I gave him a playful elbow in the ribs, knowing that I was safe from retribution, while surreptitiously checking him out. There's just something about a guy in a navy peacoat—especially THIS guy. He’s all strong shoulders tapering down to slim hips. The elevator doors opened onto a genteel foyer of which I had no recollection. Jon opened the double doors and ushered me into the apartment proper. The cotillion manners were out in full force.
"Can I get you something to drink?" He unwound the scarf from around my neck, as a parent would for a child, helped me shrug out of my beat-up leather jacket, and whisked them off, undoubtedly to hang in some closet. He emerged from some mysterious space off the living room with his jeans slung low on his hips, his teal heather V-neck pulling across his broad shoulders. "What would you like? Something hot or cold?"
He looked every inch a god of the infield. He was already moving toward the kitchen through a set of white swinging doors. That ass. Those legs. Just watching him move through space. I don't know what’s more arresting—that body or the way it commandeers the space around it. He’ll never fade into the background no matter how hard he tries.
"Something to take the chill off would be nice," I said.
Time to be the bad houseguest and poke around while he was busy in the kitchen. The apartment was bigger than my home in South Chicago, and it was stunning. The main living area was traditional architecturally, with suede-gray walls and amazing pre-war moldings. I reveled in the views of the city through three immense arched windows with more molding piled on. An antique marble fireplace dominated the opposite wall. The furnishings were an eclectic mix of Arts and Crafts and curvy Art Deco with some modern pieces mixed in, including the Le Corbusier lounge that played a featured role in last week's antics—not to mention the subsequent dreams said antics inspired.
Naturally, Jon's version of frat-boy chic eschewed the obligatory Sports Illustrated swimsuit edition and Pirelli tire girls found plastered on most college jocks' dorm room walls. He apparently preferred original photography. Man Ray. Henri Cartier-Bresson. Stieglitz. Pride of place was given to Mapplethorpe's Poppies. There were also photographs scattered on the mantel beneath it, as if they were offerings to some fearsome god of photography.
I was contemplating the whole tableau when John slid up behind me, claiming my personal space with authority and a mug of hot cocoa. Complete with marshmallows. He reached around me to hand me the mug but never relinquished my personal space. I could almost feel the smirk in his soft breath as it teased at my temple. I turned into him, looking from the proffered mug to him quizzically. I'm beginning to think I’ll never have this guy figured out.
"What? Everyone loves marshmallows. Besides, the only other option for taking the chill off was whiskey, and you’ve had your allotment for the evening already."
I smirked a bit, but I took the mug without complaint. I hoped that no more bourbon meant play was on the table. "So what's the story with the Mapplethorpe? It's not exactly something I’d expect to find in the apartment of a college All-Star pitcher."
"So you know your photography too. Nice. Not what I'd expect from a lover of the Old Masters. Long story short, it reminds me of home."
"Because poppies are from California?"
"Well, that too, but it's the way the stems are intertwined. Just like family, it can be support or a slow death. But you're an art history major, not a psychology major, so I suppose you want to hear me wax euphoric about the composition and how tension and movement is encapsulated in the photograph thanks to the way the stems twist around one another."
I reached for one of the photos on the mantelpiece. It was seven beautiful redheaded women, intertwined in a way that was sexy and playful, but not sexual, and it was vaguely familiar in a way I couldn't place. "I swear I've seen this photograph . . ."
"I highly doubt that. Those are my sisters. Herb Ritts recycled the idea when he did his supermodel shoot for Vogue magazine the next year. That's probably why. The rest of them are from my sister Sheila's wedding. She was all about Princess Di, so naturally she insisted on Mario Testino as her wedding photographer. My family . . ." He fiddled with a photograph of him and, presumably, his parents before rolling his eyes.
It was as if he wanted to say something more but thought better of it, and I was glad he did. Weddings and family had no place in the conversation we were about to have. He settled me into one of a pair of surprisingly comfortable club chairs near the fireplace and dragged the other around to face me. He leaned forward so that we were knee to knee and looked at me intently. Clearly, he meant for this to be a discussion between equals.
He started to open his mouth, but I cut him off before he had a chance. "You are one of Town & Country's most eligible bachelors, and I'm, well, I'm me. Too smart for the neighborhood. Too poor for college. But for the grace of God—well, actually his brides—I'd probably be pregnant with a toddler on my hip and Sunday gravy on the stove rather than at an Ivy League university getting a double major on my way to law school. This"—I waved my hands between us vigorously—"whatever 'this' is, defies the natural order of things."
"You think someone's bank account and background determines attraction? That's just stupid." He was indignant to say the least.
“That's not what I'm saying at all. People expect to see like with like. GQ belongs with Vogue. Value Village belongs with Army Surplus. It appeals to their need for order. I'm just saying ‘we’ would end up on people's radar because the idea confuses—or worse, offends—them. We're trying to avoid attention, not attract it." Fear was creeping into my voice. The more we talked, the worse this idea became.
"Who says we’re going to attract it? Just hear me out. I like control. And I like to see the evidence of my control being asserted. I'm a visual kind of guy. You like someone else to take charge. And you love the way it makes you feel and the marks it leaves behind. You savor them. That makes us a good match. We can explore all of that in the utmost privacy. No clubs. No dating."
He was making a convincing case. If anyone could make it work, it was Jon Drazen. I was surprised law school wasn't in his future. But I wasn't sold yet. He needed to accept I wasn't a trifle.
"But it's not just surrendering control; it's the opportunity to serve. It gives me a sense of connection. If you’ve noticed anything about me at all over the past few years, I'm sure my lack of connection is at the top of the list. I’m a loner. If all you're looking for is some spanking, laughs, and good times, I'm not your girl. I need the formal ritual and power exchange, or it won't work for me."
The resolute expression on his face told me there was nothing I could say to dissuade him.
"Keeping this quiet will be the easy part. You woke me up. It’s clear the path I was on isn't going to work for me anymore. I spent the last semester celibate because even the girls who were willing to play never had their heart in it. They were just working that angle as an inside track to maybe becoming Mrs. Drazen. That was exhausting, but the celibacy kicked my brain into overdrive. It was the opposite of relaxing." He was nervously working his hands, which had dealt so much pleasure and pain, through his longish, coppery hair as the words tumbled out of his mouth. I couldn't keep my eyes off them. He swept away my doubts that fast.
“I'll be honest. You and Beau made me realize I have to have more than classes and work to have a life.” My words tumbled out. “Of course, my predilections complicate things. My training Dom was much older than me. Don't get me wrong, he was amazing. He taught me so much. But the age difference wasn't really something I got off on. No daddy issues here."
“I've been pretty casual and bare bones about my play, but spanking and a few laughs were never my goal. My mentor is world-class when it comes to the nuances of power exchange, but I haven't had the opportunity to engage in an ongoing relationship with it as a basis. Just scenes with a club sub here and there. I think between the two of us, we can figure this out—if you're willing to give it a chance." He seemed earnest and sincere.
"Explore together? Is that what you're proposing?" I was fighting the urge to grin like a fool. Jon Drazen is reading my mind.
"Would you be willing to be exclusive to the end of school? One night every weekend. I know this semester will be hectic for both of us, and we have lives waiting after graduation, but . . ."
Why wouldn't I want a finite, exclusive, negotiated relationship with Jon Drazen?
Hot guy my own age. Check
Craves discretion even more than I do. Check
Kink with someone who knows what he's doing. Check
A contract to guarantee that it won't go off the rails emotionally. Check
An expiration date that ensures we proceed to the lives we have waiting for us at graduation without regrets or recrimination. Check
No love. Check
What could go wrong?
"Let's do this." I clasped his hands, barely wrapping mine around his elegant, strong fingers, since I knew full well my opportunities to touch him unbidden would be gone in a matter of moments.
JON
"So what do you think? Saturday nights? We meet at Kovac’s and play here?" I wanted her to feel as comfortable as possible, and if that meant meeting in a public place, it would be a small price to pay. "Does that work with your schedule?"
She made a show of running through her appointment calendar in her head, gave me a wink, and said, "I think I can pencil you in. If we're going to do this, let's do this right. We should probably draw up a list of our limits and conditions."
Luckily, I was three steps away from the secretary that held the hideously expensive fountain pens my family insisted on buying me every Christmas, along with note paper from the Queen's stationer. Some of the social pretensions that my crazy Irish Catholic family observed made the Kennedys look like shanty Irish.
I grabbed a handful of both and settled back into my chair, handed a pen and paper to Missy, and kept a set for myself. To my thinking, it was only proper she had control over the creation of this arrangement, given that it was all about her surrendering her control. "Make a complete list with your requirements, conditions, and hard limits, and I'll do the same. Then we can talk about meshing them together."
My list was brief and straightforward.
The relationship will be exclusive.
We both get tested for STDs.
After we exchange clean tests, form of birth control is lady's choice.
Messalina decides condom use.
No sharing.
No blood or hardcore bodily fluid play.
No sneaking out when I'm asleep. It's my responsibility to protect you and your needs. The scene does not end until I see you safely home.
When we're in scene, you will call me Jonathan or Sir. I will call you Lena.
I felt like the kid who finished his test before the rest of the class, down to the second-guessing of my answers. I took the opportunity to watch Missy ponder and write. Ponder some more. Write. Reread. Crumble up her paper and start the process all over again. It took her another ten minutes before she finally looked up and handed the paper to me.
We don't disclose our acquaintance to anyone connected with the team or university. This is strictly secret.
No glove, no love without exchange of clean test results (I have an IUD for birth control).
We establish a ritual of greeting to open and close our scene.
Hard limits
No heavy whips, broken skin, or visible bruises/marks.
No humiliation.
No blood play.
No golden showers.
No scat play.
My safe word is Cicero.
"I expected a much longer list from you. I don't see anal on this list. That was a hard limit last weekend."
She blushed prettily as her words rushed out. "I'm an anal virgin. I wasn't exactly eager to give it a test run in the middle of a threesome. That seemed a bit daunting. I'm not ruling it out in the context of our ‘arrangement.’ Honestly, I'm up for trying most things at least once. The nuns kept us on a pretty short leash, so I'm behind on my sexual bucket list. Your list is pretty short too. So why call me Lena?"
"One, my list is short because it's up to me to see to your well-being, not appease my cock. I get off by controlling the where, when, how, and why of you getting off. As for ‘Lena,’ calling you ‘Missy’ is a guaranteed erection-killer every time. Because Missy tattled on everyone to Sister Mary Margaret, my seventh grade religion teacher. Not. Sexy. At. All. But Lena, that beautiful woman I met at Kovac's, is a different story entirely."
"Well, I had Sister Joseph, and I was usually the girl in the corner kneeling on rice because I kept asking impertinent questions about the Transfiguration. I'm a lot of things, but a tattletale isn't one of them."
"So I can thank the Catholic Church for your predilections? Or just your delightful pain threshold?" I could barely get that out without laughing.
A giggle bubbled through her luscious lips and morphed into a knowing, sweet smile that tugged at my cock in a way I’d never expected. She really needed to smile more. It looked good on her. Despite her protests to the contrary, I think she needs spanking and laughter more than she wants to admit.
"That's for me to know and you to find out. It will probably call for a great deal of trial and error." That was completed with a saucy wink. Brat. "In all seriousness though, I think we may be well suited."
"Grab your cocoa. I want to take you on a tour of the apartment." I held out my hand, pulled her out of the chair, and we walked. "This was the formal drawing room when the place was first built. I use this as the living room. There's also a dining room off the elevator foyer."
We passed through the swinging doors into the kitchen. I really enjoyed how the clean, modern look of the kitchen meshed so well with the traditional bones of the apartment. Slick white cabinets, stainless steel, and black granite made it one of my favorite places in the apartment to hang out. I set up the entertainment center and converted what was the breakfast room into an all-purpose den. I generally did any class work I had at the island breakfast bar. It gave me the same feeling of safety and belonging I used to get in the working kitchen at my parents' Malibu house.
"Kitchen. I spend most of my time here,” I said. “The office is upstairs, but I grew up doing my homework in the kitchen. The whole apartment is wired for broadband, so I can use my laptop in every room. Including right here."
"Oh my God. What an amazing place to cook. I just had a kitchengasm. I'm used to a workspace about a fifth the size of this."
I'm sure I rolled my eyes at the idea of a kitchengasm.
"Don't look at me like that,” she said. “Just because I'm running away from my fate doesn't mean I didn't gain some useful skills before I fled. I'm Italian, for fuck's sake. Cooking is genetic."
"So this isn't about my sexual prowess, it's about my counter space." I loved teasing her like that. She was so unguarded. Making her blush was about to be my new favorite pastime.
"Noooooo. But I could be persuaded to expand the definition of service to include culinary duties if it meant I got to use this kitchen." She wandered away from me, caressing the countertop like a lover, eyes as big as saucers when she got to the range. But it wasn't avarice. She seemed genuinely delighted by the idea of that range. I wore a similar look when I got the latest and greatest mitt.
"Come on. We'll negotiate cooking privileges later. There's more to show you."
"You have a dungeon in place of the pantry?"
"Nothing that exotic. Just the upper level and roof garden."
We took what had been the old servants’ stairwell to the upper level. During the day, I loved the space. Mostly thanks to the light that the row of French doors allowed in on the southern side. Having a rooftop terrace in the summertime didn't hurt either. A guest suite, my workout area, and an office workspace completed the setup on this level. It was far more open and modern than you would expect from a pre-war, high-end apartment buildin
g. The only true "room" up here was the guest suite.
I reached for the switch to turn on the lights, but Missy waved me off. She was mesmerized by the view through the French doors and moved toward them as if she were under a spell.
She put a hand on the knob but hesitated. "Do you mind? It looks beautiful out there."
The snow was still falling, gathering on the balustrades and gargoyles that bordered the roof's edge. She stepped out onto the terrace, her footprints quickly filling with snow. She delighted in the cold, reveled in the falling snow. She looked ethereal, bathed in the silvery glow of the moon and the reflected city lights, the snowflakes sparkling on her black hair like a cloud of diamonds. This is the same woman who took on not one but two world-class athletes and brought them to their knees sexually? How can she be so childlike and knowing all at once? Am I getting myself into more than I bargained for?
I followed her out onto the terrace. "Missy, it's freezing out here. We can come out here another time when we both have coats."
She beckoned to me. "Jon, just come out for a minute, please. It's so serene out here. You would never guess that Rittenhouse Square is two blocks away. Just listen. You can hear the snow."
I wrapped my arms around her from behind and indulged her in her bit of fancy. You really could hear the snow falling. I’d never noticed it before. After all, as her Dom, it was my job to see to her well-being, and honestly, in all the time I’d observed her at Penn, I'd never seen her so relaxed. And I'd observed her more than I cared to admit to myself.
"In the summertime, you can see all the way to the river. It's a great place to relax. You forget you're in the middle of the city, with all the grass and plants up here." I angled her body toward the northeast, motioning to a gap in the skyline. "On a really clear summer day, you can see all the way to New York."
"Seriously? I wish I could see that. New York seems a lifetime way. I'm going to Columbia Law in the fall, but I've never actually been there." Her voice trailed off. I couldn't tell if she was happy or sad about going to New York.
The Drazen World: The Tryst (Kindle Worlds Novella) Page 2