At least the heat is on; London hasn’t yet agreed with the spring calendar, and my bedroom is usually freezing cold. Reveling in the unexpected comfort, I arch my back and yawn, wriggling my toes to a cooler part of the sheets before stilling mid-motion because something feels wrong.
The sheets. Egyptian cotton. Thread count in the thousands, like the ones my mother uses at home. The sound of my phone on the nightstand hitting wood, not glass. The warmth of the bedroom. And, more telling still, the extra leg my foot has just brushed in bed.
I push the duvet off my head in a hurry, and there, on the other side of the mattress, lies the very nice, but unfamiliar, rear view of a man. His masculine shoulder lifts along with a deep sigh and my heart almost stops, though the shock of the motion is fast lost as his large hand reaches to push the comforter down his body until it’s coasting his hip. Muscles. So many muscles. Cording his neck, a bulge of bicep, the flex in his lats. The dimples low on his back. Wow. I think this is what’s called an athletic build.
Seems I’m not at home, and I’m not alone, and the realisation jolts me awake like a slap.
Laughing.So much laughing.
Dancing.And not by myself.
Drinking.Definitely more than I should have.
The man.All of him.
I’d gone out straight from the office last night—in my work clothes, no less— in celebration of a record week. My colleagues had also somehow found out my birthday was the week before, so as much as I hadn’t wanted to go, it seemed impolite not to attend my own birthday celebration. Plus, you can only refuse an invitation so many times before comments turn to back stabbing. So I’d accepted and drank tequila, of all things. Far too much tequila, apparently.
It began innocently enough—it was only supposed to be dinner and a few drinks—when one of the finance guys, with mischief in his eye, had mentioned a local club. He’d said he’d heard it was a club for kink.
‘You know, S and M?’
‘You wouldn’t know kink if it paddled your arse,’answered someone from another department; acquisitions, I think. The table erupted into laughter, the comments becoming bawdier by the minute. I’d sipped my wine, obviously being sensible at that point, trying to laugh along, even as my heart sat in my throat. It was just a bit of a joke to them but not so to me. I’d tried not to flinch as the questions turned my way.
‘What do you think, birthday girl? Should we go see what it’s all about?’
All eyes were on me. I was sure the staccato beating of my heart could be heard over the music, the restaurant noise, and chatter. Dominance. Submission. Sex. The words were so darkly tempting yet so complicated, and tied in the roots of my psyche somehow.
I’ve had lots of theory learning—Anais Nin and Anne Rice, and I’ve watched all the movies; The Secretary, Maitresse, and the classic Belle de Jour. And okay, maybe a little porn, too. But I shouldn’t. Not least because...
‘Sure, why not.’I’d answered, setting down my glass. Cool, calm, and collected, my answer hit the air on a wave of wine bravery. And I’m not sure who was more surprised—me, or them.
Uptight Louise. The Ice Queen. I’d heard their names for me, not that I’ve ever cared. I developed my armour years ago and carry it everywhere.
And just like that, we’d finished our meal and headed to the club.
Once inside the place, I recall the mild disappointment, expecting something different, though what, I wasn’t sure. Maybe something tawdry. Freaky. Something less tasteful and... ordinary? The interior could’ve been any high-end bar in any city in the world. Dark, sumptuous tones and smoky mirrors, crystal chandeliers juxtaposed by raw brick. It was sophisticated but not long the focus of my attention. Because that was pulled almost magnetically to a man in dark a suit. A man in a suit watching me.
At first, I’d thought him a tourist. Not necessarily a London tourist—he looked too sophisticated for that—but maybe a tourist to the club seeking similar thrills. I’d still been considering the same thoughts much later when he’d slid a hand around my neck. He couldn’t have known how the placement had affected me, but he read my reaction instinctively.
Yearning inside. Wet panties outside.
But how can I recall these very visceral reactions, yet can’t remember his face? And how did I come to be sitting with him?
Did I... did I really lick spilled Patrón from his neck?
Oh, God. In a sudden rush, I remember almost falling onto his lap and spilling my drink all over him. He’d been very gracious about being my landing place, even laughing as he agreed I absolutely should buy him a drink by way of an apology. After all, he was wearing mine. And his voice? Caramel, dark chocolate, and all the smooth, dark things. And his accent? Panty-melting posh.
Thoughts and images of the evening rise like sudden wisps of smoke. Offensive promises whispered in the darkness, anonymous hands caressing my flesh.
From the corner of my eye, something else catches my attention. A set of leather restraints dangling from the edge of the iron bedstead. Did I wear them? And if I had, oughtn’t I feel at least a flickering of shame? It’s strange, but I don’t seem able to summon a suitable sense of disgrace. And that feels... odd.
Hangovers tend to make me melodramatic, only I don’t really feel hungover anymore. Best cure for a hangover? Shock, apparently. Sure, my mouth is dry. Okay, nasty. But the wool hampering my head seems to have gone. I feel lucid, almost. Headache free. Though there are other aches. Ones I expect I’ll be delighting in for days...
So it had happened. I’d experience the forbidden—my ultimate fantasy—and I hadn’t been forced to pass go, missing my two hundred and shooting straight to hell. But better to blame the tequila than to admit responsibility.Because intention is everything.
The sheets rustle as the man stirs again, bringing me back to my predicament pretty quickly. As it becomes clear he’s still asleep, I use the opportunity to reacquaint myself with him, as best I can, when faced with the back of his head.
His dark hair I recall clearly, thick and glossy, tamed by an expensive cut. And blue eyes, I think. Well-dressed, blue eyes, dark hair, but what else? Judging from the feeling between my legs, pretty well endowed.
