Dangerously Bad

by Eden Bradley

  She turned to the large shelves that lined most of one wall, holding her supplies and tools—and her insects draped in canvas. But she didn’t want them tonight. Her gaze was pulled to the enormous wooden table in the center of the room her friend Martin, who owned the community artists’ foundry she used to cast her pieces, had built for her. Her latest project sat there, and she almost felt as if it were taunting her, but she didn’t want to work on it tonight, either. Wiping her hands on her apron, she blew out a breath. She had no idea what she wanted to work on—all she knew was she’d feel better once she had her hands in the clay.

  Moving to the shelves, she cut a fresh slab of the red clay she kept on hand and carried it to the table, where she set it down, then pulled her wooden work stool closer and perched on the edge. Reaching for the shelf below the table’s surface, she grabbed the wire she used to make armature, her wire shears, a bottle of water. Pouring some of the water into the ceramic bowl she kept on the table, she took in another long breath as she looked over her materials, waiting for something to come to her. But all she could see was his face. His hands. The breadth of his muscular shoulders. Him in that black kilt she’d first seen him in. His mouth . . .

  Duff.

  “Fuck.”

  She got up abruptly, moving back to the shelves, where she turned on her iPod speakers. The sweet, moody tones of Édith Piaf made her shoulders drop, and she closed her eyes, losing herself for a moment in the music. But the French chanteuse’s sultry voice brought her mind back to Duff, making her remember the fantasy swimming through her mind, her body, as she’d brought herself to orgasm earlier.

  “It seems there will be no escaping you,” she muttered. “So . . . I won’t.”

  Turning decisively back to the table, she took her seat and began to mold the wire. In only a few minutes she had the basic shape, and began to lay the clay over it, sculpting the musculature, which was her usual process, then the flesh, which would bring out the detail, the personality of the piece. Her shoulders loosened as she worked the clay, as the music shifted from Édith Piaf to Lana Del Rey and then to Janis Joplin. She loved the feel of the clay between her fingers, working without tools—only her bare hands. It was a sensual experience, and she needed it to be tonight. Getting up from her stool and shoving it back in order to gain a different perspective on the piece, she smoothed her palm over the awakening shape, stroking it, working more texture into the form.

  “Oh, yes, that’s it,” she murmured, in the groove now as Etta James, another powerful, strong female singer, filled her studio with music.

  Outside, thunder rolled, and soon she heard rain pattering on the roof, felt the damp in the air. It was one of the many things she loved about New Orleans—the sound of thunderstorms, the way it changed the texture of the air. And it always made her studio feel even more like a cocoon.

  She had no idea how late it was when she was done. Her hands had the lovely, familiar buzz from working the clay, and she had to forcibly pull her head out of the creative space it had floated in for hours. Staring at the detailed phallus on the table, she wondered how closely it might resemble Duff’s. But she didn’t mind if it represented nothing more than the heat burning through her body, a heat inspired by him. This piece was erotic—erotica—in visual form, telling her the story she knew deep in her bones, and that was all she needed to know.

  Smiling to herself, she wiped her hands on a towel. And knew she had to get back in the house and find her toys once more. Twice more. Because the heat filling her system like smoke on flame needed release. There was no denying what the man was doing to her, mind and body. And getting herself off until she managed to exhaust herself was going to be a full-time occupation until she saw him again. Until she had him. Or, more accurately, under these circumstances, until he had her.

  She traced one fingertip over the clay phallus, feeling every ridge, every vein. “Oh, yes, Duff Stewart. You’ve definitely won this round.”

  • • •

  FRIDAY EVENING DUFF was just about to lock up the shop when Jamie stepped through the door that joined their side-by-side offices.

  “Hey, you want to grab some dinner with Summer Grace and me?” his cousin asked.

  “Can’t tonight.”

  “No? What do you have going on? You going to The Bastille? We might end up there later.”

  He shrugged. Why didn’t he want to tell Jamie what his plans were? It wasn’t the kind of thing he’d ever kept private from his cousin before. “Actually, I’m seeing Layla.”

  Jamie’s brows arched. “Are you? You two kiss and make up?”

  “Something like that.”

  Jamie stepped forward and leaned over Duff’s big desk. “You’re awfully closemouthed when I’d have figured you’d be crowing from the rooftops about your victory.”

  Duff rubbed a hand over his stubbled head. “I wouldn’t call it a victory just yet. I’ll know more after we talk tonight.”

  “Talk? You’re not usually the talking kind. No offense, cousin.”

  “Oh, I know what I am, and no offense taken. But this girl . . . Well, fuck, Jamie, this girl is a whole different thing.”

  Jamie straightened, grinning at him. “We told you she would be.”

  “Yeah. But maybe not quite in the way you warned me about. She’s tough enough, and all that. But . . .”

  “But what?” Jamie waited a beat, then leaned in again. “You’re smitten, cousin.”

  “What? Fuck off, Jamie.”

  “You are! Jesus. Never thought I’d see the day. You were never like this over Bess. Not even that crazy chick Eileen. How many years has it been?”

  “Yeah, well, really fuck the hell off, cousin, and thanks for mentioning them.”

  “I will fuck the hell off. Just as soon as you tell me why your panties are in such a wad.”

  Duff rubbed at his head again, blowing out a long breath. “Stupid American saying, that,” he grumbled. “Particularly since I always go commando.”

  “It is stupid. I have more of them, if you like. Or you can choose to fess up.”

  “Fine. Fuck. Whatever.” He paused, tapping his fingers on the edge of the desk. “So, I’m meeting her for a coffee and we’re negotiating.”

  “What? Seriously?”

  “Serious as death and taxes.”

  “Tell me again why you getting exactly what you wanted is turning you into such a dick?”

  Duff pounded both fists on the desk, making the pens he had scattered there jump. “Goddamn it if I know. Ridiculous, right? Right. Fuck.”

  “You’re nervous. Wow. You’re nervous because you like her.”

  “Maybe I am. We can stop the grand goddamn inquisition anytime now, cousin,” he growled.

  Jamie raised both hands in surrender. “Okay. I’ll stop giving you a hard time. I guess I’ll just have to wait until you show up at the club to see how things went. Or maybe you’ll stop being so weird and talk to me like you always do.”

  “Yeah. Maybe. Look, I don’t know what my problem is. I need to see her. Then maybe I can work it out in my head. And then maybe—maybe—we’ll talk. Sorry for being such an arse.” Duff glanced at the clock high on the wall and got to his feet. “Gotta go, cousin. Lock up for me?”

  “Sure,” his cousin agreed.

  Jamie gave him a hard pat on the back as Duff moved past him toward the front door. By the time he was on his bike and gunning the engine around the corner, he wanted to kick himself a bit for his behavior. But he knew Jamie understood that he needed to work through this himself. His cousin was right—getting to play Layla was exactly what he wanted. And he’d been through dozens of negotiations—hell, maybe hundreds—with gorgeous girls. It wasn’t as if this was anything new. But still . . . there was one new factor, and that was Layla herself. And he had to admit he’d never wanted a woman the way he wanted her—so deep in
his belly it made his gut ache to think about her. So badly he’d wanked off a good six or eight times a day since the first time they’d spoken—twice in the bathroom at the damn shop in the middle of the day. His dick was sore as hell, but it didn’t matter. He couldn’t seem to stop. Even porn wasn’t doing it for him these days, which was saying a hell of a lot.

  He followed the GPS on his bike and pulled up across the street from the Swamp Water Café on St. Claude Avenue, glancing over to see if he could spot her. And sure enough, there she was, standing on the sidewalk in the shade of a tree. She was wearing a short red dress and sandals, her hair up in a tumble of dark curls on top of her head and tied with a floral print scarf, the ends of it stirring in the faint breeze, brushing her shoulder. How she managed to look so fresh and so exotic at the same time was beyond him. And sexy. As fucking sexy fully dressed as any other woman was naked.

  Layla naked.

  He growled, shifting against the growing hard-on beneath his blue jeans, silently cursing at it to go down so he could get off his bike. A few moments later he was able to draw in a breath and swing his leg over, taking his helmet off and clipping it to the bike seat before striding across the street.

  But the closer he got, the more his dick hardened again, and he had to give himself a good internal cussing to get it under control.

  “Goddamn fucking ridiculous, this,” he muttered, pulling off his leather jacket to hold in front of his growing crotch. “What are ya, a twelve-year-old lad? Fucking. Control.”

  Luckily he was done grumbling by the time she looked up to see him, and when she did his chest went tight at the light in her eyes, eyes like emeralds in the gleam of the setting sun. She smiled and his dick stiffened even more, his chest doing that tightening thing at the same time, leaving him fucking confused and his brain entirely drained of blood.

  Get a grip, man.

  Ach, he’d like to grip, all right. On his hard dick. On her body. And the things he would do to her once he had her under his hands were too scandalous to contemplate in a public place.

  “Save it for later. Because there damn well will be a later,” he grumbled under his breath.

  He cleared his throat as he approached her. And to get his head back on straight—and to make sure hers was straight, too—he strode up to her, wrapped a hand around the back of her neck and kissed her hard. Harder than was strictly necessary, and his grip was rough, too. But he needed it—to feel her, taste her. He didn’t care that they were standing on the sidewalk in front of a café with other people milling about.

  When she opened her lips for him and moaned softly, he slid his other arm around her waist and pulled her in close, knowing she could feel his erection. Fuck it. Let her feel it. But it was far too good, and unless he planned to take her down right there on the sidewalk, he had to stop.

  He pulled his body back, tore his mouth from hers and whispered against her lush, pretty lips, “Well, hello there, lovely.”

  She laughed. “You are . . . Jesus, Duff, you are an original.”

  He loved hearing the desire rough in her voice—every part of him, not just his ever-hard cock.

  “I am that. But so are you, sweet Layla. Shall we go in and have some tea and talk?”

  “Tea and talk with the incorrigible Duff Stewart?” she asked with a teasing light in her eyes. “Isn’t that rather like having tea with the Devil? But yes, let’s. I sort of like the idea of having tea with the Devil.”

  “Adding a mark to the ledger, princess. Your ass may have to pay for that later. If we’re able to come to agreement, that is.”

  “If I agree to let you take it out on my ass? Hmm . . . maybe. But I do like the title of ‘princess.’ Or you may refer to me as ‘Your Highness.’”

  “You are really asking for it, aren’t you?”

  Her smile was saucy—as saucy as she was. “Depends on how this talk goes.”

  He shook his head as he opened the door of the funky café, with its barn-wood walls and iron-and-wood tables, the alligator and deer bones mounted everywhere. He liked the place. He also liked how damn good this girl made him feel. That she seemed to have gotten to a space where she was simply accepting his dominance, without appearing any less strong herself.

  At the counter they ordered iced coffee for her, iced tea for him. He paid, despite her protests, and carried both drinks to a table in the back. Luckily there was enough room, with the tables close by being empty, that he could fit his big body into the chair and stretch his legs out. He was just as glad there would be no one else nearby to overhear their conversation.

  “Cheers,” he said, clinking glasses with her.

  “Cheers,” she answered, taking a sip of her coffee. “So, how are things going at the new shop?”

  “Quite well. Thank you for asking. But is that what you really wanted to know?”

  “What? Of course. I mean, why wouldn’t I?”

  “Because I can see from the way your pulse is beating at the base of your throat that what you really want to know is when we’re going to get down to the business at hand.”

  She arched one elegant brow, but he could tell from the pink flush rising on her cheeks that he’d hit it on the mark.

  “Not even any small talk first?”

  “All right, then. How was your day, Layla? How is your work coming along?”

  She really did blush then, the pink turning to scarlet under her creamy brown skin. She glanced away momentarily, and he wondered what sore spot he’d happened upon by chance.

  “Okay. Let’s skip the damn small talk,” she said.

  He sat back in his chair, took a slug of his iced tea. “Ah, that’s more like it. I knew you’d see things my way.” He finished by sending her a cocky wink and a grin.

  “You really are incorrigible.”

  “I’m a lot of things.” He set his glass down and leaned in, taking her hand in his with just the tips of his fingers. Keeping his voice low, he said, “I am, Layla. I am a Dominant. A sadist. A creative player. An intuitive player, or so I’m told, and it’s something I aim for. I’m a wicked, wicked man who has only the most evil intentions when it comes to you. And I believe those are the very things you like about me. But I am also utterly responsible in my kink practice. So shall we bypass all this other nonsense and begin our negotiations? Tea with the Devil?”

  He watched her swallow hard. All of the feisty humor seemed to have gone out of her for the moment. She blinked a few times, and he waited to see if she’d pull her hand away—he had only the gentlest of holds on it. But she didn’t move.

  She said in a small voice, “Yes. Let’s get started.”

  Smiling, he caressed her fingertips with his and watched as her shoulders relaxed. “Right, then. This is how we’ll go about it. I’m going to ask you a series of questions, and for each one you will tell me if you’ve ever tried it as a bottom or as a Top, and how you felt about it from either end. Then tell me if it’s a yes, no or maybe. Easy, yes?”

  “We’ll see.”

  Keeping his hand over hers to help read her, he said, “We’ll start easy enough, get some of the basics out of the way. Rope bondage?”

  “I don’t tie well, so I usually use leather or metal cuffs as a Top. I’ve been tied a few times, but really more as a practice exercise. It doesn’t do a lot for me. But I suppose it’s a maybe.” She shrugged. “Maybe one of these days I’ll understand the thrill other people get out of it. I think it’s not enough sensation for it to really register with me. And since my experiences with rope were more about letting friends practice their knots, there wasn’t much of a power exchange. I suppose I don’t know how I’d respond if that element were a part of it, but the idea has never been one I’ve lingered on.”

  “Answered very thoroughly,” he commented.

  Her gaze was direct, a little challenging. “I’ve been through negotiati
ons a time or two, you know.”

  “I do know. I am not underestimating your experience as a Top, as a Dominant. But I’m much less clear on what bottoming was like for you. Along with your limits and desires, I’ll need to know more about your experiences as a bottom and as a submissive—the submissive headspace you reached, as well as any sensation play you’ve done, which as you know can be two separate things.”

  She glanced away, looked back at him. “There may be a few things I don’t want to discuss with you.”

  “The submissive part? Yes? All the more reason why that discussion will be necessary, princess. But let’s get back to other matters for now. What are your feelings about and experiences with impact play?”

  “I’ve done a lot of it, as a Top and a bottom. I’m fairly good with a flogger—”

  “I’d say better than good,” he interrupted. “I’ve seen you Florentine. Your double-handed rhythm is flawless.”

  “Okay, better than good—I’ll take the compliment. I can also crack a singletail, and have a small collection of whips. As a Top I’ve used paddles, slappers, canes, English tawse. As a bottom I’ve experienced most of those things.”

  “And?”

  “And I like stingy sensation more than thud.”

  “Hmm.”

  “Hmm, what?”

  “In the UK, anyway, they say sting is a more sophisticated taste than thud.”

  “They say it here, too, but I’m not so sure about that. It’s simply what my body responds to.”

  He leaned in once more. “And how is that, exactly, Layla? Does it make goose bumps rise on your flesh? Your heart pound? Does your body twitch as it resists anticipating each strike? Does it release all those lovely brain chemicals—endorphins, dopamine, serotonin, oxytocin—that make you fly?”