"What’s the matter?" he asked, picking up on her mood. "Is it something you don’t care to remember?"
"It’s not that."
"No? What then?"
She considered telling him about Derek. What he’d done to her. How it had changed her. How it had destroyed her faith, for a while at least, in the entire male sex. How it had made her doubt her own ability to read and judge other people’s characters. How it had taken her laughter from her, and left her numb.
But, no. She wasn’t ready to share any of that with him. It was too soon. They had just come together again after nine years apart. This time she couldn’t be so quick to trust. How did she know he wasn’t going to vanish just as utterly from her life this time has he had a decade ago?
If this thing with Stephen turned into a real relationship, she would tell him. But not yet.
So instead, she said, "I was hurt when you disappeared. That’s the part I hate to remember."
He was silent for several long moments. At last, he said, "I wish I had a better excuse for the way I acted. But I thought I was doing the decent thing. Not only had I sexually abused a minor—which was how your father characterized it—but I’d even tied you up and spanked you. I felt as if I’d forced you to do something against your will."
"You didn’t force me," she said fiercely. "I wanted everything that happened that day. As for the tying up, I thought you were super bohemian and cool."
"It figures," he said, grinning. He kissed the tip of her nose. "I hope you know that what we had was pretty awesome."
"It was," she agreed. She gave him a severe look. "Too bad you fucked it up."
"Yeah, no kidding. I never forgot you, though. Well, except for the not remembering your face when I met you again thing," he added with a chuckle.
"You are still so in trouble for that." She slapped him playfully on the butt, which she had been caressing while they spoke. "Jerk."
They kissed and cuddled for a while again. Then she asked, "When you do this kinky stuff, what do you do?"
"That depends. How much do you know about BDSM?"
"Only what I’ve read on the internet. It seems to be fashionable these days."
"Have you ever fantasized about it?"
"Well, yes. Sure."
"Do you want to tell me one your fantasies?"
A few things flashed in her mind, but she wasn’t sure she was ready to lay them all out for him yet. No one had ever asked this of her. So she hedged: "Do you mind if we get to know each other a little better first?"
"Not at all." He shifted so they were snuggling side by side. "We don’t need to do anything to heat up our lovemaking—we’re already blazing."
He stroked her hair and she stroked his chest, marveling at how good it felt to slide her fingers over his firm flesh. She thought about the way he had ordered her to grip the headboard while he’d explored her naked body. That had been incredible. She wouldn’t mind doing that again. "What are your fantasies?"
He chuckled. "You name it, I've probably had it. My head is full of dramatic scenarios. I guess that’s what you get for hooking up with a professional storyteller."
Although he spoke lightly, his words conjured a shadow. He was a professional storyteller whose hero was a sadist and a torturer. She hoped whatever scenarios he had in mind for sex play didn’t resemble the dungeon scenes in his novels. Should she ask? From what she’d heard, the word "kinky" could cover a lot of ground.
Would he want to spank her? He'd done that nine years ago, so, yeah. Whip her? Did his sex toys include floggers and paddles?
Those possibilities didn’t particularly freak her out. On the other hand, if he was one of those dominant master types who expected her to kneel and cast her eyes down and call him "Sir" or "Master" all the time, that was
so
not happening. Dabbling in bondage or erotic spanking games sounded fun, but there was no way she was going to submit to blatant male domination.
She suddenly remembered what his friend Kate had said about Stephen’s "unconventional" ex-girlfriend.
She did whatever he told her to do and never argued or raised her voice
. Jeez. If he expected his partners to kowtow to him, then he was the wrong man for her.
Now she felt rattled. The ex must have been a submissive. Stephen was obviously a dominant. Sir Stephen, Kate had laughingly called him. Had she been referring to
The Story of O
? Of course—she must have been. Not only was he into sadomasochism, but his friends knew it.
Would he hurt her? How much?
How bad was the Bad Boy? What if he wanted to do a whole bunch of bizarre stuff that she couldn’t abide? What if he was a sadist, like Bartholomew Giles?
"Viola? What’s the matter?"
Get it together, she ordered herself. "I’m fine. I was just being silly."
He gripped her chin in his fingers and turned her so she had to meet his eyes. "Tell me."
"I was remembering your nasty hero, and hoping you weren’t planning to stretch me on a medieval rack."
"Ah." His eyes glinted in that "you’re so teasable" way she was coming to recognize. "Now
that
would be payback indeed for your scathing review. I am going to invite you to come next weekend down to my gothic castle on Cape Cod. Will you come if you think Bart and his rack might be waiting for you there? We’ll have to see how courageous you are, my lady."
Instead of freaking her out even more, his playful tone made her smile. It also sent a jolt of pure joy through her.
He’s inviting me to his place.
"Does this gothic place of yours have
whips and chains?"
He grinned. "Of course. Plenty of 'em. And all sorts of other kinky stuff, too."
"Oh my god. I am so out of my depth."
"We'll go slowly. We can begin with the gentle, caressing sort of whips."
"I don't know, Stephen. I mean, I'm curious, but doesn't whipping hurt?"
"Good pain. When you’re aroused, perception of pain is altered. A skillful dom can play with that, ensuring that your endorphins kick in, transmuting pain into pleasure."
"That sounds like BDSM propaganda."
He laughed. "How about a little demonstration?"
"What kind of demonstration?"
"I’m going to hurt you, but for only a moment. It’ll feel good. Is that okay?"
"Wait, you’re going to hurt me? Not a lot, right? 'Cause that would not be okay."
"Just a little, I promise. Will you trust me? Just use the word 'red' as your safeword if you need me to stop."
Damn, it was hard to resist him. She nodded. Something about his low, mischievous voice and that Bad Boy look that had crept across his features.
Oh god, I’m so lost.
He hadn’t actually done anything yet, but it already felt sexy.
His fingers had been delicately toying with her breast while they spoke. Now they closed together hard, pinching her nipple. The sharp, quick pressure sent a stab of pain through her that seemed to race down her nerves straight into her sex, which throbbed pleasurably. A small moan escaped her. Lovers had pinched her nipples before, but never so hard. Maybe there was such a thing as good pain. "I guess I'm not totally averse to whatever that was."
"I’m not done yet." His other hand slipped between her legs and began caressing her. He was so good at it. He knew exactly where to touch her and how to escalate. Her arousal spiraled. Honeyed pleasure spread through her entire body as he continued to manipulate her sex. His hot eyes smiled into hers as his face came closer. He kissed her mouth in a teasing, provocative way that had her arching off the mattress to try to get him to deepen the kiss. His thumb drifted over her clit.
If he keeps this up, I’m going to come, she thought, amazed at the speed with which her arousal had built. When she began to rock against his fingers, he compressed her nipple again. Harder. Much harder. The sensation snapped between her breast and her sex like an electric shock, but the sensation felt amazing.
With his lips near her ear, he whispered, "Good pain or bad?"
She tossed her head while continuing to churn her hips. Had his stimulation released her endorphins? "Do it again."
"Let me get this straight," he drawled, his green eyes shining. "You’re asking me to pinch your breast again? You actually
want
another nip of pain?"
"Just…shut up and do it again."
"Say please."
"I will
not
say please."
"Say, ‘make it hurt so good, Master.’"
"In your dreams!"
He chuckled. "Training you is going to be so much fun."
Over coffee the following day, Stephen regarded a sleepy-eyed, tangled-hair Viola with amusement. They had just dragged themselves out of bed after a languid session of not-entirely-wakeful morning sex. Or afternoon sex, given that they had stayed up all night and not fallen asleep until well after dawn.
Her cheeks were pink—probably from beard abrasion since he couldn’t remember when he’d last thought to shave. Her eyes were bright, and her smile, when she managed to stop yawning, was the same wide, mischievous grin he remembered from that long-ago summer.
He was conscious of a deep pulse of affection for her. How strange and unexpectedly joyful this entire weekend had been. How odd that he had never realized how much he missed having her in his life.
Still, there was a faint, almost indiscernible sorrow clinging to Viola now; the result, perhaps, of her failed marriage. She seemed less willing to tell him what was on her mind than she had been as a teenager. Although there was no reason to expect that she would open her heart to him after a single night in bed, he felt bewildered by her new elusiveness. Teenager Viola had not yet learned to hide anything.
She was more guarded now. He had tried a couple of times to get her to tell him something more about her ex-husband, but she'd either ducked the questions or answered vaguely before changing the subject.
Had something happened to make her develop a shell to hide under? If so, what? Had the guy hurt her somehow?
There had been a curious incident this morning, early, when the morning sunlight had flooded into the bedroom where they lay, sleepily contemplating one another at the dawn of a new day. Viola had stretched and turned on her side toward him, flipping her long red hair back over her left shoulder. As she did so, he saw that there was a scar running above her collar bone, near her throat.
The scar was about three inches long, a gash that must have required stitches. He hadn't noticed it during the night, but the room had been dark. "That looks nasty," he’d said, "how did you get it?"
She stiffened. To his surprise, her entire body went rigid under his hands. "What do you mean?"
Was she embarrassed by the mark? Maybe he shouldn't have called attention to it. Too late now. Gently, he reached out a finger towards her and stroked the spot. "Your scar. I’m sure you didn't have it nine years ago."
Her lids came down, hiding the expression in her eyes. "No," she agreed. "I acquired that more recently. It was—" there was the faintest pause "—an accident." She nodded. "I had an accident."
"What sort of accident? That looks as if something came dangerously close to cutting the artery in your throat."
Her eyes flicked to his, and for a moment he thought he saw panic there. Then she twisted her head, pulling away from him. Since she obviously didn't want him to finger the blemish, he withdrew his hand. As he did, she tossed her head again so that some of her hair once again fell over her neck, partially hiding the mark. "I got cut with some glass. You’re right—I was lucky that no major blood vessels were involved."
"But how—"
"Car accident," she interrupted. "Flying glass from, you know, the shattered windshield."
That didn't compute. Windshields had been made with laminated shatter-proof glass for years. They didn’t break, spewing sharp glass chunks; they crumbled.
Viola’s eyes, usually so direct, avoided his, and her fingers on her right hand tightened on the sheet and began twisting the fabric nervously. These were classic signs that someone was lying.
Stephen was puzzled. He was good at reading lies. When he'd invented Bart, Queen Elizabeth's Inquisitor, he'd done some research on how real interrogators identify lies by body language and linguistic analysis. A well-trained, sensitive inquisitor could separate the lies from the truth if he was watchful and persistent enough. Bart was extremely good at it, but Bart, of course, was fictional.
He tried to think of a good reason why she might be lying. What else besides an accident could cause a scar like that?
Maybe she'd had some sort of surgery that she didn't want to tell him about? Had she been ill? Maybe it was cosmetic? Maybe she'd had a birthmark or tattoo removed? She had commented on the tattoo he had on his ass—the one he'd gotten to support Kate after her husband's fatal accident—but he'd had that nine years ago and she'd remembered it. He didn't remember any ink on her, except for the fake tattoos that had washed off.
Trouble was, it didn't look like a surgical scar. It was too jagged.
Had someone attacked her?
His mind darkened at the thought of that. "You weren't badly hurt, I hope?"
She was still tense—he could see it in the way she held her body. But she met his gaze now as she said, "I spent a few days in the hospital. Dad took really good care of me—he was great."
That sounded sincere and direct. His impression that she was evading him faded. He must have been imagining things.
Let it go.
She would tell him when it felt right to her. He bent his head and kissed the mark thoroughly. "You could be covered with scars, and I’d still find you beautiful," he’d murmured, and her tension had melted away.
There had been other moments last night, too, when he thought he'd sensed her withdrawing from him. They had both been grappling a bit with the unexpectedly intense feelings produced by their reunion, and on top of that, he'd dropped the "I'm kinky" bomb on her.