It had begun, as it always did, with a phone call. That voice on the other end of the line–his voice. Soft and measured, with a manner as calm as his words were innocuous, or surely would have seemed to the casual listener.
“We need to talk.”
Sitting at her desk, she’d shuddered imperceptibly as she’d replaced the phone on its cradle. She knew full well what those words meant, and the mere thought of them made the sudden flutter of butterfly wings in her stomach seem an odd counterpoint to the uncontrollable pounding in her chest.
“We need to talk.”
His words hovered just beneath the surface of consciousness for the remainder of the afternoon. Emily Sharpe felt them tugging at her as she labored to finish the difficult brief that was due to be filed by day’s end. She heard them, like an insistent whisper, in every client phone conversation and every interaction with her co-workers as the day wore on. She tried, in vain, to push the implication of those words from her mind as the clock crawled inexorably toward 5:00 PM.
She walked to her car on slightly unsteady legs, trying desperately not to betray her inner turmoil in any sort of visible way. Safe in the luxurious confines of her late-model SUV she sat for a moment, secretly allowing her growing sense of excitement to wash over her; to flood her with sensations of desire and longing and more than a little apprehension.
How does he do that? How can those four simple words, uttered in the most non-committal way, reduce me to this mass of quivering anticipation? How can he rob me–a formidable, respected, highly successful attorney–of my very breath with a few little words? What is this power he has over me and, more importantly, what is it in me that seems to not only allow it, but yearn to surrender this power to him?
She shook her head and started the engine, pondering these questions–and growing more and more resolute–as she made her way through the crush of rush hour traffic. She wanted nothing more than to be home; to embark upon this ritual she craved with every ounce of her being; to get everything ready–for him.
Later, as she set aside her empty wine stem, she smiled dreamily at the way the room’s soft light curved and danced through the flawless crystal. Sitting alone at her dressing table, she absently smoothed the brush through her shoulder length auburn hair, staring straight through her image in the mirror and focusing, instead, on the day the brush had arrived at her door, along with a handwritten note:
“From now on you will use only this brush. It is an heirloom-solid oak with the finest quality boar’s hair bristles. Your exquisite beauty deserves nothing less than its equally exquisite caress.”
She emerged from her reverie and realized that the smooth, cool wood of the brush’s back was lying against her cheek. Blushing furiously, she quickly got up from the table, and walked purposefully toward her bed. With a nearly inaudible moan, she laid the brush on the silk sheets and stepped back to survey the room. Everything was in order. Everything was exactly as he would expect. Everything was perfect.
The unmistakable sound of tires on the gravel driveway.
She gasped involuntarily. Her heart began to race; her breathing became shallower. Emily Sharpe was nearly overcome by what she had come to call a sensual panic as she checked herself in the mirror for the umpteenth time.
The metallic thud of a closing car door.
Her quivering hands betrayed her as she fluffed her hair precisely coiffed hair once more. The seams of her black, thigh high stockings were perfectly even-a lacey line across her alabaster skin, framing her otherwise exposed body.
Unhurried, leathery footsteps tapping along the walk outside. A key finding the lock-turning slowly. The heavy front door swinging slowly open on its slightly creaking hinges.
She swayed slightly on her patent stiletto pumps, trying desperately to maintain her composure as the footsteps padded methodically along the thick carpet in the hallway leading to her bedroom. Feeling as though her pounding heart would burst from her chest, she somehow managed to step to the end of the bed and sink to her knees, parting her thighs slightly. The deep pile of the Persian rug caressed her knees and, inexplicably calm now, she raised her hands and placed them behind her head, interlocking the fingers and waiting, her gaze riveted to the bedroom door.
As if on cue, the door burst open to reveal his towering figure, silhouetted by the hallway light. The sight of him sent a jolt of electric desire and breathless apprehension searing through her every synapse, and it was all she could do to remain in position.
He smiled and stepped into the room, closing the door quietly behind him. Slowly, he eased into an armchair near the door, his eyes never leaving hers. Those eyes–dark and probing, as if he could peer into the deepest parts of her; know her in ways that were carefully hidden from the outer world. In that instant, she wanted nothing more than to look away, but she could not. He held her gaze in the same way he’d captured her will, and she allowed it. In fact, she craved it.
Abruptly, he arose and strode purposefully toward her. She shivered. He began to slowly circle her and, although she stared straight ahead, Emily Sharpe could feel his stare upon her–drinking in every centimeter of her exposed and vulnerable flesh. It was as if his eyes were elevating her senses into a hyper state, a place where the slightest sound or the tiniest fluctuation of air moving in the room made her tingle and sway in answer.
After what seemed an eternity, she heard the rustle of fabric behind her and, without warning, his lips were pressed tightly to her ear. Gently, he eased her aching arms down to her sides. For a long moment he was silent, but his breath–warm, moist, insistent–bathed her cheek and instantly elicited an identical response between her thighs. She blushed and bit her lip, fighting hard not to compound her body’s betrayal with an embarrassing moan of desire.
“I’m very pleased.”
With a deftness that threatened to drive her over the edge, he curled his index finger under her chin, pressing the nail into her soft skin. His touch rippled through her like a velvet explosion. He began to drag the nail over her flesh, tracing an invisible line around her lips. She shuddered and gasped, fighting to keep from collapsing in a quivering heap at his feet.
“I think you’ve earned a reward”, he murmured, his voice a low, raspy whisper.
“A..a reward? What kind of…?” she sputtered in spite of herself.
He cupped her chin firmly between his thumb and forefinger, turning her head to the side, his eyes searing through hers with the precision of a surgical laser.
“You know what kind. The kind you’ve been aching for since I called you this afternoon; the kind that beckons you on the edge of sleep; the kind that makes you quiver with wanton abandon.”
He leaned into her face, so close it was difficult to see where her features ended and his began. Her mind screamed for flight, but her body felt leaden, trapped.
“The kind that makes you beg”, he hissed, his voice pulsing with reptilian menace.
She moaned–a low, pleading, wanting, more-than-a-little apprehensive moan. A moan of reckless abandon and delicious surrender. He stood over her, carefully removing his jacket, laying it aside and nonchalantly rolling up the sleeves of his finely tailored silk shirt. Finally, with an infuriatingly smug smile, he offered his hand to her. She looked at him curiously for a moment, and then took it. He raised her to her feet and, in that instant, she realized that he wasn’t taking her power at all. She was neither giving up nor giving in. She was simply letting go; letting go of the stress and the pressure and the responsibility that weighed so heavily upon her in her professional life. Letting go and placing herself totally in the hands of this man whom she had come to trust so completely.
He led her to the bed, sat down and guided her over his lap. Laying his hand softly upon her bottom, he began a slow massage; moving his fingertips lightly along the length of her spine; squeezing and kneading the muscles of her back; banishing the tension, caressing her cheeks and inner thighs with his insistently probing, yet gentle, fingers.
When the first slap of his palm resounded in the otherwise silent room, she bucked and gasped. It stung deliciously, and made her arch up for the second. As the slaps increased in intensity, she matched them with outward signs of her inner desire; writhing, squirming, grinding deeply into his lap. She could feel the unmistakable evidence of his passion growing, too, as the spanking continued. She groaned and kicked, knowing full well this would only signal him to redouble his efforts, and redouble them he did. Pausing for a moment, he let a finger slip between her thighs, leaning down to whisper into her ear about what a little wanton she was to be drenched this way after a few little smacks. She blushed furiously, but could not keep from raising and wiggling her bottom for more.
The touch of the cool, hard brush placed on her hot, tingling skin made her jerk, fighting back the instinct to flee. But fleeing was the last thing on her mind now, and she relished the penetrating caress and searing waves of heat that enveloped her with each progressively harder stroke of the brush. Losing all pretense of control, she screamed; she screamed and, yes, she begged–for more.
When it was finally over and she sank into his deep and loving embrace, she wanted nothing more than to feel him inside her; to complete their ritual of passion and give herself to him without reservation. He pulled her close, probing the moist, warm darkness of her mouth with his tongue as his hands explored every curve and contour of her trembling body—
Emily Sharpe closed the book with a deep, longing sigh. She lay in bed for a few moments, surveying the disheveled room; clothes spilling from the laundry basket, the worn carpet, the slightly-frayed bed sheet pulled tightly up around her chin. She knew that no one would be calling from “Better Homes and Gardens” with an eye toward doing a feature spread about her aging, cozy suburban tract house. There would be no paparazzi stalking her as she made a mad dash from their ten-year-old Chevy to the premier of her latest project. There would be no silk shirts or sheets; no sumptuous decor. Barbara Walters would never bring her to tears in prime time.
She reached over and switched off the bedside lamp, smiling at the notion that her children were safely, peacefully sleeping in the next room. She glanced over at Jim, snoring quietly at her side; this big hulk of a man whom no one would ever confuse with Pierce Brosnan. This man who had held her hand through the birth of both children; who had stayed steadfastly by her side during her illness a few years ago, ready to hold her or make her giggle with one of his silly jokes whenever she surfaced into consciousness. Jim, who worked hard, day after day, at a job he didn’t particularly care for to keep food on the table and Wal-Mart’s best on all their backs.
She rolled over and cuddled up next to him and he murmured, half-waking. She loved the sensual fantasies depicted in her sexy novels. She loved to play them over in her mind and incorporate aspects of them into her own love making. But she didn’t need them to tell her about power. She understood that intuitively.
The power of sacrifice.
The power of loyalty and strength.
The power of love.
She kissed his cheek and drifted off into blessed sleep.
