by Cynthia Dane
I wonder where she’s going. Sloan hadn’t told her. Only that it was some boring party she had to attend for business-related reasons. I want to go to a party with her. Hang on her arm, have people comment on what a beautiful couple they were… but Leah supposed that was too lofty of a dream in their situation.
***
The photographers from the lifestyle and high society presses ate up Sloan’s look for the benefit that night. She had gone for a “shockingly feminine” look, as she had described it, because part of her plan was upping her public profile in the coming months. People were bored of her pantsuits and ever-changing hairstyles. If she wanted to attract as much visual attention as possible that night, she needed to be nigh unrecognizable to people who hadn’t known her a decade ago.
“What a tramp,” some has-been theater actress muttered within Sloan’s earshot. “Is she shopping for a husband or looking for some quick cash tonight?”
Sloan blew the hag a kiss on her way by. The old woman scoffed in bemusement, but her younger companion spared the overly-confidant woman in their presence a small smile.
“Who are you wearing?” That question came from Christie Yearwood, one of the most talked-about socialites in Chicago, and one of the few people assigned to sit at Sloan’s table. Like pocketbooks have to sit together, of course. Sloan couldn’t be in better company if she wanted to be photographed. “I demand to know. My wardrobe is woefully stale, and I’m sooo tired of American designers right now. Who’s hot in Europe? That’s European, right?”
“I believe so,” Sloan said. “It’s honestly so old that it must be vintage by now. I think I had it custom made, because there’s no tag of any kind in it. Don’t know. I dug it out of my closet for this event.” She kicked one leg over the other, showing off her freshly waxed gams and the bronze pumps adorning her feet. “I centered my look tonight around my wig. That’s the new statement I’m making. Look at this thing. Isn’t it divine?”
“May I?” Christie extended her fingers to touch the fake fringe adorning Sloan’s forehead. “Is it real hair?”
“Yes. One of my assistant’s, if you can believe it.” That was a lie, but it made for an infuriating story. Christie was a gossip queen. She would tell one of her friends, who would leak it to someone else, and this time next week? All over the blogs. “She has the most beautiful chestnut hair. When she said she was cutting it off to get over a breakup, I insisted that I pay her for it. My stylist did the curls before I put it in. Go ahead. Feel them. Nice and bouncy, yes?”
“I’m envious, but I’d rather have your dress. It’s too heavenly for words, and makes your figure the best in the room. Better than mine. Did you get new breasts?”
“No.” That was the only comment that night to make Sloan shudder. “I’m completely plastic free. I’m a cream-only girl.”
“Sooo envious. I hope to look half as fresh at your age, Margaret.”
Shut up, fetus. Christie was almost thirty, but she might as well be a child with a mouth like that. I remember being thirty like it was yesterday. Looking at Christie, in her head-to-toe professionally styled ensemble, was like peering into a mirror. Sloan once dressed herself up like a common socialite. The dresses. The hair. The makeup and shoes. With the assistance of a full-time stylist, Sloan had cultivated a look that made the other Chicago socialites and heiresses foam at the mouth to steal her style. Her reign as Queen of the Midwest Fashion Blogs was long over, having turned in most of her cocktail dresses for pantsuits, but occasionally someone recalled looking up to her.
“Thank you. I do try to take care of myself.” Sloan fluffed her wig, in time for a photographer to stop by and snap some candid photos. “But I’m also fortunate with good genes.”
“You’re all natural?” Rich, coming from a woman with a fresh breast augmentation. “At your age?”
“Believe it or not, it’s possible.”
Sloan only intended to stay long enough to be photographed a few times and to make sure her image was imprinted upon everyone in attendance. Make sure they see me. Make sure they still know my name. Sloan would need their connections when she dropped the bomb on Aaron that she was leaving the company in the coming months. The man had enough power to blacklist her decent name with most of their current contacts. He would, too, because he was a spiteful, possessive freak of a man who didn’t know how to let go.
To be fair, Sloan hadn’t exactly loosened the yoke around her neck over the past few years. Not since she dressed like Christie Yearwood and touted herself as a femme fatale of the business world. God, I was so naïve. How was it possible for a woman to still be naïve at thirty? Was Sloan still naïve? Sometimes, she wondered if she would be rocking in her chair one day, chiding the forty-year-old version of herself who was too stupid, too naïve to function.
No, I’m not naïve. Leah is possibly more naïve than I was at her age.
Ah, Leah…
Sloan posed in her chair before the guest speaker took the podium. Perfect for photo-ops and for her to check her texts. Both Ayla and Leah had announced that a certain someone was waiting at the “Shag Shack,” the unfortunate nickname of the apartment Sloan rented so she didn’t have to take her lovers home.
Or if she desperately wanted to get away from certain people she lived with.
“Prove it,” Sloan texted Leah. “Reading that you’re there doesn’t tell me anything. I want a picture of you waiting for me.”
“Who are you talking to?” Christie asked at the end of the speaker’s applause. “Don’t suppose it’s Mr. Giles.”
“No.” Leah kept her lips pursed. An attachment awaited her in her phone, but she didn’t dare open it with Christie looking in her direction. “A friend.”
Christie’s grin implied she got the gist. “Fascinating. I hear you’ve been seen with many women recently.”
“Why, it’s almost like I’m gay, Christie. Why?” She leveled her gaze on the socialite. “Does that bother you? Or titillate you?”
Christie responded with nothing but one of those finishing schools smiles of politeness. She’s into it. The only reason Ms. Yearwood didn’t invite herself over to Sloan’s place was because the socialite was romantically attached to some Chicago billionaire’s son. Tabloid fodder, of course, but it reeked of PR firm intervention meant to test the waters of public perception. If people responded well to the potential match, then a formal proposal probably wasn’t behind. I used to laugh at that sort of song and dance for modern arranged marriages. I still do. Now was not the time for Christie’s lesbian scandal.
Especially with someone like Margaret Sloan.
She kicked back in her seat and stole a glance at the attachment Leah sent her. My God. Why am I stuck in this hell? Leah was dressed in the white lingerie set Sloan had left for her on the bed. The filter on the photograph attempted to convey an angelic quality that made Leah look like the most blessed virgin in the nation, but Sloan knew the dirty truth. This woman might as well have devil horns growing from her forehead.
“Two hours,” Sloan texted before slamming her phone into her clutch. She couldn’t look distracted from the guest speaker’s spiel, but she could daydream, and every dirty thought she had culminated until she was the first one out the door once it was kosher enough to leave.
Sean drove the best route he knew to get his boss to the apartment. The concierge in the lobby assured her that a Ms. Vaughn had been secured a few hours ago, and she had not been seen leaving since. Sloan unbuttoned her winter coat and piled her outerwear into Sean’s arms for him to take back to her primary residence. A change of clothes was already waiting for her in the apartment to wear the next morning.
She didn’t want Leah to see her in anything but her best.
“We will not be disturbed unless requested,” Sloan said to both her bodyguard and the concierge clerk. She was halfway into the elevator and couldn’t say with certainty that they heard her. She didn’t care. Her goal was to get her ass into that apartment and enjoy the
rest of her evening.
Leah leaped up from the bed the moment Sloan burst into the apartment and deadbolted the door behind her. Her shoes were halfway off her feet when she drank in the full sight of her lover waiting for her, like a princess hidden away in a castle tower.
I’m no prince.
“You startled me,” Leah said with a grin. She pushed her curly hair away from her face, that push-up bra built into her lingerie doing everything it was made to accomplish. “Holy shit… your dress…”
Sloan didn’t slow down until she was in the bedroom. “You like my dress?”
“I’ve never seen you in one before.”
“Sometimes I like to mix it up.” Her hands itched to grab Leah. Her lips begged to be submerged in that generous cleavage spilling from Leah’s lingerie. “Have a nice flight?”
“Honestly, waiting for you here has been worse than the flight.”
“Because that’s what anticipation does.” Sloan stopped at the foot of the bed. The moment she touched her lover, she wouldn’t be able to hold a damn thing back. Too bad those eyes batted their lashes and implored her to submit to her base desires. “It turns you into a squirming woman who won’t be satisfied until she gets some attention.”
Leah bit her lip, hand reaching behind her back and pulling forward the succinct list of demands Sloan had left her. “I checked everything off the list.”
Sloan glanced between Leah’s legs. “Not everything.”
When Leah looked down as well, it was with confusion marring her pouty cheeks.
“Didn’t you open the box I gave you?”
“Of course I did. I left everything right there.”
Sure enough, the little box of goodies Sloan intended to indulge tonight was on the nightstand. Only the lingerie and creams and lotions had been removed. The toys and implements were still there.
“This?” Sloan pulled the leather straps up by their ends. “You’re very misguided if you think I’m wearing these first.”
Leah’s eyes widened. That’s right, honey. It’s not always as simple as the Top wearing all the straps.
“If you need help…” The straps landed next to Leah’s naked thighs. “I’m more than willing to show you how to put them on.”
Her grin grazed Leah’s cheek. Before either of them knew it, they both got what they wanted. Namely, Sloan’s face all over Leah’s body.
Chapter 16
Sloan knew that the moment she succumbed to Leah’s seduction, she would be nothing more than a shell of sex and forgotten memories she never asked to have again.
That’s what happened when she brought Leah to a place like this. A place best forgotten, like those memories she had shoved deep into the pit of her acidic stomach. Where else was she to bring Leah at the last minute? Let alone a place she had some control over? A hotel? Please. This is better. That’s what the logical part of her brain said leading up until this moment. When she stopped in that morning to drop off the box and make sure everything was clean and devoid of those sorry memories, she felt nothing but excitement for that evening. Now, with a woman she was fond of, and the memories already surfacing in her mind after running into Christie Yearwood?
Sloan’s sense of self was doomed.
I should have never brought her here. I should have found a way to go to her. Better yet, she should stop becoming so reliant on some random woman she met by chance. Just because Leah had one of the best bodies Sloan had ever kissed, or because she had that inner glow that begged women like Sloan to take control… those weren’t excuses. Those were traps.
Sad thing? Leah hadn’t laid those traps. She probably didn’t know they existed, let alone that Sloan was susceptible to them when her head entered that space that said, “Remember how all of that once felt? You can’t have that anymore. You need to flip the switch and find out what it’s like on the other side.”
Control. That’s all Sloan wanted. She wanted to control her life. She wanted to control another woman’s experiences. She wanted to control her damned body.
Leah had to be the type to be into that, huh?
I don’t know her. I don’t know what she’s thinking. Didn’t she, though? Didn’t Sloan know and understand the unadulterated thoughts swimming through Leah’s head when they played their games? Perhaps there was no one in the world who understood both sides of this kinky coin better than Margaret Sloan did.
Which was why she knew how to approach her unconventional desire that night.
Leah was quick to admit – and apologize, although she never had to – that she had no idea how to give Sloan what she wanted. Being told, “You don’t have to do anything special, kitten,” and “It’s all instinct, I promise,” didn’t work at first. Sloan had to reassure her lover as if they had been in a relationship for the past few months, or years. I don’t know why she’s so hung up on it. She’s acting like she’s never seen a strap-on before. Maybe she hadn’t. Leah said her sexual experiences were limited over the past few years, but as an imaginative lesbian, hadn’t she at least fantasized about this?
Albeit… in the other direction?
Sloan knew what she was doing, though. Maybe. Probably. It had been years since she had done this, and that was with the first woman she ever paid to indulge her. I didn’t know what I wanted. Where I was going. What I needed from my future relationships. She had left a crumbling relationship that made her realize how much more there was out in the world. Or, more aptly, in her bedroom.
If I’m doing this with anyone, it might as well be her. The idea had come to her after that bastard she worked with admitted he had seen Leah in Portland. Stalking her. That’s what he was doing. Well, I’ll make sure she knows what she means to me. In Sloan’s own, ragged way of course.
“There.” Straddling her lover’s abdomen, Sloan secured Leah’s wrists to the headboard, the tarty look on her countenance telling all sorts of sordid stories. “See? You don’t have to move. Although I bet you’ll want to once we get going.”
Sloan left a kiss on Leah’s lips to silence the oncoming denial. Negativity was not allowed.
“Admit it,” Sloan said with a sly grin, “you want to see me go to town on this thing.” She may or may not be buying herself some time to psych up. I can’t hop on and act like I do this every day. Though I used to… Leah’s supple body and eagerness to please was more than enough inspiration. Why not drink up some more while she had the chance? Sometimes there was more pleasure in the psych up than the main event.
Sometimes.
Leah strained against the handcuffs. She wasn’t about to get away, though. “I want to see you do everything.”
“Everything? What do you think I am? A robot?” Sloan hiked up her skirt, thighs already grinding against the stiff toy protruding from Leah’s waist. “Should I take my wig off or leave it on?” Taking it off gave her more freedom of movement. Leaving it on meant keeping up appearances a little while longer. I really do love keeping up my appearances.
“You’re asking me?”
“You’re the one with the view.”
“Take it off.”
The wig was on the other side of the bed before Sloan could exhale another breath.
“I have one last surprise for you.” She was only delaying the inevitable at this point. “Open wide.”
Bound and gagged. That was Sloan’s favorite form of escapism, and it didn’t always apply to herself. Leah was more than happy to bite down on the silk handkerchief gracing her lips. Sloan didn’t bother to tie it. What was the point, when Leah would be more than compliant? Besides… what if Sloan wanted to rip it out and hear some cries of adoration? This is why I love having a partner who understands the crux of this lifestyle. Leah knew a gag wasn’t about silencing her. It was about eliciting some of the most exquisite sounds the human voice could utter. Leah made some fantastic sounds when given free reign, but sometimes Sloan preferred a… restrained touch.
To everything. Including herself.
Which w
as why she called upon her personal restraint when she mounted her sweet lover and rode her. Leah’s expressions – and those wonderful sounds she made – said everything Sloan needed to know. She’s never done anything like this before. Leah had claimed to be a novice the first time they spent the night together, but what did that mean, really? She wasn’t a virgin. She wasn’t a stranger to handcuffs and being treated to a special night on the other end of a woman’s riding crop. But she had never done this, huh? Good. Sloan always did enjoy opening a woman’s eyes to new and wondrous experiences.
Sloan had been right about other things. Leah’s hips began to move as soon as she caught on to Sloan’s rhythm. Leah may have lacked the strength to really give it to Sloan like she wanted, but at least she wasn’t shy. So many women conflate the two things. Submissive did not have to mean shy.
“You like what you see?” Sloan asked with a heavy breath.
Leah nodded, sweat budding on her brow and mingling in the roots of her curls. Her breasts begged to be released from the bust of her lingerie, and Sloan was inclined to oblige. No better way to hold on while she fucked herself on a brand-new strap-on.
Sloan’s body loved it. Every neuron, from her scalp to her toes, redirected its energy to her loins and prepared her for one of the most intrusive orgasms of her thirties. While she was a fan of penetration, she hadn’t done this in… what… years? The last time I did it, I wasn’t ready. I couldn’t handle it. She had done it in spite. A giant fuck you to the old lover who had stolen the best years of her life.
Leah stole nothing but Sloan’s energy. Which was probably why it became easier for her brain to tell her that it hated this.
Look at her, she tried to tell her brain. This woman is killing herself to touch you, but she can’t, because you handcuffed her to this terrible bed. The last time Sloan fucked like this was probably in this very bed. The apartment had been in her name for years. Ever since…