I’m going to fail sociology. The professor blames everything from cockroach infestation to pimples on corporate greed. I’ve explained to him that corporations are run by people, which means they’re as diverse and generous as whoever is managing them. I also pointed out that since individuals are the largest source of donations in the country, if they don’t have jobs, which corporations provide, they can’t donate. He said I was a corporate drone. He was probably sitting on his ass in his office when you guys were trucking in supplies to Gulfport, MS, after Katrina. Do you still make that industrial spray foam at the Costa Rican plant? I want to fill up his Prius like a cream horn.
Letter from Marcie, sophomore year
I’ll ship you a case of it. Remember to wear gloves and don’t leave fingerprints. And burn this letter. Morons like that don’t realize a good teacher teaches you how to think for yourself. Their job isn’t to impose their own agenda.
Ben’s reply
Chapter Seven
When Marcie walked past Janet’s desk, she could tell from her expression that the admin was surprised to see her. So he’d told Janet she wasn’t coming in.
“I don’t know how long I’ll be here,” she said. “I’m just checking on a few things.”
Janet gave her a handful of pink message slips. “He’s on a conference call right now in Matt’s office. They’ll probably be in there for an hour or so.”
Good. Maybe her stomach would move down from her throat and back into its proper area by then. All she’d been able to handle were those eggs. Jon had packed up the leftover toast, tucking it into a sandwich bag with a small jar of the jam. He’d suggested she eat some of that later. A nurturing Dom. He and Rachel were perfect for one another.
Marcie pulled out the document she’d been unable to finish yesterday and got to work. Her concentration was for shit, though, so she stopped to return some of the messages. She answered the calls on her feet because her ass still hurt enough to make sitting uncomfortable. But other symptoms concerned her more. Remembering the concern in Jon’s eyes as he held her, she wondered at it herself, how shaky she felt today. Her nerves were on high alert, her body vibrating like a hummingbird. She did carry a personal massager in her purse. Maybe she should take the edge off?
That vibrator stays in the nightstand drawer until I say otherwise. She shivered deliciously at the memory, the look on his face as he issued the order. He kept switching between taking over all her decisions, and wanting to cut her loose. It gave her hope and drove her crazy at once.
Her intercom buzzed. Janet. “Yes?” Marcie asked.
“Mr. O’Callahan says to use the pillow on the top shelf of his closet.”
“Did you tell him I was here?”
“No, I did not.”
“Jon told him?”
“Mr. Forte isn’t in the meeting.” Janet’s tone suggested she would very quickly tire of twenty questions. Truth, the woman was kind of scary, so Marcie thanked her and clicked off. How had he known? Was he pissed? Had she messed things up?
“Stop it, Marcie,” she muttered. “Get a grip.”
Going into his office, she found the pillow on the top shelf. When she brought it down, she couldn’t help herself. She pressed it to her face, inhaling his scent. She imagined him using it, the long, powerful body stretched out on the office couch. He’d kick off his shoes, probably shrug out of his shirt, and then flop down, one arm casually hooked over his head, studying the ceiling as he ran through the details of whatever had kept him late enough to decide to sleep here.
Now she visualized herself curled against his body, her head propped into the valley created by that raised arm. Her fingers would play with the light mat of hair across his chest as she gazed up into that strong face. Those beautiful green eyes would shift to her, studying her from such a relaxed position. She imagined waking up together. They could pull all-nighters together, because of course she’d love to work as part of his staff, his investigator.
She wrapped her arms around the pillow, hugging it to her. Folding herself down on the couch, she rested on her hip so she didn’t aggravate her abused buttocks. Just a quick second to lie here, where he had been. He didn’t sleep long hours, she was sure. There was such incredible energy to him.
She remembered the way he’d played with the younger kids on the evenings or weekends when they all got together. He was tireless, wrestling with Nate, racing the girls on their bikes, hauling the younger ones around on his shoulders in the pool. Some of her most intense early masturbating fantasies had to do with the way his broad chest and shoulders looked with beads of water rolling down them. The way the sun played across the dark silken hair that arrowed down to his waist.
He wore those modest oversized shorts that most guys did for a swimsuit, but she preferred to imagine him in far more fitted swim trunks. Ones that would cling to his ass and groin like a second skin when he hefted himself easily out of the pool on strong arms, one of her siblings clinging to his back.
If he was lying behind her now, she’d feel the hard planes of his body, that impressive groin pressed up against her ass. He’d cup her breast, play with the piercing jewelry as he dozed and she got more aroused, until she was squirming against him, rubbing against his cock, waking him up on several levels. Of course he’d probably grumble at her for disturbing his rest, threaten to punish her. Push her down under the blanket so she had to service his morning erection. Maybe he’d let her use her hands, to cup his muscular ass, stroke the taut lines of his thighs.
Her lids were drooping. She really had slept poorly last night. She needed to get up, finish that work. Hold it all together, even though she was afraid everything was falling apart. She was just so tired… If she had a nap, she’d be better off. She wasn’t going to give up, even if she had to go through a hundred days like the last two. Which would technically be two hundred days…
* * * * *
“It’s going to be a pain in the ass.”
“Yeah, yeah, bitch, bitch. Stop being such a little girl about it. Think how much better production will be after the turnover.”
“We’ll lose about a million during the outage.”
“You could pull a million out of your ass right now. This will triple our investment in two years.”
Slowly, she surfaced. Where was… Oh holy hell, she’d fallen asleep on the couch, apparently some time ago, because Ben was back in his office. With at least Peter and Matt, the two who’d been arguing with him. Was Lucas in here? She froze, wondering if she should just keep her eyes shut and hope they hadn’t noticed her. Yeah, that was likely. From the direction of Peter’s voice, he was in the chair that faced the couch.
She’d fallen asleep like a sleepy, trusting child, her nose nestled in his pillow, arms wrapped around it like she’d wrap them around him, never wanting to let him go. God, she was like a Taylor Swift song, probably not the picture of mature woman at the moment. If they were looking at her, they’d know she was awake, because she was turning the color of a tomato.
The hell with it. She opened her eyes. Peter was actually standing, leaning on the wall behind the chair, all that restless energy too out front to be contained for long in a chair. Though he’d retired from the National Guard to be here for Dana, he still looked like he should be carrying an assault rifle, ready to lead a unit into a firefight. He was built like a muscular tank, and to the delight of every woman who met him, he was the one K&A man who usually wore khakis or dress jeans and form-fitting heavy weight tees that emphasized that physique. Since he oversaw a lot of the plant operations, the casual look was more appropriate for him.
Matt was as intimidating and riveting as ever in his dark suit, polished shoes. He was in what Marcie privately called his raptor pose. Though he appeared relaxed, ankle on the opposite knee, hands loose on the chair arms, there was something about the position of his head, the focus of the dark eyes, that suggested he was about to swoop down five hundred feet and pluck a hapless field mouse out of a dense meadow.
Ben had his chair pushed back with one foot against the edge of the desk. He was tapping a pen against the arm. None of them were looking toward her, but they all realized she was here. They hadn’t woken her. It was as if her being in Ben’s office made her part of his other belongings. She wondered how Lucas would feel about that. Had he already been here? Seen her?
“I have something else to handle now,” Ben said, tilting his head in her direction. “Are we done?”
“Yeah. Hey, don’t forget next Friday’s benefit.” Peter pushed off the wall. “Black tie. Stale finger foods, open checkbook. The girls are really looking forward to it.”
Today was Thursday. Were they anticipating him being gone for the next seven days, such that Peter was mentioning it now? She held her tongue, though cold dread filled her stomach. Had she known him well enough to anticipate his escape out of town?
Then Peter gave him a grin. “It will take you that long to get some unlucky woman to agree to be your date.”
“I’ll ask your wife,” Ben said dryly. “You know she’ll choose me.”
“Yeah. Keep it up, I’ll wrap your oversized appendage around your throat and choke you with it.”
“Don’t you wish yours was long enough to do that?”
“Gentlemen,” Matt warned in a mild voice. She knew he was a stickler about talking crude around women, at least in normal conversation. The others followed the same code, though she’d always noticed Ben strayed outside the lines more than the rest.
Through Cass, she knew he’d lived on the streets as a kid. Maybe that was why he slipped in the manners department more often, though she’d never seen Ben treat the K&A women with anything but the greatest respect. That street experience probably contributed to his versatility as a lawyer, but he’d have made a good investigator as well, because he could easily adopt different personas. He’d delighted her siblings with his command of accents. Cajun, Irish, Midwestern, New England. What she found interesting was how the accents would show up unconsciously when his moods changed, as if the situation called forth that particular personality.
When Matt rose and he and Peter headed toward the door, neither of them looked toward her, even though she pushed up on one elbow. Same situation as at Jon’s. She was Ben’s, a submissive waiting on a Master’s attention, and therefore not to be acknowledged by the other Doms in the room unless it was part of the plan. Given her immediate reaction to that thought, a nap hadn’t helped settle her as much as she expected.
“Remember what we talked about.”
Jon was in the room, standing by the door. He was addressing Ben, holding his gaze. Ben inclined his head, his mouth tight. “I’ll handle it the way I see fit.”
“Just be sure you handle it.”
Okay, she’d never heard Jon with that edge. Ben registered the challenge, eyes turning into shards of glass. “I said I would. Back off.”
Jon nodded, his blue eyes just as cool. Then he turned, pulling the door closed after him.
She wasn’t sure what to say. She was pretty sure that had to do with her, but she didn’t know what corner of the sheet to grasp to straighten it out. Surely Jon wouldn’t have told Ben what they talked about? Yes, of course he would. From her tea-party eavesdropping, she knew it caused Cass, Dana, Savannah and Rachel various levels of frustration. The well-being of their women came first, over and above issues of privacy, and all of the guys were hugely overprotective.
The Knights of the Board Room was what they’d been dubbed by a columnist, years ago, and though the guys would roll their eyes if anyone brought it up, it fit. It was as much about their old-fashioned code of chivalry as it was about their behavior in business and charitable circles.
Ben turned his chair then. She couldn’t read his countenance, but he rose, came to the couch, dropped to his heels next to it. His gaze covered her face, the open neck of the pink blouse, following the lines of her body down to the tailored skirt. As his gaze came back to hers, she was warmer all over, and more flustered.
“I told you not to come here today. Why did you?”
“Because you told me I had twenty strikes coming, and you only gave me eleven. So I still owe you nine.”
His lips tugged, a sexy half-smile, but as he studied her, the smile thinned. “That was what you meant by unfinished work.”
She nodded. “That, and that last document I didn’t complete.”
Ben sighed. He put his hand on her hip, and before she could anticipate him, he’d slid those capable fingers to her right buttock, cupping it firmly. When she flinched, his eyes darkened. “I’m a sadist, Marcie,” he said softly. “But not that kind.” His touch eased and he stroked her curves, giving her body another glance. “You have no idea what you look like, sleeping on my couch, your neckline showing that lace edge of your bra, your killer legs curved up. All this beautiful hair.” His other hand threaded through it, cupping her face. “Come on, get up. I’m taking you out for a beignet.”
“Café du Monde?” Her expression brightened. She loved the view of Jackson Square, the artists, the musicians and impromptu performances.
“Maybe another day. I want a good beignet, one where the dough is still handmade each day, not squirted out of a mass-production tube and served in a corral with a dirty floor and wall-to-wall tourists.”
“Ouch. I love it there.”
“Well, you’re young and stupid.”
“Better than old and grumpy.”
He gave her a pinch that made her yelp. “On your feet and leave your purse. I’m paying.”
She rolled her eyes. “You never let anyone treat you.”
“We split the check all the time. Just not with women.”
“Sexist pig.”
“Oink, oink.”
He took her to Café Beignet, which was a few blocks off Jackson Square, but she had to admit it was more intimate and relaxed, and the beignets melted in the mouth. They enjoyed them first, though he made her order a lunch she was sure she wouldn’t finish. Everyone seemed determined to make her eat.
As she finished off the last of the beignet, she was aware of his silent regard. She was licking the sugar off her fingers, because no one could resist doing that with a good beignet. She wished he’d let her clean his fingers with her mouth. She’d take them in deep, a clear reminder of what he’d let her do for him last night. The hinge of her jaw was sore and all she wanted was to do it for him again.
Reaching across the table, he caught her wrist. Bringing her fingers to his mouth, he sucked the remaining sugar off, sending electricity crackling all the way from her wrist pulse to her toes, awakening every major erogenous center in between.
When he was done, she had that queer little shake happening again. She couldn’t stop it. “Ben…”
“Ssshh.” He reached out, slid his knuckles over her temple. “Easy. Just breathe.”
“I-I don’t know why I k-keep doing that.”
“I do. Last night was your first time, wasn’t it?”
When she would have looked away, his grip tightened. “Marcie, any question I ask, you’ll answer, and you won’t lie to me. Not now, not ever. You understand?”
She managed a nod, though her teeth started to chatter. “Damn it…”
“Focus on me, what I want. Answer.”
“Yes.” She met his eyes, gripped their steadying influence, so her voice could stop quivering as much. “I’ve been to clubs, like I said. I just watched. I did a lot of Internet surfing.” Plus enough fantasizing to launch an adult Disney World.
“Did you go to the clubs alone?”
“I took one of my friends with me the first time. She isn’t into the scene, but I thought she was okay with me being that way, and would go with me to make it safer. She didn’t like how…mesmerized I was by it. It kind of freaked her out. After that, she pulled away from me, and I became more careful about who saw that side of me.”
“You went alone after that?”
“Only a few times. They were safe places, classy clubs. Then when I was in New York, Lucas’ friend, Marcus Stanton, took me fairly often. He went as a chaperone,” she added. “He’s a great Master, but he’s utterly devoted to Thomas. I got to watch them have a session, hand him things. I’m not stupid, Ben.”
His jaw eased a fraction. “No, but you’re reckless as hell.”
“That’s the pot calling the kettle black. What do you call that death trap you drive?”
“A high-performance driving machine, an engineering piece of art.”
“An expensive metal phallus.” She snorted. He was still holding her wrist, playing with her fingers, and it was extremely distracting. She hoped he never stopped. “So are you going to take me to a club?”
“Nag, nag, nag.” He sighed, sat back.
“As my mentor,” she persisted. “You can show me how the deeper stuff works. We’re already…I mean, I could go as your sub-in-training. You could help me.”
Ben regarded her with those sharp green eyes. “Marcie, do you think you can con me?”
“No.”
Just that steady look, an unspoken correction, and butterflies swarmed. “No, sir.”
He inclined his head. “I’m willing to give you a short mentoring period. If you’re using it to get something more from me, you’re setting yourself up for heartbreak. I’ve no intention of taking things beyond that.”
“Why not?” She met that stare dead on now. “Am I not good enough for you?”
“I’m not looking for that. Not with you.”
In her lap, her hands curled into fists. “Ben, do you think you can con me?”
He leaned forward. Something dark moved in his expression, something more than a little bit scary, but there were things that scared her far worse than pissing Ben off.
“Do I have to rip your fucking heart from your chest to prove my point, Marcie? Do I have to break you?”
“You can’t. You won’t. Give it your best shot.” He could probably hear the rabbit thumping of her heart, but she’d have a full-scale cardiac arrest before she’d back down. “It’s all bullshit,” she said quietly. “Everyone’s looking for that. You’d walk through Hell for me, for Cassandra, for every member of your family. But I’m not the one afraid of surrendering myself fully. You are.”
That darkness became something full blown, something ugly, lonely and violent. Then it was gone, the smooth lawyer back in place. It was a startling transformation, one that made her more uncomfortable than she wanted to admit.
He sat back now, picked up his beer. “We’ll see about that,” he said casually. “Because if you want me to mentor you, full surrender is what I’m going to demand. As well as full honesty. How did you know how to do what you did last night? You weren’t new to it.” Something deadly entered his gaze again, only this time it had an erotic edge to it. “Who taught you to take a dick that size down your throat, in your ass?”
Thank God they were in a quiet corner. He’d spoken in a low voice, but some words just had a way of carrying. She kept her gaze fastened on his, sure she’d be mortified into speechlessness if any heads turned.
“There was no who, not exactly. I went to chat rooms, asked questions. Talked to Thomas because…” She stopped. She was pretty forward, but she wasn’t sure she could finish that statement.
“Because when you were in the club you noticed Marcus is pretty good sized.”
“Yes.” She pressed her lips into a line. “I also talked to Dana.”
“Excuse me?”
“Well, Dana…she’s seen you. I mean, not seen you, since she’s blind, but her tactile senses…”
Despite Ben’s black cloud expression, she suddenly had to fight against a laugh, remembering some of Dana’s more colorful descriptions. “Before that, I eavesdropped a lot. All of them—Dana, Rachel, Cass and Savannah—have been meeting for third Sunday tea at Cassandra’s house since they came into your lives.”
Her cheeks colored. “So I practiced. Mostly on inanimate objects.”
Maybe it was best if he didn’t ask further questions. If CSI had seen the back of her dorm closet they would have profiled her as a full-blown stalker. That was where she hid all her notes, pictures, articles and other data on him—particularly those letters. She’d run copies of them so she could make notes, underline certain parts. Yeah, that would seem a little stalker-crazy.
Except she knew her prey. If she wanted him, she had to come prepared. He was the first investigation she’d ever undertaken, and the longest she’d pursued. She knew how wrong it was, a submissive stalking a Master, but she hadn’t known how else to go about it.
If she could crack Ben O’Callahan, get him to claim her for his own, everything else would be a cinch. She could uncover secrets that would bring down governments. Or build new ones.
He could look at her like she was a stalker—which was sort of what he was doing now—but she knew she wasn’t. The letters gave her confidence, the full picture. At a key point, she’d known she had his heart, no matter that he was trying to convince her that its weight in her hands was an illusion.
“You’ll stay at my Garden District place tonight,” he said, startling her. “I’m taking the day off tomorrow. We’ll spend the day preparing you, then we’ll go to Progeny in the evening. And that’s it.”
Her mind raced over the possibilities. She couldn’t believe he’d agreed to the club, let alone an overnight at his house. “You want me to stay with you?”
“Don’t read too much into it,” he said bluntly. “I’ve decided you can’t be trusted on your own until this is resolved.”
That pricked her ire a little, but she pushed it down. “I think I can probably handle one night at your place,” she said lightly.
In point of fact, she could cartwheel from Royal Street all the way to his house. Or, more appropriately, walk on her knees…if he required that.
* * * * *
They returned to work and finished out the day, though Ben made her use that pillow while she completed the paperwork for him. While she was on her best behavior, infallibly professional, her blood was simmering below the surface every time she stole a look at him. Working at his desk, moving around the office talking on his hands-free, interacting with the others as they came in and out for different things. She would be spending the night at Ben’s. The idea of it, of what might happen, made her flushed and high strung, though she did her best to cover it.
When the day was over, instead of taking his car, they took the trolley. Marcie had never appreciated how narrow the wooden two-seat bench was. Ben necessarily stretched a long arm across the back, pressing her against his side, his thigh against her leg as they clattered along the track from downtown. Though she’d grown up in Baton Rouge, she was well acquainted with New Orleans. Still, it had been awhile since she was here.
She enjoyed recalling the landmarks as they went along, the crush of people wandering Canal Street, that view streamlining into St. Charles’ never-ending offering of restaurants. Each had a unique flair, like bohemian middle-aged women, old enough to be comfortable and confident in their skin, yet young enough to exude color and style. As they passed through the religious school district, she saw a few students still on the grounds in their uniforms of crisp white shirts and navy pants or skirts.
Ben had them get off at Audubon Park to join the joggers and cyclists along the walkways there. In the quiet nooks where statues and gazebos sat by the water, they occasionally glimpsed homeless people camped, absorbing the tranquility the way they were. Ben guided her hand into the crook of his elbow, and they strolled that way. She imagined them doing it a hundred years ago, her in petticoats and a stylish hat, him in a suit that wouldn’t differ too much from what he wore now, at least in cut and style. The man did know how to dress.
“Your work today impressed me,” Ben said. “The Kelly-Bergerson brief was pretty much perfect. I’ve had rookie lawyers serving under me who don’t have your command of the terminology.”
She warmed to the praise. “I’m good at business languages. My roommate at college was pre-med. To help her memorize, I’d string together her medical terms in a dirty way. Want to hear?”
Ben quirked a brow at her. “Is your mind always in the gutter?”
“No more than yours. Besides, it was for a good cause, to help her become a better doctor.” Marcie nodded to a shirtless jogger who passed them. “His rectus abdominis is well defined, but his external obliques still need work. Though his rectus femoris just invites the tongue.”
His gaze glinted. “Careful, there.”
Marcie freed her hands to clasp them together, sighing with dramatic effect. “His phalanges gripped her pes anserinus to pry them apart. Pushing his rectus femoris into her gluetus maximus, her pubic symphysis was pinned against the bed. He forced his pollicis into her suboccipitals, pressing her frontal bone into the mattress.”
“I don’t think romance fiction has anything to worry about from you.”
She sniffed. “I might open up a whole new field. Doctors reading romance.”
“I think they’d prefer the layman terms. Otherwise, it would be a busman’s holiday.”
When they left the park, they strolled along the broken sidewalks that led them into the residential areas. Tilting her head back, she studied the thick waterfall of colorful beads hanging from the oaks, competing with the Spanish moss. “I love that they let these stay in the trees.” Reaching up, she tried to snag a pretty silver strand, but she was too short. She gave a valiant hop, putting all her effort into it, and her fingertips brushed it. “Shoot.”
“Here, brat. Little tease.” He bent, wrapped his arms beneath her buttocks and boosted her up his body to give her the extra head of height she needed. Marcie caught the beads, untangled them and drew down two, a silver and a shiny green. She was hyper-conscious of his arms around her, the way her mound pressed into his abdomen. When she looked down, bracing her hands on his shoulders, she could tell he wasn’t unaffected either. He let her slide down his body but kept her close until she rested between his feet. His hands adjusted downward, way low on her waist, curling over the tops of her buttocks, pinching the folds of her skirt between his fingertips.
“I could have done it with a few more jumps,” she defended herself. “It’s just about building momentum. But your help was appreciated.”
“Hmm.” He stared down at her, and the unfathomable look quieted her. Dropping the silver strand over her head, she put the green on him. Her fingers slipped over his hair, touched his neck and ears, rested on his shoulders when she was done, her thumbs touching his throat because he’d loosened his tie, unbuttoned the collar. Because he didn’t say not to do it, she stroked that small expanse of skin, scratched it with her nail.
His gaze heated, his hands dropping to take a firm hold of her ass, kneading, no matter the passing cars or sidewalk pedestrians. There weren’t so many of those here, but the occasional matronly dog walker could make her more self-conscious than the anonymity and colorful nature of a big Canal Street crowd.
It was exactly why he did it. She knew it was a test. So she didn’t look around, didn’t squirm away. Fortunately, the passing hours and his and Rachel’s combined tending had made her buttocks far less sore. “I’m going to do something now,” he said. “As I’m doing it, you tell me what goes through that imaginative brain of yours.”
Lowering his head, he nudged hers to the side with the touch of his mouth on her temple. Turning her face toward his broad shoulder, pressing her nose into the smooth line of his dress shirt over his pectoral, she shuddered as his mouth landed on the juncture of her throat and shoulder. He bit her there, a controlled motion, teeth slowly depressing as his tongue stroked her. Her breath shortened, and she almost forgot to do what he’d told her to do.
“You’re winding a rope wrap from below my knees to my ankles.” Her trembling increased as the pressure did, the clamp of the bite. “You do the same to my arms, from wrists to elbows, behind my back. My breasts…they’re thrust way out because of that. So you do a binding there as well, one rope above, one below, a crossed knot in the middle, and then you attach that to the arm wrap. You put me over your shoulder, completely helpless. You take me to a sofa, bend me over the arm and…”
He relaxed his jaw, then started that depression again, interfering with her ability to think. His fingers were kneading her ass in rhythmic squeezes, and she was leaned into him, pressing her mound harder against him, sensation clenching in her pussy.
“Say it, Marcie. Say it the way you know I want to hear it.”
“You’d fuck me in the ass until I was screaming to come, biting the cushions.”
“Do I let you, or make you suffer? Make you beg?”
She smiled, though her fingers were digging into his biceps, holding on. God, how did he do this so well? “I’d come at your command, right now,” she whispered.
“It takes awhile for a sub to learn how to do that. Come at her Master’s command.”
“Not if she’s been practicing for seven years.”
He stilled. She cursed herself for reminding him of that time when she was too young for him, since it underlined his belief that she was still too young for him. But it was true. In her fantasies, she’d work herself up with fingers or vibrator, but she wouldn’t come, not until he was standing in her mind, real and strong and tall, commanding her to do so.
“I think we’ll test that.” He lifted his head then, brushing the abused area with his mouth before he adjusted her blouse back over it. He tweaked the green beads on his neck. “Why green?”
“They match your eyes. Sort of. They’re sparkly and your eyes have fire, especially right now.” She looked up into his face, her own flushed, and her eyes pretty much on fire as well, she was sure. “I want to do that for you. I want to come for you.”
“You can tell me what you want, Marcie, but I run things, not you. You understand?”
“Yes, Ma—sir.” She wouldn’t mess it up, would play the game the way he wanted to play it, even if that made her dishonest.
His eyes narrowed, but he slid an arm around her, resuming their walk.
“So you’ve become a homeowner since I’ve been gone,” she teased him. “An apartment in the Warehouse District and a house in the Garden District. When I was in high school, you were living in hotels.”
He shrugged. “A hotel has concierge and maid service, dry cleaning. Choose one within walking distance to a good breakfast and dinner place, and you’re all set. But property is a good investment.”
“So why not rent them out and keep living in the hotels?”
“There are times I have the desire for privacy.” He gave her an appraising look that sent heat washing over her.
“I figured you bought them so you could have a fully stocked kitchen.”
He shrugged. “Not as important as it used to be.”
He’d said he still brought a dish to the monthly dinners with the whole K&A family. But when she was in high school, he’d made her family meals all the time, taught any of the kids to cook who wanted to learn. Since Marcie had a driver’s license, she was in charge of grocery shopping after school. He’d text her cell, instructing her on what he needed and expecting her to have it waiting for him at the house when he arrived after work.
Watching him cook was like everything else about him. A visual feast. He’d go through the groceries she bought, examine all of them carefully. He’d taught her how to pick out something at the right freshness, the brands that were better quality than others. He teased her, giving her a hard time if she brought him the wrong stuff. He’d affect a French accent, throwing up his hands and exclaiming, “I cannot work in theez coundiseeons…” In truth, the man could make an awesome meal out of a bag of flour and a tin can of sardines.
He’d taught her to cook the basics, but she’d been hopeless when it came to anything more complex. A truly great cook had an intimate relationship with the ingredients, understanding flavors and textures in a wandering, intuitive way she was far too literal and goal-oriented to ever comprehend. She preferred to provide the artist the supplies, watch him work and enjoy the fruits of his labor.
Now he said a kitchen “wasn’t as important as it used to be”. From that tightening around his mouth, she could tell they were getting into a tricky area. Not wanting to lose ground, she changed direction. “It’s expensive, eating out all the time. Until Lucas married Cass, we only did it on really special occasions.”
“Well, taking all of you out for a meal was like taking out an army of meerkats. You can hardly blame her.”
“We were very good,” she protested. “You were the one asked to leave the McDonald’s play area for getting too aggressive.”
“Not my fault those five-year-olds couldn’t handle a little competition. That’s what’s wrong with America these days. Raising a bunch of pansies who don’t want to win.”
She pinched his side, but was gratified when he brought her closer. She threaded her arm around his waist, under his jacket, and he didn’t discourage her. It was easier to walk that way, after all. His body was a sinuous ripple of motion under the shirt as he walked. She curled her fingers over his belt, held on.
“Speaking of dinner, let’s get some before we head for the house.” He gestured to a restaurant across the street. “Come on.”
He kept pressure on her waist, holding her still until he was okay with their clearance, then they crossed the street. She’d known how to cross the street on her own for some time, of course, but it didn’t offend her. In truth, such gestures could be devastating to a woman’s senses. All the more because Ben was oblivious to their potency. From watching Cass and the others, she’d learned it wasn’t about denigrating a woman’s independence. It had nothing to do with the men’s opinion of female capability, but everything to do with their absolute conviction that a man’s role was to protect and cherish.
The restaurant was one she hadn’t tried before, an elegant place with full-length white table cloths, candlelight. The walls were pre-twentieth-century brick covered with artwork by local talent, and the place had the smell that the old, historic buildings did. A jazz band was jamming in the corner, filling the place with music. Ben had the maître d’ show them to the upstairs level and a corner table on the balcony, though the round table could seat six. They could hear the music vibrating through their feet and drifting up the wide staircase, without their conversation being overpowered by it.
“If Noah’s working tonight, I want him as our server,” Ben told the maître d’.
“Of course, Mr. O’Callahan.”
Ben held out the chair that was tucked in the corner, touching her shoulders briefly before he took his own seat next to her. “Any allergies?” he asked as the man disappeared down the stairs.
She shook her head. When she would have opened her menu, Ben took it away, sliding it under his own. “Take off your panties,” he said.
Just like that, he took the reins, told her they were now Master and slave. Or Mentor and sub-in-training—to him. Either way, her body responded accordingly, with aching need and anxiety fluttering in her belly. Though it was difficult to do without rising, she worked the panties off under the snug skirt.
“Hand them to me. No balling them up.”
No one was up here, but he’d anticipated her self-consciousness. There were people wandering the street below the balcony, looking up to study the diners. As attractive as Ben was, he’d probably get his share of looks. He wanted to see if she’d quake. Instead, steeling herself to be whatever he required, she hung them on one finger, let them dangle provocatively and extended them to him. His lips twisted, and he took them from her. Her face colored as he raised them to his lips, his nostrils flaring, taking in her heated scent. “These are wet. Who’s been making you wet?”
“You. Only you.”
“You sure that jogger’s femoris didn’t do it for you?” His tone was serious, despite the flash of humor. But either way, she’d give him no less than honesty. Not when he was completely in command like this.
“Yes sir. You made me wet.”
“Hmm. I want your skirt up around your waist, your bare ass on the chair. Spread your knees out and hook your ankles around the chair legs to keep them that way. Tell me if the position becomes physically uncomfortable.”
The reason he’d put her in the corner seat became obvious, since he was flanking her on one side, and the balcony rail and a profusion of potted plants were on the other. The table cloth was floor length, so it was pooled over her lap. But if the waiter moved around the table to grate pepper over her salad or refill her drink, he might see her skirt up, bare ass pressed to the chair’s wooden surface.
Ben watched her follow his direction. “Might teach you to wear a looser skirt to work next time.”
“Then whose ass would you stare at? Janet’s? Even you’re not that brave.” She scraped the chair legs across the metal floor as she wiggled and managed it. The wooden seat reminded her of last night’s punishment but, thanks to Rachel’s balm, she could make full contact with it.
“Center yourself between two of the chair slats. I want your cunt right over an opening so you can feel the air flow.” It was impossible to discern what he was thinking, his face impassive, voice even. Whereas she was getting more flustered with every word he spoke.
When she was in the proscribed position, her legs were spread, ankles hooked on the chair legs as he required, pussy exposed to the cool night air. Reaching out, he slipped the next button of her blouse so he had a better view of her breasts, cradled in lace. He stroked a finger over the top of the right one. Oh God. She had a feeling those two words were going to go through her mind quite a bit tonight, no matter how much trouble it gave her with the Higher Power. Hopefully, He understood. He’d made Ben, after all.
“Hold the chair sides by your thighs unless I tell you otherwise.” He tucked the panties into his pocket, unhurried, even as their waiter topped the stairs. Another second and he would have seen what Ben held.
Noah was a Goth, complete with eyeliner and tongue stud. He wore the white shirt and slacks the restaurant required, but the tie was a pencil-thin black silk, the tack a tiny skull and crossbones. His hair was long and smooth, tied back from a slim, well-sculpted face. With all that and his thin, sensual lips, he made her think of a young vampire.
When he saw Ben, he smiled with genuine pleasure. “It’s great to see you, Mr. O’Callahan.” He gave Marcie a courteous nod, a quick appraisal that was flattering but not insulting, then cocked a brow at Ben. “You’re not classy enough for this one. Is she slumming tonight?”
“There goes your tip,” Ben said dryly. “I’ll take the grilled porterhouse. She’ll have the seared shrimp, and start us off with the goat-cheese salads.” He added a few more instructions related to the cooking of the meat and the spices that would be used. He didn’t ask Marcie her preferences, and of course she wasn’t sure she could have made an intelligent response, regardless.
Her exposed sex was being teased by a rippling breeze moving over the balcony and coming up from the first level, filtering through the slim seams of the metal flooring, which allowed rainwater to flow out. Her breasts weren’t graphically exposed, but as he bent to retrieve the menus, Noah’s gaze slid briefly over the curves.
“We’ll have those drinks and salads brought right back up, Mr. O’Callahan.”
Ben nodded. As the waiter headed back down the stairs, he stretched his arm over the back of her chair, touched her nape. “Keep your back straight, Marcie.”
She hadn’t realized she’d hunched a little under Noah’s perusal. She sent herself a mental slap for that one, tossing her hair back and giving Ben a smile as she made sure those breasts stood out high and proud for her Master. Then she almost swallowed her tongue as he put his other elbow on the table and traced a finger along the bra edge again, only this time he dipped into the cup, rubbed over her nipple. It was already puckered and eager. She pushed her ass harder into the chair, against the dull cut of those slats. It wanted to rise up, to communicate the throbbing desire from her pussy with a shameless undulation.
“Stay still. I expect you to behave, act like a good girl, even if you are a brazen slut.”
“You make me into one.” She locked everything down, trying to obey. “Like Lucas said, you’re a corrupting influence.”
His heavy-lidded green eyes were close, his firm mouth. “Bullshit. That pussy of yours is greedy for cock.”
Your cock. But she didn’t say it, knowing not to spar with him in this realm. When his hand dropped beneath the table’s edge, she almost came off the chair as he calmly fingered her clit, slipping down to stroke the wetness of the labia. “Tilt your hips so I can reach your cunt.”
She did, clenching the sides of the chair as he slid a finger in her, then two, then—holy God—three.
“So fucking wet,” he rumbled in her ear, brushing his mouth beneath it, against her pounding pulse. “Tonight I’m going to put you on your knees. You’re going to suck me off, and when I’m about to come, you’re going to turn around, put your forehead to the floor, and I’ll fuck your ass. I may not ever let you come. Keep you this fucking desperate to please me.”
“Yes sir.” She whispered it, closing her eyes as he withdrew his touch, then pushed in again, emulating what his cock could do there. Because she was tight and it was a narrow angle, it made it all the more excruciating.
Sliding his fingers free, he brought them to her mouth. She licked herself off them. Without prompting, she picked up her napkin, finished wiping them off using some of the water from her water glass. It wouldn’t do for her Master to have sticky fingers while he tried to eat.
“An anticipatory sub. Sometimes that can get you into trouble.”
She paused, remembering her thoughts about that last night. Her fingers lay on his. “Does taking care of you when you need it get me in trouble?”
“No. Not right now.” As his eyes flickered with some unfathomable emotion, she returned her hands to the sides of her chair. Noah came back with their goat-cheese salads, arranged on attractive teal-blue square plates. When he poured their wine, she noted Ben stopped him when her glass was no more than a third full. She didn’t hold alcohol well, was pretty much loose as a sun-warmed snake after two glasses. Given the night that was ahead of her, that might not be a bad idea, but with Ben and their battle of wills, she needed all her wits around her. And it was obvious Ben intended her to feel the full edge of anything he did to her.
“Thank you, Noah.” Ben nodded. “I’d like an extra service, please.”
“Anything, Mr. O’Callahan.”
Ben turned his attention to Marcie. Instinct had her lowering her gaze instead of locking with his. When his next words came, she was glad for it.
“I want you to go down on my companion here, under the tablecloth. If she comes within three minutes, there’s a hundred-dollar tip in it for you.”
She was pretty certain she paled and flushed at once, a medical impossibility, but Ben leaned in, his hand sliding under her hair to tighten on her neck. “We’ll see if you come on a Master’s command, or if you’re a mindless slut, just as I suspect. And when you come,” he drew closer, his breath teasing her lips, her cheek, “I expect you to scream. Hold nothing back. The fact we’re in public doesn’t matter. Only what I desire does.”
Okay, she’d never done anything like this. Sure, she’d fantasized about exhibitionism, but the reality was way different. As it moved into evening, the people on the sidewalks below were turning into larger groups. More patrons would eventually be brought out onto the balcony, given that it was a really nice night. If she wanted to stop, if it was too much, she was pretty sure Ben would stop, but that would mean she’d backed down. His usual subs would do a strip tease in the middle of Jackson Square if he commanded it.
Her throat was dry, so it came out as a whisper. “Yes sir.”
When Ben gave him a nod, Noah put the tray on the adjacent table. With a graceful movement of lean male strength, he squatted and disappeared fully beneath their round table. When his hands touched her spread knees, Marcie tensed, she couldn’t help it. She heard a muttered, reverent, “Jesus, she’s got a gorgeous pussy,” and clutched the chair, a tiny sound of protest coming from her throat.
“Ben…”
“Hold on, Noah.” Ben was studying her face. His fingers on her nape were stroking. “Give her a moment.”
“Not a problem.” Noah’s voice was muffled as his mouth brushed her inner thigh, a gentle reassurance. His fingers slid down her calf, more calming caresses.
Unless this was a hard limit for her, it was obvious Ben was going to proceed with it, but he was giving her time. Plus an unexpected reassurance. “I wouldn’t allow anyone to touch you whom I didn’t trust,” he said, his fingers tightening on the back of her neck.
“I know.” It was just so much, so fast. But she could handle it. She leaned her face into his hand, wished he would keep touching her. But Ben was a ruthless Master, she knew that. As soon as he could tell she was ready, he settled back in his chair, picking up his wine. Ready for the show he’d orchestrated.
“Proceed, Noah. Three minutes.”
It took everything she had not to whip her legs out from behind the chair legs and close them, but Noah helped. He settled his grip on her quivering thighs, steadying and holding them open at once, and then he went right to the heart of the matter. She sucked in a breath, biting down on her lip. Holy God…the tongue stud vibrated. He played over her pussy lips with it, letting her get used to the feel of it, tickling her a little so she had to work hard not to squirm, and then he brought it right to her clit.
She sucked in a breath. He knew his business, working it against her in tiny movements that had her already aroused body rocketing up a ramp, set to take off and explode. She saw Ben’s attention on her exposed breasts, the way they were vibrating with that compressed movement. She couldn’t move, couldn’t move, but oh God, she wanted to rise up, grind her pussy in Noah’s face, throw her head back against the chair. But her Master didn’t tell her she could come. Three minutes, three minutes.
Three minutes was an eternity when she couldn’t count the seconds. Ben had a watch but it was under the cuff of his sleeve. She had no doubt he was counting it down in his head like a freaking NASA computer.
I serve my Master, I serve him, I serve you…
She didn’t realize she was whispering it until she saw Ben’s eyes darken, his mouth tighten. She was fighting with all she had against the orgasm. Noah was incredibly insistent. It was a battle of mind over matter. She imagined her clit encased in stone, all those sensations ricocheting against the inside, unable to be released, so she was imprisoned in this frenzy of need. Her fingernails cut into the chair, her thighs shaking under Noah’s hands so that the chair made staccato noises on the metal balcony floor.
“I serve you…please, Master…let me come for you…”
Ben set down his wine, picked up his fork, took a bite of the salad, chewed. He necessarily took his eyes from her for the moment he had to do that, but then he studied her with a detachment that was anything but. His whole focus was on her, a heated intensity coming from him that vibrated against her body like that tongue stud. He continued to eat the salad, obviously considering the taste and texture as he monitored her reactions. The Knights were the only men in the world she knew who could multi-task, and they did it as if Lucifer himself had given them the ability.
She was whimpering, her whole body making tiny little jerks. Her nipples were so hard she could feel the way they stabbed the inside of her bra, constricting the barbell piercings so they added to the sensation.
Noah got creative, doing swirls and flicks, kneading the inside of her thighs, his thumbs tracing the crease of her buttocks beneath her pussy. It was too much…she couldn’t hold on, yes she could. She would. She fiercely concentrated on all those masturbating fantasies, where she’d made herself wait longer and longer, until Ben’s imagined command to release.
Ben slid the fork from his lips. His mouth was glistening from the oil of the salad, and she wanted to suck on that. Instead, he shifted forward. Plucking the blouse away from her body, he eased the fork into the bra cup, brought it over the nipple and pressed down, caging it behind those tines. She couldn’t hold on any more. Fuck…
“Come for me, Marcie. Come now.”
She would have screamed to raise the dead throughout New Orleans, she trusted him that much, wanted to surrender to him that much, but as she opened her mouth to do so, Ben covered it with his. He dropped the fork, cupped her head in one hand, his tight hold making her keep her position, bound by his will. She screamed into his mouth, shuddering, convulsing as Noah kept working her, holding her open with those surprisingly strong hands. Involuntary reaction took over and she struggled against their combined hold like a wild animal.
She came down in fits and starts, pleading nonsense in Ben’s mouth, which he answered with unintelligible rumbles of response. Noah cleaned her up with strong licks of his now non-vibrating tongue, and then she felt the gentle pat of the wine towel he’d had. When he came back up, as graceful as he’d gone down, his hair was a tad rumpled and his face was flushed. He was also sporting a nice erection behind his slacks that didn’t seem to discomfit him in the slightest. He nodded to her, turned his attention to Ben. “I failed, sir. My apologies.”
Ben palmed some money from his coat, handed it over. “I wouldn’t call it a failure. My compliments on your perseverance. Tell the maître d’ others can be seated up here now.”
Marcie was too dazed to do more than watch Noah go, but when she looked toward Ben, she somehow found her voice. “How…did I do?”
“Six minutes, twelve seconds. You’re still a slut.”
“But I proved I’m your slut, didn’t I?” Her voice had a rasp from the strain to her vocal cords.
“Time to eat your salad,” he said in quiet reproof, but he didn’t deny it. Picking up his fork, he fed her. She needed that, because she was sure she wasn’t steady enough to coordinate eating utensils. Her swollen folds were pressed against the wood, sending aftershocks rippling through her.
She wished she could stay mindless. As rationality returned, she was thinking of the seamless choreography of that scene. He’d done this before. Brought another woman here, maybe had her perform the same way for him.
She stopped chewing, pulled her face away, ostensibly to get a drink of wine. He reached to steady the glass for her, but she shook her head. “I can do it.” She took it in about three swallows, but when she reached for the bottle to refill it, he moved it away.
“Enough,” he said. “You’ll make yourself sick.”
“How did I do against the others?”
Why did she say that aloud? She couldn’t be petulant and jealous. He wasn’t a monk. For heaven’s sake, she’d seen him fuck three women less than two weeks ago. It wasn’t that. It was that he’d done to her something he’d done before, like she was some kind of mimeograph.
“Never mind. Sorry. Mentor-sub thing, no commitment. Forgot.” She tried to keep the acid out of her tone, but of course she was unsuccessful. She was going to screw this up so badly if she couldn’t sit on her mouth. Hell, she’d held out six minutes against Noah’s tongue. It shouldn’t be harder to sit on her emotional reactions than her physical ones, right?
“Noah is a regular at Progeny. He has a couple Mistresses who favor him, but he doesn’t belong exclusively to any of them yet. Occasionally he’s assisted me with a session there. This is the first time I’ve asked him to help me outside those walls, in this particular way, though I have come here for dinner before.”
“Oh.” She nodded. Picking up the napkin, she tried a quick dab at her eyes, to take care of the stress tears from the climax. She probably looked a sight.
“Marcie, did I tell you that you could remove your hands from the chair?”
Fuck, he hadn’t. She’d been so dazed by the past few minutes, she’d just blanked on it. Setting aside the napkin, she returned her hands to the chair. “I’m sorry, sir.”
“I’ll let it pass, but only because you’re still disoriented. I like it. Flushed and dazed, nipples still hard, and I can smell your cunt. Just the way I want you.” He took his own napkin, dipped it in water as she’d done for his fingers. While she trembled from an entirely different reaction this time, he dabbed at her mascara. He stroked the cloth over her cheeks, the corners of her mouth. Even swiped at her nose, teasing her as she started to giggle and tried to squirm away from him. Then he lifted one of her hands from the chair, tucked the napkin into it so she could do that part for herself.
“Now that we’ve handled the appetizer course,” he said, “eat the rest of your salad. You can lift both hands.”
She had to get back on her game, but she remained unsettled, hyperaware that she was still exposed, open to him as he desired. In fact, as he was eating his salad, he settled his other hand on her thigh, stroking it up high. Her pussy was as attentive to him as if she hadn’t just come. He was going to have her ready again in no time.
“Why anal sex?” she asked, just as the maître d’ topped the stairs with another couple. Marcie bit her lip, but fortunately, it didn’t seem they’d been paying attention. So she decided not to be deterred, particularly when the maître d’ seated them at the other end of the balcony. “I’ve always wanted to ask. Will you tell me?”
Finishing his salad, Ben leaned back, picked up his wine. She continued to eat, giving him time, but his silence was encouraging. Usually he said no right off if he had no intention of answering a question.
“Most women have had sex by the time they reach legal age,” he said at last, “at least in the usual ways. A lot still haven’t had anal sex. Or, if they have, the guy had no clue what he was doing, so it left the woman feeling pretty neutral or, worse, it hurt like hell. She’s nervous about that region for that or a variety of other reasons, unaware of what a pleasure zone it can be.”
“There’s also a lot of emotional reaction trapped in that area,” Marcie observed. When Ben gave her a look, she shrugged. “Penetration would unlock it. I’m guessing that’s a big draw for you.”
“Really? How so?”
She ignored the trace of sarcasm as he invited her to tell her about himself. Wiping her lips delicately, she raised her gaze to his. “Getting a submissive to trust you, make herself vulnerable that way, challenges your ability as a Dom, and you like a challenge.”
He flashed her that feral smile, a baring of teeth. “Actually, the main perk is not giving her a chance to claim I knocked her up.”
“Yes. Having a little Ben running around is a scary thought.” She considered him. “You want her to trust you, but you don’t trust her. Doing it face-to-face makes it more emotionally naked for both participants. With the anal, you’re stripping her down, taking her to a more vulnerable place, but you’re staying removed. Untouched.”
His expression flickered. “A fair point. But it’s a conscious decision. I’m not looking to be touched.”
She knew it was an attempt to tease, but the edge to his voice made his play on words a mockery, a warning to back off. She should leave it there, but she wasn’t one of his club subs, or some trainee groupie so overwhelmed by him she’d be driven away by that formidable exterior. Be who you are. Jon’s voice was in her ears, giving her enough courage to really fuck this up.
“When my brothers and sisters were little, you acted like a clown with them, wrestling, playing games. Matt and all of you took us to carnivals, ren faires, things like that. They loved it. But in your own life, you don’t really go for relaxed fun, do you? I mean, you go out with the K&A guys, drink, do the male-bonding thing, but have you ever gone to a carnival and held your girlfriend’s hand? You seem really focused on your career, the next goal, the next project. You play hard, but you don’t play fun.”
He raised a brow. “Is this based on your burgeoning career as my stalker?”
“You’re not denying it.”
“I’ve never had a girlfriend, Marcie.”
Noah returned then to top off their wine, give them the status on their dinners. His hair was smoothed once again, his lips no longer glistening with her juices, but it was impossible not to remember what he’d been doing to her during the appetizer course. He gave her a slow smile when their eyes met, but he deferred to Ben on whether they required anything else at the moment, not asking her preferences. He knew how this game was played as well, and it was as distracting as all the rest of it.
But she wouldn’t be distracted from this. No girlfriend. Thirty-two and he’d never sought a long-term relationship with anyone but the men with whom he worked. Even the women with whom the society column paired him for short durations were superficial, brief hook-ups with physical benefits for them both.
His mother had abandoned him in an alley outside a church when he was three, old enough to remember her. After that, he’d been in and out of foster-care situations, most of them bad, as if he’d been born with an unlucky star over his head. Before he hit puberty, he was on the street. It was then that star finally changed. He’d picked Jonas Kensington’s pocket and gotten caught in the act by Matt’s savvy father.
Even though things got better for him after that, his childhood hadn’t been the kind where he kissed the pretty girl in his third grade class by the monkey bars, or hoped someone would ask him to the Sadie Hawkins dance in middle school.
She cocked her head, making sure her face didn’t reflect the compassion she felt toward that boy. The man before her didn’t need pity, not like that. He’d overcome, made something of himself, yet it had come at a cost. The cost was the wall she kept hitting, she knew that. She didn’t have a psychology degree, only her intuition and her determination that she could love him like no one else—if he would just let her.
“I’ll be your girlfriend then,” she said lightly. “You can take me to a carnival. We can share a broken coin necklace, pass notes during work. I’ll even take you to prom. If you promise to put out. Won’t be worth my time otherwise.”
Crossing his arms to lean on the table, he considered her at an intimate distance. The curve of those lips, the warmth that entered his gaze, eased some of her trepidation that she was treading dangerous waters. “What kind of notes would you pass me at work? Ones with Xs and Os, a lipstick mark pressed to the paper?”
She gave him an arch look. He hadn’t let her bring her wallet, but she’d balked at not bringing some toiletries. Fishing her lipstick out of her small bag, she freshened her lips, cognizant of the way he watched the soft give of her mouth against the color. Then she pressed it to one of the extra napkins Noah had left by the bread basket. Pulling out a pen, she put a couple Xs and Os around it with a flourish and pushed it over to him. “There. We’ll have to do the coin thing another time.” She paused. “Do you still have the collar you took off me?”
“Do you want it back?”
“Yes, but only if you’re putting it on me.” She raised her chin.
“Not our agreement.” His impassive expression returned and he sat back to sip his wine once more.
She pressed her moist lips together. She couldn’t make this dinner about that. So she looked over the potted plants to gaze at the mural painted on the building across the street. It was of a trio of black musicians, blue and white dogs dancing around them. As whimsical as it was, her eye was caught by something much closer, on the rail, screened by the fern. “Ben, look.”
He leaned forward. She started to rise to shift out of his view, but his firm touch on her elbow kept her sitting, reminding her of her exposed state from the waist down. Instead, he stood to look over her shoulder as she twisted around for a better view.
It was a pair of bright green salamanders. They’d been mating, or perhaps still were, because their lower bodies were connected. The much larger male was curled around the female in a tranquil, resting state, limbs and tails twined. Their tiny pulses rose and fell in their throats, and they seemed somnolent, relaxed.
“It’s like they’re spooning,” Marcie said, keeping her tone quiet, not wanting to startle them. “Aren’t they lovely?”
“Only you would notice that.”
“No. You would have too. I was just blocking your view of them.” She was aware of his chest pressed against her shoulder blade, his lips close to her ear. When she turned her head, they were close to her own mouth. She glanced up. “Kiss me, Ben. Please?”
Curling her hair around her ear, he studied her face. Then he bent, teasing her mouth with his own. When she sighed into his mouth, he turned it into a warm, lazy kiss that made everything settle, his tongue briefly caressing hers. When he sat back, though, she saw his face had that closed look once more.
“Adjust your skirt,” he said. “We’ll eat our dinner, then head for the house.”