by Lilli Feisty
“I always wanted the perfect marriage,” she murmured.
He grinned. “How’s that working out for you?”
“Shut up,” she said jokingly. “I’m just now beginning to see there may be no such thing.” She drained her coffee and set her empty mug on the table.
“I know some lifestylers, total master/slave people. They live that way twenty-four seven. To most outsiders, these people would seem like complete freaks. But guess what? They are some of the happiest people I know.”
She scoffed. “Are you saying only BDSM people are truly happy?”
“Not at all. I’m saying people who are true to themselves have a better chance.”
“Does that mean if someone outed you as a dom, you’d roll with it? Let the tabloids have a field day?”
He shrugged. “It’s not exactly a secret. I don’t have any problem with those people who want to keep it in the closet, but I don’t put any of my own energy into doing so. It’s who I am.”
“Well, I wouldn’t be so happy about people finding out about what I do with you, I’ll tell you that.” The thought of Claire knowing what her sister did behind closed doors made Ruby cringe.
“Because you haven’t accepted who you are yet. When you do that, you can make the right choice.”
“This,” she said, waving at the box in the corner, “is not who I am.”
“Right. Because the perfect woman would never want to be tied up, spanked, paddled.”
“Stop it.”
“Flogged, bound, whipped.” He put his coffee cup down.
“Mark…” She squirmed, the seat suddenly uncomfortable beneath her ass.
“Restrained.”
She slapped her hands flat on the Formica. “I don’t think that.”
He leaned over the table, his elbows sliding sideways as he came forward. “Tell me something, baby. When was the last time you actually felt perfect?”
Her skin burned hot with nerves. She knew the answer; it slammed into her with the force newfound truth always does, like a bag of rocks. Heavy and bruising.
The only time she’d even glimpsed that feeling of perfection was during her times with Mark. When she gave him her power, when they exchanged that energy. And it wasn’t perfection, necessarily, but fulfillment. Satisfaction. Completion. So many emotions, all rolled up into one.
She wondered if June Cleaver was secretly a domme behind closed doors. Maybe that explained why she was always so fucking happy.
The tinny strumming guitar music woke her. She glanced at the clock; it was past two in the morning and Mark wasn’t sleeping next to her. Pushing the covers aside, she got out of bed.
She’d fallen asleep naked in his arms, and she grabbed a silk robe off a hook as she walked into the hallway. She followed the low hum of not just the guitar, but also a melodic voice. Mark’s voice. He had a deep, husky tone that sent shivers straight up her spine.
She found him on the sofa, playing the old guitar her dad had left behind. He wore flannel pajama bottoms and glasses. The muscles in his long, strong arms flexed as he changed chords and strummed.
Mark must have tuned up the guitar. The thing had been sitting around, unused, for twenty years. But Ruby had never been able to get rid of the old instrument. Even now, the pads of her fingers tingled as she remembered the hours she’d spent strumming the wiry strings, trying to coax out a melody.
Pausing just outside the living room, she leaned against the wall of the hallway and watched him. He was obviously working on a song, and she loved this insight into his creative process. So different from the way she worked: researching, planning, organizing. Every detail meticulously arranged.
But this. Just like the man himself, his process was spontaneous, organic. He’d brush his fingertips over the strings for a few notes, then reach over the guitar to scribble something on the pad of paper on her coffee table. She recognized the paper as scrap from her office, and she was, for some reason, glad that he’d helped himself. She wanted him to know he was welcome to any of her possessions. Her paper, her food. Her heart.
At that realization, pure panic rushed through her, and she put a hand to her chest, which had begun to pound like a drum. She couldn’t breathe; her vision began to dim. How the hell had she let this happen? She had gone and fallen for a man who epitomized everything she did not want in a guy.
“Oh, fuck.”
“Sorry, baby. Did I wake you?”
Her pulse hammered in her throat as she took a few shaky steps to the sofa. “Maybe, but it’s okay. What are you working on?”
She focused on his naked torso, fighting back a crazy desire to lick his shoulder, tug on his nipple rings. To hug him and feel him in her arms. Only he could untwist the knot of anxiety in her belly.
And yet she was smiling because, even though it was temporary, he was here now. And she couldn’t help but take pleasure in that little fact.
She sank into the sofa, leaning her back against the arm. “Do you mind if I stay?” she asked as she brought her knees to her chest.
He shook his head, his eyes sparkling in the dim light. “Not at all. In fact, I’m about done.”
“What are you working on?”
“A new song. I woke up with a thought, and I couldn’t get it out of my head. I had to try to work it out.”
“I know exactly what you mean. It’s like that for me, too. When I get an idea for an event I can’t rest until I write it down.”
“Exactly. It’s like this beast within, scratching inside your head until you let it out.”
She nodded. “Yeah, that’s it.” Still nodding. “Precisely.” They stared at each other a minute before she said, “So. Wanna sing me your song?”
For a second, he looked uncertain, and it was the first time she’d ever seen this expression on him. “It’s not finished.”
“I don’t care.”
He met her gaze, and she saw vulnerability in his eyes. She touched his shoulder. “Really. I love everything you do. Please. Play for me.”
“Okay. Sure.” He turned back to the guitar and started to strum. The melody immediately pulled her in with its soft, melancholy notes. But then he started singing, and that was all she could hear. His voice, the words.
She listened, losing herself as he revealed a part of himself she’d never seen. And he was singing to her, about her. It was a love song, and when he chanted her name in the chorus he looked directly at her, and she felt her bones turn to liquid.
Ruby, mine.
A love song. For her.
Chapter
Seventeen
So, I’m pretty sure my husband is gay. Or bi. Frankly, it’s a toss-up right now. It could go either way. No pun intended.”
Ruby nearly spit her latte across the table. “What?” she said after she’d swallowed.
Meg crossed her legs. Today she wore a black hat with dotted netting covering one eye, a vintage dress that looked very Jackie Onassis except it was paired with black fishnet tights and on her feet were old Doc Martens boots.
“I said, I think my husband is gay. I might as well just sign up for one of Oprah’s desperate housewives shows.”
It was Tuesday, and they were having a “meeting” at Savor. So far Ruby had been able to avoid going anywhere near the studio, and luckily Meg hadn’t second-guessed her reasoning for meeting at the café instead of their office.
“Wait.” Ruby tugged the hem of her dress. In total contrast to her friend, she wore a pink fifties sundress and red round-toed pumps. A cashmere cardigan rested on her shoulders, fastened at her neck with a vintage pin in the shape of a rose. “Back up. Emmett is not gay. Or bi!”
Meg calmly removed her sunglasses and placed them on the table. “Really? Allow me to present my case. Exhibit A: He hasn’t had sex with me in months, even when I try to get things going, if you know what I mean. Exhibit B: I found all kinds of gay porn on his computer. Exhibit C: He’s out late every night. Exhibit D.” She looked up, then back down at
the table. “I don’t have an exhibit D, but I’m sure there is one.”
“Meg, none of those things mean he’s having an affair.”
A wistful look in her eye, Meg was staring at a baby in a stroller. Ruby knew Meg and Emmett had been trying to have kids, but she didn’t want to ask Meg about it, not now.
When the stroller had passed, Meg looked back at Ruby. “Then what does it mean?”
Pausing, Ruby remembered Mark’s words about people accepting who they were. “Meg. Is it possible there’s something Emmett wants? Something he’s afraid to ask you for?”
“Like what? He knows I’ll do anything for him. With him.”
“Are you sure he knows that?”
Meg shook her head. “Absolutely. I mean, I think so.”
“What if… what if there was something Emmett wanted to do, something he was embarrassed to admit. Maybe he’s looking for it in porn.”
“Which brings me back to my point with the homosexual porn! He’s gay.”
Ruby touched her friend’s hand. “Okay, let’s just take a breather here. Tell me exactly what you saw, with the porn.”
For the first time Ruby could remember, she saw her friend look uncomfortable. But, ever the trouper, Meg spoke anyway. “There were a lot of men… and some women. A few women. But the women were…”
She squeezed Meg’s hand. “What? You can tell me.”
Meg lowered her voice. “They were all the things Emmett doesn’t like. They were bossy, overbearing. Humiliating, even.”
“Oh, sweetie.” She tried to look reassuring. “How do you know he doesn’t like those things?”
Meg looked taken aback. “He’s told me so.”
“Okay, but what someone likes in real life doesn’t always transfer to the bedroom.” Ruby was beginning to think she was a perfect example. After all, she loved being submissive in the bedroom, but none of her business associates would ever describe her as such.
“And,” Ruby continued, “just a couple of weeks ago you yourself were asking me about spankings. If I were to jump to any conclusions based on what you’ve said, I’d say it’s not you that needs a good flogging. Maybe it’s him.”
Meg froze. “What are you saying? You think my husband wants to be dominated?”
Ruby raised a brow. She’d started to suspect Meg had a dominant streak, and now she wanted to make sure her friend was comfortable discussing the possibility with Ruby. “Would that bother you?” she asked.
“No, of course not. It’s just… I never would have guessed he might like it. I mean… I bought that paddle for him to use on me, if he wanted to.”
“But would that be okay with you? If Emmett was the one who wanted to get spanked?”
“Yes!” Meg said loudly. “I mean, yeah, sure.”
“Me thinks she doth protest too much,” Ruby said, grinning.
“Actually,” Meg said with a wink, “I didn’t protest at all.”
Ruby gave her friend a playful nudge. “You dirty birdie.”
Meg leaned back and smiled. “Hey, I can’t let you have all the fun, can I?”
They sipped their coffee and after a few minutes Meg looked up. “I just wish he wasn’t hiding this from me.”
Mark’s words echoed in Ruby’s mind. “Sometimes a person has to accept who they are before they can share it with someone else.”
“True.”
They drifted into their own thoughts. The fact was, Mark was right. She did like being spanked. She did like to be kinky. Ash had been the start of it, but it was Mark who’d fleshed out that part of her. Now, she seriously doubted she could just let it go when things with Mark inevitably fizzled.
“You’re thinking about Mark, aren’t you?” Meg asked.
“How did you know?”
Meg crossed her legs. “Just a hunch.”
“He was gone when I woke up this morning. All I found was a note saying the band needed him.” Ruby tried to sound as if she didn’t care.
“I guess that’s the way it is when you date a rock star.”
“We’re not dating,” Ruby said.
“No?”
“No way. It’s temporary. In fact, I’m going out with James after the fling.”
“Finally!” Meg exclaimed. “It’s about damn time.”
“Yeah,” Ruby mumbled. She should be ecstatic. So why did the thought of kissing another man, having another man touch her like Mark had, make her stomach churn?
Still, she refused to bury this craving just because Mark wasn’t around.
But she couldn’t help but wonder: Did she like to be spanked? Or did she just like to be spanked by Mark St. Crow?
“I’ll order for you.”
Mark watched as Ruby put down her menu. When they’d gone for Thai food on Sunday night, it had been a normal dinner. They’d talked, they’d laughed. They hadn’t been kinky. He couldn’t remember when he’d spent so much normal time with anyone who wasn’t in his band or part of his DNA.
And yet he’d been pensive ever since the conversation about settling down. If she’d come right out and demanded that he put her first, it would have made it so easy to walk away. But it was more than obvious that settling down with “someone like him” was the last thing on Ruby’s mind, which should have been a good thing. It should have freed Mark to enjoy his time with her before he walked away.
So why hadn’t it? The very fact that she wasn’t asking him for anything made him want to give her everything.
Now they were having a late lunch near Ghirardelli Square. It was three, and at this in-between time of day on a Thursday, they were the only patrons in the restaurant.
Twisting in the booth to face her, he took a fallen lock of her hair in his hand and played with the silky strands. Just think about today. She’d put her hair up in some kind of clip thing, and it was simple for him to unclasp it. She watched his face as he combed out her hair with his fingers, her lids lowering slightly each time he tugged gently. She was so fucking reactive, so trusting of him, so…
Perfect.
He wrapped a silky lock around his finger. She looked at him, ready for any signal he’d give her. It was that trust that floored him, made his blood rush hot. When she looked at him like that he knew it would be easy to lose control, to forget he was in charge.
Leaning toward her, he nipped her earlobe, addicted to that gasp she made when he did it just right. He kissed her temple as he twisted her hair tight. When he pulled back he was satisfied to see the flush on her skin, the sharp rise and fall of her chest.
And he was hard. His cock was throbbing underneath the table. He wanted to take her, right there in the booth. He wanted to feel her pussy, wet and tight around his cock; he wanted to take her nipple into his mouth and taste her skin. He wanted to bite her, listen to her scream his name as she came.
He swallowed. “I love that you wore a skirt today. Did you do that for me, doll?”
She looked up through those dark lashes of hers, flirty. “Maybe.”
“Good girl.”
His blood was pounding. Every muscle in his body was tense, strained. He’d topped a lot of girls, but he’d never fought this hard to keep it together.
“Cakebread 2006 Sauvignon Blanc. Would you like to taste, sir?”
Mark slowly turned toward the waiter; he’d totally missed the man’s approach. He cleared his throat. “My guest would like to taste the wine.”
“As you wish.” He poured a tiny amount of the golden liquid into an oversized wineglass. Ruby took a sip and nodded her approval.
After the waiter had filled both their glasses and left, Mark turned back to her. She was looking at him expectantly. Her eyes wide and full of want. For him.
His balls tightened, and he wondered if he had it in him to wait.
With a deep breath he picked up the small bag of chocolate they’d bought earlier at Ghirardelli Square. She’d brought him to the square on Sunday, during their mini San Francisco tour, and it was easy to tell that it
was Ruby’s favorite spot in the city. The scent of chocolate swirled through the air, and Ruby had closed her eyes in ecstasy, a look Mark wanted to see on her face more often.
Now, he felt her gaze on his hands as he took out a bar of chocolate and unwrapped it. He broke off a piece and brought it to her lips.
Her eyes were wide as he slowly pushed the piece of chocolate into her mouth. He followed the chocolate with his finger, sliding into her mouth until the pad of his finger rested on her tongue. He could feel the chocolate melting, warm and silky against his skin.
She started to suck.
Lust blasted through him, landing deep in his gut, where it throbbed like a bass drum.
“Pretend it’s my cock in your mouth. Show me what you’d do.”
The pink flush that stained her cheeks made him burn. Her gaze locked onto his as she drew his entire finger into her mouth, slid him over her tongue, sucking him until the base of his knuckles hit her lips.
The chocolate was gone now, melted. Kind of like his restraint was threatening to do. He was so fucking hard, his erection throbbed painfully, every muscle in his body tight. She continued to suck him, taste him. Her eyes were dark and glittery, and he knew she was getting off on it. Knew she was wet for him.
He wanted to feel that wetness; he wanted to bend her over the table and bury himself inside her.
Instead he drew his finger out of her mouth and traced a soft line across her bottom lip. He cupped her face, and she twisted to kiss his palm. When she met his gaze her eyes glistened with something so true it made him ache.
“Will I see you again?” she whispered. “After you’re done recording here?” She seemed to be holding her breath, waiting for his answer.
He touched the side of her mouth with his thumb. “I can’t make any promises. It wouldn’t be fair.”
She exhaled. “Good.”
“Good?”
She nodded. “Then you can leave and not say good-bye, like I asked. Because there’s a chance you’ll be back. Someday.”
Their gazes locked until the waiter appeared, and they broke apart as he placed two plates of food on the table.
Some kind of intense silence hung over them as they began to eat. He was sure she felt it, too, this connection between them. They were in a restaurant, and yet it seemed the rest of the world didn’t exist.