Disgrace by Dee Palmer Page B

from the fridge and grabbing two glasses from a high shelf, she sashays back to the table. “My oven is hot.” She twists the cork with the bottle supported between her thighs, and I am all kinds of distracted. Was that a euphemism? Because if it was then mine is hard…fucking hard. “Is there something in the oven Jason?” Her knowing smile has me adjusting my pants. Shit! The bread! I jump from the table and run the short distance to the kitchen. I open the oven to a billow of steam, which fortunately, is still white. The ends of the bread had started to turn and catch but the rest is fine. I bring it over to the table pulling chunks apart and handing Sam a piece. I’m all about the presentation.
    I raise my glass for a toast and she eyes me with suspicion but tips her glass to meet mine all the same. “What shall we toast, Sam?” The glasses hover millimetres from each other.
    “To wishful thinking.” Her smile falls flat, and I shake my head.
    “Oh, I think we can do better than that. How about to truth and trust. I already have one and I’m getting the other tonight.” Her eyes narrow but she chinks her glass against mine and takes a small sip of the bubbly.
    “You are awfully confident about that, Jason.” She eyes me over the lip of her glass, her expression a mix of I’m not sure because she has regained some of her former sass but there is a tinge of sadness, too. I don’t answer but take a big gulp of Champagne. We eat the meal in comfortable silence, and when she places her cutlery together on her clean plate, I take one of her hands and hold it between mine. I lean toward her and smile when she mirrors my move.
    “Tell me, Sam, did me tying you up turn you on?” Her breath catches as my words float on a soft exhale toward her lips. She tips her tongue out to wet the sudden dryness before she answers.
    “You know it did.” She exhales softly.
    “I did know, but I wanted you to acknowledge the truth.” She tries to slip her hand free, but I hold it firm and kiss the individual fingertips. Her breath catches on her reply.
    “The truth doesn’t really matter does it?” She sighs, stretching out some tension in her neck by rolling her head from side to side. Her hair falling in the loose ponytail as she moves. She straightens her shoulders and flashes me her most seductive smile. Her sinfully breathy voice washes over me. Her words are like audible Viagra. “Of course you turn me on. Look at you. Even if you didn’t look like Apollo, you fuck like a porn star. I’d have to be in a coma not to get wet around you.”
    “Hmm, flattery will get you fucked, Sam, but it won’t stop this conversation from happening,” I reply deadpan, but laugh when her shoulders sink. I wonder if she has ever had someone read her like this.
    “I wonder if you are so used to getting your own way that you even realise when you are in manipulation mode.” She flutters her eyelashes with mock innocence and finally pulls her hand free only to place it on her mock wounded heart. I chuckle and push back from the table. I take her hand and lead her to the softest looking of the sofas, the one near the sex lounger. “Don’t insult me trying to deny it. Just know it won’t work on me. I won’t let you top from the bottom so we better just get that straight right now.” I roughly pull her to sit between my legs, my arms around her, my thighs encasing her, and her back to my chest. As much as I mean those words, when her eyes well with sadness it will take a much stronger man than I to deny her a single thing.
    “It turned you on when I restrained you, so that wasn’t an issue for you?” I rephrase my question, and although I feel her initially tense, she also relaxes back against my chest. I languidly stroke the length of her arm and across her tummy. “Just the truth baby, nothing more.” I kiss her hair.
    “It did. I was nervous, but yes, it turned me on…a lot.” I smile into her hair. This is