Cruel to Be Kind

by Stephanie Vaughan

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  Phaze

  www.phaze.com

  Copyright ©2006 by Stephanie Vaughan

  First published in 2006, 2007

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  NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.

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  Cruel to Be Kind

  A novella of BDSM Erotic Romance by

  Stephanie Vaughan

  Phaze

  6470A Glenway Avenue, #109

  Cincinnati, OH 45211-5222

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  ISBN 1-59426-947-5

  Cruel to be Kind © 2006 by Stephanie Vaughan

  Originally published in 2006

  All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Cover art © 2007 by Debi Lewis

  Phaze is an imprint of Mundania Press, LLC.

  www.Phaze.com

  Chapter One

  He could feel her eyes on him. A prickle of awareness raised the hairs on the back of his neck, and he knew he was being watched. That it was a woman doing the watching he had no doubt, although if pressed he couldn’t have said how he knew. He just knew.

  Steve Eriksson leaned an elbow on the bar in front of him and let his eyes scan the room.

  Goldie’s was nothing special as bars went. No sophisticated game room or huge selection of microbrews on tap the way Off Limits did across town. But then, Goldie’s didn’t cater to the tourist crowd, either. It was just a no-frills, working class watering hole where a good burger and a cold beer could be had for a decent price. A pool table in the back and a competition dart board had constituted all the value-added features the regulars needed to keep Goldie’s in the black since it had opened.

  The group of four women near the front door wasn’t the source of his itch. They each wore a variation of the young professional’s uniform and had their sights set on the group of equally upscale looking men in suits at the far end of the bar that presently supported his weight. The women looked like the type that Tivo’d Sex and the City and rated the quality of their lives by the size and content of their shoe closet.

  No thanks.

  His eyes moved on past Evan from the custom leather goods shop, looking like he was about to hook-up with the new teller from the savings and loan, to the room’s only table of one.

  In profile she didn’t look old enough to be in a bar in the first place. A baseball cap on her head, a ponytail of shiny dark hair pulled through the opening in the back. Steve could tell only that she wasn’t dressed to kill and she appeared intent on whatever it was she was doing. A small laptop computer in front of her, a stack of papers to one side, she slowly turned over sheets from the pile while she glanced at first one, then the other while she typed one-handed on the computer.

  But what made the picture especially intriguing was the rest of the tableau: an arm’s-length away, a full meal sat untouched. A flat tureen that had to contain Goldie’s infamous shepherd’s pie and a tall glass of foamy, dark beer stood silent watch on her labors. That both had been sitting for a while was obvious from the shrinking trail of foam at the top and the rivulets of condensation that trickled down the side, while the pie’s crust of mashed potatoes remained smooth and unbroken.

  Unable to reconcile the high-powered buzz he’d felt with the slight figure seated at the table, Steve was about to move on. Until she lifted her head and the previously downcast eyes moved from the computer screen and locked on his.

  Direct and dark, they reached out and grabbed him by the balls. A jolt of electricity ran through his system, as though he’d forgotten to disconnect the power source before opening up an outlet to work on it. Those eyes snaked down into his soul as though to look around. Size him up. Think about moving in.

  Then her eyes slipped over his shoulder and looked away, breaking the connection, and he could breathe again.

  Holy shit!

  A grin spread over his face and, before he could think twice about it, Steve found himself standing next to the small table. It could only be alien mind-control because he couldn’t recall giving his feet the command to move. One minute he’d been lounging against the bar, the next he was here, at her table.

  “I noticed you’re not touching your food. Is there something wrong with it?” Not exactly original, but it was the first thing that popped into Steve’s head. He wanted to see those eyes again like he wanted the Red Sox to win the World Series.

  Between his height and the bill of the cap, she had to cock her head back to make eye contact. “My waitress go on a break?”

  That wise-ass half smile on her face did something to his stomach. She was so perfect and wholesome looking Steve half expected her to hold up a tube of toothpaste and smile for the camera. He would have thought a blush and a stammered reply would be more her style, sweet young thing that she was. But she hadn’t so much as missed a keystroke on her computer.

  “My name’s Steve and I’d be happy to get you anything you want.”

  He couldn’t take his eyes off hers, but he still managed to get an impression of casual dress: white tank top, jeans shorts, ‘Christy’s Catering’ stitched onto her cap. But those eyes. A dark, chocolaty brown gazed up at him with not a hint of coyness.

  “Good to know. Thank you very much, Steve, but I’m almost done here. When I’m finished I get to eat my dinner and drink my beer. But thanks for the offer. If I need anything I’ll be sure and look you up.”

  She turned back to her work and Steve felt the loss like a blow low in his gut.

  No way.

  This was too good to let go of and she had to be feeling it, too. He refused to be blown off without even getting his shot. He pulled out the empty chair opposite and sat down.

  Seconds ticked by and she didn’t so much as flick him a glance from those black-coffee eyes of hers. “You don’t mind if I watch, do you?”

  Permission or no, Steve watched as she scanned another document, found what she was looking for, and keyed in more information to the laptop.

  “One of those, are you?” A small surge of triumph surged through him as he congratulated himself on drawing her out. She seemed incredibly self-contained. Self-sufficient. As though she didn’t need anyone or anything to complete her. She was happy where she was and with what she had. “Do you like to watch, Steve?”

  Caught flat-footed, he found those enigmatic eyes fixed on him like a laser beam. What were they talking about? While he’d been daydreaming the stakes had somehow gone way, way up. There was nothing to do but ante up and bluff like hell. At least he was still in the game.

  “I’d rather be doing. But watching beats nothing every time.”

  Oh, he really was too amazing to be believed.

  Didn’t it just figure? Megan had spent the better part of the past four years looking for the right one. She’d even gone so far as to move to San Francisco—the Big City, to most people in her home town—figuring she’d have better odds fishing from a bigger pond.

  Nothing.

  Nada, zip
, zilch, zero.

  But take herself off the market, decide to head back home to lick her wounds and give her poor battered heart a rest, and what does Fate do? Dangle the sweetest hunk of prime male it had been her pleasure to see in many a long month in front of her, that’s what.

  And it was, very much, her pleasure.

  Fate was a real cunt, Megan decided.

  She knew Megan had a thing for long hair on men. That Megan had given up hope years ago of ever finding that particular combination of red and gold that made her palms itch to sink her hands into it. But here they both were in one man, standing in front of her.

  She’d spotted him the minute he’d walked in, all easy grace and long, lean muscle, perfectly showcased in work shorts and soft old t-shirt, and greeted the bartender. Connoisseur of the male form that she was, she could have wished for that T-shirt to fit a little more snugly across his shoulders, but still … Megan was a total sucker for beautiful male arms and she could see this man had them in spades.

  He laughed at something the barkeep said and Megan thought that if there were a God in Heaven this fine example of His work would have an itch on his belly he would need to scratch right about now. She already knew there wasn’t, but it only confirmed things for her when he hadn’t, so Megan contented herself with imagining what it would be like.

  He would reach those long fingers under his shirt, pull it up six inches or so, and show off the strong musculature she knew it hid. He would score those fingers lightly across those taut muscles … Megan tried sending him the thought telepathically that he had an itch that demanded scratching, but it didn’t work now any more than it ever had. Still, she told herself, it didn’t hurt to try. She’d like to rake her own nails sharply across his belly while she squeezed his velvet-soft testicles gently—or not so gently—as he writhed in agonized pleasure.

  Her instincts must be rustier than she’d thought because The Delicious One had nearly caught her in mid-fantasy, staring. Megan had no intention of starting anything, and it would be best all around if she just stuffed her tongue back into her mouth and paid attention to the task at hand. Namely, trying to figure out if she was running her sister’s business into the ground.

  Running Christa’s catering truck didn’t require any skills she couldn’t perform in her sleep—except when it came to balancing the receipts. Her brief college career had taught her that math was not something that was ever likely to be integral to her livelihood. At least, not by choice. Today she had given herself the incentive of a meal cooked by someone else if she could get the month’s receipts entered into the accounting program her sister used. Megan had thought she might finally be making some progress when she had become hopelessly distracted by the amazing-looking man who had walked in.

  Too bad he wasn’t her type.

  Men who looked like he did never were.

  But then, Fate had gotten really nasty by giving the beautiful man she had no business even talking to a hard shove in her direction. She’d seen his long legs with their light furring of hair in her peripheral vision. Megan had counted to ten and willed him to give up and walk away. She wasn’t sure she had the strength to turn him down. Even if it was for his own good.

  But the lamb had not only sat down with the lion, he had engaged her in play. And her old instincts had kicked in, God help him.

  Megan made sure she made him pay for his interruption by taking a good twenty minutes longer to finish than the work required. At least, that’s what she told herself. It wasn’t that she was so mesmerized by the exotic beat of the blood in her veins, made thick and heavy by the man across from her, that inserting numbers into a spreadsheet was all but beyond her capability at that moment.

  And it certainly shouldn’t be necessary to wrest control back from her libido this early in the game. No, she was just setting the ground rules. Making him understand from the start what he was getting himself into. If, it turned out, that was what they were doing.

  “So, Steve,” she said at last, tucking away her computer. Megan drew the now room temperature meal in front of her and reached for the beer. “What can I do for you?”

  She made sure her hand remained steady as she pierced the soft crust of the pie. Taking a bite before she caught his eye again, Megan was thankful for the food in her mouth. Anything audible that escaped might be interpreted as appreciation of the food, and not her own groan of helpless lust at getting her first real look at his eyes. Lashes darker than they had any right to be framed eyes as unusual as their owner’s hair color—a rare blending of blue and green.

  Megan thought she read uncertainty in them as he found his voice. Poor baby probably had no idea how to behave after being kept waiting, as he had. “Let me take you out to dinner.”

  Keeping any hint of a smile from her face, Megan replied, “I’ve got dinner already, thanks.” A two-beat pause. “What else do you think you can do for me?”

  It really wasn’t fair of her, to tease the poor man like that. He obviously had no idea of the kind of woman he was trying to pick up. And it was a bad sign for her how much it touched her to watch him keep swimming when the current was clearly over his head.

  “Whatever you need, babe, I can do for you.” Someone please tell her that wasn’t a catch she heard in his voice.

  Megan sighed a little.

  There would be no getting around it. Fate, life, pure dumb luck—whatever you chose to call it—was plainly insisting that this man was in her path for a reason. And Megan had learned the hard way that hiding from the inevitable never worked. It would only hunt you down make you pay double when it finally found you.

  Megan folded her hands on the table and leaned forward a little. She wanted to read every gradation of feeling on his face when she rocked his world.

  “Steve, I need to explain some things to you.”

  Chapter Two

  Steve tried to keep the wince from showing on his face.

  That didn’t sound good. In his experience, it was rarely a good sign when the woman told the man, “We need to talk.” It usually turned out to be something like she was the last of her high school gal-pal group still not married and, gosh, wouldn’t next month be perfect for a garden wedding. Or that her old college roommate, who was neater than you and an amazing cook, hadn’t been ‘strictly platonic’ after all and, not only was he back in town, but she was moving in with him. Or she was finally ready to try a threesome—with another guy as the third.

  “Here’s the deal, Steve. I don’t think you have any idea whose table you picked to sit down at.” Her arms as she leaned on the table were slim but firm-looking and he wondered what she did to keep in shape. He let his eyes take a surreptitious flick downward, trying to make out the shape of her breasts. He was betting on smallish—barely a B cup—with pert little nipples. Looking back up, Steve realized she’d caught his every move.

  Busted.

  But instead of outrage, he would swear he read approval on her face.

  “No, that’s okay. Don’t be embarrassed. In fact, I want to hear what you like. In bed.”

  Holy—He couldn’t have heard that right. “You want to hear what?”

  “I want to hear what you like. What you don’t like. What your fantasies are. What you’ve never done but always wanted to … if you found the right person.” Her voice had gone soft. Almost hypnotic. Steve thought he could stare into those eyes and listen to that voice all night long. Ideally they would both be naked as part of the exercise.

  “This is a pretty good fantasy right here. But I’d really like to be having this conversation somewhere quieter. Maybe without the audience,” he said, gesturing toward the rest of the room.

  She shook her head, her ponytail swaying with the motion, just grazing the tops of her shoulders. “Not yet. Soon, maybe. But we need to get some things out in the open first. Get some things straight.”

  Steve didn’t believe conversations like this happened in real life. He’d always figured those letters in the
backs of men’s magazines were fake. Dear Penthouse, I never thought these letters were real until something happened to change my mind. Yeah, right. How many nymphomaniac blonde twins with fireman fantasies were there in real life? But here he was, on the verge of living one. He was afraid to open his mouth and screw things up.

  “Like what? Your place or mine?” Jesus, talk about lame. This was where she got up and walked out, disgusted by his clumsy attempt at repartee.

  Sliding her hands off the table, she placed them at the neckline of her tank before smoothing them lightly down the shirt. The effect was to bring those tiny but perfect tits into gorgeous relief. As he watched she brushed the tips of her fingers lightly back and forth until the nipples began to crest.

  “No, more like, what does that make you want to do?”

  Suddenly Steve was choking on his tongue. Heat washed over him. And his dick, already halfway to hard, completed the trip.

  “Touch. Taste … suck on them,” he sputtered. His hands, he realized to his colossal embarrassment, were stroking the air, as though those tempting peaks were beneath them.

  “That sounds nice.” She nearly purred as she leaned back a little, sizing him up through slitted eyes. “I think I’d like that, too. But first, I need you to do something for me.”

  Steve stiffly nodded his agreement. “I need to hear the words, Steve. Say ‘Yes, Megan.’”

  He was a parrot, reduced to repeating whatever was necessary. Whatever she asked. But at least he knew her name now. “Yes, Megan.”

  Then she smiled at him, and he felt like he’d done something amazing. Steve realized he’d do a lot to earn that smile. “That’s perfect. See how easy that was? Now put your hand in your pocket and stroke yourself. I want to see that pretty cock get hard.”

  Whoa.

  “I can’t. I’d be arrested. I can’t just do that in public.”

  “Well, then I guess you’ll just have to be careful, so that no one sees but you and me.”

  He wanted to look around, see who might be watching. This was his home turf. He knew people here, and people knew him. His arm shook a little with the force of holding back his hand that seemed to have a will of its own as it edged toward the pocket of his shorts.