An elegant, flowing turquoise blouse for Savannah, over a black knit skirt. It was accented with a decorative wide belt that fell diagonally across her hips. As CEO of Tennyson Industries, Matt’s wife was more comfortable with formal styles, even for a shopping expedition. Ben had only seen her in jeans once to date, because she chose slacks when she was going to wear pants, but since the skirts showed off her excellent legs, he had no complaints.
He did have fond memories of those jeans, though. She’d worn them when they’d all volunteered to spend a weekend helping with the spring cleanup of the water areas around New Orleans. All the men had noted she looked damn fine in denim, something Matt took with good grace and only mildly raised hackles.
Dana was in well-fitted black jeans and a spring leaf green sleeveless shirt that showed off her toned arms and fit, compact body. Like her husband, she was a workout freak. However, where Peter was regularly compared to the Hulk, thanks to his physique and presence, his wife was the most petite of all the women, a slim and elegant black woman barely five feet tall.
Her appearance was deceptive. A former Army sergeant, her military career had been ended by an explosion in Iraq that took her sight and initially her hearing, until Peter made sure she had top-of-the-line cochlear implants that improved it exponentially. She now worked as a minister at a church in one of New Orleans’ toughest neighborhoods.
Rachel stood next to her. While the women were all close friends, there was a special bond between Rachel and Dana. Jon’s wife had a lush hourglass figure blessed by a cream-colored cotton shirt with the logo of her yoga studio and flowing teal-colored pants over beaded sandals. Rachel’s golden locks were twisted up on her head in a loose style that had tendrils curling around her lovely face.
Cassandra wore dress jeans with glittering rhinestone and embroidery accents on the front pocket edges. She’d paired them with a pale blue knit shirt that clung to her shapely breasts. Apparently at least four of their number had a thing for blondes. Her thick white-gold hair was clipped back in a tail, a style which showed off her topaz earrings.
Though Ben noted how good she looked, same as the rest of them, when her eyes met his, he also noted the trace of coolness, and how she held his gaze an extra second. A reminder that she had her eye on him and it wasn’t to admire his manly form. It was the current MO for the two of them, a reminder he was still only one bare step off her shit list.
This shopping trip was an unspoken form of reparation, one self-imposed. The rest of the women had gracefully accepted his invitation without drawing direct attention to the reason he felt the desire to do it; however, he was well aware Cassandra didn’t give two shits about his apologies or the gestures to support them. She needed proof of a full behavioral shift.
Because it was her sister he’d treated badly, in an emotional and physical shitstorm he should have been able to control. No matter what the damn therapist he was forcing himself to see said about triggers and resolving past crap.
He didn’t disagree with Cassandra. If anything, sometimes he wondered why she hadn’t already shot him with her Beretta. If he’d been in her designer shoes, he would have, without a second thought.
But she hadn’t, and here he was. He didn’t know if he could give Cassandra proof that he was headed in the right direction, that he could ever be good enough to deserve Marcie, but he’d damn well prove he was trying.
He had to, because Marcie had made her choice, and didn’t give a damn whether he or Cassandra thought it was a good idea or not. And plus…he’d realized he couldn’t walk away from Marcie.
On that thought, he shifted his attention to the final woman in the group, the fourth blonde. The woman who, amid this gorgeous garden of female beauty, caught his attention in a way no other woman ever had. The person who, crazy as it sounded, made him draw a deeper, cleaner and freer breath than he’d known in a really long time. Even as his gaze had passed over the women he’d be escorting on their New Orleans shopping spree, his attention had been on its way to one specific destination. When it found her, he didn’t need to look at anything else.
Marcie wore dark blue jeans with a scoop-necked black shirt that had a sparkling design of a tiger on the front, her Big Cat Rescue shirt. She’d bought it on a recent trip to Florida with him. It had been a business trip, but he’d taken her so they could enjoy his membership at The Zone, a top notch BDSM club. While there, she’d also wanted to visit the big cat rehab facility she’d last visited when she was a teenager, on a trip with Cass and her siblings. So they’d taken a day tour there.
After the over-the-top night at the club, it had been kind of surreal, walking hand-in-hand with her, listening to the guide tell them about the rescued and now forever-protected big cats.
Just one of a whole welcome montage of images from that trip. Including other, far more adult ones.
At The Zone, they had a holographic room where different scenarios could be brought to life. If a sub liked to be watched while under her Master’s control, but the Master himself didn’t want staring eyes upon her, there was a program where it looked as if people were standing and watching, in a circle around where the Dom had the sub strapped down. Or maybe she liked to dance, and wanted to be surrounded by other couples. Couples who demonstrated moves that made Dirty Dancing look like Mr. Clean had visited the set with his Magic Eraser.
His girl liked to dance, so Marcie had been enchanted with that one. And even more delighted by the version of it that had ballroom dancers swirling around them in long flowing skirts and neat tuxes.
He liked dancing, too, but with her especially. He liked doing pretty much anything with her. Such that he’d spent the first half hour in a $500/hour room testing out all the controls with her, like a couple kids at a game console. And then the next forty-five minutes dancing on the wood floor, until they were both breathing heavy from the exertion. Her brown eyes had shone like stars, and her laughter alone had made him hard as he twirled her around.
They had eventually gotten to the mind-blowing sex, restraints and pain part of the evening, but what had stuck in his head since then wasn’t that. It was her jumping up and running into the middle of the ballroom dancers, putting out her arms and twirling, her hair streaming out around her.
The move had brought her teen years back to him, and the reminder of how ridiculously close she still was to that age. As if she sensed his shift into the wrong kind of waters, she’d asked him to switch it to the erotic dancers and morphed into his siren, his temptress. When the music had kicked in with Bruno Mars’ “That’s What I Like,” her hips fit the rhythm in a way that worked the hell out of her short skirt. Her arms lifted and the rest of her body moved in a way that would have kept his attention even if a marching band had blasted into “Flight of the Bumblebee” behind him. Her gaze fastened upon him, her lips parting.