by Jenna Barton
“Why don’t you give it a try? Do something different.” He sipped from his wine, eyes leveled toward me over the rim of his glass.
We watched each other for a span of seconds, the edge of what I had to accept and commit to creating such a big, yawning gap between what I knew and what he’d challenged me to be. Different. And more. “I don’t know how, Walt,” I admitted, probably too quietly for him to hear.
“Then let’s figure it out. One thing at a time.” He chuckled softly, already wise to my aversion of naming what it was I wanted.
I knew, without any doubt. I liked him. I wanted him to like me too. Behaving like a silly, babbling girl fifteen years younger than myself was not the right way to communicate this. I’d look like someone who was emotionally—and possibly mentally—incapable of doing BDSM things with him.
BDSM things? God, I even think in awkward to myself.
“What?” He looked at me closely, grinning. “That thought—right there. What’s going on in there?”
“I—I’m—ahh…”
A corner of his mouth twitched, then lifted. “Go ahead, spit it out.”
“Walt—” Glancing around us, I took a deep breath, because that’s what people usually did when they needed courage, and leaned forward “—I’d like to play with you.”
“I know.”
“Oh?”
“Well, considering where we met, and Sunday night, and you and Claire—”
“Claire?” I sat back, unsure of the appropriate response, because I didn’t care about it, but if he meant together, because she wasn’t—
“No, back up. Not like that. You two are friends. You came to the club with her, right?”
“Yes. Well, no. I drove myself, but—”
“So what are you looking for?”
“Looking for?” He was asking me this during dinner? I must have gaped at him a little because he chuckled softly.
“Yes, you’re interested in what, when it comes to play?” He waited, suddenly the amused and patient professor. An errant thought of him wearing round glasses and a tweed blazer flashed through my stuttering brain, turning my thighs tense.
Well, that was one. An easy one.
“I’d like to try a spanking.”
A lazy smile spread across his features. He twirled his fork through his pasta. “Would you?”
“I would. Yes. That…it seems like a simple thing.” I nodded, taking a deep breath. “Right?”
“Sure,” he said. He bit into the curl of pasta and sauce, leaving me in edgy silence as he chewed and considered. “Simple thing. Like I said, it’s hand and ass, no matter how fancy you get about it. Over the knee?”
My spine went rigid, sending me into the seat back. “Excuse me?”
“Do you want me to turn you over my knee when I spank you?” Maybe it was his accent, or the veneer of ease he laid over this interrogation, but there was more than challenge in his question. Every word had a particular weight as he spoke.
“You’re thinking about it, aren’t you?”
“Yeah.” His expression didn’t change. He didn’t move. “I am.”
Tension whirred across my back and coiled through the muscles in my hips. The twin currents bolted, crashing together deep under my stomach. I had no way to understand, in my own experience, what the act of submission to Walt would be like, but I already recognized the exchange between us. It was a straight, simple causeway.
Yes, Sir.
“So am I,” I said, reaching forward, blind, for something to put my fingers on.
“I know you are.”
“I haven’t…you know.” I emptied my wineglass. “I haven’t been. Before.”
“I know. You said so the other night.” He slid his water glass toward me. “What else?”
“Um…I’d like to be tied up.”
“May want to work up to that,” he said and broke off a piece of his bread. Pushing back from the table, he wiped his fingers across his napkin and returned it to his lap. “People think it’s BDSM 101, but being restrained can fuck with your head a little.”
The swim of my wine and his attention made me flushed, bold. “The way you’d do it to me?”
“Yes.” He nodded, unblinking. “Your head needs a little fucking with.”
“How would you do it? How are you thinking about it right now?”
“I’d tie your wrists to your ankles, ankles to knees. Keep you opened up, even though you’d worry over it, but not so much you’d talk yourself out of it. And that would be enough the first time. Just letting me see you and touch you like that would be enough.”
The space around our table receded, nearly went dark beyond. In the brief distance between us, there was a zinging, phosphorescent line of attention and intention. The electricity of it tingled over my lips and unfurled across my chest, taking my chin higher, and with it, my torso stretched, open as he’d just said.
Open. Open for him, by his hand, and for his use. The word and its meaning relaxed my hold on everything around me. Those other things—the events and expectations I was so determined to manage, all of it outside myself and what Walt wanted from me—paled just enough to not be overwhelming. My ambition and expectation and desire for stability would be waiting. But I understood, without removing a stitch of clothing and surrounded by other people, that he could—and would—lift that control from me when we chose the time.
“You heard of The Enclave?”
“Enclave?” I searched through conversations I’d had with Claire, even Walt. Nothing. I shook my head.
“It’s a house. You’ve not met him, but a good friend of Claire’s and mine owns this house over on Lake Arden, where Lu lives. He has a private play party there every few weeks.”
The words of the women we’d met at Home Outfitters came back to me. She did see me the night I went to Area 51.
All of those people who go up to that house are so into themselves…all of them trying to act like they’re so exclusive, and it’s some big mysterious thing that happens out there…another damn popularity contest, like everything else in the lifestyle.
“And?” Even though their opinion of this private party was apparently low, in my mind, the two women were attached to the place because they were the first people I’d heard mention it. And considering how I felt about them…
“It’s just a nice house on some property. A place to play without worrying about people’s neighbors or someone inviting the police.”
“Po—?!” I lowered my voice. “Police?”
“Erin, you do realize you’re not in California? Half the states in the South still have sodomy laws.”
“What are you talking about?” My stomach clenched. The chicken piccata with the pasta was a bad idea.
“They’re not really enforced but—look, not everyone is so easygoing about the things we do.” He nodded slowly, like he was talking to a child. “There’s still prejudice out there. People can lose their jobs, their families, their kids.”
The waiter appeared at Walt’s side. While they spoke of to-go boxes and the dessert menu, I glanced around the restaurant. We were at a comfortable distance from the last few occupied tables, but we weren’t alone. If someone heard…it didn’t matter to me, but that was from the relative safety of consideration, not experiencing the actual event.
In San Francisco, I’d bounced down Folsom Street, through a throng of people, always peering around Danielle’s shoulder. Any and all manner of relationship was on display, celebrated during the annual street fair. But I lived in North Carolina. And I did notice some attitudes, the focus of everyday life—it was different here.
“Erin?” Walt’s palm rested, warm and solid, on the back of my hand. “You okay?”
“Of course, yes,” I said, hushed.
“You’ve been invited to The Enclave.”
“Okay…” I glanced around us again. “Is this a big deal?”
“It…” He shook his head, laughing. “It’s a nice place. But no, I
guess it’s not really a big deal.”
“Is she there? That woman—Nicole?”
“Uh, no.” He scratched his earlobe as his brows drew together and he looked away. “No, Nicole hasn’t been there.”
“How long did you see her?”
“I played with her a few times but it was casual.”
“And you slept with her?”
“No, we didn’t sleep.”
“Oh.” I looked away, unsure how to ask questions I knew I should ask. And, logically, I shouldn’t worry about asking Walt for too much information about his…things. Even if the answers changed how I saw him. “Did you date her?”
“Date? No, she’s—” He leaned toward me, his forearm resting across the table. “Erin, there are people who are play partners who never see each other in the daylight.”
His expression, his nearness, and the tone of his voice reminded me of the afternoon we’d spent together.
“You’ve seen me in the daylight,” I said.
“I have. I’d like to see you like that again.”
“You mean sweaty and out of breath in your forest, or how I was later?”
“Both.” He moved forward a little more, still studying my face. “I want to date you, Erin. And play with you, after we get to know each other a little better. Maybe see what else happens.”
I suspected a combination of the two, playing and dating, was not something Walt did regularly. But never had someone just set out their intentions toward me so I could question and discuss them.
“I’d like that too,” I said, watching his reaction for some sign I’d followed the process of negotiation correctly. When it came, it was in the shape of the considering half-smile I was coming to know well. I wanted to reach across the space between us and touch the turned-up furrows by his eyes, let the dark coffee-colored hair just behind his ear curl around my finger. When I dodged my tongue across my lips, I tasted wine and lemons and garlic. Not him. I wanted to kiss him, so much. “Um…Walt?”
I didn’t have to ask. His mouth was on mine before I could say it. The business of people arriving and placing orders and holding their own conversations continued around us. Walt’s hand rested on my knee, his fingers splayed lightly along the outside of my thigh. Everything around us didn’t matter. His touch, especially his kissing, was a first-order function.
Finally he pulled away, tongue nudging at the curve of his lower lip.
“Good,” he said quietly.
“Good.”
I let my hand trail after him and touched the single curl behind his ear I’d spied before. The stubble on his cheek rasped across my arm as he turned his head. Under my fingers, his hair rippled and curved. His lips brushed across the inside of my wrist. Beside us, there was the clatter of a glass against a table, a chair thunking across the worn wood floor. Walt sat back, giving our server a brief nod. He kept possession of my hand, lacing his fingers through mine.
“You wanna get out of here?”
“Yes.” At that moment I wanted to go anywhere he’d lead me. He stood and tugged me to my feet.
“Got this for you,” he said, placing a cardboard box in my other hand. “Somethin’ sweet. For later.”
Chapter Nine
HIS COCK WAS SO HARD he could barely drive. The only thing that saved him was remembering that he was driving Lu’s grandmother’s mint-condition Mercedes with a hard-on that would choke a catfish. When Roxanne’s headlights arced across the park entrance and lit the spur road leading to his cabin, Walt congratulated himself. He’d made the twenty-minute drive from Erin’s place down in Callahan to his house without turning around, driving back, and dragging her across the arm of her couch to give her the spanking she’d asked for.
For as long as he could, Walt distracted himself from the white cardboard box with the day’s mail, a load of laundry, a glass of milk. The milk broke him. Its icy cold creaminess damn near demanded he get what he wanted.
Erin’s voice was creaky and far away when she answered her phone.
“Hi,” she said over the muffled sounds of movement. “Was just thinking about you.”
Her voice hit his ear at the same time the first bite touched his tongue. He wasn’t ready for sweet, silky, and spicy and Erin hitting him all at once, turning his bones to liquid fire.
“Hey,” he said, setting the box of tiramisu aside. “What were you thinking?”
“You first. I answered all the questions at dinner.” She was a little bit saucy over the phone, when she had a little distance, and that made his fingers ache for a handful of her hair, and to turn her face to his so he could watch her eyes light up with it. “What have you been thinking about?”
“Nothing.” He laughed along with her. “No, really. Nothing important, just about my dessert.”
“You got one too?”
“Are you kidding me? You saw that dessert case when we walked in.” He huffed, a broad, overblown sound that made him proud when she laughed at it. “Crazy woman.”
“Shhh, Walt. Stop talking about it.” Behind her words, fabric rustled over a distinct squeak he remembered from late Sunday night.
She was in bed, damn it. His cock pulsed against the seam of his boxers. He threw the sheets from his legs and sat up against the headboard, reaching for the take-out box.
“Go get it.”
“Excuse me?”
“Go get it. Your cake.”
“No. I can’t eat it now. I’ve already brushed my teeth.”
“You always follow the rules, don’t you?”
“So if I eat dessert after I’ve brushed my teeth, that suddenly makes me edgy?”
“This isn’t a psychological assessment, Erin.” He took a bite of the espresso-soaked cake. “Shit…”
“Excuse me?”
“Nothing. I just dropped a bunch of this whipped cream stuff on my sheets.”
This time when she laughed it was full and free, so much more musical and way less self-aware. “I’ve already changed my sheets once this week, thanks to you. And now you’re tempting me to get my mouth dirty. Um—I mean—”
“Dirty?” He stopped wiping the splotch of sweetened mascarpone from his chest. “Don’t say ‘get my mouth dirty’ to me, Erin. I need to sleep tonight.”
“I…” The catch in her breath was obvious, and underlined by a long stretch of quiet. “Well, okay, but you’re the one so desperate to get your beauty rest.”
“But I don’t have to sleep tonight,” he offered. “I’d rather talk to you about tiramisu.”
The line was quiet again, for so long he nearly asked her if she was still there. His answer came with another telltale squeak.
“Okay,” Erin said, hushed.
“Bring it back to your bed.”
“You’re not going to ask me what I’m wearing?”
He could see her cheek rounding, the way she pursed her lips when she challenged him. Already it was a temptation, that evasive move of hers. She had so many of those emotional feints, each one asking him to catch her chin in his hand and make her stop trying to distract him.
“I don’t really care what you’re wearing now. When you get back to your bedroom, it better be nothing but your glasses. Wait on those till you’re back in bed. Can’t have you tripping over that rug in your hallway. Might have to drive over and rescue you or something.”
“I don’t do this,” she said after a few seconds.
“You can brush your teeth again, Erin.”
“You know what I mean.” Something metallic clanked and rattled. She didn’t do this, but she sure as hell was rattling through what sounded like her silverware drawer. “This isn’t me.”
“Sure it is,” he said. “Someone just forgot to show you.”
“Walt, I—” she started. Once again, the line went quiet, and longer this time. And then…squeak.
“Now your glasses.”
“Done.” There was a tiny giggle in her voice, and his apprehension dissolved. She just needed permission. He
’d suspected it all along.
“Have some,” he said and followed his own instructions. He imagined her mouth opening, lips poised over a spoon so full, near dripping with cake and cream.
“Mmmm…oh my God, that’s good,” she said with a sigh, setting off a torrent of pointed shocks traveling over his stomach, aimed for his balls. He cupped them in time, barely concealing the hiss of his breath over his teeth. Fucking killing him. The woman was fucking killing him, and she seemed to bounce along her merry way without a single idea of it.
Walt glanced at the dull red digital numbers shining 11:09 in the dim corner of his nightstand. He was too old for this shit. Too old to be teasing himself with a woman, too old to be considering what he suddenly was doing.
“Erin, go get another fork.”
As he turned over Roxanne’s motor, he hoped he wasn’t so old he’d forgotten the way to Erin’s house.
I knew he was on his way, so it wasn’t a complete surprise when I opened the door and found Walt standing before me, dressed in sweatpants and a T-shirt, breathing a little heavily. The heavy breathing was a little unusual, actually, but the way Walt pulled me into his chest and tugged at the base of my ponytail as he kissed me was the revelation I wasn’t expecting.
“Hi. Where’s your tiramisu?”
“We’re doing this too fast,” he said against the base of my throat, tugging at my robe. I swallowed hard, whining when his mouth closed over the skin beneath my ear. That would bloom purple and plum. It was May. I lived in the South.
Instead of heeding those very sensible thoughts, I hailed him on, twisting my hips against his. “A turtleneck or scarf, maybe—”
He broke away, panting, his eyes level with mine. “What’re you…scarf?”
“I’ll wear one.” Threading my fingers through his hair, I pulled his lips to mine. “I’ll wear one around my neck, so just don’t stop that biting.”
“Don’t tell me what to do,” he said, grinning as he tilted his head away from mine. He chuckled softly when I trailed after him. “That’s my job.”
“Oh yes, sir.” I added a mock salute before I realized what I’d said. It caught between us, a quick drumbeat underlining this thing that kept us circling each other, so fast we kept reminding each other of it, and so delirious from it we couldn’t be responsible, risk-managing adults and step back to avoid it.