She stared. Oh, how she stared. Callan fought to stop his lips from twitching. If he were her Sir, she'd be on her knees and wondering what her punishment might be. A pity he wasn't, and she wasn't. Callan firmed his mouth, and remained silent until the tell-tale blush of embarrassment appeared over the neckline of her prim grey dress once more. Why she thought the outfit dimmed her attraction he had no idea, but he felt sure it had been her intention. Someone needed to tell her it she’d miscalculated. The demure outfit proved to be seduction personified. To him, attraction was being able to use his imagination, before he discovered what each layer of her armor revealed. He itched to see what hid beneath.
Stocking? Suspenders, or hold ups? Bra, bustier, or naked? His mind went into overdrive. He shut those erotic thoughts off and concentrated on the here and now.
"So. Miss Andriacchi, after worrying your cousin sick, do we stay or do we go? Note I said we, to do anything else would be unforgivable. He's put himself on the line for you, the least you can do is listen. And perhaps not show either of us up in front of a very full, and interested, restaurant. I can stand the heat," he paused, "can you?"
It went against every instinct he possessed to sound so harsh and unyielding. Callan was not noted as a stern or critical Dom, just the opposite. He was in great demand as a teacher, someone whose empathy helped many a new sub to understand what they wanted, and needed. Probably one reason he'd opted out so much, he was drained. Now he behaved in a way he abhorred. However, instinct told him to act like that or Mason would take advantage, flip him the finger and leave.
All the redness his stare produced receded, and she went white and swayed. Just as Callan thought he might have to jump in and catch her if she fell, her face colored once more. He watched, fascinated, as she clenched her hands into fists, and took a quick glance around the room. Nearly all the tables were occupied, however he'd lied when he told her the diners were interested in their actions. Most people were too interested in their food to pay attention to the two of them. He almost heard her weigh up her choices.
Finally, just as he decided he might need to prompt her, she shuddered and dipped her head. Not in a submissive way, more resigned.
"Okay."
He opened the door.
She went white again, and shivered. "Anywhere but there, please."
Callan nodded, he'd find out what was going on later. He'd chosen the room for its size, decor, and privacy, nothing else. As far as he knew, it was a bland private dining area. However, it seemed not so to Mason. "I don't know what else Marco has, and I don't want to discuss business where we can be overheard. But let me see what I can do." He touched her arm briefly. "Wait here." He didn't look back to see if she obeyed or not—if his gut feelings about her were correct, she had—and walked toward the bar, where Marco hovered, a worried look in his eye.
"What the fuck?" Callan asked him, fury in every word. "Your cousin is either going to knee me in the balls or throw up. And you knew it, didn't you? Why?"
Marco looked miserable. "Her story, not mine. But seriously, I didn’t think she'd be so bad. Look, I'm full in here that's why I agreed to the dining room for you when you asked, without mentioning it might be a problem. Else you'd have been on a standby list, and maybe having deep-fried pizza and chips from the all night café by the arches. I just hoped Fergy would go for it."
"Fergy?"
Marco grinned. "Massy Ferguson, the tractors. Mason-Massy-Fergy. Best way ever to piss her off, she hates it, and as I value my balls, I don't call her that to her face anymore. So. Sadly, yeah, I was wrong, but shit, she has to walk through the bloody door at some point." He ran his hand over his stubbly hair. "Well, like I said, it's not my story to tell so, if you want to go up to the office to talk, I'll have a table in half hour or so. Will that do?"
Callan looked back to Mason and waved her over. She came so slowly, he didn't think he had a snowball's chance in hell of getting anything sorted out, least of all the painting he wanted doing. However, as he explained Marco's solution she nodded.
"I guess so, because if I don’t agree to listen to you now, he’ll only nag me until I agree to do whatever he asks to shut him up."
"I know how to manage her," Marco said with more than a hint of smugness.
She turned on him like a mama bear protecting her cub. "No one, but no one manages me, mate, and don't you forget it. Remember the paint stripper and your car?" She didn’t wait to hear his answer. "Oh, for heaven’s sake, can we get this over with?" She walked to the door leading to the office area, and keyed in a set of numbers. Callan raised an eyebrow in query.
"Gives me a hand when we're short staffed," Marco said briefly. "Wine in the fridge in the office, help yourself."
Callan nodded and followed Mason through the doorway, pleased and surprised she waited for him in a square room, with three doors off it. Once she saw him, Mason tapped a code into a keyboard on the left hand wall and opened the door next to it.
"In here, and I'm filching his finest." She didn't wait for him to follow, but headed for a fridge and took out a bottle. Callan's amusement at her attitude changed to annoyance. He usually ran the show, not a sub with attitude. Mason rubbed him up the wrong way. He was the Dom, not her. With a smile he was sure didn't reach his eyes, Callan took the bottle from her and applied the bottle opener.
"My job." He dared her to contradict him.
She held on for a second before relinquishing her hold, and walked straight-backed to the window. She leaned against it and watched him from under lowered lids.
"Mr. Macho."
She better believe it.
Even like that, the fire in her eyes was enough to scorch, and deflate any eager cock. He chuckled before a thought struck him. Had he misunderstood Marco? Surely not. He remembered Marco's words. My cousin is floundering. She needs direction. Can you help? Marco knew what Callan wanted from life, because, as Marco explained, they both shared the same beliefs needs and goals. That's how they'd met up again after so many years—at a club owned by mutual friends. The one he now held a share in.
"Sit down." Callan firmed his voice.
Mason gave a short gasp, and her hand went to her throat as if she was looking for something, before she gave an infinitesimal nod. She walked across the room to a long comfortable-looking sofa and sat down. Her legs, encased in sheer black stockings, and those red shoes, were a beacon to his cock. His trousers grew tight as his prick swelled. Shit, sweet sex on legs. He wanted to bury himself deep inside her, and fuck her until she sobbed her completion and he shouted his. Be honest, you want more than that. True, but it would do for a start.
Callan poured two glasses of wine, and snagged a plate of nibbles from inside the fridge. Perhaps Marco expected it to come to this?
"Cheers." He handed a glass over, and touched his own glass to it. "Help yourself, courtesy of your cousin." He waved to the canapes. She ignored them.
"Cheers." She didn't sound very cheery. "So what do you want, Mr. Mackie?"
You.
"You. To paint something for me. I have an interest in a…" He hesitated. "A night club. The inner foyer needs a complete overhaul. Marco suggested you might be the very person to do it." What would she say? It was a gamble. Maybe she'd ask the question he really didn't want to answer?
She stood and walked to the window, before she faced him. Then she said the one thing he'd hoped not to hear.
"Oh? What's it called?"
He took a deep breath. "The Dance Studio."
She looked him with a query in her eyes, and then they cleared.
God almighty, even the bloody air seems to be waiting and I have no idea what the hell for.
"Oh, what a good name for a night club."
No, she hadn't got a clue. Strange.
Chapter Three
"Ah, have you ever been there?"
Callan made it sound like they were talking about Queen Street railway station, somewhere most people visited at one time or another. Under th
e clock there was famous as a meeting place. Only the set of his shoulders made her think he tensed as he waited for her to answer.
Mason wriggled her nose, and rubbed her fingers together. The bloody itch between her shoulder blades returned, shouting at her to beware. Why? He'd said or done nothing untoward, but something put her sense of self-awareness onto high alert, and she trusted that itch over everything else.
Why does he look like I'm dissing him? "No," she said in as even a tone as she could manage, and was convinced he relaxed. However, if she wanted the job, she had to be a little bit cooperative. She wasn't successful enough to turn down jobs, not in the present economy. The trouble was, he kept changing from a businessman only interested in a possible joint business venture, into a … well she daren't think into what, except it didn't seem like work in the employment sense. Then she was certain her negative answer had been positive to him.
She waited for him to add anything to his previous statement. When he didn’t, she carried on. "Since my husband…" She gulped. Come on you can say it, you're not unique. "My husband, Michael, died just over a year ago. I haven't been one for going out much." And we preferred to entertain ourselves at home. "So if it's a new night club, it's not likely I've been."
"Then maybe I should show you around one evening, and let you get a feel for the place." It wasn't a question. "Let you plan what you think is needed."
Why did such innocuous words send a stab of fear skittering over her skin, and bring the hairs on her arms to stand on end? He wanted a foyer or something painted, matte or silk on the walls, gloss or a stain on the woodwork. Simple. It was a nightclub. Music and dancing, and maybe a glass of wine and some peanuts, not a house of ill-repute. Mason wanted to snigger at the old-fashioned phrase. Why on earth had she thought of that? She believed in Marco's judgment If he trusted Callan, then so should she.
But Marco's trying to jog me out of what he calls my rut. What he thinks is in my best interests might not mesh with my ideas. A little niggling voice did its best to stir up her worries. She ignored it.
"Thank you, when suits you best?" Yes, the perfect reply. Interested and businesslike. I can do this.
He stared at her, a look that Mason could only describe as considering.
"After we've eaten." It was a take it or leave it tone. One guaranteed to make you either get on your knees and bow your head, or bristle with indignation and stalk out, depending on your inclination.
Her skin stung, and crawled, a horrible feeling akin to a column of ants marching over her even as she nodded. Every part of her screamed it was time to run. "If you say so. I wonder when our table will be available? I'm hungry."
A lie, but she was proud of how even her voice stayed. If she ate anything she might throw up. It annoyed her. First because she had no idea why she felt so churned up, and second, she loved the food at Marco's, and resented the fact she wasn't going to be able to eat much.
A knock came on the door and Mason jumped. She'd been so involved with her thoughts and feelings she'd forgotten a table was due to become available.
Callan looked away from Mason and glared at the door. He crossed his arms over his chest and said nothing. Mason couldn't take her eyes off the way his jacket stretched over his taut abs. Hells bells, what would he look like stripped? Don't even think of it. However, those tantalizing pictures were flickering through her mind like an X-rated movie.
"Aren't you going to tell whoever's out there to come in?" Mason asked him in desperation after several long seconds. "You know, in case it’s a fireman to say the building's on fire. Marco's used the blowtorch on his Italian Meringue and got torching happy or something like that. I'd sort of prefer to get out in that case." Anything to get my mind out of the gutter, and away from his assets. She didn't mean his financial ones either.
He didn't even crack a smile. "The fire escape is outside the window," he said. "And the alarm hasn't sounded."
Oh, for fuck’s sake, state the obvious, why don't you. I can hear an alarm in my head and it's screaming run. Too late for that. "Yeah, of course. Oh dear, silly me." She always did have a good line in sarcasm. In the past it was the one thing guaranteed to make Michael act. If only…
The brief look Callan gave her before he resumed his perusal of the door should have made her shiver in fear. She shivered all right, but not in fear. It was a pure I am the boss. Do not mess with me, do as I say or else look. Mason wanted to cry. It was so similar to Michael in his best I am in control mood, it sent signals to her channel and her thong chafed. If she weren't careful, she'd be rather damp and uncomfortable, wriggling in her undies soaked with her juices. His voice did things to her psyche—and her pussy—she'd prefer to ignore. She chose to try and do something to take her mind off his gravelly diction and coffee and chocolate tones.
"Oh shoot, if you don’t answer the door, I will." Mason rolled her eyes, and he stiffened. Good, at least she'd got another reaction out of him. His lack of visible shows and tells regarding his state of mind pissed her off. "It doesn't matter how long or hard you stare at it, the wood is thick." A bit like you. "Unless you have ESP or whatever it's called, you can't see through it. And your Mr. Macho act will come grinding to a halt, eh?"
He turned around in one elegant sweep and looked her in the eye. The tiny flecks of gold she'd noticed in his otherwise brown irises flickered, and he frowned. Even that forbidding expression made her clit tingle, and her juices dampened her curls.
"Don't you dare, not if you value your hide." His voice could curdle eggs. "I'd like nothing better to push that tease of a dress up, push down whatever is covering that hot little bot, and spank your ass until it's the color of your nails. Now sit on the settee, cross your legs and behave."
She knew damned well her jaw dropped.
"Wha—" Who the… She dipped her head and jerked it up again. Oh no, no way. She decided perhaps she'd shut up. For now. Her heart might refuse to recognize his attitude, but her subconscious had no such problems. Don't you dare kneel; he'll think you're a fruitcake. Or a sub? She bit her lip.
"Good girl." He'd obviously seen her instinctive need to lower her head. His smile was one hundred percent Dom, and two hundred percent sinful. "Now, not long. Let's see who's at the door, eat and go." He didn't wait to hear her answer. "Come in." He addressed whoever stood outside the room.
The door opened slowly, and Marco’s head appeared, almost as if he worried what he'd see. Mason wouldn't have been surprised if Marco waved his white chef jacket as a sign he came in peace.
"It's okay, cousin dear. There's no orgy going on." One look at Marco and she'd known this was all part of a set up. Oh, not the office part, she reckoned he had no idea she'd freak over the dining room and have to go upstairs. Talk about silly. Nothing bad happened there, only good, so why was she acting like there'd been a murder? The phrase conjured up an old TV detective series set in Glasgow in her mind. There's been a mur-rr-der had been a catch phrase in it. Mason brought her mind back from unpleasant thoughts, murders and goodness knows what. Maybe it was time to bury the fear and move forward.
Could she? Bury the fear and not a body. Why dread the thought of happy times? Her nerves were stretched so tight, if she giggled like she wanted to, she'd end up in full blown hysterics, and any slaps wouldn't be of the arousing type. Oh, for heaven's sake grow up, build a bridge and get over it. She made her mind up.
"Er, Marco?" she spoke before she had time to challenge her resolve. "Is that dining room still empty?" She squashed the butterflies holding a dance party in her tummy.
"Yeah, why?" He looked puzzled.
"Then if S-er Mr. Mackie is agreeable, we'll eat in there. It's just a room." And I'm just a wee thick Scottish lassie. Damn, she'd so nearly slipped up. It might be one thing to think Callan was a Dom, another thing to afford him with the salutation. After all she didn't really know if he was, did she? She ignored the tiny voice telling her to stop pretending, determined to never go back down that road. There lay hea
rtache.
"Er, sure, if Cal is happy with that?" Marco looked toward Callan for confirmation. He shrugged, but it was no casual gesture.
"Why not? Ten minutes?"
Marco grinned. "Fine. Just come down when you're ready." He closed the door carefully behind him. The silence in the room made Mason bite her lips. If it wasn't so fanciful, she'd say the air waited with her to see what happened next.
Mason distrusted the grin. "Why ten minutes?" she asked Callan. "We’re ready now."
"You think so?" A definite question.
The way he looked at her—all-seeing, all-knowing, and more than all-demanding—seared her to her soul.
"Well." She bit her lip. "Yes." Her pussy did a quick shimmy, and her nipples pushed at the thin lace of her bustier. Mason daren't look down to see if they were showing through the soft material of her dress. It might be nice and accommodating to her curves, but she didn't think it would be brilliant at hiding the evidence of her burgeoning arousal. She squeezed her knees together, and ignored his hastily smothered grin. Bloody all-seeing sod.
"What?" she asked "Why are you looking at me like I've lost my marbles?"
He thumped the table so hard, both she and the glasses jumped. Wine slopped dangerously near the rims, before it settled into waves rippling across the surface of the liquid.
"Mason, for some reason ever since we met, you've been pushing. Determined to show me you're a strong independent in-command woman. Why? Do you think it'll make me think more of you? Help me to decide you're the one I need to do this job for me?" He put one finger under her chin and lifted her face upward. "Why does the thought of me knowing you’re a submissive frighten you?"
Bow to Your Partner Page 2