Playing the Game (13 page)

He wanted to watch her sleep? She stifled a yawn, considering. Nothing urgent to do today. And she
was
tired. Henry was looking out for her best interests, as a friend. Wasn’t that what she’d been so worried about losing?

She nodded. “I’ll stay, then.”

He nodded in return, raising a single eyebrow. “You do realize, of course, that were now a contract-specified time, I could demand you do exactly that, and you would be obliged to do so unless you chose to use your safeword.”

As he walked away, she slid down until she lay curled on her side. He could order her to sleep. To do anything, truthfully, sexual or nonsexual, for the five hours between seven and midnight every other Friday night, unless the contract explicitly forbade it.

The thought distressed her less than she’d feared it might. An oddly soothing thought, in fact. Within minutes, classical music and the clink of cutlery and dishes merged into a lullaby that sent her drifting toward sleep.

Chapter 5

Friday dragged with all the speed of water rolling uphill. Work on the new project hadn’t ramped up yet, which left her sitting at her desk studying vague design notes and thinking of nothing so much as seven PM. She had no idea of what to expect. None.

Was she an idiot for agreeing to this? Christ, she’d handed over so much intimate information that Henry now knew her better than any of her previous lovers. Better than she did, maybe.

Yeah, and he made it good before he had any of that information.
Oh God. She’d die tonight. He’d kill her with great sex.

When five o’clock arrived, she sped from her office to the T stop. Craned her neck and stared down the track, willing the rattling old train to hurry. Skipped a seat in favor of standing, rocking in the rush hour crush, all to save those few precious seconds and be the first out the door at her stop. She ran the four blocks home like she’d left the iron on. The stairs slowed her steps but not her anticipation.

An envelope graced the center of her door. A dot of cream atop dark-stained oak.

She forced herself to walk. If she ran, Henry and Jay might take note of her thudding footsteps.

She’d found Henry’s favored communication style quaint at first. Why leave her handwritten notes when he could text her like Jay did? But the charm couldn’t be denied. She’d long since admitted to herself she enjoyed his thoughtfulness. The pile of notes taking up space in the vanity he’d loaned her proved it.

Henry’s flowing script formed her first name across the front of the envelope. Was he canceling? Utter panic.

She snatched the envelope free, wrestled with her key in the lock and managed to get inside. Whereupon she dropped her bag and herself to the floor.

The letter contained no greeting, no salutation. The first line was merely this:

Breathe, Alice.

My intent is to alleviate your concerns, not to alarm you. I would like you relaxed–though not too relaxed, hmm?–when you present yourself this evening.

Eat lightly, if at all. Bathe or shower, as you prefer. Whatever emotions you feel, allow yourself to feel them fully. When you come to me, you will not hide.

Do not engage in any sexual stimulation, Alice. Those actions properly belong to me tonight.

Wear a sundress. The white with the red hibiscus blossoms you wore in May when we attended the concert in the park, please. Leave your hair down.

We’ll see you promptly at 7, my dear.

H.

Her first thought was to thank God he wasn’t canceling. Her second was that it was nearly six, and she had exactly seventy-three minutes to get ready.

Relaxed, right. If she even managed it, a huge fucking “if,” she’d get excited all over again the instant he opened the door.

Shaving her legs in the shower, she nicked herself as his instruction registered. He remembered the specific dress she’d worn on a friendly night out three months ago?

The invitation hadn’t been romantic. Henry hadn’t wanted to go alone, and Jay had never enjoyed sitting still for two hours. A free classical concert, with amateur community musicians, in the park less than six blocks from their building. She’d kept the note. He’d mentioned how much fun they’d had at the museum for his birthday and what a lovely student she made and did she want to expand her art education to music as well? Nothing sexual about it.

Except now he wanted her to wear that dress. For a sex thing. A sex thing in which he was, for all intents and purposes, her instructor. What had he said the other night, after…
after he bent me over the table and fucked me?
Right, after that. Something about Jay being interested in her from day one.

Had Henry been evaluating her this whole time to see if she’d make a suitable playmate for his lover? And now he’d train her to be one? Expand her education.

She took her time drying off, leaving her hair loose, and dug through her underwear drawers for a matching set. The black ones had been her best, but Henry still had the bottoms. They wouldn’t have worked under the white dress anyway. Somewhere in the drawer had to be–ah-ha. White satin demicup and matching panties with lace trim. If he took those, too, he’d better start replacing them, or she’d show up in cotton three-packs from a discount store.

Calm descended as she dressed. He’d asked for this outfit, and whatever his reasons, the request comforted her. She couldn’t go wrong by following his instructions. She wouldn’t spend the night wondering if her clothing flattered her, if she’d reel in her date, because this wasn’t a date and the sex was guaranteed.

The mirror was kind as she did her last look. The white linen dress was heavy enough to hide the outline of her underthings, but still flowing. The red sandals matched the blossoms scattered across the dress, and so did the touch of lipstick she’d put on. Her hair grazed her shoulders, hanging straight and flat, as he’d asked.

She was ready.

Butterflies chewed at her stomach. She was so not ready for this.
But I want to be.

* * * *

Seven o’clock. She counted the eight steps to their door, raised her hand and rapped twice.

The door opened, and Henry stood before her with a welcoming smile broad enough to show his teeth.

“Alice. It’s lovely to see you, my dear. I’m delighted you could make it this evening.” He stretched out his hands.

She took them automatically, allowing him to pull her inside.

He set her purse beside the men’s keys and phone chargers on the side table and closed the door. His left hand stayed fused to her right.

“I’ve saved a place just this way.” He led her into the living room, his feet bare beneath white linen trousers and a soothing blue shirt, untucked, the color of a dusky sky fading into night.

She followed, keenly aware of the clasp of his hand.

Her eyes widened. The living room furniture had been pushed aside to create an open expanse of floor. At the center lay a checkered blanket with pillows, a picnic basket, and Henry’s sandals lying near the edge.

“Sit, Alice, please.” He lowered her to the blanket.

She tucked her legs beside herself, her back ruler-straight, and willed herself to relax as he settled next to her.

He flipped open the picnic basket and withdrew a cut flower. A fresh hibiscus blossom. Red. On a comb.

“It matches my dress,” she blurted.
Way to state the obvious.

He smiled and tucked the comb over her right ear, pulling some of her hair back to hold it in place. “So it does, my dear. I must let the other concertgoers know you’re my girl, mustn’t I? It’s traditional.”

When he drew his hand back, his knuckles skated across her cheek. The anxiety in her ebbed, a new, more pleasant tension flowing in to replace it.

He was treating this like a date. A concert in the park with Henry. Familiar and unfamiliar, because now his attention was more than friendly, raising an awareness in her skin that these touches meant something. The arousal they woke wasn’t accidental or unwanted. He intended to cause such a reaction in her.

“Now, the musicians”–he tapped one finger against the stereo remote lying beside the picnic basket, and she smiled–”aren’t quite ready to begin, which gives us a few moments to take care of important matters, Alice.”

She nodded despite her uncertainty over what those matters would be. He couldn’t have more questions, not after his exhaustive interrogation last week. Maybe he’d tell her where Jay was.

“You recall your safeword from the other night?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Tell it to me now, please, Alice.”

“Pistachio.” Silly. As if Henry would become some abusive monster she needed to stop.

He studied her for a long moment. “Something’s on your mind, some question, perhaps. Tell me.”

“I just…don’t see why it’s necessary.”

“The safeword?”

“Yeah. I mean, I trust you. I don’t think you want to hurt me or anything. And why does it have to be a special word? Why can’t we use ‘no’ or ‘stop’?”

His calm nod made it seem he’d expected her questions.

“Because eventually you may wish to play games in which you are free to say ‘no’ or ‘stop’ all you like and have me continue despite your pleas. When you feel safe enough to allow
me
to determine your limits. At that point, should a difficulty arise, you will need to have trained your subconscious mind to recognize your safeword and deliver it in an instant. So I will ask you each time we play, Alice. Now, tell me your safeword.”

“Pistachio.”

“Good girl. And when will you use it?”

She paused to consider her answer as he watched her.

“Whenever I feel like things need to stop.”

“Good. And will you be afraid to use it?”

“No.” That was an easy answer. She’d never be afraid of Henry. “Because you want me to feel safe, and you won’t be angry with me if I need to stop.”

“Wonderful. I think we’re ready to play now, hmm?”

He made an adjustment on the remote, and music played. Light and flowing.

Violins, she thought, though she didn’t recognize the piece. She turned to ask, but he’d anticipated her.

“Dvorak,” he murmured. “
Serenade for Strings
, my dear.”

He leaned in and placed his lips against hers. A soft kiss. Undemanding. Gone too soon.

He removed items from the picnic basket and poured white wine, handing her a glass, half-full.

She sipped. A light flavor, like melon for breakfast.

Henry held a cracker to her lips, and she ate. Herbs and creamy cheese, with a hint of sharpness at the end.

A small white cube next. Sweet. Juicy. Buttery. A pear.

Another kiss, this time with his tongue swiping across her lips. He pulled away as soon as she parted them.

“Nothing to fear, is there, Alice? Some cause for eagerness, hmm?”

She smiled, meeting his eyes with her own. He’d relaxed her effortlessly. “Yes, Henry.”

“Lovely.” He reached into the picnic basket. “Then let’s heighten the experience, shall we?”

His hand emerged with something thin and black, which he brushed across her arm. Soft fabric. Padded. He held it up.

“A blindfold?” None of her previous lovers had been creative enough to try one, but she’d closed her eyes during sex before. How different could it be?

“You’ll find it easier to enjoy the concert if you aren’t distracted, my dear.”

Oh. Right. He was building this date fantasy for her, maybe because he thought she’d be uncomfortable otherwise. She nodded, slipping a teasing note into her voice when she replied. “We wouldn’t want me distracted.”

“Mmm. No. We want you very focused. In all of the right places.” Henry adjusted the strap around the flower with care as he settled the blindfold over her eyes.

Fabric rustled, soft beneath the strings playing through the stereo, and shifting air raised the delicate hairs on her arms. Henry had moved, but where? She opened her eyes. Her lashes brushed padded darkness. The blindfold closed off all light.