Chapter Five

 

~ FREYA ~

 

BDSM.

I stare at my computer this morning, my second hit of coffee steaming in my mug at my side.

Yesterday had been easier, writing a fresh new scene complete with experimental position changes. But today seems a little further from my grasp.

“BDSM” the agent had written in her email.

Pressing my lips together, my mind clicks, clicks, clicks inside my skull. I’d never admit this to anyone—certainly not to Mason—but I’m having a hard time remembering what it even stands for. I’m not a complete idiot. I know what the idea of it all is. Hard to live through the era of Fifty Shades and be able to avoid it. But when it comes to the actual acronym, I’m partially stumped.

S and M are no-brainers. Sado masochism. Hell, I heard that term back in middle school when Callie Leftowitch snuck an old Playgirl into choir practice.

B. B is for Banana, I hear my own voice in my head, reading my little niece her favorite book. No, definitely not for Banana. B… is for Brutal. B is for… Bondage! I practically hear a buzzer sound in my head, like I’m on a game show.

And now, for the bonus round and the chance to win an offer of representation from an agent. D is for…

Disaster.

Derelict.

Damn.

I’d tap BDSM into my computer, but I hear about these stories where people go missing—get abducted or some God-awful thing like that—and the first place the police look for clues is on a person’s computer. And then all the headlines would depict me as some BDSM-seeking sex-crazed lunatic, and no one would even bother to look for me because they’d be too distracted by the sight of my sainted mother bawling her eyes out on national news and weeping, “She was such a sweet girl. Where did I go wrong?”

I minimize my book and click on a search engine with a sigh. Heck, if the police were to look at my computer, then they’d know I’m breaking my ass to write the best girl porn imaginable. So a simple acronym search isn’t really going to seem out of line.

BDSM, I type in.

When I see the answer before my eyes, I’m mildly vindicated. It’s actually an overlapping acronym. Bondage and Discipline, Dominance and Submission, and Sado and Masochism.

Interesting. But definitely not arousing.

I click back to my book, scrolling down to a sex scene about mid-manuscript.

This should be easy. I have my characters in bed. Why not throw in something a little more risqué? He’s a SEAL. Risk should be his middle name.

 

Zander’s tongue traced along Genevieve’s neck, making her insides flare white-hot. “I want you. Now.” His fingers fisted her thin blouse, pulling the holes for her buttons taut, till the material gave way to his desire, exposing tender flesh that ached to be touched.

 

I sigh, reading it. She wants hotter than that? Okay… I tap my mouse moving the icon to just after…

 

Genevieve’s sharp intake of breath when he lifted her into his arms was smothered by the stroke of his lips against hers—a gentle touch that became more brazen with each step he took toward her bed. He reined in his desire then, placing her on the soft sheets with the last reserves of gentleness he had inside his soul.

 

… and I flex my fingers before I start typing.

 

Zander straddled her, and reached into his nightstand to pull out…

 

My eyes widen. To pull out what? Handcuffs? That seems so 1980s.

I minimize the window and open my browser. The internet fills my screen in all its information-bearing glory. I type in “restraints,” and find a plethora of websites with photos of infant car seats.

Um, no. Not the mood I’m going for.

I add the words “50 shades” to my search.

Oh, well, now… that tightens up the search a bit. In an instant, a whole world of enticements reveals itself. My upper lip curls at a few of the options, but I shrug my shoulders at the sight of some long silk wrist restraints available for the low, low price of $18.99 a set.

That’ll do.

 

Zander straddled her, and reached into his nightstand to pull out a pair of long black restraints, the soft silk caressing her as he brushed it against her wrists.

 

And then what?

Staring blankly at my computer, my fingers still and eyes glaze over. My mind drifts to the last time I had sex with Patrick. I’d faked it, just because it was the easiest way to get him off so that I could turn on Everybody Loves Raymond reruns on cable at ten o’clock. I love that show—the mother-in-law is hysterical—even though in real life Debra would have divorced Ray within the year.

So that was my sex life, so mediocre it was surpassed in popularity by sitcoms that first aired when I was still in diapers.

My body flashes with heat suddenly, remembering the feel of Mason’s crotch pressed against me as we wrestled on the floor yesterday. Damn, even when the guy wasn’t aroused, I could tell he was packing. Then I remember the sound of the crack of knuckles-against-chin after Patrick had grabbed me by the arm. And suddenly, I’m getting it. I’d love to be dominated from time to time by a man like Mason.

What would sex with him be like? I shudder, but not from the idea that I’d be f’ing my BFF. More from the idea that it would probably be a life-altering experience.

The man is a SEAL, the stuff of fantasies, fodder for the very book I’m struggling to perfect right now. And he’s been right here at my side all this time, while I had been dating “safe” guys like lawyers and accountants and engineers, all because my mom programmed me to seek out a stable man if I wanted to pursue something as flighty as writing for a career.

Yet in two years of lukewarm relationships, I’d gotten less inspiration for romance than in that one moment when Mason had decked Patrick.

I’m suddenly jealous of every girl he dated while he was in Annapolis. And even more jealous of the hearts he’ll break after he leaves town. Giving myself a shake, I move my eyes—which have somehow wandered over to a photo of Mason and me on a weekend trip to New York City—back to my laptop screen. Resolutely, I start typing.

 

Genevieve lay beneath him, a torrent of hunger raging inside of her as he moved her hands to the bedposts.

 

I lift my fingers from the keyboard and glance at my wrists.

What does it feel like to be tied to a bed?

Turning my head, I lean back in my chair for a moment and stare at the old queen-size bed that was left to me by my grandmother. It’s hard to imagine being tied to it, knowing that my mom might well have been conceived in between those very bedposts.

Frowning, I get up from my desk and stare at my unmade bed, regretting that I’ve never gotten experimental in the bedroom. With a sigh, I lie down on it and gaze up at the ceiling, feeling remarkably awkward seeing as I’m all alone here. I move my hands to the bedposts as though they’re tied up.

Hmmm… My lips contort slightly and my brows press toward each other.

Not much of a thrill.

I remember a college professor once telling me, “Write about what you know.” And I’m really understanding what he meant by that as I lie on my bed wondering what it would feel like to be tied to it.

In my mind, sex tied up, for all intents and purposes, wouldn’t vary greatly from sex not tied up.

But I’ve always been told I’m a little too vanilla.

I shake my head, knowing I must be missing something.

What I need right now are two extra hands to tie me to this bed so I can see what it feels like. And since the likelihood of me sprouting more limbs is low, I reach for the phone.

“Can you come over?” I ask Mason when he picks up.

“Sure. Everything okay?”

I think he’s still waiting for me to cry my eyes out over Patrick. He’ll have to wait a lot longer.

“Yeah, I uh, need some input on a scene in my book.”

There’s a pause, and I know he’s wondering why he can’t just give me the input over the phone.

“I’m making chicken parmigiana,” I add before he can ask for details. Because if I tell him I need him to tie me to a bed, he’s likely to fall over laughing.

“I’ll be right over.”

As I touch the end button on my cell, an emptiness settles into me.

Mason is leaving in less than a week. After he goes, who’ll be around to edit my book with me? Who will brainstorm ways to transform my SEAL hero into a shifter… a stepbrother… a cowboy… or whatever the agents will toss my way next?

Who will tie me to a bed when I need it?

For all the brief relationships that have come in and out of my life since I met Mason, he’s been the one constant. I can always rely on him. It hasn’t really struck me until now that after he leaves, the only way I’ll be able to be in touch with him is through a cold, impersonal cell phone call.

I had always pictured having the book published by the time he left Annapolis for his next tour. Never had I imagined I’d still be revising and rewriting it at this stage of the game.

Patrick’s pessimistic voice enters my consciousness, and it makes my skin crawl. “You have to know when to cut bait. You’re wasting your time. You’re twenty-three. You have your degree. It’s time for you to get a real job.”

My eyes narrow at the memory. I don’t know if the years I’ve been working on my book were a waste. But the two months I spent around that idiot were a definite waste.

Given that, I guess it’s no wonder I’m more upset about the idea of my best friend moving away, than over the fact that my boyfriend was cheating on me.

Forcing myself off my bed and into my kitchen, I turn on the oven to preheat, knowing it’s time to pull out my grandma’s recipe book—my foolproof way to get Mason to do absolutely anything, including helping me with my manuscript.

Mason is a sucker for my chicken parmigiana. My grandma’s recipe is different from most, breading the chicken with a secret ingredient. Then it’s fried only briefly to seal in the natural juices, and afterward, oven-baked for twenty minutes in olive oil infused with roasted garlic.

A determined look on my face, I pull a box of corn flakes from the cupboard and start crushing five cups of them in a bowl for the breading, then adding seasonings. I’ll stash it all away before Mason arrives, not willing to risk him figuring out how to make this for himself. Even though the guy can barely boil an egg, he’s always pestering me for the recipe saying my chicken parmigiana might be inspiration enough for him to turn on a stove.

But if he ever figured out how to make this, what would I have left to barter with when I need him to edit my book—or tie me to a bed?