Whew.
“But you know what is worth discussing?” I said, rolling onto my elbow to face him. I tried to offer a coy grin, something to signal a change not just in subject, but in mood. “Your captain’s bed.”
He bit.
“Just because it’s got storage underneath doesn’t mean it’s a captain’s bed. It’s a small apartment. You have to conserve space.”
My fingers moved up and down his firm stomach, following the soft line of dark hair that led to a neat thatch surrounding his penis, now spent and resting heavy on his thigh. This man was especially sexy when he wasn’t talking.
“You are … amazing,” I said.
With my finger I circled one of his nipples, then the other one.
“And you are funny,” he said, still breathless. “And fun.”
I put my finger over his beautifully formed, very talented lips.
“That’s right,” I said. “Funny. And fun. I think those are operative words here.”
“I’m sure there are other f words we can incorporate,” he said, wrapping his lips around my finger and sucking it.
I closed my eyes. Okay. We were good. Liberation, indeed.
8
DAUPHINE
EVER SINCE MY first fantasy on the Abita River almost a month ago, I felt as though an extra line of voltage had been installed in my body. How else to explain my energy that day? Not only did I send Elizabeth home, I sorted and priced the last of the estate-sale boxes, purged old stock and made the store so pristine, so sparkly, I had the urge to close up shop for good lest any of my hard work be disturbed by actual shoppers.
I even took a picture. And instead of feeling drained by the exertion, I felt victorious, energized. Then I spotted them in the front window—the tables! I forgot the folding sale tables on the sidewalk.
“Dammit, dammit, dammit,” I said, quickly unlocking the door. It was after hours, so Magazine Street was almost empty. I stacked the scratched plastic bins, which contained everything from mismatched opera gloves, lopsided wigs, dyed-satin clutches with tiny stains, odd-sized fishnets, so-so rhinestones that I had left under a sign marked “Charity Bins: $2 each—or $20 takes it all.” I had been warned several times by the Magazine Street Retail Association that I wasn’t allowed to put my inventory on the sidewalk unless it was Spring Fling, when the whole street shut down for an outdoor sale. Last year I was slapped with an eight-hundred-dollar fine when I ignored the rule on Easter weekend. But I was so proud of myself for making a dent, even a small one, in moving some of the dead inventory, I justified my infraction.
I saw a tall, imposing shadow cross the table in front of me.
“Miss Dauphine Mason?”
I slowly turned around, clutching a pink pageboy wig in one fist, two stray gloves under an armpit. I was eye-level with a taut blue shirt and a shiny brass badge.
“Well, shut my mouth,” I said, my mother’s accent flying out of me. Police officers do bring out the Belle in me, what with their close-cropped hair and broad shoulders.
And this one was particularly … arresting, with his grey-flecked eyes and a singular dimple in his cheek that disappeared when he chewed his gum. He stood cocking a hip, a man used to his own authority, with a set of handcuffs dangling from his belt.
“I need you to step inside the store, Miss Mason,” he said, looking around, his jaw clenching.
“Who squealed on me this time?”
“Just step inside, please. Don’t worry. There’s no trouble.”
He had the thighs of a runner—maybe from chasing bad guys?
“Jesus Murphy’s cousin,” I said, both hands on my hips now. “It’s just a gosh darn table, Officer.”
“Language, Miss Mason.”
“If I am asked to pay another eight-hundred-dollar fine for putting tables on the sidewalk, I am not going to be very happy.”
Without answering, he followed me into the store, where I could no longer contain my outrage. I flicked the lights back on.
“You know this is ridiculous,” I said, tossing my store keys on the glass counter. “You should be catching criminals, not businesswomen eking out a living.”
While I ranted, he moved slowly around the store, ducking his head into the men’s side, peering over the high racks.
“Miss Mason, I have a patrol car parked out back.”
“For what?”
“To save you the embarrassment of taking you into my custody on the street. But if you don’t shut—”
“You want me to shut up? Well, I won’t. I think it’s unfair that—”
“Miss Mason, what I was going to say is if you don’t shut the front door, lock it, then accept the Step, I won’t be able to … arrest you.”
With that, he moved towards me, dangling the handcuffs he had loosened from his belt. His smile took on a playful wickedness.
“Don’t make me use these. Unless you want me to.”
“I … I … You’re from … They sent you?”
My anger subsided, replaced with embarrassment, then curiosity, then arousal.
“What’ll it be, Miss Mason?”
“Are you a real cop?” I asked, my eyes narrowing. This was getting interesting.
“I don’t have to answer that.”
He was standing close enough to me that I could smell his peppermint gum.
I lifted my wrists in front of me. “Well, I guess it’s time, then,” I said. “I accept the Step.”
If a cop could be balletic, that is the word I’d use to describe how he deftly turned me around, secured my arms behind my back and locked my wrists together in his snug cuffs. He put his mouth next to my ear.
“Where are the store keys?” he whispered.
A hot shiver snaked down my back. So this is what it felt like to be restrained. Frankly, it was not only one of my fears, it was also one of my darkest fantasies. I was beginning to see a pattern. First, conquering the water, now this.
“Aren’t we staying here?”
“’Fraid not, ma’am. I’m taking you down to the station.”
I looked at my plain cotton housedress, perfect for errands and cleaning but not for seduction. Not looking my best prior to having sex? Also a fear. Damn them.
“Am I … dressed for the station?”
“You’ll be the best-dressed, or undressed, one there.”
“What are you going to do to me?”
“Everything you want, nothing you don’t.”
Right. Good to be reminded. I felt calmer again. Then we got as far as the change room area and I suddenly stopped moving, my feet welded to the painted concrete. “Wait!”
“Courage, Dauphine,” he said, his hand gently nudging my back.
“No. I need my purse.”
He exhaled.
“Where is it?”
“Under the counter,” I said, tilting my chin to indicate. “Thank you.”
I was struck by the oddity of the picture—this tall, masculine image of justice returning with my coral leather hobo bag.
The air in the alley was cool, the night still. He locked the front and back doors of my store and then ducked me into the back seat of his dark vehicle, hand on my head, and tucked my purse in next to me.
“Thank you kindly. You’re a gentleman.”
“No. I’m a mean police officer.”
“Right,” I said. “I understand.”
He has a role to play—let him, Dauphine. Trust and control.
When he settled into the driver’s seat and took off, a tiny panic set in. I knew this man wasn’t going to hurt me, or book me, or keep me someplace I didn’t want to be, but I did not like being a passenger, let alone being caged in like this. Yet hadn’t I also been afraid to let that beautiful man float me on my back in the Abita River? I was so scared when we turned off the Covington Highway that day, but so happy afterwards. That day still played out in my mind, like a bonus track. I tried to relax into my seat, but I found myself alternating between fear and excitement, which only increased my arousal. I started to understand the appeal of restraints.