False Pretenses (4 page)

Emma yanked her attention away from the disturbing nature of her thoughts to focus on her friend, who was still speaking.

"Undo four or five buttons up the side; show a little leg. Wear some lingerie, and you're ready for anything. Nothing makes a girl feel sexier than pretty underwear.” Melania paused. “Except for being spanked."

To her friend, a devoted Rod and Cane Auxiliary wife, all roads led to spanking—or should. Melania had no way of knowing Emma was as vanilla as a carton of store-brand ice cream.

Melania nodded enthusiastically as she warmed to her topic. “Lingerie puts you in touch with your femininity. A spanking connects you with his masculinity. Every tingle afterward reminds you of him.” Melania shifted and giggled. “I'm glad your bed has a pillow top."

Emma rounded her eyes. “Again?"

"Last night."

"Maintenance?” Emma queried. From her conversations with Auxiliary wives, Emma had learned that husbands administered routine spankings not for punishment, but to reinforce the respective dominant and submissive roles within the marriage.

Melania shook her head. “For fun. We'd gone to a movie, and I could feel Jared staring at me. The credits hadn't even started to roll, and he rushed me out of the theater. When we got home, he kicked the front door shut and burned my bottom."

Emma had quoted conversations like this one in her Rod and Cane story. The nonchalance with which Melania discussed spanking never ceased to amaze Emma, but she schooled her expression into one of casual curiosity and joked, “What happened to the reserved, naive newlywed I used to know?"

"The shyness got spanked out of her,” Melania said.

Emma had met Melania during her undercover investigation. Despite a ten-year age difference—her friend was only twenty-three—their personalities had clicked. Believing Emma to be a loyal member of the Rod and Cane Society Wives Auxiliary, Melanie had spoken frankly about her domestic discipline-driven marriage to her husband Jared. She would feel betrayed when the story broke. Every time Melania shared a confidence, Emma's heart grew heavier as she realized how violated she would feel. That she only identified her friend with a pseudonym did little to alleviate her pangs of guilt.

But what else could she do? She hadn't known when she met Melania that they would become friends, and the information she shared was too juicy not to use. A spanked wife who'd vowed obedience, Melania had proven that submissive didn't mean meek and unassuming.

"Okay, I'll wear the red one,” Emma said to change the subject and to avoid the sharp nips of her conscience. She scooted off the bed.

"And don't forget the shoes. Sexy ones. Sometimes Jared paddles me when I'm wearing nothing but high heels."

Emma's face flamed. Sometimes her friend went too far. The shyness had indeed been spanked out of her. “Please!"

Melania giggled. “Why are you embarrassed? You were an Auxiliary member before I was.” She shifted on the bed, smiling and wincing at the same time. “Is Dan into spanking?"

"No,” Emma stated emphatically. Dan was too nice. Too mild mannered. But the memory of how much attention he'd paid her ass zipped to the forefront of her mind.
Could it be?
No, she rejected the idea. Plenty of men admired women's butts without wanting to spank them.

Melania's face fell. “Oh. So this is a casual date, then."

"Well, of course it is. It's a
first
date,” Emma said, omitting that she and Dan had consummated their relationship. “I'm not going to reserve the church before we've even eaten a meal together."

"I thought you were looking for a man who practiced domestic discipline."

Emma hung another garment in the closet to avoid Melania's scrutiny. “I am,” she lied.

Melania's face brightened. “Maybe your Dan—"

"He's not
my
Dan,” she denied, but a little thrill shot through her. She
hoped
he would become her Dan.

"Maybe Dan is into spanking and you don't know it. Dan the Dom. Has a nice ring, don't you think?"

Emma remembered how tenderly he'd kissed her and cuddled her. She shook her head. “No, he's not the type."

Emma followed her friend's advice and wore the red dress, but undid only a couple of buttons near the hem and donned a pair of black open-toe pumps with a moderate heel. She didn't own any shoes like the stiletto manslayers Melania favored.

But her friend had inadvertently hit upon Emma's secret vice: sexy lingerie. Her dresser overflowed with bits of lace, satin, and silk, and for her date, she donned low-rise lace boy shorts and a matching black demi-cup bra. The doorbell pealed, and Emma tugged at the bodice of her dress. Between the boosting power of her bra and the dress's neckline, she displayed a discomforting amount of cleavage—even if Dan had seen her in the altogether.

She was overthinking this whole date thing. Good grief, she was a thirty-three-year-old woman with a career, a mortgage, and a Roth IRA. She needed to get a grip. Just because Dan was the first decent prospect to come her way since she'd ended her relationship with Ron didn't mean she should act like a silly teenager crushing on the high school football star. Dan wouldn't be as sexy as she remembered.

Or not.

He stood on her porch, casually scrumptious in a pair of gray slacks and a blue-and-gray striped pullover, holding a single pink rose. He smiled, flashing his killer dimples, and Emma's mouth dried. “Hi,” she managed to choke out.

"Hi yourself.” He handed her the rose and kissed her in a slow, lingering way that made her entire body quiver. He broke off the kiss, and the dark intensity in his eyes revealed that he remembered everything they'd done—and desired an encore. Just as she did. Every cell in her body was fired up and ready.

He dug into his pants pocket and extracted a small, furry gray catnip mouse. “This is for Jinx."

Another piece of her heart melted. “Thank you. You're so thoughtful. Nobody's ever brought me a mouse before. A catnip one. Or a real one either. For Jinx, I mean. And the flower. It's nice too.” Great. She'd gone from tongue-tied to babbling in less than ten seconds. She took a breath to calm her jitters and inhaled the sweet scent of the rose. “Come on in while I put this in water."

"The mouse or the flower?” He flashed his lopsided grin.

"Cute.” It was a fair question since, as flustered as she was, it could go either way.

Jinx was curled atop his scratch post in the corner of the room. He didn't need to scratch, but he liked to sit up high. At the sight of Dan, he jumped down from his perch. Emma gave him the mouse, which he joyfully attacked.

"It's a hit,” she said and held up the flower. “It will only take a sec to take care of this. Make yourself at home."

In the kitchen she located a bud vase, filled it halfway, and stuck in the rose. She sniffed the flower one last time before returning to her living room. Dan was playing with Jinx, dangling the mouse by its tail. Like a metronome, Jinx's head followed the movement of the toy.

"You're going to hypnotize him,” she said.

"That's an idea. Stay. Inside. The. House.” His voice droned as he swung the mouse.

Emma laughed. She couldn't get over how much Jinx liked Dan. Or how much Dan liked Jinx. An old single-girls’ tale said that men who liked dogs made good daddies, but what did it mean when a man liked cats?

Dan tossed the mouse to Jinx and stood. “Are you ready?” His husky tone oozed sex.

"Ready,” she croaked, then cleared her throat. What a mess she was. Her knees threatened to wobble, she could hardly speak, and her panties were drenched. Like she'd never had a date before.

Ensconced inside the vehicle with mere inches separating them, her temperature rose several degrees. She was infused with the scent of him, of his enticing musky soap and of the man himself. She noticed the strength of his hands gripping the steering wheel, the sprinkling of hair poking out from beneath the cuffs and neck of his sweater, the way his thigh muscles bunched beneath the fabric of his pants.

Emma curled her fingernails into her palms, awareness of his nearness, his masculinity tingling through her from her hair follicles to the tips of her toes.

They chatted about the Indian summer, the growing shortness of the days, and the reduction in traffic on a Sunday evening. Dan drove unhurriedly, heading up a winding mountain road.

"Do you like shrimp? Beef?” he asked.

"I love it. Both of them."

"I thought we'd have surf and turf."

"Sounds wonderful."

"Do you want to know where we're going?” Night descended, but she could see the flash of his teeth as he smiled. She stared at his mouth, remembering the sensuous slide of his lips on hers, on her pussy, on her breasts. She could skip the surf and turf and go straight for dessert.

"Yes,” Emma lied. She didn't care where they went.

"We're going to small, quiet place on top of the mountain with a view of the city."

She pursed her lips. “I've lived in this area my entire life, and I didn't know there was a restaurant like that up here. Is it new?” The mountain road had passed mostly homes. She'd spotted an antique store, a quilt shop, and a small mom-and-pop grocery that served the locals who needed a quick quart of milk or a six-pack, but no restaurant.

Dan pulled off the road and onto a driveway. Nestled among the foliage of the chaparral rose was a stucco building lit by outdoor floodlights. The cream-colored building nodded to Spanish architecture in its arched doorways and windows and reddish-brown tiled roof.

Dan cut the car's headlights and engine.

Emma frowned. “This looks like a house."

"It is.” He shifted in his seat and sought her gaze. “It's my house."

"Oh.” She widened her eyes. The tattoo of desire beating along her nerves arced, along with a spike of consternation. What had she set in motion? After the way she'd slept with him so quickly, did he see her as a cheap, easy lay?

"I hope this is okay.” He peered at her in the darkness. “I prepared dinner. I wanted to be alone with you."

Despite her reservations, her pussy released a gush of moisture. “Uh—” She desired time alone with him also, to explore the connection they seemed to have, but events had moved so fast, and she wanted him to respect her. Was it too late to slow down?

"Bad idea. We'll go to a restaurant.” Dan reached for the ignition.

Emma stilled his action with a touch of her hand. “No. This is good. I want...to be alone with you too."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

"Great.” He smiled, exited the vehicle, and bounded around to open her door. “Watch your step,” he cautioned and took her hand. “The walkway is flagstone."

"Got it,” she said huskily, focusing on his fingers entwining with hers. He held her gently, but she sensed the strength in his larger masculine hand. That he was so much stronger than she was shot straight to the core of her femininity. He made her feel desirable, protected. Her stomach fluttered.

The flagstone meandered to a terra-cotta-tiled porch. Two steps led to a rough-hewn front door, its rounded shape mimicking the arches of the house. Dan released her hand to open it.

"Oh my gosh!” She gasped at the panorama unveiled. Floor-to-ceiling sliding glass panels spanned a wall overlooking the valley. The city below glittered and sparkled in a fantasy display of lights. On the other side of the glass panels stretched a terraced patio, an engineering marvel perched over the canyon—primo balcony seating for the show of lights. She drank in the beauty, then noticed a table set for two.

"You weren't kidding about the great view,” she said.

"It sold me on the house. The front curb appeal is mediocre, but the patio appeal is impressive, if I do say so myself."

She arched her eyebrows. “Are you trying to impress me?” she asked lightly, although her heart raced in a serious way.

"You bet.” He nodded. “I'm pulling out the big guns."

His admission infused her with warmth that permeated every nook and cranny of her body.

"Can I take your purse?"

"Thanks.” She handed it over, and he hung her handbag on a foyer hall tree. Dan had left on a few lamps, and they cast a glow over golden walls, masculine, espresso-colored leather sofas, and stout tables, the kind that not only permitted a man to put his feet up, but encouraged it. He used his dining room as an office, a rough oaken door topped by a thick sheet of glass serving as his desk. Beyond the dining room workspace, she spied a kitchen tricked out with stainless steel appliances. Down the hall were several more rooms.

Bedrooms.

His bedroom.

She swallowed. “You're very neat and tidy,” she said.

"I keep it presentable, although I will admit before I left to get you, I rushed around lowering toilet seats and ensuring the paper was rolled over and not under.” He grinned. “It's the first door.” He pointed down the hall, then gestured toward the patio. “Why don't we go outside?” he suggested. “Would you like a glass of wine?"

"I'd love one."

He unlocked and slid back the two center glass panels and opened his living room to the outdoors. Emma followed him onto the terrace, where he lit a half dozen citronella candles to illuminate the area and ward off insect party crashers. Chardonnay chilled in a silver bucket, the cold condensing into droplets on the outside of the bottle. Readied beside it was a merlot, uncorked so it could breathe.

She moved to the metal-and-glass railing and peered out over the city. Twin trails of lights, red in one direction, yellow-white in the other, snaked along the freeway at the bottom of the canyon. She absorbed the fragrance of the flora—the sagebrush, manzanita, and scrub oak that clung to the hillside—a sweet, spicy scent that was at once exotic yet wholly homegrown.

She tucked a wayward strand of hair behind her ear and faced Dan as he approached. “I feel like I'm on stage. It's a little scary, though. Looks like a long way down.” She glanced over her shoulder.

"It's a ways to the floor of the canyon,” he agreed, “but the deck and railing are reinforced.” He handed her one of the two wineglasses he held, then gripped the top of the railing to shake it. It didn't budge a fraction. “You'd be hard pressed to bulldoze your way through it."