The Dangerous Hero Read online

  The drive to the Cape was pleasant. Again, she thought how strange it was that Stephen had been living just a few miles from her father’s place for the past year. She had been down here multiple times since her she'd started teaching at Whittacre. Stephen had been so close, but she had never known he was here.

  Of course, if she had known, it wouldn’t have made much difference. She had believed, after all, that he’d abandoned her nine years ago and never wanted to see her again.

  It still bothered her a little, the way that had happened. She had wanted to confront her father, and hear his side of the story, but Percy was out west, fishing with some of his good friends.

  She had spent some time during the week researching BDSM. In addition to informational websites and discussion forums, she found blogs of people relating their daily experiences with their partners. Some of the things people were into felt familiar, others were things she had never considered but found intriguing, and a few were so bizarre that she couldn’t imagine why anyone would want to do them.

  It didn’t take long to go into a state of information overload. Stephen had not been specific about what his desires were, and she was reluctant to examine her own too closely. Exciting or not, it made her uneasy.

  Towards the end of the week, it had occurred to her that she could probably get some information from her outrageous cousin Diana, who had long referred to herself as a sexual adventuress. If anyone knew about the kinky stuff, she was sure it would be Diana Adams. Her cousin was disarmingly frank and open, too—there was nothing she wasn’t willing to talk about, and she never passed judgment.

  "Oh my god, Vio, you’re dating someone in the scene? Dom or sub?"

  "Well, I’m the one who’s going to get tied up and spanked."

  "He knows what he’s doing, right? If you’re going to dabble in this, you need to make sure the guy knows how to play safely."

  "It sounds as if he has plenty of experience. He emphasized the safe, sane and consensual thing."

  "That’s good. How did you meet him? Was it through a trustworthy kinky community?"

  "No. I knew him when I was a teenager. We recently encountered each other, and our nine year old lust-fest started right up again. I didn’t know he was kinky until he confessed it to me."

  "Wow. Long-lost lovers?" Her cousin sounded wistful. "That’s so romantic. I wonder what ever happened to my high school honey. He was the love of my life."

  "C’mon, Diana, how many times have I heard you say that about some guy you just met?"

  "Yeah, I know, but it was really true about Francis. He spoiled me for everyone else. Sometimes I fantasize about hooking up with him again and everything being the same as it was."

  "Well, everything’s not the same as it was. When I knew Stephen nine years ago, he hadn’t yet morphed into Sir Stephen from The Story of O."

  "Whoa, Viola, I’m amazed that you’ve even heard of The Story of O."

  "I’m a literature professor, remember?"

  Diana laughed. She had a booming full-throated laugh, and it was impossible not to laugh with her. "So this guy, your personal Sir Stephen, does he have his own dungeon?"

  "I hope not," Viola had said, thinking of Bartholomew Giles.

  "If he doesn’t, you’ll probably have to go to clubs to try all the various equipment."

  "Clubs?"

  "BDSM clubs, yeah. A lot of cities have them. There are also private clubs, but you’ll need an invitation for those. Does this guy know people in the local scene?"

  "Probably, but I am not interested in going to any clubs. Bedroom only for me, thank you very much."

  "It kinda depends on the bedroom, girl. I suppose it could work if he’s installed a few hooks in the ceiling or on the walls, and maybe a spanking bench or a St Andrew’s Cross. He could keep all his whips and paddles and floggers in a cupboard, along with the gags and collars and harnesses, not to mention the butt plugs, nipple clamps, hot wax and the needles—"

  "Okay, stop. Do you go to these kinky clubs?"

  "I’ve been a few times. Not recently. The guy I’ve been seeing is vanilla. I had a sexy male slave for a few months once, but I got bored with the domme thing. I might like to try subbing, but I’ve never met anybody I trusted enough to top me." More soberly, her cousin added, "You should tell him what happened to you with that creep you married. I know it had nothing to do with sex, but it was traumatic and violent."

  "I’d really rather not. I hate to talk about it, or even think about it."

  "If he’s a safe, trustworthy dominant, he’ll want to know if there are any bombshells waiting to explode out of your past. Kink can be emotionally intense. Sometimes it triggers things. You should tell him. I’m serious."

  "I’ll consider it. We haven’t done anything too twisted, so it’s not an issue right now. He promised we'd take it slowly."

  "I know you want to put what happened behind you, but sometimes the only way to do that is to confront it, head on."

  Viola had changed the subject, as she always did when memories of her marriage intruded. But she knew Diana was right, and not just because of the probability that sex with Stephen would get a little rough. Intimacy meant being honest, and she had already lied to him once when he’d asked her about the scar. She hadn't wanted her nightmare thoughts about Derek’s brutality to mar the joy with Stephen. So instead of explaining how her marriage had ended, she had invented a fictitious car accident.

  The trouble was, she suspected he’d known she was making it up. She had never been a good liar. If he asked about it again, she'd have to tell him the truth.

  She didn't allow herself to focus too much on these dark thoughts—it wasn't in her nature to stay gloomy for long. Her interaction during the week with Stephen had been upbeat and lighthearted. They had spoken on the phone a couple of times and exchanged texts and email, and he excelled at making her laugh. She was sure they were going to have fun together this weekend.

  Viola wasn’t as familiar with this side of the Cape, and missed one turn before she found the quiet sloping road that led down toward the sea. She finally came to an old wooden sign that bore the name Silkwood. She turned into a sandy driveway that was covered with broken clam shells for traction.

  The driveway curved around and came upon the house with a suddenness that startled her. It was on a hill overlooking the sea. It was modern—built since he had begun making money on his books, she guessed. A gray clapboard saltbox, it had huge plate-glass windows and solar panels in the sharply angled roof. A low deck encircled the entire house. Beyond the building stretched sand dunes and the wide blue arc of Cape Cod Bay.

  There was a smaller structure at the end of the driveway. She presumed it was a garage. She wondered if he had more than one car, since his was parked outside that building. As she maneuvered her plebeian Honda beside his spiffy sports car, Stephen appeared on the deck. He smiled and waved. He was clad in cutoff blue jeans, a gray sweat shirt, and a pair of battered running shoes.

  He vaulted over the railing of the deck and landed easily below in the sand. When she climbed out of her car he was there at her side, holding open the door. She noticed a wealth of tiny details at once: the warmth in his green eyes, the dark sprinkles of hair on his forearms where his sleeves were rolled up, the strong, sculpted muscles in his powerful legs.

  "Hi," he said, grinning. "You're earlier than I expected."

  "The traffic was light."

  His eyes were sparkling, and a good-humored smile hovered about his sensuous, well-shaped lips. "Venturing alone into Bart’s creator’s lair with who knows what terrors awaiting you. You're a brave woman, Professor."

  "I’m on a mission to redeem old Bart. I figure, if I can make him take pity on me, maybe he’ll be kinder to his prisoners and torture them less."

  He laughed and pulled her to him for a long, lovely kiss. "I’m afraid you’ll fail at that. Bart is infamous for being pitiless, and he loves that rack of his."

  There was a clat
ter behind them and then a whirl of activity around their knees as a big, grinning dog came bounding over to investigate. "Rusty, no," Stephen said, laughing as the excited dog poked his nose into her crotch. "Sorry ‘bout that."

  Giggling, she squatted down to make friends and pet him. "He’s beautiful. What a lovely reddish gold coat. Hullo, Rusty, hullo, boy. Aren’t you the sweet puppy!"

  "He’s no puppy; he weighs about 50 pounds. Rusty, behave yourself! He’s shedding, I’m afraid, as usual. You’re going to get dog hair all over your clothes."

  "I don’t mind. How old is he?"

  "Just turned three. I got him from a shelter when he was about a year old. I think he’s part setter, too, which is why his coat is darker than purebred goldens."

  "He’s a beauty! D’you have a stick or something I can throw for him?"

  "Sure. You know the way to a dog’s heart. But why don’t you come up and see the house first."

  "Okay. Wait a little, Rusty, boy. Your master has a prior claim on me."

  Stephen laughed. "I knew it—I’m going to have to fight him for you." He glanced into the rear seat of her car. "Where's your suitcase? In the trunk?"

  "Yup." She straightened and tossed him the key. "It’s just a backpack, actually; I didn’t bring a lot of stuff."

  "You travel light, huh?" He retrieved her backpack, slinging it over one shoulder and offering her his hand. "Or did you rightly figure you wouldn’t need a lot of clothes?" He spoke the last phrase with an almost boyish grin. The sea breeze lifted his dark, curly hair at his brow. He was a strange combination of the youthful and the mature, she thought. He dressed like a college kid, yet there was a confidence about him that could only come with maturity.

  He led her up the flagstone path to the steps to the wide-planked deck. Rusty bounded along beside them. "The view’s better on this side," he said, leading her around to the ocean side of the building.

  "It's awesome," she said when she saw the smooth sands rolling down an incline to merge with the choppy sea. Green wisps of sand grass swelled back and forth on the dunes, ruffled by the stiff spring breeze. The air was clear and tangy. It was late afternoon now, and the sun was lowering in the western sky. "Is it a good place to write? I think I’d be distracted by the view and stare out the window all day instead of working."

  "That happens sometimes, but generally the sound of the waves calms me and helps me concentrate."

  He opened the sliding door to the living room, and they went inside. The room was a large, airy oblong, entirely walled by glass on the ocean side. It was thickly carpeted in beige, and the modern, low-slung furniture was covered in maroons, golds, and other autumn tones. A huge brick island separated the living area from a small, spotless kitchen hung with copper pots and other gourmet cooking utensils, from which a delicious aroma was emanating.

  "I’m making supper," he said, in response to her questioning look. "I have one of those slow cookers that I threw a bunch of stuff into. It won’t be ready for another hour or so."

  "It smells spicy. Is it some sort of Indian food?"

  "Yep. Spicy Indian curry—I hope you don’t mind hot."

  "I love spicy food. You like to cook?"

  "I like to eat, and I live alone, so I had to learn to cook. But I'm not fanatical about it." He cocked his head to one side. "I'm just trying to impress you, that's all."

  "You're succeeding. I'm a rotten cook myself." She looked again at the impeccable surroundings and added, "You're a better housekeeper than I am, too. I should have left my shoes outside. I must be tracking sand all over your spotless carpet."

  He laughed. "It's a good thing you didn't arrive any earlier, or you'd have caught me furiously vacuuming in your honor. Usually the place has more of that lived-in look. And Rusty’s hair will be all over everything again soon. Come on, I'll show you the rest."

  On that floor, besides the living room, dining room, and kitchen, which were demarcated by islands instead of walls, he showed her a bath and a small library with bookshelves on all four walls. Upstairs there were two bedrooms and another bath. He showed her into the front bedroom, over the living room. It had the same glass walls and magnificent view, but it was dominated by a heavy wooden bedstead that didn't fit the décor of the rest of the house. In fact, it wouldn’t have looked out of place in one of Elizabeth I’s palaces.

  "This is my room," he said, his voice neutral but his eyes inviting. He tossed her backpack on a chair in the corner.

  She cast a surreptitious glance at the walls and ceiling. No hooks. No oddly shaped pieces of furniture. No gigantic mirrors. No erotic art on the walls. Granted, the massive four-poster bedstead probably provided ample opportunities for restraining somebody, but it didn’t have ropes or straps hanging from it. "That’s a monster bed. Does it have a little plaque on it saying ‘Shakespeare slept here’?"

  "You'll like it. Although once you’re trapped within those bedposts, don’t expect to be leaving in a hurry."

  Her entire body seemed to flush. "You’ve been enjoying your fantasies," she teased.

  "Guilty as charged."

  She pretended to retreat. But she was acutely conscious of the looming bed, and of the way his sea-green eyes, darkened by passion, were inviting her to lie down with him there. "What was that about supper?"

  "Forget supper. It won’t be ready for a while." He came up against her and possessively ran a hand over her. His other arm encircled her waist and pulled her close. "I want you. Right now. I couldn't sleep last night, imagining you here, in my house, in my bed. The things we would say, the things we would do. Kiss me."

  She did, gladly. Stephen backed her to the bed and pressed her down, sitting beside her as he deepened the kiss. From the doorway, Rusty barked softly at them. "Is he going to watch?"

  "Probably. He’ll soon get bored, though. Rusty. Be a good dog and go amuse yourself. Lie down. Lie down, boy."

  Instead of obliging, Rusty trotted into the room, tail wagging furiously, sat down beside the bed, and offered Stephen his paw.

  "He’s obedient isn’t he?" she laughed. "And here I was worrying that the big, scary BDSM master might try to dominate me. But if your dog won’t even obey you…"

  "Oh, wow, lady, you’re asking for it now. Rusty, fetch me my nastiest whip."

  Rusty must have understood the word "fetch" because he bounded away, nosed under the chair where Stephen had deposited her backpack, and retrieved a tennis ball, which he triumphantly brought to his master, tail thumping.

  Stephen broke up. He took the ball, caressed the dog, rose, and threw the toy out the door into the hall. Before Rusty could get back with it, he gently closed the bedroom door. "Go to sleep, boy. We’re busy."

  Despite the heavy four-poster and Stephen’s laughing threats, there was nothing unusual about their lovemaking. It happened much too fast for sophisticated role play. No sooner had they stretched out on the bed together than they began tearing at each other’s clothes in a kind of frenzied desperation. She practically crawled under his shirt, and he didn’t even bother with hers. Rough denim pants and silky underwear were tossed on the floor, but the rest of their things stayed on, forgotten. He stopped only long enough to jerk on a condom before plunging inside her.

  She was so slick that he slid in smoothly and easily while her hips arched to welcome him, flesh to flesh, bone to bone. In seconds, they both moaning, clutching one another tightly, nails biting into skin, mouths sealed in hot, frantic kisses. They writhed together fiercely as their merged bodies strove to obliterate the physical boundaries separating male from female.

  It was too intense to last for more than a couple of minutes, but it was long enough. Viola seemed to be melting in pleasure as her orgasm came on; there was a moment of absolute bliss just before the delicious pulsations began. He finished just after her, his body rigid, his heartbeat slamming into her chest.

  Damp with sweat, they were still joined when they both started to laugh. "Damn, we’re like horny teenagers," he sai
d. "This would be embarrassing if it didn’t feel so amazingly good."

  "It’s crazy good."

  "I didn’t plan this, you know. I didn’t intend to jump your bones as soon as you set foot in my house."

  "Sure you didn’t."

  "Hey, I’m way more suave and sophisticated than that."

  This set her off again giggling.

  "I do confess that I’ve been looking forward to this all week. It’s been hard to work on my novel because I kept getting distracted by memories of last weekend and plans for everything I’d do with you this weekend."

  "What sort of plans? Sailing? Windsurfing? Beach volleyball?"

  "All of the above. Now that I’ve got you here, though, I think I’ll just keep you prisoner here in bed."

  "Ha! So you’re addicted to sex, are you?"

  "If so I’m not gonna apologize. Are you addicted to anything?"

  "Books and chocolate."

  "Hard to criticize those vices."

  "It has to be dark chocolate. Preferably imported from Belgium or Switzerland. Not too sweet—a little bitter and velvety as it melts on the tongue."

  "I’m taking notes for the Good Boyfriend app on my smartphone. Velvety dark chocolate, check. What are your favorite flowers?"

  "Tulips. There’s a Good Boyfriend App?" She was laughing openly again.

  "If there isn’t, there should be. An alarm goes off on birthdays and important anniversaries, and there’s a little Google map of the female anatomy so you know exactly where to flick your tongue during oral sex."

  She pulled his head down to hers and kissed him. His lips were velvety, yummy as her chocolate. "Trust me, you don’t need one of those."

  Chapter 11

  "I thought I might try one or two of those things we talked about when I take you to bed tonight," Stephen said.

  "One or two of those deviant things, you mean?"