ROMANCE: PARANORMAL ROMANCE: Coveted by the Werewolves (Paranormal MMF Bisexual Menage Romance) (New Adult Shifter Romance Short Stories) (207 page)

              “In, boy,” she sneered.

              Ducking his head, James followed her in. 

              Arabella strode masterfully ahead of him, and, at the gold-wrought chair in front of her silk changing screen, she rested a white-fingered hand on its back.  Now would come the hardest part of the evening, the one with the backstory she and James had been playing off of for weeks.  Making sure her chest rose up and down with each breath, she looked back at him imperiously.

              “The maid tells me you’ve tracked mud in the house again.  What do you have to say for yourself?”

              James tucked his head even closer to his chest and shook his ruddy curls gently.  Nothing, he had nothing to say for himself.  And that meant, of course, that Arabella had to take action.

              “Well then, this is the third time you’ve transgressed this week.  You know what happens to simple stable boys when they bring dirt in the house, don’t you?”

              Arabella knew the effect her words were having on him.  For James, it was all about the anticipation, about staying in character.  She was the mistress of the house, and she got to make the rules.  And the rules stated…

              “You must be punished.”

              She could almost sense the excitement on his breath at her words.  He was wondering, she knew, what fresh punishment she had thought up for him.  She turned the chair on one leg and carefully sat down the breadth of her hips and bottom on it, turning over one edge of the velvet robe to reveal one long, shapely white leg ending in ten appealingly plump toes.  She pushed the neckline of the dressing gown a little bit further down her shoulders, feeling his eyes take in the broad expanse of rounded flesh.

              “Massage me.”

              James looked uncomfortable; damn, he’s good.  “Mistress,” he began, but she cut him off straight away.

              “Massage me, or I’ll whip you ‘til you cry.”

              He arched an eyebrow inquisitively. 
Next time
, she told him with her eyes, and he understood.  You can’t have all the gifts opened on one day. The air in the room shifted as he went to stand behind her.  Seconds later, she felt his hands on her.

              The presence of the male body behind her was warm and comforting somehow, in a way that answered to some visceral, primitive need all humans have and hide. The fingers making small, firm circles on her neck relaxed her, and then James’s thumbs brushed the fine baby hairs at the base of her scalp.  She hissed; this was dangerous territory.  She would never tell him, or any of her clients for that matter, that this was her kryptonite—a good scalp massage.  Especially from a man like James, so powerfully built, like an actual stable hand—the idea of him being so gentle with her played a tricky little dance on her hormones because she was combining this image with the other one in her head, the one of James taking her from behind against one of the marble-glassed doors.  The image of what should really, truly not happen.

              His fingers kneaded her head, helped along by the warm folds of her hair above them, and she could feel her body meld against the chair, her head nestled dangerously close to a very delicious part of his anatomy. 
Oh my…

             
She could feel the faint drumbeats of his heart as her head leaned against his lower abdomen.  His fingers moved from her head, traced the long tendrils of hair down her neck, softly wrapping one around his finger, to just below her collarbone.  She felt her own heartbeat spike in response, and his fingers massaged the delicate skin there, stroking lower and lower until he reached that gray area between just a massage and the one where Arabella stopped being certain that there was a world around her and his fingertips.  She felt her breasts swell in response and closed her eyes, feeling her nipples harden against the sheer black fabric of her corset.  She knew that from James’s vantage point, she was exposed, breasts pushing out of her dressing gown, shoulders gloriously bared, and there was a certain fullness against her neck that indicated that he was enjoying the view.  But she also knew that if allowed to enjoy himself for too long, they would cross over into a very vanilla area that would bore them both.  Right now, she was the mistress of the house who was making her servant perform a duty for her.  But at the rate they were going, she might be the one servicing him.  It was time to reset the balance of power.

              “That’s enough, boy,” she snapped at him, and angled her body away from him to look up at him from the chair.  “You’ve done a mediocre job there,” she said, the pointed crests of her breasts belying her words, “but now it’s time for you to return where you really belong.  At my feet,
boy
.”

              James’s blue eyes glimmered with suppressed excitement.  She knew he loved seeing her like this—aroused and in command.  Because the allure was bringing a powerful woman to her knees, and if that involved him getting to that part of his own anatomy, it was a price he would gladly pay.

              He knelt down in front of her and lifted one rounded ankle onto his knee.  He massaged her toes, the nails painted a lascivious red.  He skimmed the delicate curves of her ankle to the meaty muscle of her calf; Arabella felt him work his magic there, and opened her eyes to take in the scene.  James had moved down to sit on the found before her; she could see the long expanse of her leg where the dressing gown lay open to her mid-thigh.  While he worked his fingers over her, she felt tiny prickling sensations crawl up her leg, and felt her breasts throb in response.  She knew that he was looking up past her knees to that area still covered by the robe.  The evidence of it lay at the barely noticeable bulge between his legs, evident through his coarse workman’s pants that he had donned especially for the occasion.  She edged the robe, little by little, ever so slightly away from her thigh and moved her other thigh so that he could catch sight of the still-shaded road to her most desired place.  She was teasing him, and the knowledge of it, the taboo nature of it—she was his mistress, after all—spurred James on, until he was running his hand up along the back of her knee.

              Arabella arched against the feel of his fingers on her, and in doing so, the robe fell open to reveal the delicate black lace panties that concealed nothing of her glory, so sheer were they.  She could feel James’s breath hitch as he took in the black against the pure ivory of her skin, and knew what she looked like to him—the strict and proper madam, stripped nearly at the waist, luxuriating in the hands of the lowly stable hand being on her, offering him a glimpse of paradise that by all rights should never be his.

              Arabella moaned a little as she felt James’s lips on her inner thigh. She opened her eyes and the full evidence of his arousal was now pressing against his pants, eager for release.  The game had reached just the point that she wanted.

              “What do you think you’re doing, boy?” she asked, pushing aside his head.  “Do you have any idea what my husband would do to you, a servant, if he caught you trying to even look at his wife?” she queried, snapping the robe shut and standing quickly from the chair.  One quick slap and James had fallen back onto his wrists.  Arabella walked over to her mirror and bent a little at the waist to examine herself.  The skin of her chest was a little mottled; she blushed easily when aroused.  James knew this.

              “And you were trying to peek up my skirt, no doubt,” she continued, patting a little pressed powder to hide the evidence, so to speak.

              “I’ve never seen anyone as beautiful as you, miss,” he said to her from the floor, where he had once again ducked his head and was standing on his knees.

              Arabella pretended to be a little contrite.  “Well, I suppose you haven’t,” she said, and slipped off her robe to reveal her costume to him, pretending she had forgotten he was even there.  She had just begun to rearrange her hair when she felt James’s manly form press against her from behind.  She could feel the broad expanse of him, and the brutish suggestion of his erection nestled in the crack of her ass brought up that stark image from earlier back into her head.  He grasped her hips gently as he leaned over her; she caught sight of his dimpled, contented smile in the mirror as he pressed the long, hard line of his body against her.  Those cheerful blue eyes, pupils dilated in arousal, were looking directly into hers in their reflection in the mirror.

              “Thanks,” he whispered, and gave her a quick, warm kiss on the cheek that took her totally and utterly by surprise.              It was almost as if she had had a very intimate encounter with a close, personal friend.  One who liked her to treat him in a way that he felt only she could understand.  She looked back at him, felt her green eyes lock on his, and then he looked at her mouth.  Before she knew what was happening, their lips had met, and they were sharing a long, steamy kiss.

              The check that arrived in her mailbox exactly two days later included an extremely generous tip.

              Arabella tapped the white edge of the envelope against her bottom lip thoughtfully as she walked up the stairs into her apartment.  James truly was a very kind soul; it did not hurt at all, either, that he was quite willing to pay for any extra services.  That kiss had been extra, no doubt, but now Arabella found herself wondering if James would be one of those few clients she wanted to explore more with.  He had, after all, quite the charming sense of humor.  She did not know many men interested in the Victorian era as much as she was.

              Except for David, of course.

              Arabella had a completely different costume that she needed to prepare for this particular client, and she found herself getting very excited.  David could not have been more different from James in his fantasy and the role he played in their appointments together, but the two men shared a passion for the same era and its ideals for both gender norms.  And they liked to mess with those norms, an idea that appealed to the Victorian-era novel lover slash dominatrix very much.

              The gown Arabella donned for that afternoon was white chiffon and long to her ankles.  It had little cap sleeves that fluttered gently over her plump, bare arms, and the neckline, while low, barely revealed any more than a rather decorous amount of her bosom.  She brushed through her fire-engine red hair methodically, making sure that each strand was lustrous and shining, and kept her makeup very simple—just a little mascara to help her look wide-eyed.

              She glanced up at the clock; almost four.  David was very methodical in when he scheduled his appointments.  He was one of her most wealthy clients, and a self-made man.  He had started from the bottom of a startup company whose business had simply exploded ten years ago, when he was in his mid-twenties.  Every bit of money that he made he had earned himself, and was very proud of it.  He also liked to indulge his creative side by painting stills and portraits in the styles of old masters, and therefore was very aware of how light affected the way that things looked.  Four in the afternoon during this season was the best light for anything and anyone, he told her upon their initial interview.  She had asked about the time, finding that most of her clients liked to come to her under the cover of darkness, when fewer people in her neighborhood were curious.  But David was different; he carried himself with a self-assurance that did not hold court to anyone else’s opinion.  If he wanted four o’clock because that is the light both he and she looked best in, then four o’clock it would be.  The time worked for Arabella either way—she had just the right amount of hours to indulge in her own little passion—cooking, and take a long, luxurious bath in his favorite scent—lavender. 

              Her phone trilled; David always texted her to give her a little heads-up on when he was nearby.  Their game began the moment he knocked on her door, so it did well for her to be prepared.  Knowing how masterful David was in arranging his business matters, it did not surprise Arabella at all at how exact and careful he was with everything else.  The point of their play was very different from all other things that David had to do in his life—in the boardroom, on conference calls, he had to be the master, powerful, and in command.  He was the master in the Guest Room, as well, but the goal of his orders had a far more tender hue to it.

              Arabella took in the plump cheeks and hugeness of her eyes in the gilded mirror.  She walked over to the faded bureau and laid out a few items—some silken white scarves and feather teasers.  She had just laid them out with almost surgical precision—the way that both she and David liked it, on the nightstand by the bed when she heard three knocks downstairs at her door.

              Arabella tossed her long hair over one shoulder and felt the dress billow around her as she floated down the steps, customary blindfold clutched in one hand.  She took a deep breath and opened the door.  And proceeded to look up, up, up.

              Damn.  She always forgot how tall David was, and how warm his honey-hazel eyes were.  Also, how enticingly his light brown hair curled against his face.  But there was no time to falter, because the look on David’s austere face indicated that he was ready to begin. 

              “David!  You’re home!” she cried, and lifted a corner of the chiffon gown to curtsy slightly at him, offering him a glimpse of her gently rounded breasts above the shift.  “Come up, come up!” she said as she stood on her tiptoes to slide the blindfold onto him.  It worked to the advantage of their game that he was so much taller than she; how innocent she must appear having to reach up to his face.