Jo Leigh - Scent of a Woman

She slipped the champagne glass from his hand and put it down on the coffee table, then led him to the bedroom. He liked it. The size, the headboard. Oh, yeah.

“Lie down,” she whispered.

He went for his tie, but she stopped him.

“Just as you are.”

He didn’t think to question her. Hell, at this point if she asked him to stand on the bed and recite the National Anthem, he would have.

He chose the side farthest from the bathroom. Women liked being closer. As she clicked off the overhead light, he climbed on the bed, on his back, his hands underneath his neck.

The only illumination was from a lamp on the far side of the room. It was enough. He could see her clearly, read the anticipation in her eyes. Next time, they’d do it his way. With the lights on. But tonight, shades of gray seemed appropriate.

She walked to the foot of the bed and removed his shoes, putting them neatly on the dresser. His penis twitched, wanting very much to be released. The constriction had just gone from slight discomfort to acute distress.

She moved to the other side of the bed, but she didn’t sit down. She didn’t do anything more than look at him for what felt like minutes, but might have been seconds. “Move to the middle of the bed,” she said, finally.

“The middle?”

She nodded. And waited.

He obeyed, positioning himself in the center of the exceptionally large mattress.

She seemed satisfied. Yet she still didn’t make a move to take off her clothes, or his. “Do you know the real story of Scheherazade?” she asked him, her voice as seductive as any siren.

“I know about the thousand and one nights.”

“Ah, that’s the other version. The G-rated version.”

“Okay,” he said, wondering where this was heading. Role-playing? He guessed he could do that. Depending on whom she wanted him to be.

“You see,” she continued, “Scheherazade didn’t really tell stories about magic lamps or cunning sailors. At least, not the stories in all the books. Her tales were far more…erotic.”

Susan leaned over the bed, touched her lips to his in a teasing kiss. He flicked his tongue, but she pulled back. Shaking her head, she said, “Naughty.”

He groaned his frustration, but she didn’t seem to care. She took his lips again with the same feathery touch. He breathed her in, her scent intoxicating, dangerous. When she slipped his tie off, he couldn’t hold still another moment. He touched her hair with one hand, the back of her neck with the other. He wanted her near him, naked, with that mane of blond hair splashed across the pillows.

He wasn’t going to get it. She stepped away, sighed, then went to the dresser. Instead of putting down his tie, she held on to it while she went into her purse. He couldn’t see what it was she held in her hands as she headed back to the bed.

“I can see that you’re going to need a little help,” she said.

He looked down at his pants. The strain was almost too much. The seams could go any second.

She chuckled, a rich, deep sound that made him clench his muscles. “Not with that. At least, not yet.” She took his hand in hers, turned it palm up and placed gentle kisses on the tips of his fingers. It was nice, but—

Her mouth sucked in his index finger, all the way. The hot wet velvet made him squirm. Impossible to lie still and endure this incredible torture.

The next second, her mouth was gone. His hand was drawn up and out, and he realized that she was going to tie him to the bed. His whole body shifted into fourth gear, as if he’d been idling for the past hour, and now he was on the field, ready for the race. Although the idea of being helpless this soon in the game sent off warning signals.

His tie circled his wrist gently. He tested the hold, and found it was insubstantial; he could pull free in a moment. His worry dissipated, at least partly. She wanted the choice to be his. Did he want to pull free? Or did he want to enter her world?

The resounding answer was that he wanted very much to get on with it. And the only reason it felt safe to plunge ahead was because he could escape. Because she had understood that this journey was as much of the mind as the body.

She used something else to tie his left wrist. A scarf. When she was through, he sighed deeply, strangely at peace. At least he understood part of the game. He wasn’t to move. Until she let him.

The bed dipped as she climbed up next to him, on her knees. Then one leg went over his hips, and she straddled him, the juncture of her thighs lying directly on top of his erection.

“Now,” she said. “We can begin.”

His eyes closed as he dragged in a gasping breath. He couldn’t come. Not yet. Not like this.

It took all his will, all his strength to calm himself down as the heat of her seeped inside his pants. An ember, he’d wager, that would turn into a bonfire before the night was through.

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