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He would have gotten her to come quickly and then teasingly punished her with the leather slapper for coming too soon.
He would have made her shudder again and, after she fell asleep, woken her gently and done it again.
He would have kissed the welts that rose on her ass, pulled her on top of him, and fallen asleep with her body covering his.
He did none of those things.
It was not right to be playful or loving with her; she wanted neither.
But her intensity—he would not, as long as he lived, forget the sounds she made or how her body shuddered when she came, or how she squeezed and pulsed around him. He got hard whenever he thought about it, like there was a direct line between the image of her in his mind and the pre-cum seeping from his cock.
A guy with an airline logo on his navy sweater strode past him to the podium and made an announcement he didn’t really hear.
Airport. Public space. Stop the instant replay.
He had not left her alone so fast last night. When they finished fucking, she still wanted him to smack her with the leather slapper he had bought—thank you, internet and overnight delivery. What they were doing had taken her somewhere else.
Instead of getting dressed and putting the toys back in his bag, he laid on the rug behind her and propped himself on his elbow so he could keep an eye on her.
Miracle of miracles, she had leaned back against him. Well, not exactly against, but close enough. He held still, fighting the urge to put his arm around her, to pull her closer, to do anything that might disturb their delicate equilibrium or break one of her rules.
While they lay there still and quiet, he remembered the call from earlier.
“Hey,” he had said, giving her shoulder two delicate taps to ease the intrusion of talking. “Leigh left me a message today. She said you might be in touch about your book. She asked me to help you brainstorm . . . or whatever you need.”
Quinn snickered, likely for the same reason he had. Tying her up, blindfolding her, smacking her ass until welts rose—probably not the help Leigh had in mind. “I called her to get your number.”
“I would never say anything. About this, us. I’ll tell her whatever you want me to tell her. But I do want to help if I can. With writing, I mean. We can talk through ideas or . . .”
She nodded and, another miracle, told him what was going on.
The publisher was pressuring her for a draft, at least some early pages, after she missed their extended deadline.
“I can’t do it. It’s just not there. And now they want to have some ridiculous meeting.”
It was the most she’d spoken to him since the movie set, and he loved hearing her words, her voice.
“When’s the meeting?”
“Next Thursday.”
“Can you reschedule?”
He was coming home from his trip that day. “I could go with you, help bat around the ideas and maybe take some of the heat off you. They would know we’ve worked together onMarket Day; it wouldn’t necessarily seem weird that I was there.”
The muscles around her shoulder stiffened, which told him itwouldseem weird—to her.
He touched her upper arm, brushing her skin lightly with the side of his thumb, a tiny reassuring gesture he made gingerly, without engaging his other four fingertips or, he hoped, violating any boundaries.
She had not pulled away.Bingo.
“That’s okay. I can handle it. I have to.” She looked over her shoulder at him, one of the few times since the start of their arrangement, or whatever this was, that she had looked directly at him and not at something beyond him.
It was all he could do not to lean down, stroke her cheek, and kiss her.
She was upset about the meeting, and he wouldn’t be in town to do anything for her. Maybe at least she and Leigh could spend a decent day in the city—have a glass of wine at a nice café, duck into a museum, see a Broadway show, people-watch from a park bench.
It might not be spanking or screwing, but he hoped she could enjoy a pleasant summer afternoon in Manhattan.
