“Oh no you don’t, little toy.”
“I need to leave.”
“You need to not be alone.”
Damn. He remembered that. She tried to break out of his grasp, and he didn’t budge an inch. Instead he forced her back against his shoulder and resumed his caress of her neck, pulling the blanket up. “Let me go.”
“No.”
She beat her hands against his shoulder, aware it probably didn’t look good to anyone watching. She knew most of the people in the club, and Jeremy knew no one but her. But she kept on, trying to get away. He took her hardest punches and continued on in that same infuriatingly calm voice. “Relax, Amanda. I have you. I’ll keep you safe. And I won’t let you be alone.”
She gave up. Clearly, no one was going to come to her rescue, and he wasn’t going to let her go. She sighed in frustration, confused.
She turned her head to rest against his shoulder. She gritted her teeth, wondering what manner of person wouldn’t release her, and why no one was doing anything about it. And in spite of the nonconsensual nature of it all, his quiet, insistent strength was satisfying, and she didn’t understand that either. Nothing made sense to her. She was aware her thoughts were hazy, at best, but she still wanted to puzzle them out and find that elusive missing piece as to why he still felt okay to her.
Slowly, she relaxed in his arms. His bare chest pressed against her breasts, the soft hairs tickling her still supersensitive nipples. If she moved, it could easily get to be too much, but it was a reminder of how good his hands and cock had felt. She licked at his shoulder, savoring the sweet saltiness of his sweat. Why did I want to get away? Because he’s too good? It seemed ridiculous now. She closed her eyes. The world disappeared, save for Jeremy’s warmth and the soft music playing in the club. She listened to the sound of his heartbeat and was rocked by the rhythm of his calm breathing. She matched her breath to his, to feel closer.
A while later—she didn’t know how long—she woke up to find him smiling at her.
“I fell asleep,” she said with wonderment. She had done that once before with a dom, a long time ago. He’d woken her up and criticized her for it too, and she’d never made that mistake again. “I’m sorry.”
“Nothing to be sorry about. You’re beautiful when you’re so at peace.”
“You don’t mind?” She looked at him, amazed.
“Why would I mind? It’s a compliment.”
“Um, you might be bored?”
“Never.”
She shook her head, trying to remember what led to her falling asleep. She remembered his firm, comforting grip. Then she remembered trying to get away. Her shoulders tensed. “Why didn’t you let me leave?”
“Because you’re my toy tonight, Amanda. Toys don’t play by themselves. And you didn’t use a safe word.”
“My safe word. Right.” She relaxed again. He was exactly right. As long as she hadn’t said her safe word, he didn’t have to—and shouldn’t have—let her go anywhere. She remembered hitting him and thinking someone would interfere, but of course without her safe word, no one would have. They would have taken it as all part of the scene, although not the sort of scening one ought to be doing on the aftercare chairs. She’d hit him hard. She kissed his shoulders. “Sorry for the bruises.”
He chuckled. “I don’t think they’ll show.”
“No, probably not.” She traced the muscles of his shoulders and his chest, letting her fingers glide through the soft hair. She wasn’t exactly weak, and she’d been honestly trying to get him to let go, but he’d taken it as if it was nothing. Then again, she could take a flogging the same way. Maybe they weren’t so different after all, although she didn’t think he got any enjoyment from her hitting him—unless it was from amusement.
“I want to do this again with you. Soon.”
I want that too. Things were happening so fast. Why not? “Yes. But I want to know more about you.”
He tousled her hair. “What’s to know?”
“Lots. What do you do in real life?”
“I’m a pianist, believe it or not.”
“A penis?”
“Someone who plays the piano,” he explained with a forbearing expression on his face.
Amanda giggled. “I know. I was just pretending to misunderstand. Did I mention I’m a bit of a brat? I suppose I should have guessed. You have such long, powerful fingers. Tell me about your wife.”
His face went cold. He’s still in love with her. She’s been dead three years, and he’s still in love with her.
“What,” he said slowly, “do you want to know?”
Amanda was tempted to back off, but it was a key part of who he was. She needed to know. “How long were you together?”
“Twenty-two years.”
“And were you Master and slave all that time?”
“It developed. We started going to clubs, for a while, exploring the local scene, playing only on weekends. At some point Cheri wanted more. She wanted it to be all the time, as deep as it could possibly go. And I…wanted to make her happy.” He had a haunted look on his face.
“What made her unhappy?” asked Amanda.
“She discovered she couldn’t have children. We tried, and…well, she had two miscarriages, and after that, the doctor’s told her it was best not to try again, that her health would be endangered and the result would probably be the same. She went into a deep depression, and she wanted me to tell her what to do. When I did, she would brighten some. Over time, she healed, and she became stronger. But she always wanted that bond in her life.”
“And you? Did you always want that bond?”
“Sometimes. And sometimes I wanted her to stand on her own more. Cheri brought me a great deal of pleasure, and I enjoyed being her Master.”
But I could never be that person. I’m not broken. I don’t need healing, and I don’t want to be controlled. I just want a little fun now and then. “And is that the kind of relationship you want again?” From what he’d said, she could see it either way.
He shook his head. “No. I’m looking for something else. A friend. A play partner. Someone who will submit in the bedroom or at a club, but who wants to be their own person outside that.” He fixed her with his gaze. “And how about you?”
“That sounds perfect.” That had always been what she wanted, although the word friend grated. Just a friend? She was usually happy to hear the word, but her heart wanted more from Jeremy. I just met him. How can he be any more than a friend right now?
“Do you have other play partners?” she asked, hoping the answer was no.
“No.”
That’s right. He was just coming back to the scene. “Girlfriends?”
“No.”
Better yet. She smiled. “But you have, right, since Cheri…” She didn’t want to say the word died, and passed away wasn’t any better.
“No.”
She felt that should have made her happy too, but it didn’t. Latching on to the first person you date after a long marriage—was that healthy? Part of her didn’t care.
Jeremy shrugged. “You said you were poly, and I respect that, but I don’t think that’s me. I could…play with people. Flog them, tie them up, do demonstrations, whatever. But emotionally connect? I don’t know. Kiss? That seems even more intimate than fucking somehow.”
“What are you trying to say?”
“I think I’d get very jealous of any man you were playing with, unless it was very much just play, Amanda. I know I don’t have any right to be, but that’s how I am.”
I’d be jealous of any woman you were playing with too. And that makes no sense. But she’d always had that pull in her heart. She’d managed to be gracious about it, usually. She just wanted for a guy to say she’d been so good that no one else would do.
“I don’t mean to restrict you, so…”
“But?” she asked. There was always a but with a sentence like that.
“I want to be with you again. And if you
’re going to be here with someone else, let me know, and I won’t show up. I’ll deal with it on my own.”
Amanda nodded. She didn’t feel any desire right now to hook up with a new partner, but she understood what he was saying. He was clearly trying to remain calm about it. “What if I’m here with another woman? Would you want to watch that?”
He surprised her by shaking his head no. “It’s not about gender. It’s about emotions and attachment.”
Attachment. He was getting attached. Which was exactly what she craved, but he didn’t know what was out there. Yes, she wanted a man to say she made him not want to bother with other women. If he didn’t even know what he was missing, it wasn’t nearly as flattering. And it’s not healthy for him, either. “I don’t need to see anyone else,” she said slowly, gathering her thoughts. I’ve done that enough. “When do you want to see me next?”
“For lunch, perhaps? I work in the evenings. Wednesday? And then play here on Friday night, late? My concert ends around ten thirty, so I could get here at midnight.”
“Friday night, sure. And Wednesday, if I don’t have a job yet.”
“Which reminds me.” He reached into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet. From there he produced a card, which he handed to her.
Jeremy Sanborn, Charm City Symphony Orchestra, Pianist. “Your card?” She wasn’t sure why he was giving it to her.
“The other side,” he said. “A guy I know. When you said what you did, I was reminded about him complaining about engineers who didn’t know how to write reports and give presentations. It’s probably a temporary thing, but it sounds like he could use someone with your qualifications.”
She flipped it over. There was a man’s name and a phone number. “Okay, thanks. I’ll give him a call.” She couldn’t afford to turn down any offers, and doing stuff in her field was a hell of a lot better than playing secretary.
“He’s good people. A little off the wall, but I think you’ll like him.”
She smiled. It was flattering he’d thought of her. “Thank you.”
“No problem. Hopefully you won’t be able to make that date on Wednesday.”
She gazed at him for a moment, but clearly, he wouldn’t have asked about lunch if he hadn’t wanted to do it. But he valued her getting a job even higher, which was touching. She should be as generous. But she didn’t want to be. She kissed him, remembering what he said about it being more intimate than having sex. With the way he kissed back, she understood what he meant. All his attention was focused in his tongue, swirling against hers. He curled his strong fingers behind her head, taking control of the kiss and pressing her into his lips. Yeah. This is what I want. The blanket slipped from her shoulders, and she didn’t care. Being naked in his arms, with him still in pants and boots, was a delicious reminder of the power exchange that had passed between them. The transition from equal to submissive was as easy as shrugging off a blanket. She devoted herself to the wet slipperiness of the moment.
Chapter Five
Amanda wore a dress she hadn’t worn for ages that Wednesday morning, a flowery print with a flouncy skirt that she had once bought for going to church on Easter. Then again, she hadn’t ever before entered Chez Jay’s, Baltimore’s best French restaurant, and she wasn’t entirely sure what kind of dress was expected. It was an unseasonably warm day, and wearing basic black seemed far too dark for the sunshine. At night, she wouldn’t have hesitated. In any case, the bright flowers reflected her mood. Or at least, what she felt her mood should be.
Jeremy’s tip had landed her a job for at least the next six months, maybe longer. His friend Alex hadn’t just wanted a trainer; he’d wanted someone who could do that and help his creative people put their presentations together, and he had a number of employees who didn’t speak English very well. She’d fallen in love with the place the moment she’d walked in the door. Maybe it was the Nerf guns she saw on one person’s desk or the board games stacked on another. Maybe it was the ping-pong table in the break room. Seeing a male employee with bright blue hair and a woman with enough piercings she probably felt a pull every time she passed by a magnet didn’t hurt, either. Amanda had actually had to convince Alex that she wasn’t too much of a square for the job. It was a workplace that valued creativity over structure, and that sounded like the perfect fit. Obviously, Alex had thought so too; he’d called her back to offer the job the day after their Monday interview.
She spotted Jeremy immediately, in a dark suit and a white shirt, with one button unbuttoned, looking as relaxed in the semiformal clothes as he had at the club. He put out an arm, and she slipped her hand inside his elbow. The maître d’ smiled at them and immediately guided them to a table.
“Sorry for being late,” Amanda whispered. “I had to fix up my makeup.”
“Three minutes isn’t late.”
“Darn. I was hoping for a spanking.”
Jeremy chuckled and waived the maître d’ off with a smile before pulling the chair out for her himself. She sat, unaccustomed to such gallantry. Jeremy moved in a different sphere than she did, and she found that both attractive and worrisome. Could she really be what he wanted? She pushed the thought aside. There was plenty to deal with before that was going to become an issue. Her heart felt heavy.
Jeremy sat down. “So I got a note from Alex thanking me for referring you. Have you heard anything?”
She smiled. “Yes.” That only makes this harder. “I got the job. Seems we’re a good fit. He doesn’t know if it will be for six months, or more. He doesn’t need a trainer that long, so it’s a question of whether I can adapt to be useful in other ways. But it sounds like I’ll be getting a lot of training myself, and new experiences, so that should be a good resumé builder, and the terms are good. I’m psyched.”
“When do you start?
“Monday next.”
Jeremy grinned. “Then we have something to celebrate. I hope a glass of wine isn’t too far out of line for lunch?”
“Um, I think I can make an exception this once.”
“And would you prefer to order for yourself, or would you like me to order for you?”
She raised an eyebrow at him. “I thought you only wanted to be a dom in the club, and in the bedroom.”
He shrugged and grinned sheepishly. “I haven’t gotten to your bedroom yet, so French restaurants seemed a reasonable stand-in.”
“I’m looking forward to you getting to my bedroom.”
“I’ll order for you, then.”
Amanda leaned back. It was nice to have him take charge. She didn’t want to be a slave, with very little say in the way she ran her own life. But to let go now and then—well, that was lovely. And to be with a man who took charge naturally was worth the potential headache of having to say no somewhere down the road. At least she felt comfortable that Jeremy would accept her no.
A lot of the “doms” she’d met seemed to have a problem with that. Some were fetishists, interested in one particular act that they thought they could get to if they got a woman to submit first. Others were trying to live up to what they thought women wanted of them, but deep inside they were little boys. There was nothing little about Jeremy. She blushed.
“What are you thinking?”
“You don’t want to know.”
“Au contraire. Please tell me.”
“I was thinking of how very big you are,” she said. The waiter arrived and raised an eyebrow for a moment. “Bighearted, I mean.”
Now it was Jeremy’s eyebrow that was raised, and he wasn’t in nearly such a rush to lower it. “I see,” he said before turning to the waiter and spouting a stream of French. Somewhere in there was probably the name of the dish she was having, but she was too startled to ferret it out.
“Merci,” said the waiter, who vanished.
“Show-off,” said Amanda.
“Now and then. If I wanted to show off, I’d take you to a piano bar.”
She laughed and then grew serious. “I’d love to
hear you play.”
“That’s easily accomplished.”
At this rate, she’d never get to what she needed to say. As lovely as Jeremy was, he was rebounding. She wanted to keep him, but it was easy to feel that way about people when they were shiny and new. He was great at being a dom. But when it came to relationships, she was the one with the experience. Best to keep it light. “I’ll come to a concert.”
He grinned. “I’d be honored. That’s much better than listening to me practice.”
She had a moment’s thought of how that would be, lying back in the evenings while Jeremy played the piano. It sounded lovely. She wondered if he liked watching TV, and if he did, if he would like the same shows. A picture of domestic bliss flashed through her head. Maybe I should try to get that.
Jeremy covered her hand with his. She hadn’t realized she’d been playing with her fork, and she let it go. “Something is on your mind, Amanda.”
“Maybe I’ll share after lunch.” Or maybe I’ll chicken out. “What’s your favorite TV show?”
Jeremy shrugged. “You will share after lunch. I don’t watch much television—no, that’s not quite true. I watch baseball.”
She grinned. “I love baseball. Are you an Orioles fan?”
“Yes.”
The conversation lingered happily on baseball until the food came out, and the waiter poured the wine. The exquisitely prepared chicken demanded her full attention for at least the first few delicious bites. “Well ordered, Sir,” she told him.
He smiled.
They chatted about their pets. He owned a standard poodle named Cal that was a trained therapy dog, and sometimes took it to libraries so that children who were shy about reading could read to a nice, safe, nonjudgmental canine. He was fascinated to hear about Snowball and her allergies. Poodles, he assured her, were among the least allergenic of dogs. She wondered if Cal and Snowball would get along. Way too soon to be thinking about that.
Lunch seemed to sail along, however, with the conversation smooth. He had a way of putting her at ease, and when there was a pause, the silence felt comfortable rather than awkward.
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