Master Me (2 page)

Mr. Wiggins, the innkeeper, came out from behind the counter to shake Geoffrey’s hand. “Mr. Hart, it’s an honour. I saw your Macbeth four years ago. Astonishing.”

“Thank you so much. I’m very happy to be here. The mountain air is so delightfully fresh. New York in the summer can be stifling.”

I scanned his profile. He didn’t look nearly as happy as he claimed to be. Maybe there was some truth in Adele’s story.

“I’ve put you in the Shays suite on the fifth floor. It’s on the corner, so you’ll get the cross breezes. And it has a lovely view of the town green.”

“I’m sure that it will be just fine.” Geoffrey signed the register and picked up two of his suitcases. He turned to Adele and me. “Bring the other bag, girl,” he ordered.

My friend and I looked at each other in confusion. What was he talking about?

“You heard me, Sarah.” He headed up the stairs without looking back.

Adele’s mouth hung open. I nearly choked on my indignation. Sure, he was a famous actor, a star, but that didn’t give him the right to tell me what to do.

He paused at the landing, looking back over his shoulder. Once again I felt the power of that dark gaze. My anger wilted. My nipples peaked and my legs turned to rubber. His impatience beat against me like a physical force. I didn’t want to obey, but I also did not want to disappoint him.

Mystified by my own emotions, I grabbed the suitcase and trudged up the stairs behind him.

The Bingham Inn dates from the mid-eighteenth century. It’s a rambling place, a classic country hotel with a wide veranda and more than seventy rooms. The Playhouse rents the top floor each summer to house the primary members of the company. The stage crew and the other players—the ones that don’t live already in the area—stay in dorms on the theatre grounds.

I was quite fit, but four steep flights of irregular, colonial-era stairs, lugging a thirty-pound suitcase, had me panting by the time I reached the top. Hart strode upstairs as though his two bags weighed nothing, leaving me labouring far behind. He didn’t bother to look back; he was sure that I’d follow.

The fifth floor was quiet. Dust sparkled in the sunlight filtering through the landing window. I was grateful to discover that the suitcase had wheels. It squeaked as I rolled it down the hall towards Hart’s suite. No one emerged to investigate. The rest of the troupe was over at the theatre rehearsing. I was a bit surprised that Adele hadn’t followed me upstairs. Maybe she’d been as shocked by Hart’s command as I had.

The door to the Shays suite was half-open. I knocked anyway, swallowing my nervousness.
Stop this silliness, Sarah,
I lectured myself.
Just be professional.

“Come in.” That voice, so full of music and power, sent chills through my sweaty body. Squaring my shoulders, I pushed the door wide and entered the sitting room, dragging the noisy bag after me.

Hart stood by the window with his back to me, appraising Mr. Wiggins’ view. “Took you long enough,” he commented without turning around.

I should have been annoyed, but instead I felt embarrassed and guilty. “Sorry—the stairs—and it’s so hot today…”

“Never mind. Just put the suitcase on the bench next to the other bag.”

I hoisted the case up onto the luggage rack to the right of the door. He still didn’t turn around. I took the opportunity to get a good look at him.

He was tall—over six feet, I guessed—and the low ceilings typical of colonial buildings made him look even taller. Although he was relaxed and still, his lean, athletic body suggested unlimited energy. He had removed his jacket and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. The tailored garment looked crisp and fresh despite the fact that the temperature must have been pushing ninety.

One hand clasped the other at the small of his back. His bare forearms were lightly furred with black hair, a touch of the animal that clashed with his aura of culture and sophistication. His trousers fit as perfectly as his shirt. I couldn’t stop myself from appreciating the swell of his muscular buttocks under the fabric. My nipples were swollen and painful. My jeans felt hot and tight.

The awkward silence lengthened. I took a deep breath and thought I caught a whiff of his cologne, something brisk and nautical, overwhelmingly male. My heart was a jackhammer in my chest. I looked around the room, trying to distract myself from the physical reactions Hart seemed provoke simply by being present.

It appeared he had already had time to do some unpacking. A stack of neatly folded shirts, all black, white or grey, lay on the sofa. Several pairs of shoes were lined up near the bedroom door. On the table near the window there was a fifth of Glenlivet, which I knew hadn’t been supplied by the inn, along with a pack of Gitanes, some books and a fancy-looking camera. A framed eight-by-ten colour photograph sat on the end table beside the couch, not far from where I stood.

I peered more closely at the photo. A pale, raven-haired beauty stared back at me. Her sultry dark eyes and enigmatic half-smile spoke of a passionate nature just barely held in check by convention. Luxurious curls tumbled over her shoulders but did not hide the ripe breasts swelling out of her burgundy velvet decolletage. Her delicate chin rested on the back of one hand. The graceful fingers were tipped with crimson enamel that exactly matched her lipstick.

I didn’t need to read the autograph to know who she was. Anne Merrill, Geoffrey’s long-time partner, the woman who, if I could believe Adele, had broken his heart.

My spirits sank even lower. It was easy to see how such a woman could captivate a man, even someone as bold and self-confident as Geoffrey Hart. When I compared myself to her—well, there was no comparison really. I was a short, unimpressive woman—a girl, Hart had called me—with plain brown hair too fine to curl and a
B
cup figure. I had no drama, no flair, nothing like this vivid, exotic creature who oozed sex appeal. So what if I had a master’s degree in acting from Columbia? I’d had almost no real-world experience. I dreamt about Broadway and London’s West End, but this gig at Berks Hill was my first professional job as an actress. And what was I? Nothing more than a bit player, an understudy to the stars.

“You’re still here, Sarah.” Hart wheeled to face me, breaking into my bitter internal monologue. “Good. After all, I didn’t tell you that you could go.”

Amusement lit up his handsome features. He towered over me, close enough that I could feel the heat emanating from his body. Embarrassment washed over me but didn’t quite submerge the undercurrent of arousal.

“May I leave?” I asked, my voice a weak quaver that disgusted me. Why was I asking, anyway? Who was he to tell me what to do?

“Not yet. I need your help unpacking. Go open the bag you carried up. It’s not locked.”

No, I wanted to scream. But I obeyed him anyway, pressing the chrome-plated catch on the sleek grey Samsonite case and flipping up the lid.

I gasped when I saw the contents. “It’s true!” I blurted out.

Hart came up behind me and looked over my shoulder. He didn’t touch me, but his mere presence was overpowering. “What’s true?”

I heard laughter in his voice. I pointed at the leather restraints and the rubber paddles, my hand shaking. “That—that you’re kinky. Into S and M, just like Adele said.”

“I prefer the term ‘D and S.’ Dominance and submission. My focus is on the exchange of power, not the administration of pain. Though I’m not averse to using pain if that’s the right thing to do.”

“The right thing to do?” I turned to face him, hiding behind my indignation. “Are you joking?”

He was close, too close for comfort, deliberately invading my personal space. I tried to step backward. I succeeded only in banging my shin against the luggage rack.

“Ow!”

His eyes drilled into me. “I’m completely serious. D and S is not a game, despite the way it’s portrayed in popular culture. It’s not a fashion statement. It’s much, much more, a new way of being in the world. A doorway into a new kind of relationship, deeper and more intimate than anything you can imagine.”

“Right,” I muttered. I couldn’t bear to look at him. I stared down at my sandals, feeling the blush crawling up my cheeks and across my chest. “I’m sure that’s what all the perverts say.”

He caught my chin under his forefinger and raised my eyes to his. I trembled when his skin met mine.

“I can’t pretend it’s not exciting, of course—trying new implements, pushing the sub’s limits, testing her devotion. But that’s not the main point.”

I burned in the heat of his stare. I felt myself begin to melt, the crotch of my jeans growing damper with every beat of my pulse. I didn’t want to listen but I couldn’t hide my fascination.

He stroked his thumb across my cheek. I held my breath, wanting him to stop, dying for him to go further.

“Aren’t you curious, Sarah? Wouldn’t you like to drop your diligent, high-achieving, good little girl persona and find out what’s underneath?”

I couldn’t answer. How did he know these things about me, this man I’d met less than a half-hour ago? Did he really understand the way I’d pushed myself in college and grad school, working for the top grades, following the rules, determined to succeed in my chosen path despite the odds? Did he know that I hadn’t had a lover for nearly four years? I hadn’t had time. Anyway, I’d been all too aware of the fact that everyone around me was both a colleague and a competitor.

I saw compassion in his chiselled face, mingled with lust.

“I know you, little one. I know what you really crave. What you really need. Open yourself to me and I will fulfil the desires you don’t yet dare to admit, even to yourself.”

He didn’t wait for permission. He simply claimed my mouth as though it was his by right. I struggled for a moment, as his strong arm snaked around my waist and pulled me to his chest. Then I let go, let his tongue slide between my lips and his fingers slip under my shirt.

His mouth was muscular and insistent. I tasted his expensive liquor and his foreign cigarettes. I was in some kind of trance, swooning as he devoured my mouth and stroked my bare back. I felt him fumble briefly with the hooks on my bra, then blissful relief as my breasts were set free.

My nipples throbbed, aching for his touch. He released my mouth and held me at arm’s length.

“From now on, you will not wear a bra.”

Raising my shirt, he palmed my breasts, flicking his thumbs over the rigid tips. Each flick sent electric currents sizzling down to my engorged clit. New moisture flooded my pussy. I could smell myself, like tidal flats baking under the summer sun. His flaring nostrils told me that he caught the same scent.

“Is that understood?” He pinched a nipple and pain arced through me like lightning. Then like thunder, pleasure rolled in.

“Ow! Oh…!”

His hard thigh pushed into the gap between my thighs, stealing my answer. I tried to nod. I was ready to agree to anything as long as he continued to touch me. He kissed me again, forcing me open and plunging his rude tongue down my throat.

Shameless, driven, I ground my denim-covered pussy against his invading leg. His male scent rose around me, the cologne tempered now with the musk of his sweat. He gripped my ass and pulled me closer. His rock-hard erection prodded my belly. The knowledge that he wanted me—that I pleased him—took me to the edge. I hovered there at the tipping point, ready to topple into climax while he squeezed my butt and ravaged my mouth.

His lips slipped away from mine. He nibbled his way along the line of my jaw, kindling sparks and I felt his warm breath in my ear. “I knew it, Sarah. You’re a perfect slut,” he whispered. Then he bit down on my earlobe.

The sharp stab of his teeth entering my flesh cut me free. Scalding pleasure exploded between my legs and swirled through me like a ball of fire. Geoffrey held me tight while I convulsed, wave after wave of delicious sensation shaking me until I was exhausted and as loose as a rag doll. Then he brushed his lips across mine once again.

“Mine, Sarah,” he murmured. “You’re going to be my slut. My sweet little fuck toy.”

I should have been offended. I should have gathered what dignity I could muster, stood up and stomped out of the room. Instead I sank to my knees in front of him, trying to open his zipper and extract the enormous cock I could see distorting his fine trousers, which were now smeared with my pussy juice.

His mocking laughter rang through the room. He pulled me to my feet, far more roughly than I had expected. “Hold it right there! Did I give you permission to touch me?”

There was a cruel glint in his eye that worried me. “Uh, no, but I thought…”

His big hands circled my wrists. He held me at arm’s length. “It’s not your place to think. Your only responsibility is to obey.”

“I just wanted to please you—sir.” The honorific came so naturally that I was shocked. What was I doing?

His voice mellowed. “You do please me. But I make the rules here—that is, as long as you’re interested in playing this game.”

I extricated myself from his grasp and brushed the hair out of my eyes. My shirt was still tangled under my armpits. I yanked it down to cover my bare breasts, not bothering to refasten the bra. “I thought you said that D and S wasn’t a game.”

He folded his arms across his chest and looked at me. I felt that he was judging me, weighing me up before deciding on his next move. Comparing me, perhaps, to his lost Anne. I straightened my spine to my full five-feet-two-inches and stared back. I was determined not to be intimidated.

Emotions flitted across his expressive face—annoyance, desire, amusement, something like sorrow. I wondered if anyone really ever knew him. I was all too familiar with how hard it could be for actors to separate their real selves from the roles they played.

“You’re right. It’s not a game, though sometimes we pretend that it is. In any case, I can’t command your obedience. You have to consent, to give me your trust.”

His words stirred me, rousing something deeper than the lust I’d felt before. I didn’t understand what he was offering, not really, but I sensed its value. Our brief interlude had given me some clues. Still, I was mostly travelling blind.