Bound to Please(22)

Fuck. A. Duck. Is that what she’d just agreed to? After last night, she’d had enough rock and roll to last the rest of her life! She began doodling skulls on her pad of paper. “It’s very fresh, very, um… hot.”

“And so when I saw the paper this morning, I knew you were just the person to call.”

She paused her doodling midcrossbone. “I’m sorry, what paper?”

“Oh, I guess you haven’t seen it. The SF Review. There’s a picture of you and Mark St. Crow at a bar. I didn’t know you two were such good friends.”

“Oh, shit.”

“Is something wrong?”

“Oh, it, it’s just that Mark really isn’t a friend of mine.” Just my one-night dom. “He’s really just an acquaintance; we’re not involved in any way.” Other than when I had him between my legs last night. “I mean, I’m not sure what the paper said, but I only met Mr. St. Crow last night.” And five minutes later I was begging him to fuck me.

She began scribbling large X’s across the skull.

“Don’t worry, gorgeous. I’m sure you’re just friends with the band.” But his tone had wink wink all over it. “But maybe you could ask him if they’d be interested in playing this private party?”

She wanted to say no. So badly. But the more high-end events she planned, the more successful her company would become. “Sure, James. I’ll see what I can do.”

Frowning, she flipped her phone closed. The last thing she wanted was a reason to call Mark. She wanted last night to remain a nice, naughty memory.

One night of craziness.

One night of bliss.

One night that would never, ever be repeated.

What she needed to do was focus on the fact that James Cleaver wanted another party. A spring fling. What she really wanted was to persuade him to have a spring fling with her. Maybe he was just too shy to ask her out on a real date.

Placing her phone back on the nightstand, she wondered what a sweet, vanilla guy like that would think of her posing for an erotic photographer.

Well, there wasn’t any reason he needed to know about it.

Which reminded her, she needed to make damn sure there weren’t any more pictures of her out there. Since he’d never shown up last night, she hadn’t been able to tell Ash off. She made a mental note to do so ASAP. Meanwhile, she needed to talk to Meg. They had an event to plan.

Ruby exited the taxi on union   Street, in front of a colorful and fragrant flower stand that had set up shop on a corner. Tilting her chin, she let the sun warm her skin.

She didn’t mind the San Francisco fog; it made clear days like this sparkle in comparison. Everything and everyone seemed so much more alive and vibrant, which was exactly how Ruby felt as she wound through the crowded sidewalk. Today Pacific Heights was busy with families pushing shiny ergonomic strollers and twenty-something women carrying shopping bags that looked as expensive as whatever contents lay inside.

Many of the cafés had placed tables outside on the sidewalks, and as Ruby walked toward Savor, she glanced at the patrons enjoying a meal in the sun. She smiled at a toddler attempting to scoop scrambled eggs into her mouth and nodded at two elderly, dapper men sipping from foamy white cups as they watched people walk by.

Just another normal day in San Francisco. But she felt anything but normal.

All morning she’d been wondering about Mark, wondering where he was. It was damn annoying, really, and, for the millionth time, she shook thoughts of him out of her head.

Instead she focused on the people around her. A couple sipping mimosas caught her eye. They had scooted their chairs very close together, so close they were touching shoulders. Their voices were low and their faces close together. Intimate. She’d never experienced that kind of obvious love, with Ash or any of the boyfriends she’d had before him. She was beginning to wonder if she was even capable of it.

Looking away, she picked up her pace. Two cafés later she found Meg sitting at a small metal table outside Savor.

“Hey, Megs.”

Meg stood and gave her a hug. “Hey, sweetie. I ordered your usual.”

Ruby hung her purse on the back of a wooden folding chair and sat down, trying not to wince. Her skin still showed crimson scratches from the hairbrush bristles, and her bottom was sore from the spanking Mark had so deftly given her. He hadn’t bruised her, but she was still red. Some part of her wanted to stay that way. Marked. It was the only connection she had with him, and she didn’t want it to fade. Each time she felt the pain she remembered exactly how those marks had gotten there, and each time she recalled the scene her heart skipped and her sex began to throb.