Looking Inside

“You mean do I want to be tied up, spanked . . . things like that?”

“Yes.”

“I liked reading about them . . . while you watched. But submission or bondage really hasn’t been my area of expertise or interest in the past,” she admitted cautiously.

He squeezed her buttock before he gently spanked her in a ge

ntle reprimand. She jumped in surprise and made a little squeaky sound.

“Right. Your area of expertise is voyeurism. Exhibitionism. Driving a man nuts,” he stated rather than asked, and she’d sensed his frown from his grim tone. Is that what he thought? That she was an expert on something sexual? There were times that she was sure he remained humorously unconvinced by her act, but on this topic, he seemed strangely certain. Excitement flickered through her at the realization that she’d fooled him so completely on at least one thing. She forced herself to focus and not break her role.

“That’s right. I like watching. And I like being watched,” she whispered. She left out the fact that she’d never dabbled in either voyeurism or exhibitionism until him. He was her motivation, not some sexual preference somehow worked into her genes. But if he thought she was an expert on a particular area of kink, well . . . it only helped her performance.

More important, it put her on more level footing with him, something she sorely needed when it came to the arena of sex. He was vastly more experienced than her. And she knew she came off like a fumbling fool at times. But her supposed expertise in voyeurism and exhibitionism? Miraculously, Trey never seemed to question it.

He continued to stroke her in the silent seconds that followed. She could almost hear him thinking.

“I’m not sure what I think about voyeurism or exhibitionism. And you say you’re a novice to any kind of bondage or submission—although if I had my guess to the way you were reacting to that book and the way you are in bed, I’m hopeful,” he’d added dryly under his breath. She wiggled against him, made restless by his words. He stilled her hip with his hand and thrust his cock up the furrow of her ass. She whimpered. He was growing stiff.

Again.

Was that because of this talk they were having?

He spoke directly into her ear, his hoarse, low voice sending shivers down her neck and spine. “But maybe we could share what we know with each other . . . make our light little experiment together more of a challenge?”

“You mean, agree to”—she swallowed thickly—“scenarios that take both our preferences into account?”

“Yeah. It doesn’t have to be just about that. As you probably have guessed by now, I don’t need kink to turn me on. When it comes to you, I definitely could just focus on the basics, and be happy.” He circled his hand on her ass, pushing the cheek against his cock. He grunted softly. “Very happy. But it might be interesting, blending our kinks a little?” He squeezed her ass. “God knows all I can think about when you’re teasing me is tying your hands behind your back, bending you over and spanking your ass bright pink before fucking a good, hard lesson into you about the risks of being cruel.”

She turned slightly at that. “I’m not trying to be cruel,” she protested. “I thought you’d like it.”

“I did,” he replied, sounding exasperated. “Why else would I have leapt off the abstinence wagon without a backward glance?”

After their tense exchange, he’d made love to her again in the same position in which they’d talked, both of them on their sides, his front to her back. It’d been a heated, passionate exchange, but somehow tender, as well. She’d given of herself without restraint, and felt him straining to give in return.

Following the storm, Eleanor had fallen into a deep, dreamless, satisfying sleep for two solid hours.

But now, it was time to go. She was unsure how to make her exit. It wasn’t something she’d ever done before, engage in a purely sexual affair upon a prior mutual agreement. But she had work in a few hours. She dreaded the idea of waking him, of any awkwardness that might ensue. Perhaps he’d feel obligated to ask her for coffee or breakfast, but all the while, he’d be increasingly focused on the details of his day and wishing she’d leave. She didn’t want him to be annoyed by her presence. Best to just fade away, leaving him with the memories of their night.

Always leave them wanting more.

Very carefully, she eased out of his embrace. Her heart stalled for a moment when he moved restlessly, his long body curling toward her several inches, as if he missed her heat. But then he stilled and seemed to fall back into a deep sleep.

She inhaled deliberately, absorbing the unique, subtle scent of him . . . of their essences combined. She told herself to hold on to that evocative detail before carefully sliding off the far side of the bed.

Just one night with him, and yet already she despised the feeling of leaving his arms.

—

The museum was opening a Mary Todd Lincoln exhibit on the Tuesday following the Thanksgiving holiday. As the preservation and conservation librarian, Eleanor was not only in charge of gathering and displaying the Historical Society’s own Mary Todd Lincoln letters and personal belongings, but was also responsible for making sure that every last item that was donated to them from individuals’ collections and other museums was safely handled and exhibited.

She’d discovered something during the buildup to the exhibit that she was personally excited about, although she knew from experience that it would capture little attention from anyone else. A private donor had provided several books of fiction, religion and philosophy that had been owned by Mary Todd Lincoln. While examining the collection, Eleanor had discovered handwritten notes in the margins. Their handwriting analyst had confirmed it was Mary Todd Lincoln’s own hand. Eleanor had done extensive research, making sense of the handwritten notes and setting them in the historical, familial and personal context of Lincoln’s life.

No one really cared about her efforts, with the possible exception of her friend Jimmy, who as the director of special events was the prime organizer of the show. They both knew it was the “glamour items,” as Eleanor called them, that would make headlines and sell tickets, not Eleanor’s hours of research on seemingly mundane scribbles in old books. In her profession, she’d come to accept that sort of thing as a reality. She’d learned long ago to be proud of these little accomplishments, even if few people ever even noticed.

She was also proud to have negotiated a loan of Mary Todd Lincoln’s dresses, shoes and pieces of jewelry from the National Museum of American History at the Smithsonian. The dresses and the opulent jewels would be a big hit, even if Eleanor’s extensive research would likely go unnoticed.

That day before she left work for the Thanksgiving holiday, the museum staff, board and members of the press were given a private showing. Almost everyone, including Jimmy and Jimmy’s and her boss, had labeled the exhibit a resounding success. So by the time she left work for the long holiday weekend, Eleanor was in pretty good spirits.