Dark Secret Love (20 page)

“But why should I? You didn’t flirt with the boys. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Oh, god, he was in that sort of mood. Teasing. Tormenting.

I bent over the bed. I offered myself to him. He didn’t take a step in my direction.

I slid my fingers into the waistband of my panties. I pulled them down my thighs, arched my back, and gazed at him over my shoulder, pleading silently.

Jack stood there, still staring at me.

“Use your belt, Jack.” My stomach was in knots. “Please, Jack—”

He held up the belt as if he’d never seen it before. “This belt?”

Christ.

I knew that the longer he made me beg, the more he made me ask for it, the worse the punishment would ultimately be. When he was finally ready, he would not stop until he was done. I knew all of that. And still I begged.

“Jack … Please ….”

He took a step toward the bed, but only to brush my hair out of my eyes and then to run his fingertips along the leather collar tight on my throat. He didn’t start to punish me yet. He didn’t even look close. My pussy tightened. I could feel how wet my lips had become, the silky juices coating the tops of my thighs. Jack reached a hand between my legs, surprising me, and felt for himself. His eyes burned as he removed his damp fingertips and brought them forward for me to lick clean.

“You want me to whip you?” he asked, casually, as
if we were talking about after-dinner drinks. Would you like a cognac? A sherry? A whipping?

“Yes, Sir.”

“Good girl,” he murmured, nodding, his eyes roving over my body, arms locked in place, panties down to my knees, ass up.

“But we’re in a hotel, kid. What if you cry out?”

I hadn’t thought about that. I didn’t know what to say. Jack did. From his other pocket, he removed a gag. He hadn’t used one on me before. And this was serious.

“Open,” he demanded, and I parted my lips and let him slide the devious-looking device into place, felt him buckle the thing behind my head.

“See now?” he said. “No one would say I’m not a conscientious boyfriend. You can scream if you have to and nobody will hear you.”

I closed my eyes, humbled by the gag. Humiliated. But Jack was in motion.

Belt in hand, finally ready to start.

“You brought black because it makes you feel strong,” Jack observed, watching me dress. He was kicking back on the bed, drinking the coffee I’d fetched from the café downstairs and reading the
New York Times
.

I nodded, then looked at my reflection in the mirror. I had on a short black dress with a white collar and cuffs. It looked expensive, but was actually from a thrift store on Melrose Avenue. Black tights and my favorite shiny Mary Janes completed the look.

Jack made a motion with his finger for me to turn around, and I rotated once, so that he could drink in the whole look.

“Nice,” he said. “I do prefer you in color, but you look confident. And that’s important.”

The truth? I was terrified. I’d been both impatiently awaiting and desperately dreading this New York lunch with my editor at a large sex-themed magazine. The man frightened me to the extreme, at least on paper. His edits
were direct and to the point, and he brokered no nonsense. He’d been in the business for a quarter of a century and I felt like an inexperienced little kid at the thought of being with him alone, but Jack told me I’d do fine. And that he’d be waiting for me at the hotel when I was finished.

“I don’t know,” I started, pulling at the hem of the dress. Maybe this look was wrong. Maybe I should have brought a suit. What were writers supposed to look like? I glanced at my travel clock. I had time. I had started getting dressed more than an hour before I even had to leave.

“What about my black jeans and my Harley shirt from Paris?”

Jack started to laugh. “You’re crazy.” The floor was littered with discarded outfits.

“You haven’t watched me dress for something important before,” I told him, pawing through the hotel’s tiny little cabinet for something else.

“You don’t need a different outfit,” Jack assured me, setting his coffee down and pushing aside the
Times
. “You need—”

I was caught off guard. I’d been looking at my clothes, standing there in my bra and panties, garters in place, thinking of what else I might try on. Jack had been thinking of other things entirely, and in a flash, I was over his lap and he had scissored one leg over both of mine. Where had he stashed the paddle that was suddenly in his hand, suddenly slamming down against my black-panty-clad ass?

My breath caught as he landed blow after blow on my rear, and then I started to squirm.

“Don’t fight me, baby. You don’t want to make me upset.” His tone was dead serious, and I paid immediate
attention. “I’m giving you a little taste of what to expect tonight. You can think about this when your nerves start to jangle. You can think about what I’m going to do to your sweet little ass this evening.”

His warm fingers caught the waistband of my panties and slid them down my thighs. He hesitated, as always, observing the bloom of color on my once-pale cheeks. “Ten on the sweet spot,” he said, “Count ’em out for me.”

I did as he said, not even considering disobeying. I didn’t want him to make me cry before my meeting. Not for real.

The pain was intense, but as always, clarifying. I felt my world slide slowly back into place. Jack was right. He knew what I’d needed. When he was done, he stood me up and brushed my hair back, smiling at me. “There,” he said. “Much better. Whatever outfit you choose always will look better after a good old-fashioned spanking.”

Jack didn’t walk me to the cab. He simply kissed me goodbye, let his hand roam down my body to tighten on my ass, and then said, “Don’t worry so much about pleasing him, Samantha. Remember, doll. You only have to worry about pleasing one person.”

I don’t know why, but that thought made me instantly more relaxed.

My editor’s office was exactly like I’d imagined—clean lines, no nonsense. But the art on the wall was tongue-in-cheek. Pornography Kills.

I was awed in the man’s presence, humbled and shy, but he was gracious. He immediately ushered me out of the building and to a nearby restaurant, where he asked me if I’d like a glass of wine.

“Oh, yes, please.” Wine. Wine would be wonderful.

He ordered for the two of us, and I felt my cheeks go red when he chose cranberry juice for himself. I can drink a few shots, yes, but not on an empty stomach. The fact that he was going to be drinking virgin cranberry juice while I grew progressively tipsy on Chardonnay wasn’t lost on me.

Over lunch, he described his years on the magazine and shared different sexy stories about people he knew and places he’d visited. We had acquaintances in common—rich people often travel in the same circles, whether they be editors of pornography, lawyers, or art dealers. He knew Jody’s writing partner. He knew the brother of one of my parents’ good friends. I had understood that Los Angeles was tiny, but at this lunch I realized how small the world truly was.

“Are you in town for the S/M convention?” he asked out of the blue.

My eyes widened. I hadn’t known there was such a thing.

“There are classes on flogging, proper use of breath control, coming on command …”

The wine was working through me, but I wondered if Jack knew about this convention. If perhaps he’d always known. Jack had helped me arrange the time for my trip. Was there an ulterior motive to his plans?

“When we get back to the office, I’ll give you a brochure,” he promised me.

Although he had been authoritative in his edits, in person he strove to put me at ease. This first meeting, my first taste of being courted as a “real” writer, couldn’t have gone more smoothly. Back at the office, he handed me two copies of the issue featuring one of my latest stories and then gave me a warm hug. I reminded him of someone
he’d known long ago, he told me.

“Say hello to Jack for me,” he said at the door before turning and leaving me in the empty hallway, wondering what on earth he could possibly have meant.

Jack was waiting for me in the hotel bar, sitting off in a corner. I hesitated before approaching, because one of the stunning catsuit-clad waitresses was bent over in front of him, and I wasn’t sure if the jealousy I felt was broadcast on my face. When she moved away, heading off to reveal her bountiful cleavage to another lucky patron, I waded through the customers to the corner and sat in the chair opposite him. Thoughtful as always, Jack had already ordered me a drink, and I took a sip of the martini and felt the tension from my meeting start to slip away.

“You look whipped,” Jack said softly. Even in the dim light of the bar, his blue eyes had a glow. “Or as if you’re going to be whipped.”

I took another quick sip of the drink.

“How did it go?”

“I think I did okay.” I described the meal for him.

“You didn’t eat anything, though, did you?”

When I’m nervous, I have a difficult time actually
remembering to eat the food on my plate. On my first date with Jack, I managed about two bites. He hadn’t forgotten.

“No, but I drank a whole glass of wine.”

Jack grinned, and his smile broadened when I confessed that my editor had ordered plain juice for himself. “That’s an old trick,” he said. “I’ve done the same thing with new hires at our firm. The response is to say, ‘What are you having?’ or simply ‘I’ll have what you’re having.’ And then you’re on equal footing.”

“The wine helped, though.”

“I’ll bet it did.”

I took a deep breath. “So … did you know about the S/M convention?”

Jack sat back in his chair and regarded me with a curious look. “What do you think?”

“That you knew.”

“Give the girl a prize.”

I looked down at my hands.

“I thought we’d go on the weekend,” Jack explained. “But I don’t want you to be worried. I want you to see what there is out there. I want you to be aware.”

I thought about what my editor had described, the lessons in flogging, and I wondered how far Jack might make me go. I didn’t ask him how he knew my editor. It didn’t feel like the appropriate time. With Jack, things were never what they seemed. I already knew that. But I also understood that I’d have to pay closer attention in the future.

After paying for our drinks, Jack led me from the bar. It was early evening now, and the air was still. Jack took me to dinner at one of his favorite restaurants—also long
gone now. A little French place where the owners knew him and greeted him warmly. We sat side by side in the quaint little café and he ordered for us, then wrapped one arm around me. I was lulled by his warmth and his strength, and thus caught off guard when he said, “The waiter’s watching you.”

“What do you mean?”

Jack leaned in closer to my ear. “He’s looking at you. Every time he goes by our table. He thinks he’s being sly, but …”

As he spoke, I turned my head to look at the waiter he was talking about, a lean, dark-eyed man who immediately made eye contact with me and held my gaze for a beat too long, bringing a fresh heat to my cheeks.

“See?” Jack murmured.

“I didn’t do anything—” I started in my defense.

“Ah, Samantha, I didn’t say you did.” He paused for emphasis. “But I want you to.”

I turned to face him. What in the world did he have in mind?

“Enter into a little flirtatious banter with him,” Jack said. “With your eyes. You know how to do it. I’m sure you do.”

“Come on, Jack.”

“Are you disobeying me?”

I went pinker. “No, of course not.”

“Then do as I say. I want to see you flirt. I want to know what you look like when you’re making eyes at another man.”

Each time the waiter brought us a new plate of food, or refilled our wine glasses, or stopped by simply to check our status, I felt his eyes roam over me. Jack had one strong hand on my thigh under the table, and he kept a
steady pressure on my leg, squeezing tightly, wanting me to do as he’d requested.

I tried. With Jack right next to me, flirting felt impossible. But I did my best. I shot the dark-haired boy my best coy, up-from-under glances. I felt rusty, but apparently my tricks worked fine. He seemed mesmerized.