On the Razor's Edge of Paradise Read online

  Huffing indignantly, I typed, No, I will not.

  Promise?

  All I sent him was "…"

  I'm anxious to talk to you—Sharon said we had a lot in common.

  Oh, hell no! She didn't tell him that! She wouldn't!

  But then I considered the source, and I knew I couldn't put it past her.

  Taking my dignity in my hands, my heart pounding painfully in my throat, I typed, you mean the D/s thing?

  There was an inordinately long pause before he responded, and I died a little inside with each second that ticked by—and the kill shot was his very vanilla response.

  Uh, no—she mentioned that you'd visited England and that you're an Anglophile. I spent a lot of time there when I was younger. She also said you're into archeology and Egyptology and that you're a fan of Game of Thrones and Breaking Bad. I think we have pretty much all of that in common.

  I couldn't swallow. I couldn't breathe. What the fuck had I done?

  Forget the mild shaking I'd noticed when I'd picked up the phone. When I put the phone down, I was practically vibrating with humiliation, knowing that was it, that I couldn't talk to him anymore, that there'd be no dinner Saturday, and that I'd have to make damned sure I never saw him again, having so totally and completely embarrassed myself.

  The text chime was ringing furiously and the phone was buzzing like mad with each message as it lay face down on my end table, but I just stood there, watching it, as if it was a poisonous snake poised to strike.

  And when the phone began to ring—my generic tone, which is the "ooga chucka ooga ooga ooga chucka" from the beginning of Hooked on a Feelin'—I just checked out completely and went to take a shower, completely unable to deal with what I'd done.

  When I finally wandered back to my chair—in a pair of comfy flannel pjs, just like Sharon had accused me of having—to pick up my phone, there were thirteen missed messages and seven missed phone calls.

  The messages all said one thing, in capital letters: PICK. UP. THE. PHONE.

  All except the last one, which read: If you don't pick up the phone, I'm going to call Sharon, get your address, tell her exactly why I want it because you know she's going to ask, and then I'm coming over there.

  The last call was three minutes ago.

  "Please don't let him be talking to Sharon. Please don't let him be talking to Sharon," I prayed. Out loud.

  And then the phone rang again while it was in my hand, and I couldn't possibly press "accept" fast enough.

  He didn't even let me say hello.

  "Are you sitting down?"

  Confused, I asked, "What?"

  "Are you sitting down?" Man, he had stern down to a lethal level!

  "Yes." Why was the title Sir on the tip of my tongue?

  "Good. I know you're mortified and embarrassed and all of that, but there's no need for you to be."

  I laughed. I actually laughed in his ear. "No? Do tell."

  "Okay, I will. Because I'm a Dom, and you're a sub."

  I was immediately suspicious. "Did you call Sharon while I was in the shower?"

  "You took a shower instead of answering my calls or my texts?"

  Correction. He wasn't a Dom, he was a DOM.

  "I took a shower because my face was so red I thought I was going to pass the fuck out. And you're not my Dom, and therefore, I have no obligation to answer your calls, so yeah, I took a shower."

  I could hear him breathing, slowly and deliberately, but he wasn't saying anything, as if he wanted to get himself under control before doing so.

  "Did you call Sharon?" I pressed.

  "I'd just gotten into my car, and I was about to when you picked up."

  I was amazed! "You're in your car, on your way to you have no idea, to see me because I made a fucking idiot of myself?"

  In answer, he tooted his horn.

  "You'd revealed a lot more about yourself in that text than I bet you're comfortable with, and you'd gone all incommunicado, so, yes, I was definitely going to call Sharon and get your address and show up on your doorstep."

  "To what, kill me from embarrassment in person?"

  I could feel him collecting himself before he responded. "So that I could do nothing more than reassure myself that you were all right."

  I drew a deep breath, trying to calm myself and not having much luck at it. "Well, when you put it like that—"

  He didn't laugh. If I was his, I might have worried that I was in trouble at that.

  "And are you?"

  "Are I what?" I really wasn't trying to be obtuse—I just wasn't thinking well. Things had gotten way out of hand, and I was in uncharted territory here, and that always made me nervous.

  "Are you all right?"

  I shrugged, not that he could see it. "Yeah, I guess."

  "Don't guess, Isabella. Be sure, because I'm still in my car."

  "Go back in your house, for crying out loud! I'm fine," I lied baldly.

  "Only if you tell me that you're still coming to dinner."

  I let the silence reign heavily between us, until I heard his car engine roar to life.

  "Stop, stop, you do not have to come over here."

  "I do, unless you agree," he countered smoothly.

  Sighing, "You don't even know where here is?"

  That got me a deep, rumbling chuckle. "Do you doubt that I could find you relatively easily?"

  Feeling a bit bratty, I returned, "I think it would depend on whose phone dialed Sharon's number the fastest."

  His out and out laugh practically had me coming in my pants. It was…powerfully sensual, as if he was reaching out and touching every bit of me as those frighteningly pleasant sounds filled my ears.

  But then he purred, "Answer me, Isabella." He pronounced it the way someone who knew Italian would, and suddenly, I didn't think my hopelessly old fashioned name was so bad.

  "Oh, all right," I agreed, not very graciously.

  "Good. And you're going to stay longer than fifteen minutes," he stated.

  "I was at the party for longer than that!" I answered indignantly.

  "Not by much. You will stay until I go home. As a matter of fact, let's just cut to the chase here. I'll be by at six thirty to pick you up."

  "You can't." I didn't bother to hide the smugness in my tone.

  "Why not, pray tell?"

  "Because I have to help Sharon cook, so I'm to be there early."

  "How early?"

  "Six."

  "Fine—then five thirty it is."

  I sighed heavily again, feeling somewhat put upon. "And here I was thinking what nice manners you had when I met you. Are you always this pushy, Mr. Hayden?"

  "Only when I see something I want," he replied immediately. "So, where should I be to pick you up?"

  After a long moment's pause, I said, "Oh, I don't think I'm going to make it quite that easy on you. You'll have to go through Sharon to get my address. And if I get to her first, I'll tell her not to give it to you—and then you'll have a bit of a challenge on your hands."

  Then I hit the red circle to disconnect us, quickly brought up my contacts list and dialed Sharon, praying the entire time that I'd had enough of the element of surprise to get to her first.

  She didn't pick up until the fourth ring or so.

  "Sharon! You are not to tell Mr. Whatzizname my address, no matter how much he begs you to."

  Instead of answering me, she asked, and I could hear that she was holding the phone away from her mouth, "Isabella, why is Mr. Whatzizname calling me?"

  "Don't take his call until you agree not to give him my address."

  I'd heard that long suffering sigh before, and chances were I was going to hear it again, too.

  "Why?"

  "It's too long and involved to tell you—just don't. Please."

  "All right, all right. But I am going to take his call."

  "Fine. Just don't tell him!"

  I knew I was talking to no one—she'd jettisoned me as soon as she'd sai
d she was going to take his call.

  I knew exactly where I stood with her—behind the amazingly nice, rich guy with gorgeous hair—and any other man she coveted for me.

  It wasn't until I was in bed, with the TV on in the background, as always, playing something I could recite the dialogue to, like The Andy Griffith Show, that I got another text.

  It was from Dan.

  And it was my address, followed by, why do I think that, around you, I'll always have a challenge on my hands? Which, by the way, is not necessarily a bad thing. Have a good night. Don't forget—five-thirty Saturday night. Be prompt.

  Seconds later, I got the follow up line, which I could have done very well without: Just for future reference, tardiness will get you spanked. Every. Time.

  CHAPTER 3

  A nd I was, surprisingly, smart enough to heed that warning, even to the point of waiting. A bundle of nerves, for some reason, which only made me angry that I had come to this, which, in turn, only made me that much more anxious as I stood by the window waiting for him to drive into the complex.

  Before he could even get to my door, though, I had located the cat—who tended to be a bit of a Houdini, even in his old age—turned down the heat and locked the door behind me. For some reason, I didn't want him to come into my apartment—perhaps because, secretly, I worried that, if he did, we might never make it to Sharon's party. So, I met him at his car, saying hello on my way to the other side of the car, not giving him the chance to try to hug or even kiss my cheek in greeting, and even managing to stifle his gentlemanly tendencies and getting into the passenger's side myself before he could get halfway around the front of the car.

  But, as would become abundantly clear, he wasn't the type who was just going to passively allow me to preempt him like that. He didn't just docilely go back to the driver's side, as I had envisioned him doing. Instead, he completed the trip to my side, opening my door—why, oh why, hadn't I thought to lock it—bending down and folding himself artfully so that he could in to lift my chin with a crooked finger beneath it, which made me think that he was going to actually kiss me. But instead his lips settled on my cheek—and not just a polite peck, either, but a lingering smooch.

  I heard him draw a deep breath as he then said, "You look and smell wonderful."

  "Thank you." Damn, someone has got to come up with a way to control the tendency to blush. Why did I bother to pay for and apply blush when he was just going to be able to make me bright red with a simple compliment?

  "You're welcome," he said, reaching for my seatbelt to buckle me safely in, then smiling beatifically up at me. "I wouldn't want to lose you on the ride there."

  When he got in, I asked impertinently, "Do you drive that fast? Should I go online and make sure that my life insurance is paid up?"

  That got him laughing. "No, I don't think so. I'm a fairly cautious driver."

  He proved to be very easy to talk to on the ride over, keeping a steady stream of casual conversation going until we pulled into Sharon's driveway and I realized that I had no idea how the time had passed so quickly—or so pleasantly.

  Sharon greeted us both as if we were long lost pilgrims, and I noticed that Dan hugged and kissed her warmly and enthusiastically. I almost regretted missing my opportunity to have been given such a lovely greeting by him.

  "I'm going to draft Isabelly here to help me cook, since most of these are her recipes, anyway. Carl's in the middle of a conference call that he's promised me will be done in an hour or so, so why don't you come keep us company?" she suggested to Dan while we ambled through the house, and I drooled, as I always did, over all of her antiques. No reproductions for Sharon, only the real thing would do.

  I was surprised to feel a large, warm hand at the small of my back as he walked next to me to Sharon's beautiful, spacious kitchen—bedecked with all of the latest appliances, of course—and even further surprised that I didn't mind that little proprietary courtesy in the least. It made me feel cared for, which I knew was patently ridiculous, but there it was.

  As usual, she'd left most of the chopping—the grunt work—to me, which was fine. It gave me something to do that didn't involve worrying about whether or not Dan was watching me. I didn't participate much in the conversation that swirled amiably around me, but I did thoroughly enjoy listening to them banter back and forth—they were much better—more evenly matched—than he and I were by far.

  By the time the other two guests arrived at about six fifty-five, everything was ready.

  Carl manned the bar and soon everyone had their choice of poison. We all sat down in their lavishly appointed sunken living room—on a beautiful white leather sectional that would have been dishwater gray in seconds at my house—to chat. I had met Randy and Evelyn Caldwell on several previous occasions. They were friends of both Sharon's and Carl's and had become casual friends of mine. They hailed from England, which gave them and Dan a lot of common points to discuss.

  I had to admit—Dan fit in perfectly with everyone, and I found myself hanging back a bit, like I had in the kitchen, wanting to listen both to what he had to say, as well as how he said it. And watch him. That was a pastime I didn't think I'd ever tire of. Even his casual movements were graceful, as if he were a professional dancer rather than a businessman.

  And that almost-accent of his was downright intoxicating! I discounted Randy's and Eve's, because I'd known them for a while, so their accents were less obvious to me. But his was pure sex—I could well imagine him whispering something British against my clit—and I knew that would send me right into orbit like nothing and no one else had!

  We moved into the dining room for dinner, everyone oohing and ahhing at the gorgeous view the sliders at the end of the room afforded of the immaculately landscaped lawn.

  Dan pulled my chair out. It had been—well, actually, I don't think a man had ever done that for me. Sometimes, they opened and closed car doors—or restaurant doors, etc., but even that was falling by the wayside, and I had to say that—although I knew I should eschew it—it did make me feel cared for.

  I was seated across from Dan, with Carl at one end of the table, Evelyn next to Dan, Randy next to me and Sharon at the other end, once she'd brought in the appetizers.

  The conversation flowed as nicely throughout the meal, with few of those awkward, quiet pauses that often happened in groups of people who don't know each other very well. Dan was the newcomer in this gathering, but you wouldn't know it. He kept everyone laughing with stories of his schooling and the glaring differences between the English and Americans, and Randy and Eve joined in with hilarious tales of their own.

  It was near the end of the main course before Sharon pounced, during one of those rare, quiet lulls. I have to admit, I was surprised it had taken her that long.

  "You're awfully quiet, Isa. That's so unlike you. Are you feeling all right?" Her eyes narrowed, and I knew I was to take this as a chastisement.

  "I'm fine, thank you. I'm just listening intently to the English that's being spoken by native speakers."

  That got everyone laughing, and the older couple talking about how, when they went back to England, everyone told them they sounded like Americans.

  Carl stood, offering to refresh everyone's drinks.

  "What are you drinking, Isa? I forget," he asked when he got around the table to me.

  "A virgin Cuba libre."

  He thought for a second. "So, Coke?"

  "Diet, please, with a bit of lemon?"

  "You got it, hon."

  "Do you not like to drink?" Dan asked innocently enough, and Sharon just about spewed her wine all over poor Randy.

  "Sorry, sorry," she apologized. "That idea was just so ridiculous, I couldn't help it. This woman can drink me, you, and everyone else at this table under it without breaking a sweat."

  I rolled my eyes. "Thank you for that ringing endorsement, Shar."

  "Welcome," she answered enthusiastically, batting her eyelashes at me in a parody of innocence, sin
ce I certainly knew she wasn't—far from it.

  Carl returned with our drinks, just as we decided to adjourn to the living room to have dessert, which Sharon corralled me into helping serve. It was my absolute favorite—chocolate cheesecake, from a recipe Sharon had found somewhere when we were in college, and I made her make it for me at least once or twice a year.

  She saved the biggest slab for me, bless her heart, and even delivered it to me as I sank down onto the couch—claiming the big corner cushion, sort of next to but not that close to Dan—and I couldn't help myself. I growled a little as I began to eat it, unselfconsciously throwing my head back and moaning.

  "Jesus, do you want a cigarette? It was just your first bite—you couldn't have come that fast."

  "Sharon!" Carl had never gotten out of the habit of trying to curb his wife-to-be's dirty mouth.

  "Relax, Carl. I'm not at all offended, and she's always had a tendency to underestimate me."

  Dan choked a little at that, but he was smiling as he did it.

  "Things tend to get a little risqué around us, Dan. I hope you have your big boy pants on," I warned.

  He caught my eye when he answered softly, "I'm always wearing my big boy pants, especially around you."

  Then he proceeded to make my night by giving me—voluntarily, I didn't even steal any off his plate, which I might well have if I'd known him better—more than half of his dessert.

  "It's really excellent, Sharon—cheesecake is one of my favorites, too," he said, trying to soften the blow to Sharon's ego when he gave it away. Then he turned back to me, saying, "But I'd really like to know—for scientific reasons, of course—if she really will come just from eating cheesecake."

  "Awful damned close," I confessed, around a mouthful of the stuff.

  When the laughter died down, I continued to mow my way through my piece and then Dan's, unapologetically, letting the conversation ebb and flow around me while I concentrated on what was important—until it was all gone.

  But there were still some traces of the sweet on the spoon, so I was diligently licking it clean, unwilling to leave even the slightest bit of it behind.

  And I might well have been moaning with pleasure as I did so.