A Touch of Winter (A Short Story) by Evie Hunter

A TOUCH OF WINTER
     
    Having a Hollywood heartthrob for a lover had one major downside and Abbie Marshall had just been confronted with it.
    Underneath her short trench coat, Abbie was naked. She had spent hours in the salon getting rid of the evidence of a month in the jungle. She had been waxed and primped, buffed and smoothed. Now every inch of her was achingly aware of the soft brush of fabric against her skin. She was ready for Jack.
    The playroom was open and she could almost taste the sweat in air, the sweet pheromone of woman and the heavier, muskier scent of aroused male.
    Jack’s unique smell. Damn you Jack .
    Despite the gnawing pain clawing away at her insides, Abbie couldn’t look away. With sick fascination, she watched as Jack adjusted the intricate web of hemp rope suspended from the ceiling that formed a Shibari cradle. Pleased with the arrangement, Jack pulled a rope and the woman’s position changed. He pushed and set her spinning slowly. She cried out. Something in Spanish that sounded like a prayer. Jack immediately stopped the spin and soothed her with his voice, using that soft Irish lilt that was so different from the west coast accent he used on screen. His low tone and soothing words were so like the ones he had whispered to her a few weeks before, that Abbie wanted to cry.
    Jack stroked the woman’s hair. It was long and dark, thick and shiny and her skin had that rich olive glow that made Latina women look so sexy. Abbie contrasted it jealously with her own chin-length bob and her pale limbs with their smattering of freckles. Her knees were still bruised from crouching behind an armed barricade, a souvenir from the latest war zone. Who said that being a reporter was glamorous?
    It didn’t matter what she did, or how much time she spent in the spa, she would always be ordinary, a dull moon orbiting a bright star.
    Jack’s star.
    For all the movie star hype that surrounded him, Jack Winter liked to live life on the edge. He had a dark side that she had learned to love and crave in equal measure. Before him, she had never known the sound of a whip whistling through the air. Never imagined that she could hunger for the flash of a crop against her skin or afterwards ache for the soothing touch of his hands.
    Yes, she had learned a lot about herself since she met Jack. Mostly that she had a dark side too and a submissive streak a mile wide when it came to him. But standing at the entrance to the playroom tonight, the last thing on her mind was submission.
    She clutched the beribboned box from Van Clef and Arpels. A one of a kind item created just for him. If the jeweller had been shocked by her strange request, he didn’t show it. Money can buy everything and she wanted this evening to be perfect. Something special to commemorate their first anniversary. Something designed to bring a smile to Jack’s mouth and the hungry glint of passion to his eye.
    But not now. Not after what she’d seen tonight.
    From her hiding place in the doorway, she couldn’t see the woman’s face and Abbie mentally scanned the female cast of Jack’s latest blockbuster. Was this someone new or someone he’d been seeing for months? It didn’t matter.
    Half of her wanted to scream at Jack, to hate him for his betrayal. The reporter in her clinically analysed the scene. The woman suspended, helpless. Jack, naked from the waist up, a sheen of sweat glistening on his abs. Abbie watched the rise and fall of his chest as he adjusted the ropes, checking the woman’s circulation. Keeping her safe. Even now, the movement of muscles under his skin fascinated her.
    Jack was the ultimate specimen of physical perfection. She wanted to touch him, to stroke each familiar plane and lick the salt from his skin. Until she caught a glimpse of the woman’s face. Paloma. Jack’s former sub. The woman he had lived with when they were both struggling actors in New York. The one he still kept in contact with despite the fact that she had