Yes. Stay.
Robin didn’t need to say a word. A nod of her head was all that was necessary. The motion was the pivot where reality and fantasy merged. The touch of her hand against her thigh. John gliding toward her.
The liquid heat that coursed through her body, swirling between her tightly clenched thighs.
John reached her. His eyes were dark pools and his face was unreadable in the gloom. She didn’t need to read his intentions, didn’t need to think anymore, just feel, because he took her, pressed her hard into the wall, one arm barring her across the chest to keep her still while the other reached down.
She slipped a finger between her legs, into the delicious wetness that had built up under the lace of her panties. Her clit ached for more pressure—she thrust her hips up against her hand and clenched her teeth. Back in the shadowy room, John’s fingers—so much longer, rougher—cupped her mound through the same panties, teasing her, not touching her where she most needed to be touched. The lightest pressure from the heel of his hand made her whimper, a shameful little sound that seemed to please him, because he pressed even closer, resting his chin on the top of her head, forcing her hard enough against the wall to hurt, to make her feel every fucking inch of his body.
She couldn’t hold back much longer. Please, she begged—John, herself, she didn’t know anymore. Maybe the woman, the other woman who was still watching, jealous, wanting what John was giving Robin.
And then, at last, she let herself feel the pressure. The merciful release of his stiff fingers filling her cunt, then thrusting in and out, faster and faster as she fell apart around him, dissolving into formless ecstasy.
She came back to herself in her own bed, half-numb and half-burning, fingers sore and slick and oh God she was close to crying, it was that good.
No question anymore. She had to do this. Walling off these disturbingly intense feelings just wasn’t working anymore. Letting the feelings out, trusting John to see them and then putting them away again—yes. It would be like a safety valve. They were both adults. There’d be rules. Boundaries.
She reached for the phone. And then she stopped herself, laughed shakily and got up to wash her hands first.
This is insane.
She texted draw up the contract to John, then turned off the phone before she changed her mind.
Chapter Four
John woke up to his phone ringing.
“Oh my God, would you just answer it, you asshole?” Therese mumbled through her tangled hair, then pulled her pillow around her ears.
Not an exhibitionist, and very much not a morning person. Neither was he. When he finally scooped up the phone from the bedroom floor, he groaned at the time. Seven-thirty on Saturday morning? Who the fuck was—oh. Robin. He hit the talk button and edged quietly out the bedroom door.
Someone screamed.
“Sorry!” he said, and beat a quick retreat back into the bedroom. Maybe he should have put some clothes on first.
“John, where are you? What’s going on?” asked Robin.
“It’s kind of hard for me to talk right now,” he whispered as he felt around for his clothes. “If this is about last night—”
“Actually, it’s not. I really need your help. I was all set to track down leads on Alfred Henderson, you know, Irina Mareau’s nephew. And Julio chickened out on me. He says he just can’t handle knocking on strange doors, it gives him panic attacks. I have to get this done today because other people might know about the appraisal and the clock is ticking. I know this is a lot to ask.”
“What, exactly, are you asking?” He stepped into one leg of his jeans commando.
“Shhh!” Therese hissed.
“Can you drive me? Some of these places are in rough neighborhoods. I’ll buy you lunch afterward, alphabetize your books, whatever.”
Hot. “All right. I’ll meet you at my place by eight.” He hung up before she could ask him why he wasn’t there already.
And then he saw her text message.
“This is perfect,” he said to himself as he walked out the door, fully clothed this time.
“What the hell is wrong with you, man?” Therese’s roommate yelled at him, but John just flashed him a smile and a thumbs-up sign and kept walking, out into the glorious, glorious morning.
* * *
When he answered the door, John was so fresh from the shower that drops of water meandered down his neck. His hair was spiky wet and inky black. She wanted to reach up and ruffle it dry, but the dynamics of touching him were so confusing that she just leaned against her car door and smiled at him more shyly than she would have liked. Funny, two days ago she wouldn’t have thought twice about ruffling his hair.
“Thanks,” she said. “I owe you.”
“Hell yeah you do,” he said as he locked his front door behind him and followed her out to the sidewalk. “I’m expecting some sushi out of this. And that’s just how you’ll repay me in public.”
What does that mean? What do I want it to mean?
He must have noticed her confusion. He reached out, almost touching her, but leaned against the car instead, right next to her. Her little hatchback creaked and wobbled under his weight. “I saw your text,” he said. “We’re in kind of a gray area now, but once we talk it over and get that written out, I promise you, it’ll be easier. Clearer. And I’m not going to spend the morning coming on strong just to fuck with you.”
Robin had been holding her breath. She let it go. “Okay then, that’s settled. Let’s get some breakfast. I am not going to hunt down porn on an empty stomach.”
They discussed strategy over three dollar plates of greasy sunny-side up eggs and bacon.
There was an A. Henderson in East L.A. they could start with, a cluster in Inglewood, some more scattered seaside and two in West Hollywood.
Robin had spent a couple of hours mentally rehearsing the door-to-door proselytizing angle, but without Julio to identify the right man on sight, she wasn’t sure what to do. She’d have to be honest, she supposed. Maybe start discreetly, saying something vague about whether he was the A. Henderson who had had some photos and letters appraised recently...
By the time they left, they had a map and a plan, and she felt a lot more at ease. Something about the way John inhaled breakfast food was inherently reassuring.
He was a great social lubricant, as well. The situation was automatically less precarious just by virtue of him being there, grinning like an idiot. Maybe he’d seal the deal for her right then and there.
“I’d better stay outside, by the car,” he warned her. “Sometimes old white guys don’t respond well to me. They might think I’m there to sell opium or stab someone. I’d have dressed up a bit more if this wasn’t so last-minute.”
Robin winced. She hadn’t thought of that, but of course he was right. She was the immigrant and foreigner, of course, not John—but no one seemed to have irrational prejudices against pale, petite Canadians.
At their first stop, no one answered the door, and a yellowed collection of flyers suggested whoever lived there was months absent. The second Henderson came to the door, but he was an Alfredo from Guatemala and thought she wanted to sell him on a house appraisal.
The next was an Alf, who at her question, tried to sell her some of his photos—wink wink, nudge nudge, if you know what I mean, young lady.
Yuck.
She left her business card at two houses where whoever lived there either wasn’t home or wasn’t answering his door.
Midmorning, they stopped at a 7-Eleven for a couple of cappuccinos poured out of a grumbling machine. “What was the name of that guy you dated senior year?” John asked. “I remember you got him one of these machine coffees once...”
“Once,” she said. “Chris, the coffee snob. He acted like I’d just handed him a cup of rohypnol topped with battery acid poured into the skull of his grandmother. My God! I thought I was doing him a favor because he was pulling an all-nighter on an essay. Apparently not.”
John
laughed and took a swig of cheap foamy coffee. “Yeah, he was twitchy as hell. Always wondered if he was that way in bed too.”
“That never happened. I was too worried he’d be high maintenance. After the coffee thing I suspect I was right.”
They missed the next turn and had to drive in a big circle. Robin didn’t mind. They’d gone back to the way things were, joking about the past and having fun in the present and not worrying about the future. True, her heart pounded a few beats faster when he wiped the foam from his upper lip with his hand, and then licked his finger, but that was a simple physiological response. It didn’t figure in the grand scheme of things. They could do this. Navigate new boundaries, keep their friendship.
The address was in a dilapidated duplex, apartment number barely visible under the shade of a massive oak tree. John parked as close as he could, then got out of the car and leaned against it so he had a direct view of the door. He still had a tiny fleck of tan-colored foam at the corner of his mouth.
She raised her eyebrow. Caught his eye. Tapped the corner of her mouth.
“Oh,” he said, and licked it away. “All gone?” She heard another question playing hide-and-seek underneath all gone and knew he was teasing her.
No. It’s still there. Let me. Let me help you be perfect. Let me be your—
“Yes,” she said, a touch shaky. “You...it’s all gone.” She broke eye contact and hurried down the walkway toward the door. His presence at her back was disconcerting—was she putting too much sway in her step? Too little?—but also made her feel secure.
By the time she knocked on the door, she was fully focused on the goal. Shoulders set straight, not slumped, pleasant smile, serious eyes—don’t blink too much.
She heard a muffled scraping noise, and knocked again. “Goddammit, I’m coming,” rasped a cavern echo of a voice.
Julio definitely would’ve had a panic attack.
When the door creaked open, she kept her professional smile fixed firmly in place. “Good morning. Am I speaking with Mr. Alfred Henderson?”
“That’s me.” He wheezed; it sounded like eh, eh—vaguely mocking. “What do you want?”
He was tall, but crooked, leaning down to near her level, weight resting against the wheeled metal stand that held his oxygen tank. He had a short beard and mustache, irregular white patches mixed with gray. Julio had mentioned he might have had a beard.
“Hi, my name is Robin Lessing.” He didn’t seem eager to shake her hand, so she rushed on. “A colleague of mine told me that you were interested in having a collection of rare photographs and letters appraised. I’d love to discuss some options for—”
“Who are you? Where are you from?” The whites of his eyes were yellowed, like old paper.
“My name is Robin Lessing,” she said, slowly. “I’m the Head of Special Collections at Saylor University.”
“A university? Bullshit.” Anger flared in her, and she shifted her feet so that she stood taller. “It’s all about the T-shirts—eh, eh—and the lunchboxes. You think I don’t know?” All right, so maybe he wasn’t being sexist, just deranged.
She kept her voice even and slow, despite her growing anxiety. “Here’s my business card.” He wouldn’t take it. “You can look me up on the university website. There’s even a picture of me. The university is prepared to pay for an independent appraisal. If you’ve dealt with unethical people before, I can promise you this is going to be different.”
He stood frozen, harshly breathing and looking off into the distance. Then he nodded once. Turned his back on her and shuffled into his apartment. Since he didn’t close the door, she figured there was still hope, so she cautiously stepped over the threshold.
“She died when I was young,” he said. “She told me no one really understood why she did it. It wasn’t about the money. Goddamn.” He turned again, transfixing her with his jaundiced glare. “How did you find out about the appraisal?”
She’d gotten this far by being honest. “You threw it away. My colleague picked it up. I know it’s—”
“Eh, eh. Get out!” He ripped her business card in half, and she finally flinched and backed out. What could she have done differently? No. She’d done everything right. She couldn’t let this...
“You damn vulture! Damn vultures, this is a new one!”
“Please—” She tried to placate him, backing down the sidewalk with her hands extended in peace offering as he advanced on her.
If he fell... If he laid a hand on her, even...
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, now!” John came barreling down the sidewalk toward them, palms out and a nervous laugh in his voice. Trying to defuse the situation, of course. “Come on Mr.—Al? Al-fucking-Steelhammer?”
Alfred had stopped up short too. Robin stood between the pair of them, looking back and forth in bewilderment.
“Johnson?” Alfred-or-maybe-Al said, screwing up his eyes to peer at John. “My God, it is you. I haven’t seen you in—since—wow, you’ve been working out.”
John flexed his biceps, gave it a kiss and then the two men fell into embrace, clapping each other on the back. “Didn’t recognize you without the chaps and chest harness and the rest of it,” he said, making Al laugh in between the wheezing.
“I didn’t recognize you without women crawling around at your feet. Oh! Unless—” Extricating himself from the hug, he gave Robin a mischievous, wondering look. She bristled.
John raised his eyebrows and sucked in a breath. “No, no, no. She’s a colleague of mine at the university. Strictly professional.”
“Right. Saylor, was it?”
Robin forced herself to be diplomatic. As strange as this encounter was going, she still had an important acquisition to make. “Yes, sir. Saylor University, like I said. Do you two mind explaining what’s going on, here?”
Al looked to John for guidance.
“Oh, um,” John said. “Well, Al—Alfred—and I know each other. From the scene. He’s a veteran—”
“Leather Daddy, I believe they call me,” Al said with a wink, and took Robin’s hand in both his own. The man had done a complete one-eighty since John had stepped in. “If Johnson says you’re all right, I’ll think about getting another appraisal. The first one was a piece of shit.”
“In my professional opinion,” said Robin, squeezing his hand, “that about sums it up. It was insulting. But I can assure you I’m not here to make a buck, or any money at all. I only want to preserve your aunt’s contribution to history.”
“Contribution to history!” Al chortled. “Is that what they’re calling it now?”
“In my line of work, yes. That’s exactly what they’re calling it.”
“You can get a leather PhD nowadays,” added John. “Maybe you could go back to school. Start off with some credit for life experience.”
“Eh, eh.” Al-slash-Alfred-slash-Steelhammer dropped her hand and bent nearly double, holding himself up with his hands on his knees. “I’ll think about the appraisal. Just can’t think straight right now—the COPD is literally fucking killing me.” He managed to rise a bit, enough to look directly into Robin’s eyes. “Give me another card and I’ll call you back.”
Robin dove her hand into her purse and quickly handed him another one.
John offered him an arm with a courtly flourish, but he shook his head and stumbled his way back into his house unaided.
* * *
John watched with reptilian anticipation as Robin squeezed her chopsticks too tightly...and there it went. The salty-sweet eel meat popped off the rice ball and fell down to her plate. He was lightning-fast. While she still fumbled with her own chopsticks, he snatched up the eel—he knew how much Robin loved eel—and swallowed it down with a grin.
“So who’s the vulture?” she asked indignantly. The mock exasperation in her crooked smile was desperately, hopelessly charming.
“I’ll make it up to you.” He picked up one of his soft-shell crab pieces and hovered it an inch from her lips.
“Well...” She opened her mouth.
He waited. He didn’t really know what he was doing, just operating on the impulse. But things usually worked out when he did that.
She sighed delicately, leaned forward and bit it off his chopsticks.
Jesus. He’d better turn this to business before his head exploded. Or his pants melted. “I think you’ve got a good chance at the collection.”
“Mmm. Yes. It’s so exciting. I was worried there, but thanks to you, it started coming together. Poor guy. My grandfather died of COPD and emphysema.”
Death. That helped. “I think he’s got some other health issues too.” John finished the last piece of sushi and washed it down with some Asahi Dry. “I should show you some younger pictures of him. You can find them yourself, now that you know the right name to look for. He was a god back in the 1970s, I hear. Still a legend.”
“It’s an interesting sexual minority connection,” Robin mused. “He’s sort of an heir.”
He leaned forward. “I’d love to hear your thoughts on that, especially since you’ll probably be writing it up at some point. And that reminds me, a whole new topic of conversation just opened between us. Something we have in common.”
“You’re right.” Her smile was bright and happy, and God, he loved making her feel that way. Then she frowned. “It also reminds me, you never really opened up about how you got into all this stuff. I thought you promised to tell me.”
“Being evasive comes naturally. You’ve met my parents.”
“Point taken. And I do appreciate that you’re good at being private. I mean, given my job—well, thanks for the text you sent about the video feed.”
“I’m always going to look out for you. Nothing’s ever going to change that.”
That smile again, halogen-bright, intense, fleeting.
Hello, readers,
Picky Submissive here, with news of a new feature starting on the blog. Last week, entirely by accident, I learned that my best friend—let’s call him J—is a dom. After telling him the various problems detailed here, he and I have devised an experiment... of sorts. The long and short of it is, he and I are best friends and compatible in nearly every aspect of our lives, so why not work together on the puzzle of my Pickiness?
The Dom Project Page 5