The Darker Side of Pleasure (33 page)

Maggie closed her eyes and leaned her head onto the rolled-up towel behind her. A glass of Cabernet was perched on the marble edge of the bathtub. She took a deep breath, the quiet scent of her favorite vanilla and amber bubble bath filling her lungs.

Her body was pleasantly sore all over, a sensation she reveled in, as silly as it seemed. What had that man done to her head? She was thinking, feeling things, which were entirely new to her.

Had she really submitted to Damien Knight today? Had she allowed him to bend her over, to slip her panties off, to make her come for him while she stood there, helpless?

But she hadn’t really been helpless, had she? She had done those things willingly. Hell, eagerly! And she wanted to do them again. For
him
.

She slid a soapy hand down her body, over her breasts, her nipples going hard instantly. Lord, he was more beautiful than any man had a right to be…

The phone on the wall above the bath rang, startling her.

Damien.

She picked up the receiver. “Hello?”

“There you are, darling. I’m checking up on you.”

“Jet, hi.”

“So, how was it? Tell me everything.”

“Um…it was interesting. No, more than that. It was wonderful. Exhilarating.”

“Did he hurt you?”

“Only a little.”

“And did you like it?”

She was quiet a moment. Could she admit it out loud? But this was her best friend.

“Yes.”

“That’s it? Just ‘yes’? No details?”

“I don’t know what to say about it just yet. I’m still a little…floaty.”

“I can’t quite believe you did this, Maggie. Not even you, the infamous
Citi
sex columnist. I don’t mean that as an insult, darling, but you’re pretty much a control freak.”

“It’s okay. I know it. How can I not be?”

“Honey, the rest of the world is not your mother.”

“I know. But she was so totally out of control. I feel safer if I know I’m in charge of my world.”

“Maybe that’s what this is all about for you. Letting it go for once.”

“That’s what Damien says.”

“Oh, lord, you’re not going to turn into one of those women who go around constantly quoting their boyfriends, are you?”

“Hardly. This is me you’re talking to, Jet. Oh, hold on, the other line is beeping. In fact, let me call you back. It must be him.”

“Whatever you say, darling.”

She hit the flash button and switched lines, her pulse racing.

“Hello.”

“Magdalena.”

“Yes.” A speedy flutter of her heart at the sound of his voice.

“I hope I’m not disturbing you. Are you resting?”

“I’m in the bath.”

“Right now?”

“Yes.”

There was a long silence. Then, “We need to make a time to meet tomorrow. I can pick you up at noon. We’ll have lunch, talk.”

“And then?” Was that her own voice, so breathless?

“And then, if you are still agreeable, we will come back to my house and explore some new territory.”

“Oh.” Her mouth was suddenly too dry to speak. And she was acutely aware of her naked flesh beneath the warm, scented water.

“Tonight I want you to rest, to eat a light meal. Sleep in tomorrow if you can. You’ll need your strength.”

That sounded more like a promise than a threat to her. And her body was responding once more to the command in his voice, her sex filling with need, her breasts aching. She didn’t know what to say.

“Are you there, Magdalena? Are you listening?”

“Yes. I’m here.” She smoothed her fingers over her breast, gave her nipple a small pinch.

Yes.

“I’ll see you at noon. Meet me in the lobby.”

“I’ll be there.” She would do whatever he wanted her to do, frankly.

There was a soft click, then a dial tone. She hung the phone up, sank further under the scented water. She slid her hands over her body: her breasts, her stomach, down between her thighs. Her sex clenched. She moved in, using her fingers to tease at the swollen, pouty lips. Her hips surged, her thighs tensed. God, just the sound of his voice had done this to her! But she needed this, needed some release. Yes, just a fast orgasm, to take the edge off.

She moved the fingers of one hand, slipped two inside her, let out a soft moan. With the other hand, she used her fingers to roll her clit, to tug on it, to pinch. Her breath came in short pants and her whole body was sizzling with need. Her hips tilted, and she drove her fingers deeper inside, angled to hit her g-spot.

She pictured his face, his large, strong hands. He had the long and dexterous fingers of a surgeon, a musician. But no, he used them for more decadent tasks. He’d used them on her.

Yes!

She rubbed her clit and moved her fingers a little faster, imagined it was his hands on her again, and came, hard. His face was in her mind as her body convulsed in pleasure. As her sex clenched around her plunging fingers.

Yes!

When it was over, she was left shaking and weak. Weak with desire for
him
.

Tomorrow couldn’t come soon enough.

Five minutes to twelve found her in the lobby of the W Hotel. She wore a simple black pencil skirt, a body-hugging black V-neck sweater, and tall black boots that hugged her calves in a simple silhouette. She often wore black in New York. Why did it seem to mean something else today?

She paced the gleaming black and white floor, checking the front door every few minutes. Then, not wanting to appear overanxious, she settled into one of the black, leather chairs.

She was trying very hard not to examine the thoughts whirling through her mind, trying not to think too much until she saw him, had a chance to talk this out with him, because the confusion she was feeling this morning was very disturbing, her thoughts convoluted. She didn’t know what was normal under these circumstances, wasn’t sure what she was supposed to be feeling.

“Ah, there you are.”

“Damien, hi.” Her pulse throbbed and she went hot all over the moment she saw him, heard his voice.

“No smile this morning. It seems we have things to talk about. Come.”

He held out a hand to help her from her chair, those old-world manners again. Despite herself, she melted a little at his touch.

“There’s an excellent place to eat right here in the hotel. It’s called XYZ. Have you tried it yet?”

“No. This is the first time I’ve been in San Francisco in years.”

“Really?” He placed a hand at her waist as he had the night before and steered her toward the restaurant. “Why is that? I imagine a journalist would have plenty of opportunity to come here. From one cosmopolitan city to another. Particularly in your area of…expertise. San Francisco is a city known for its sexual debauchery. A true city of sin.”

“I suppose. I…I’ve avoided coming here, if you want to know the truth.”

God, why had she admitted that to him?

“Let’s get a table and then you can tell me why.”

They moved toward the doorway of the restaurant. Inside, they were seated immediately at one of the black leather booths. The curtains around the booth, the low curved ceiling, gave a sense of privacy. The place had that hushed air about it very elegant restaurants often had. The diffused light coming through the fogged-glass windows added to the ambience. The waitstaff moved in graceful silence over the glossy wood floors, serving small works of art to the patrons.

A waiter came to their table and handed them suedebound menus. Damien ordered San Pellegrino for them both, waved the waiter off, and settled into the soft booth in his usual casual pose.

“Now tell me, why have you stayed away from San Francisco?”

“You get right to the point, don’t you?”

“Yes. Tell me.”

“This city holds…bad memories for me.”

“A man? What did he do to you?”

“Why would you assume it was a man who drove me from here?”

“Because it usually is.”

“True.”

Their drinks arrived. The waiter placed their glasses and the remaining bottle on the table and asked for their order.

Damien spoke before she’d had a chance to make a decision. “I’ll have the asparagus salad with quail egg and prosciutto. The same for my companion.”

He raised a brow at her; she nodded her head. The waiter scurried off. Once more she had noted how the waiter deferred to Damien in a way which was slightly more subservient than was usual.

“Are you going to wait until our food has arrived before you tell me this story?”

“Are you going to give up if I make you wait longer than that?”

He sat back, took a sip of his sparkling water. A small smile quirked the corner of his mouth. “Of course not.”

She sighed. “It’s my mother.”

“The French artist?”

“Yes.” She picked up her glass, took a long sip, set it down again. Her throat was thick, tight, making it hard to swallow.

“Surely that’s not all I get?”

“You don’t want to hear this. It’s not pretty.”

“So much of life is not pretty. ‘Pretty’ isn’t a requirement for something to be important or interesting.”

She met his gaze, held it. “You’re very much the philosopher, aren’t you?”

“And you’re stalling again.”

She shrugged. “I don’t talk about her much. My mother is a mess, to be honest. She’s very bohemian. Or at least, that’s her excuse.”

“For what?”

“For being a flake. For spending her life flitting around the world, stopping only long enough to paint whatever strikes her fancy, eating and paying bills only when she remembers. Then moving on again.”

“A hard life for a child, being moved from place to place.”

“It wasn’t all bad. Even I can admit that. I had seen most of the world by the time I was eight. She took me all over Europe, to Tahiti, to Thailand.”

He leaned in to the table, closer to her, his voice low and more intimate. His hazel eyes were on her. “A whirlwind existence.”

“Totally out of control. I never had a moment when I could just sit still, contemplate who I was, my place in the world. I had no place…”

She remembered the sights and scents of the cities to which her mother had taken her. The light on the water of Venice, the spices and flowers of Indonesia. The lack of safety in it all, being in those strange cities with her mother often gone for days at a time, run off with a man, or to paint something intriguing, leaving her on her own in a hotel room. She’d learned to be an adult at a very young age.

Damien’s hand slid over hers, warm, reassuring.

“That explains why you’re so completely controlled now.”

She pulled her hand away. Why was there bile rising in her throat? “I wasn’t so controlled yesterday with you.”

“You’re angry.”

“Hell, yes, I’m angry,” she hissed. Her blood was boiling suddenly.

He asked very softly, “Are you angry with me? Or are you angry that you allowed yourself to let go?”

She shook her head, trying to calm down. “Both, maybe.”

“I understand.”

That was all he said, just those two simple words. But they made all the difference in the world.

His voice was low, so soft she had to strain to hear him over the music filtering through the background of muted conversation, clattering plates. “Tell me what happened.”

She stared at him for a moment. She was going to tell him. She didn’t know why.

“I was eighteen. I was tired of taking care of her, of being the parent, you know? I couldn’t do it anymore. I had to try to have a life of my own making. Some stability. We’d come here from London so she could see some gallery owners. And I was…I was so tired. I told her I wasn’t going back to Europe with her.”

“I take it that didn’t go over well?”

“She became depressed.” She stopped, remembered her mother as she’d last seen her, her beauty faded by sorrow and drink. “She was angry with me. Told me if I stayed behind, then I was on my own. Even though that was exactly what I wanted, it broke my heart that she would do that to me. Forsake me for growing up.”