled over and looked into David’s sleepy brown eyes.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t want to wake you.”
“It’s all right.” His grin turned into a yawn. “I’m hungry too.”
The mattress shifted with his weight. Ephie pressed her palms together and then slid her hands beneath her cheek, content to watch him, unhurried and confident, utterly indifferent to her ogling. A few moments after disappearing into the closet, he reemerged, wearing a pair of plain gray sweats and clutching a snow-white bathrobe in one hand. As he strolled toward her, the desire for food left her. She wet her dry lips with the tip of her tongue.
“No.” He pointed a censuring finger at her before turning his hand palm up and motioning her out of bed. “Come. I intend to feed you.”
She grabbed at him, fisting her hands in the soft material hugging his hips and pulling him close. Resting her chin on his lower abdominals, she traveled her gaze the length of his torso before discovering his uncompromising smirk.
“Wouldn’t you rather do the coming?”
He bent at the waist until his nose touched hers, Ephie straining toward the kiss just out of her reach.
“You have a choice, fireball. Either that delightful ass of yours is out of my bed in the next ten seconds or”—his lips brushed hers as he spoke—“it’s going over my knees.”
Her mouth dropped open, but no sound came out. David had said he didn’t believe she was a masochist. But she couldn’t deny the thought of being head down and bottom up, vulnerable to his every whim or impulse titillated her. Just the tiniest bit more than it terrified. She couldn’t seem to breathe, much less move.
“Time’s up.”
David’s announcement broke the spell. His hand, flat and expectant, rose into her peripheral vision. Reluctantly, she let him go, placing her trembling fingers in his palm. He helped her to sitting, and she swung her legs over the side of the bed. He pulled her to her feet, but inste
ad of sitting down and bending her over his lap, he bundled her in terry cloth.
“Oh! I thought…I mean, you said…”
He cupped her cheek and tipped her head so she faced him, the brush of the pad of his thumb over her lips halting her stammering.
“Patience, fireball. I’m going to need my strength to do a proper job.”
Lowering his hand, he wrapped the robe around her and cinched the belt. He flashed a satisfied smile after looking her over and then put his hands on her shoulders and turned her around. A small pressure in the small of her back made her pick up the front of the cumbersome garment. Its heavy train trailed her as she left the bedroom, David lingering behind as she gingerly made her way down the hall.
She paused when they entered the kitchen, unsure of what to do.
“Have a seat,” he told her, running a proprietary hand over the breadth of her bottom before bending to whisper in her ear, “While you still can.”
And then he breezed by, stopping to pull out one of the three tall chairs at the marble topped peninsula before continuing into the kitchen area. Legs numb, Ephie tripped toward the cross-backed copper barstool. Teetering on the foot rails, she wrangled the swaths of material around her before settling onto the cold metal, unnaturally aware of every muscle from her knees to her waist.
She shifted uneasily as she saw him approach, clutching the neck of a bottle in one hand and cradling two glasses in the other. He set everything down in front of her before pulling out a drawer on his side of the counter.
“Would you mind?” he asked, holding up a corkscrew.
“Not at all.”
Her smile felt tight, but he made no comment. He simply shrugged before turning away. Her hands shook, making it difficult to tear away the foil and uncork the bottle. But, after a few moments, she’d managed to pour them each a glass of the Cabernet Sauvignon.
After sliding his across the countertop, she picked up hers and idly traced the rim as she watched him moving around the compact, but well-equipped, kitchen. In a ballet of efficiency, he breezed from refrigerator to breadbox to the butcher-block countertop next to the stove, laying out the peasant loaf, wedge of cheese, and crock of butter he’d gathered along the way. He twisted one of the knobs beneath the cooktop, the rapid-fire click of the ignitor yielding a thick blue flame. David adjusted the heat before reaching up and unhooking a copper fry pan from the rack lining the wall behind the stove. Placing it on the burner to preheat, he turned his attention to slicing bread and cheese.
Ephie tried to imagine the toll it took on such a physically dynamic person to be constrained by the demands of his profession. The pressure he withstood to remain calm and collected in every situation. It did, however, explain his intensity in the bedroom, as well as giving her a different perspective on his threat to spank her. Perhaps he wanted it as much as she did.
The sizzle of butter interrupted her thoughts. David held the handle of the fry pan, rotating it with an economical twist of his wrist before replacing it on the heat and then laying in the sandwiches he’d put together.
He turned toward her, spatula in hand, and propped his hip against the counter.
Nodding in her direction, he asked, “How is it?”
“Oh.” She blinked. “I haven’t tried it yet.”
He grinned at her, and she felt a sudden urge to ignore the paltry amount in her glass and turn to the half-full bottle. Instead, she swirled the contents and then placed the bowl beneath her nose. The distinct scent of cherries—warm and sweet—wafted above the rich red liquid. She inhaled before tipping the glass, just letting the wine meet her lips. With a sweep of her tongue, she tasted it, closing her eyes to fully embrace her first impression.
Undertones of licorice and vanilla. She gave a small hum of appreciation. It’s good, probably from California.
Looking at the label, she smiled. Her guess confirmed.
“You seem to have some experience doing that.”
Ephie shifted her gaze to David, curious about the edge to his tone. He stared at her, his mouth having fallen into a stern line.
“Not really. Griffin’s taught me a little.”
“Griffin?”
A pulse at the back of his jaw leapt to life.
“Mr. Bennett.”
“He knows wine?”
“It is the family business.”
“Oh, right, Bennett Distributions. Now there’s a business any son would be thrilled to inherit.”
Looking down into her glass, Ephie shook her head, taking a sip before returning her gaze to his.
“Not really. Griffin had made a life for himself. It was difficult for him to give it up and come home.”
David crossed his arms over his chest, tension lifting his shoulders.
“It sounds like the two of you have discussed it.”
“We talk.”
“I’ve met him…Griffin Bennett…at his father’s funeral. He’s an impressive man. Former military, right? Very good-looking, if I recall.”
“I guess so.”
“You don’t find him attractive?”
She giggled and the look on David’s face got darker. Ephie was suddenly grateful the length of the galley kitchen separated them.
“I’ve never thought about him like that. He’s very much in love with Mrs. Bennett, you know.”
David gaped at her. “No, I didn’t know. Isn’t he…”
“Her stepson? Technically speaking. But the Bennetts don’t put much stock in technicalities.”
“Apparently not.” He seemed to relax, turning to the stove to flip their sandwiches. “So he’s taught you the finer points of wine tasting?” he asked, his back to her.
“Some. We have dinner several times a week, and he, well…He sort of indulges me.”
David lifted his head, but didn’t face her.
Still, she heard him mutter, “I bet he does.”
“What did you say?”
He shrugged, shutting off the burner and serving up the food. His mask of indifference offered nothing as he strolled toward her, a plate in each hand. But when he placed their dinners on the counter, she saw something in his eyes. Evidently, it was perfectly acceptable for him to object to the men in her life. She, on the other hand, needed a special stay of protocol to have a few general questions answered.
“I don’t appreciate your insinuation,” she informed him as she grabbed her plate and jerked it closer. “The Bennetts have been very good to me. Both of them. They’re my family.”
David’s attitude had touched a nerve, and Ephie realized she was close to tears. Without thought, she picked up one of the golden brown halves of her sandwich—cut on the diagonal just like Gram used to do—and tore into it. Thick, buttery bread crunched between her teeth as a flow of gooey cheese advanced across her tongue. Transported back in time to snowy afternoons spent in the Bennetts’ warm kitchen, Ephie moaned with contentment.
David smiled before making a quarter of his own sandwich disappear in a single bite, looking thoughtful as he chewed. After swallowing, he sampled the wine.
“You’re right. It is good.”
Not trusting herself to speak, she shrugged.
“Ephie, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”
“No,” she cut off the apology. “You shouldn’t have.” Lowering her gaze to her wineglass, she picked it up, taking a sip for courage before fixing him with a narrow stare over the rim. “I know I’m new to this whole no-strings thing, but am I supposed to pretend there aren’t other men in my life?”
“No. Of course not.”
He looked away, downing half of his drink in two large gulps.
“Then why do you work yourself into a snit every time I mention another guy?”
She’d gotten his full attention, one dark brow arching high against the backdrop of his forehead.
“A snit?”
“You can look it up later.”
“Oh, I
think I’ve got the general meaning. But that doesn’t mean I know what you’re talking about.”
“Seriously?”
He shook his head.
“Okay, so I suppose the way you reacted when I mentioned Reese our first night was just for show.”
“And how did I react?”
“Like a dog when someone threatens to take away his bone.”
He laughed. And she wondered if he truly could be so oblivious. Then she remembered what he’d said to her before he’d fully woken up and realized, where his feelings were concerned, he really might be. Part of her felt it wasn’t fair of her, using what he’d said against him. But a larger part felt it was high time the altogether too all-together David Briar had a reality check. She reached for the wine bottle.
“All right then,” she allowed, filling her glass. “Then how about ripping the shirt off my body because you realized it had belonged to an old boyfriend. I suppose that was just foreplay. Right? And, now, Griffin…I mean, it doesn’t matter to me, of course. But I have to admit I am curious. How, exactly, do you manage uncomplicated when you have such a jealous nature?”
Chapter 17
LIKE those brain teasers which challenge people to find the “8” hidden in a grid of “3s”, once discovered the answer seemed ridiculously obvious. How had he not seen it? David remembered the night Ephie had drunk-dialed him, the sense of urgency which had prompted him to make promises he couldn’t keep, driven him to drag an innocent bystander into the fray. Had it been latent jealousy, even then? Motivating him from the start?
He looked at Ephie. Elbows on the counter, she’d shifted her attention to nibbling away the last bit of sandwich from between the thumb and forefinger of one hand. In the other, she cupped the bowl of her wine glass. Appearing in every way utterly uninterested in any explanation he might offer. Since he hadn’t any, David decided a memorable offense might be his best defense.
Pushing away his plate, he reached for his glass, draining it before setting it down and then schooling his features into the mask of polite interest he wore for consultations and funerals. As he skirted the countertop, he trailed his fingers over the surface seeking inspiration from the cool, impervious stone. She tracked his approach, epicurean satisfaction weighing her eyelids. Her lips bowed in a close imitation of post-coital contentment. He knew he made a mean grilled cheese, but he couldn’t remember ever getting quite such a reaction. But it was classic Ephie—the unabashed display of pure emotion.
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