Uncommon Passion

by Anne Calhoun

  Back in the bedroom he snapped the pin in half, bent the end to form a little hook, then dispassionately lifted his windbreaker just enough to reveal the cuffs, freeing Juliette. She immediately shoved her arms through the windbreaker’s sleeves and wrapped it around her body, hunching in on herself. Ben folded the cuffs and tossed them on the bed, then dug in his dresser for a pair of cotton shorts and a T-shirt, then dropped them next to the cuffs.

  The pink rose Rachel wore all night lay on the bed. It must have tumbled from her cleavage in her scrabbling haste to get away from Juliette. The petals were crushed against his unmade, rumpled bed.

  “I’ll be in the living room,” he said, still not looking at her.

  “Ben,” she said.

  He stopped, but still didn’t look at her.

  “I’m sorry.”

  He cut her a glance that silenced her. “This was a stupid stunt. How long were you sitting there? What if I hadn’t come home at all?”

  Color rose in her face, and she looked away. “Steve said he’d come back in a couple of hours.”

  “Get dressed,” he said curtly.

  A car door slammed in the parking lot, then Steve’s boots thunked against the cement risers. Ben strode to the door and hauled it open before he could knock.

  “Fucking stick up your ass,” Steve began. “Since when are you so fucking picky about who you—”

  His voice cut off when Rachel rose to her feet. Ben hadn’t bothered to turn on the lights. In these circumstances, darkness was his friend. Her white dress glowed in the light from the parking lot. “Hello,” she said politely.

  Ben kept his face expressionless as Steve looked from Rachel to him, and let the silence stretch long enough for a dull brick red color to cover Steve’s face. “Sorry,” he muttered.

  Juliette emerged from his bedroom, dressed in his shorts and T-shirt, her arms wrapped protectively around her middle and her hair shielding her face. She hurried to the door, then paused in the doorway to look directly at Rachel.

  “I’m sorry,” she said clearly.

  “So am I,” Rachel said with a faint smile. “A difficult night all around.”

  Everyone was sorry, after the fact. He waited until Steve turned to follow Juliette out the door, then stopped him. “How did you get in?”

  “Got the super to open the door,” he muttered.

  “It wasn’t locked when we got here,” Ben said. “You left a helpless woman handcuffed in my unlocked apartment. Never again.”

  Steve’s eyes widened ever so slightly at the silky tone of his voice. “Yeah. Fine. Whatever.”

  When the door closed, energy drained from his body through the soles of his feet. He shoved his hands over his hair again, then folded his arms across his chest and looked at Rachel. “I’ll take you home.”

  “I think that’s for the best,” she replied.

  It was as if a cold front roared down from the northern plains, dropping the temperature forty degrees in an hour, freezing the air between him and Rachel. All the passion, all the heat and longing was gone, and he couldn’t bring himself to lay hands on her, much less lay her down in the bed Juliette just left, not with the other woman’s perfume hanging in the air.

  Fifteen minutes outside of town the silence got to him, so he turned on the radio. Rachel said nothing on the drive home, something that frankly scared him, given how she processed the world. She just continued to stare out the window, into the dark night. The dashboard lights illuminated her profile against the glass, her full lips, the curve of her cheek, the line of her jaw.

  When he turned into the bunkhouse parking lot, all the lights were off in the building. “Is it locked?”

  “I have a key,” she said.

  “I’ll wait until you’re inside,” he said.

  She opened the passenger door, then turned to him. “Thanks for coming with me,” she said. “I had a good time.”

  His breath huffed from his lungs. “Until the end.”

  “You know how I feel about new experiences,” she said slowly.

  In the dim glow, the overhead light highlighted the flush in her cheeks, but it was the low tone of her voice that sent heat pooling in his groin. Suddenly it became clear to him. The submissive position and the cuffs intrigued her, but she was too innocent to say it. “You want to try that?”

  She didn’t blush or refuse or play coy. “I want to think about it,” she said. “I’ll let you know on Sunday.”

  “So I’ll see you Sunday,” he repeated rather dim-wittedly.

  “Of course,” she said.

  Air eased from his lungs. He didn’t realize until that moment that he’d been holding his breath, braced for the end because this visible evidence of his lifestyle, a life she didn’t fit into, would make her break things off.

  The sense of relief floating up from his gut, into his chest, didn’t make things any better.

  Chapter Fifteen

  A boom of thunder yanked Ben straight from sleep to heart-pounding, adrenaline-jacked awareness. For a moment he was nothing but a racing heartbeat and sharp breaths, totally disconnected from time and consciousness. Rain slapped at the window like pebbles, the rivulets coursing down the pane giving the air an unearthly gray hue. He turned to see if the noise woke Sam, but all he saw was a sliding closet door caught on a jumble of dark blue sleeves.

  Where was Sam? Where was Sam?

  Lightning cracked, then another boom directly overhead jolted Ben back into time, into his body. His apartment. His bed. Sunday morning, and the emptiness of that horrible morning was fourteen years in the past.

  Except it wasn’t. It was still inside him.

  He hunched over, forcing his breathing to slow and steady. When it did he scraped both hands over his hair, then got in the shower. Eventually the steady pattern of hot running water drowned out the memory of chilly rain, thunder, flash floods, darkness barely pierced by his flashlight.

  He heard her car pull into his lot five minutes early, but the car door didn’t close and her quick, light steps didn’t start up the stairs until one minute till eleven. The sounds jerked him out of a fog of sexual anticipation, into the now. He wondered what she thought about while she was waiting outside, if she had to psych herself up for what they were about to do. Somehow he didn’t think so. He was showered and dressed this time, perched once again on the arm of his sofa, his cuffs waiting on the nightstand.

  Fuck, did he need this today.

  He’d left the door slightly ajar, but she knocked gently anyway, then pushed it open and peered in. Today her hair hung loose, with just the sides twisted away from her temples and held back from her face with a dragonfly clasp that looked like a jeweled insect had landed in a fall forest, golds glinting among every shade of brown from light through chestnut to near mahogany. Raindrops clung to the strands, spattered her white sleeveless tank top that buttoned up the front. She wore a thin woven scarf in pastel shades of pinks and purple, and a soft blue skirt that flared around her knees as she stepped into the dining area, then turned to close and lock the door.

  Thump-thump-thump. His heart rate picked up, and he exhaled long and slow, using his breathing to slow his pulse. She dropped her purse on the dinette table with a solid thunk, then she walked over to stand in front of him. He looked up at her, studying her face, searching for any signs of distress, any hint of a distance he usually relied on to keep things casual. But this time he didn’t want to see distance. He wanted to see Rachel.

  He did. Her pretty eyes held nothing more or less than simple calm as they studied his face.

  “Good morning,” she said, as if it weren’t storming like God’s own wrath outside.

  Air huffed through his nostrils as one corner of his mouth quirked up. She was so hard to read, so completely self-contained and self-aware, that sh
e always managed to surprise him. “Good morning,” he said, then got to his feet.

  She didn’t step back when he rose, so the movement aligned their bodies and made it easy for him to cup her jaw and lower his mouth to hers. He brushed his lips gently over hers, once, twice, felt them soften, part, and her tongue dart out to taste him.

  Oh, fuck, did he need this today. “Ready?”

  Her head tipped to the side, giving him access to her cheekbone and ear. “I’ve been thinking about that,” she said.

  He lifted his head and looked at her while his fingers combed through the thick waterfall of hair streaming over her shoulders and back, then wound it around his fingers for the pleasure of feeling the strength of the strands. He brushed her shoulder and collarbone with the thick ends and watched goose bumps eddy across her rain-streaked skin. It didn’t matter to him what they did, or so he thought. She couldn’t possibly get more vulnerable to him than she already was. The cuffs were a game, a distraction, a trick.

  “And?”

  “I don’t want you to use them on me.”

  “It doesn’t have to be like it was for . . . what you saw,” he amended. “I won’t gag you. I won’t do anything you don’t want me to do, and if you want to stop, just tell me to stop.”

  She nodded. “I trust you. But that’s not what I want to do today. I want to restrain you.”

  Heart to full stop. He stared at her, not sure he’d heard her correctly. He bit back his automatic response of fuck, no. “Come again?”

  “I’m very used to feeling helpless. I know all about being restrained, not by handcuffs or rope but by expectations. A view of the world, who I am in that world, how I’m supposed to behave. I want to feel what it’s like to be in control.”

  Three floors down in the parking lot, a car door slammed. The engine turned over, then receded as the driver left the complex. In front of him, Rachel waited patiently for his response. That was Rachel. Everything was serious. Nothing was a game. She was awake, aware, alive, the opposite of drifting from one superficial distraction to another.

  “No.”

  “Why not?” she asked calmly.

  “Because I don’t want to do it.”

  “I understand,” she said. “That’s fine.”

  “That’s not what you say, Rachel.”

  She blinked.

  His heart was pounding again, hard enough to drown out her low voice, so he focused on her face, watching for nuance. “Talk me into it. Negotiate. Persuade me.”

  She considered that, and the scent of danger grew stronger in his head. She didn’t just memorize, repeat by rote what he’d done. She improvised. “Why don’t you want to do it?”

  “Because, in general, cops have a thing about control. I’ve got this thing about a total amateur using my handcuffs on me. Something goes wrong and I’m the laughingstock of the department.”

  Amusement danced in her golden eyes. “I see. You did open them with a bobby pin on Tuesday. I may not be an expert with handcuffs but I am an expert with bobby pins,” she pointed out.

  “No cuffs.” Blunt. Flat. Final.

  “All right,” she said. Holding his gaze, she reached for the scarf and tugged it loose from her neck. The movement revealed the strong length of her neck, the dip where throat met collarbone, and sent blood pounding south. “What about this?”

  He considered it. “Do you like it?”

  “Very much,” she said. “A friend wove it for me and I miss her terribly. The colors aren’t really my thing now, but she made it with love.”

  Fuck sentiment. “If you can’t get the knots loose you’re going to have to cut it.”

  She looked at the fabric dangling from her hand. “You don’t have a scarf?”

  He laughed. “If I want to get kinky I use the cuffs.”

  “Neckties?”

  “One.”

  “I’ll tie loose knots,” she said seriously.

  Silence. He didn’t want to do this. He didn’t want to say no, either. A gaping maw opened inside him, widening the distance between the man he used to be and the man he was with Rachel.

  “How am I doing?”

  An A plus so far, given that they were still talking about it. “Tell me you’ll make it good for me.” His voice was low and rough, like he’d forced the words through gravel. “Tell me why I’ll like it.”

  Tell me you’ll stop the rain.

  She slid her hand under his shirt, cupping his hipbone, then around to flatten at the base of his spine. The move, confident and sure, brought her close enough to bring his hardening cock against the gentle swell of her belly. “Has anyone ever set out to satisfy you? Focused only on giving you pleasure?”

  He didn’t understand what she meant. He got what he wanted. Sometimes he took it but he was never an asshole about it. He shrugged, unwilling to admit ignorance. “You don’t need to tie me up to do that.”

  “If I don’t, you’ll take charge,” she said.

  He laughed. “Bet your sweet ass.”

  “Trust me, Ben.”

  She’d gone on tiptoe so the words drifted into the rough skin on his jaw. Her tongue followed, licking so close to the corner of his mouth that the sensitive spot tingled in response. Muscles in his neck bunched as he almost sought her kiss, but the words stopped him.

  Trust her. It was just sex. No big deal. She tied him up, did whatever she was going to do until it ended, then she turned him loose. How inventive could she possibly get? He’d taught her everything she knew. If anything, all he had to do was not act like it felt awkward, like she wasn’t turning him on.

  In other words, be kind.

  Don’t make such a big fucking deal about it.

  The hand not resting at the base of his spine drifted from his shoulder down his biceps, along his forearm to his wrist. Her gaze fixed on his, she wove her fingers into his and tugged. Three steps took them from the living room to the dining area, where she turned a chair away from the table so it faced the living area.

  “Not in the bedroom?” he asked.

  She shook her head. Her face was serious but a small smile danced at the edges of her mouth as she pointed at the chair. “Trust me, remember?”

  He eased onto the seat. “You don’t know anything about this, remember?”

  The words came out sharper than he intended, because she’d guided his wrist to the bend where the curved metal was holding the back to the seat. She looped the scarf around his wrist and the brass, then repeated the maneuver on the other side. He tugged experimentally, and to his total shock the knots held. He’d expected girl knots.

  When he looked up into her face, that small smile was back. “I tie up goats,” she said conversationally. “Goats are escape artists. I’m good at knots.”

  No fucking doubt, because she’d tied his guts in knots. His heart rate careened between full stop and red zone. He didn’t say anything, felt his face going blank as the realization hit. He’d seriously underestimated Rachel Hill.

  “As for what I know,” she continued, “I guess we’re about to find out.”

  She slid her finger into the knot, testing the give between his wrist and the metal. “Not too tight?”

  “No,” he said through his tight throat.

  If his brusque answer offended her, she didn’t show it. Instead she reached for her purse, still sitting on the table at his back, and when she opened it, every muscle in his body went rigid.

  “No cameras, Rachel. You take your phone or a camera out of that bag and this is over. Today and forever.”

  She blinked, and withdrew a small, cylindrical object wrapped in brown paper folded flat at the ends. The paper unrolled to reveal a jar of honey. Still standing to his left, she set it upright on her palm and showed him the label. One hundred percent pure ho
ney, made from the busy bees at Silent Circle Farm.

  “What’s that for?”

  “You’ll see,” she said.

  Then she hiked her skirt up and straddled his lap. Her hair swung forward, hiding her breasts as she snugged up against him, notching his cock between her thighs. She made a greedy little sound, then lifted both hands to his jaw and kissed him.

  She held him where she wanted him and took her time, brushing her slightly open mouth back and forth across his lips, striking sparks, sending rivulets of sensation trickling along nerves. Only when his jaw slackened and he opened his mouth did she lick first his lower lip, then his upper lip, adding wet heat to sparks. Lips on lips again, then another swift lick, again and again while his cock throbbed uncomfortably. He forced himself to stay still until he couldn’t resist any longer and touched the tip of his tongue to hers.

  She sat back a little. When he opened his eyes, she shook her head gently. “No. Not yet.”

  A tremor rippled through his body but he controlled it, his gaze flickering between her eyes, so calmly intent, and her mouth. She bit her lip, then, as if inspired, leaned forward and bit his lip, gently trapping the teased flesh between her teeth. She was slow, excruciatingly slow, holding his lower lip long enough for him to feel blood pulse and swell in it before letting go. Another slow swipe of her tongue, then it was back to the lip-to-lip pressure. His awareness collapsed to nothing more than her mouth on his, her weight anchoring him to the chair, and her shallow puffs of breath against his skin when she went for the sensitive corner of his mouth again.

  What the fuck did she want from him?

  He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been kissed like this. Maybe never. Each heated kiss seeped into the unacknowledged seams in his armor, melting him with tenderness. He lifted his hands to cup her head, anchor her hips to grind against her, and felt the woven fabric bite into his wrists. A low growl reverberated in his throat, and Rachel pulled back again.

  “Shh,” she said.

  If that was supposed to make him feel better, it didn’t. If the last timeless minutes were indicative of the rest of Rachel’s lesson, he’d never make it. She was proving herself on his body, then gauging his response. Methodically, passionately, taking him apart.