Indulgence (116 page)

So cut and dried. I’m wondering if the document would stand
up in court, and I remember that Mr. Augustino was a very, very successful
trial lawyer before he retired. If he drew up the documents, they’re most
likely iron-clad and unbreakable. Using a white grease pencil, I write on the
corset while she dresses, then lock the door after I’ve seen her out.

I’m cleaning off the workbench when I find a flyer that was
stuck in the door one day from a pizzeria down the street, Rudolfo’s. On it is
a picture of a calzone, and they’re half price for the month. I don’t really
want to eat, but that’s a pretty good deal and it does look really good, or at
least the picture anyway, so I order one. The damn things are probably huge,
but I don’t have to eat the whole thing – I can eat just a few bites if I want.
The bathroom sink gets a quick once-over, and I pour some bowl cleaner in the
toilet, then go back out front and putter around in the shop while I wait. The
buzzer heralds the arrival of the mighty calzone, so I pick up my wallet and
head for the door to pay. But when I yank it open, I get quite the surprise.

The man standing there holding the box isn’t one of the
teenagers who usually delivers to the building. This man has a strong jaw, full
lips, and dark eyes and brows. The headful of shaggy, dark hair matches the
scruff on his jaws, and he reeks of sex and possibility. And he’s no child
either; he has to be at least forty, possibly older, with just the tiniest
touch of gray at his temples. Is this their new tack to get more tips for their
employees? Because it’s damn sure gonna work on me. I’m betting this calzone is
going to cost me forty bucks, and I don’t even care. All I manage to stammer
out is, “Wha-a-a-a-at do I owe you?”

“Nothing. On the house.” He reaches outward with the box and
I reach toward it but just as my hands touch the box, he snatches it back and
laughs. Then he extends his right hand. “Hi. I’m Jasper.” At my blank
expression, he adds, “Jasper Givens? Your two o’clock?” I’m trying to speak,
but no sound is coming out, and I’m feeling more awkward by the minute.
Finally, he says, “May I come in?”

Like an idiot, I manage to squeak out, “Yeah, um, sure, uh,
come on in, sir. So sorry. I’m, um . . .”

“Kimberly, I presume?” I nod mutely, like a five year old. “Pleasure
meeting you.” He strides across the room to put down the box, and I can’t help
but watch his firm ass in those tailored chinos. Holy shit. And I’m going to
ask him to strip down so I can measure him? I’m in deep doo, no doubt about it.
“By the way, I paid for the calzone when I saw the kid standing there at the
door with it. My treat.”

“Th-th-th-thanks, sir.” Wow. I sound so fucking intelligent
right now. Einstein’s daughter. “Um, so, they’re so big that there’s plenty.
I’d be glad to share it with you, sir.” Heat washes over my face and I’m sure
it’s flaming red.

“Nah. Thanks, but I just had lunch. You go ahead. I’ve got
time.” He looks around. “Mind if I sit?”

“Oh, god, sorry. So stupid of me. Sure, please, have a seat,
sir.” I don’t want to get too close because I’m sure he could feel the heat of
total mortification radiating from my skin. “Would you care for something to
drink?”

“That would be great! Got bottled water?”

Ah – a health nut. “Sure. Here.” I hand him a bottle out of
my little refrigerator, then take one for myself before settling on the other
stool at the countertop and opening the box. I have to say, I’m guessing
Rudolfo’s outdid themselves this time. It’s huge and smells amazing. I cut it
in half and start on the first portion. It’s absolutely packed with gooey
melted cheese and pepperoni.

I’ve gotten about three bites in and realize he’s watching
me. After my next bite, he says, “Ummmmm, that looks really good. Mind if I
change my mind about sharing?”

Sounding way too much like an eighth grader for comfort, I
wheeze out, “Oh, no, sir! Go right ahead! I’m glad to share.” I reach over to
my stack of paper plates for one, then plop the other half of the calzone on
it.

“I’m not sure I can eat all of this!” he laughs.

“Doesn’t matter. Please eat it or it’ll be thrown away.” Now
I’m wondering if Michael put him up to this, and then I remember: That couldn’t
be. Michael couldn’t possibly have known I’d order food. Hell, even I couldn’t
imagine that I would.

“You’d better snatch it,” he says around a mouthful. “This
is delicious. I wouldn’t mind having a whole one for myself.” He looks at the
box. “Rudolfo’s. Is that far from here? I’m not familiar with the city yet.”

“Right down the block, sir.” I’m chewing and trying to talk
at the same time, covering my mouth with my hand. “You should get Michael to
show you around. He knows it like the back of his hand.”

He shakes his head. “I’d rather have a prettier guide.” Then
he stops and stares off into space. “I don’t really have time to wander around
anyway. Work takes up most of my time.”

“You managed to get here today,” I point out.

“True.” Then he grins. “Maybe you’ll show me around
sometime.”

Oh, god, I’d love that,
my inner slut wheezes out.
Then I remember: Client. Don’t mix business with pleasure. And oh what pleasure
it would be. Visceral doesn’t even begin to describe my reaction to his
presence. That would best be described as flat-out turned on. Trying to think
of something to take my mind off the bulge in the front of his slacks, I turn to
Alexander and the other night. Nope. That’s not working either. Then I remember
why he’s here in the first place. “So, sir, what did you have in mind? Zippers?
Laces?”

He crushes the empty paper plate in half and looks around
for the trash, but I take it out of his hands and to the can as he answers
with, “Zippers. I’d like a pair in black and a pair in brown. And I want the
brown ones to be wider boot cut. I have westerns that I wear from time to
time.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And quit calling me sir.”

“Yes, si . . . um, okay.”

“Why do you keep calling me that?”

I shrug. “Because you’re obviously a Dominant. And I’m
obviously . . .”

“Pretty caught up in the lifestyle. I am too, but I don’t
expect that from every submissive I see. Only from
my
submissive.”
There’s not a hint of a smile on his face with that statement.

“Yes, si . . . of course. Yes.” I’m not sure what to say
now. Then I decide a little fishing’s in order. “So do you also need a corset
for your submissive? Because I make very nice corsets in all colors and . . .”

“So I’ve heard. And no, no corset. I don’t have a sub. Not
right now anyway. I have had in the past, but, well, it was somewhere between
‘absence makes the heart grow fonder’ and ‘familiarity breeds contempt.’ In the
end, familiarity won.” Does he mean for himself or for her? Since I don’t dare
ask, it’s fortuitous for me that he adds, “Apparently I’m an object of
contempt.”

“Oh, sir, I don’t think you’d ever be . . .”

He stops me with a raised palm. “You don’t know me. Looks
can be deceiving.” Then he looks me up and down like he’s picking out a
Christmas tree before he speaks. “I’m guessing if I told you I wanted you to do
the measurements and fittings bare-breasted, you’d comply, would you not?”

Oooooo, god, if only. “Well, sir, you
are
a Dominant,
and I
am
a submissive, and . . .”

“And you need to learn who is worthy of your service and
submission and who is not.” His eyes bore a hole into me that I’m sure is
smoldering like a volcano crater. “I understand from Michael that you spend
some time at the club.”

“Yes, si . . . yes. I do.”

“I also understand that you’re quite the little pain slut.”
There’s no gleam in his eye, no smile, not even a smirk. His face is just
passive.

“Yes. That’s correct.” He twiddles with a pencil on the
counter for a bit while I work up the courage to ask, “So what exactly is your
specialty?”

“Me?” Dropping the pencil, he stands and walks to the
window, taking in the view of the city from my perch. Before he speaks, he
crosses his arms and his biceps flex, to my delight. “High-level restraint and
suspension.” He turns to look at me over his shoulder. “Some punishment and
discipline, but not much. I like to bind a submissive creatively, suspend them
just right, and then fuck the hell out of them. But I suppose you wouldn’t be
interested in anything like that, now would you?”

The throbbing of my clit is like a pump in an oil field,
pumping my wetness out to flood my slit. Holy hell. How do I answer that
question? Fuck yeah, I’d be interested. Wouldn’t I? Would I? Now I’m really
confused. I want pain, but right this second I just really want this guy’s
hands all over me. His cock in me would just be a bonus and, from the looks of
things, a big bonus as well. My mind is rolling through all of the possible
ways I could answer his question when he says, “Well, okay, down to business.
How do you do this?”

“Um, uh, well,” I manage to stammer. He grins at me, and I
feel that rush of heat across my cheeks and down my neck again. “I usually have
the guys slip off their slacks and measure in their underwear.”

“Uh-oh. I’m commando.” That would absolutely be my undoing
right there. I’m screwed. As the wave of panic takes hold, he laughs. “Just
kidding! Just kidding, really. No problem.” He looks around. “Got a dressing
room?”

“Oh, yeah, sure. Right through there. I’ll do the measuring
back there. I mean, the door’s locked and all, but still . . .”

“Thanks for the consideration of my privacy.” Strolling
toward the dressing room doorway, he calls back, “I’ll call out when I’m
ready.”

“Sure thing.” I want to die. I want to hide under the table,
change my name, move to a different city, kill off my phone number. Humiliation
lives large with me right now. I don’t know how I’m going to go in there and
measure him so close to his, well, attributes, without coming apart at the
seams. Uh-oh. Sewing clichés. I’m coming apart pretty fast.

“Okay. Ready.”

I grab my tape measure, pad, and pencil, and head that way.
It takes everything I have to say nothing when I step through the doorway and
see him standing there. Guarding my facial expressions is more work than I’ve
done in five years. He’s left his tee shirt on and he’s standing there in his
socks and briefs. If that’s not a ball bat in his shorts, I don’t know what the
hell it is. Sure, my brain is exaggerating it – I know that – but it’s still
lip-smacking impressive. I just place my pad and pencil in the chair, unroll my
tape, and kneel down to take the first measurement.

And I’m stopped short when his hands wind into my hair, but
as quickly as they do, they disappear and he gasps. Did I do something wrong?
He murmurs out, “Oh, my god, I’m so sorry.”

“No, it’s okay, really,” my voice says in reassurance, but
it’s shaky, and I know he can hear the tremor.

“It’s just that when a woman kneels in front of me, I’m
accustomed to it being . . . oh, never mind.” Now
he’s
blushing.

“No, perfectly all right. Don’t worry about it.” Can he see
my hands trembling? Feel the heat rolling off my skin? He’s a Dominant. Can he
pick up on how nervous I am? Every ounce of strength I have is called into play
to keep me on track as I measure and write, measure and write. And even though
I don’t want it, I need the feel of his hands in my hair again, crave it.

Neither of us says anything – I didn’t know how awkward
taking someone’s measurements could be until now. I force myself to keep my
eyes averted from his crotch, but I want to look so badly that I’m feeling
lightheaded. My eyes keep trying to wander there, but I hold them hostage to
the tape measure and note pad. The whole time I’m wondering: Is he looking down
at me? Staring off into nothing? Thinking about me the way I’m thinking about
him? I’m pretty sure the last one is a no. As Phil was so quick to point out at
his exit, I’m now a
woman of a certain age
. We’re hags; they’re
distinguished. I got the message loud and clear. It’s a sure bet that Jasper
Givens is staring at the ceiling, praying for this to be over. And at this very
moment, he interrupts my reverie with, “Are you about finished?”

“Yes, si . . . um, yes, I am.” And his next words make my
heart skip three beats.

“Good. It’s getting harder and harder to keep from touching
you.”

A shrieking sets itself up in my head, and I want him gone.
If he doesn’t leave soon, I’m going to do some things I’m going to regret later
on, things that Michael and Robyn will probably throttle me for, damn it.
Keep
it together, Kimberly
, I catch myself reciting in my head, and I’m finally
finished. I reach for something to put my hand on to help myself up from
crouching, and in a smooth, gasp-worthy move, he takes it and helps me to my
feet. Once standing, I find myself looking directly into his eyes.

Not what I’d intended. At all.

But it’s like I’m mesmerized, and I can’t tear my eyes from
his. In my peripheral vision I can see him lick his lips, and then he simply
says, “Thank you.”

Please, let him lean in and kiss me. Please, let him wrap
his arms around my waist and pull me close. I know I shouldn’t want that, but I
do, damn it, I do.
And before I can process my thoughts completely, he
drops my hand and smiles.

And the spell is broken. Ever the good sub, my eyes drop to
the floor, and I turn and pick up my pencil, paper, and tape, the ones I’d been
holding in my hands and dropped when our eyes locked. Apparently the heat and
redness are to be permanent fixtures when he’s around, my cheeks burning like
they’ve been scalded, and I can’t turn away and leave the dressing room fast
enough. I’m at the work table, laying things out and organizing the
measurements I took, when he comes out, dressed and straightened up as though
nothing had happened in there. And in reality, nothing had. It was all in my
mind, obviously. “Well, do you need anything else from me?”