Dark Secret Love: A Story of Submission (Black Lace) by Tyler Alison

Author:Tyler, Alison [Tyler, Alison]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
ISBN: 9780753549070
Publisher: Ebury Publishing
Published: 2013-09-25T21:00:00+00:00

Chapter Seventeen:

Sunset Over Sunset

Back when I was in college, I got my license to do massage. I had a table, and mostly worked for Jody and his wealthy movie-industry friends, driving out to their houses in Malibu or the Hollywood Hills. My services were often given as a gift for weddings, birthdays, and anniversaries. So I was familiar with the building Jack drove us to, an exclusive condo perched over Sunset Boulevard, looking haughtily down at Spago and Tower Records and the glitter of the city. One of my clients had lived here, and I’d adored doing massages at his place—especially because Jonah always fell asleep on the table. At the end of the massage, I’d steal outside onto the balcony and stare at the lights while I waited for him to wake up.

Jack lived in the penthouse, where the view was even more spectacular. Daylight doesn’t do much for L.A., but I could tell that when evening came, a magical transformation would take place. I saw little of the rest of the décor—aside from noticing that Jack was a minimalist, which was expected. Hard floors. Straight-edged furniture. Stark modern art.

He let me wander while he fixed us drinks, and again I wasn’t surprised when he handed me a glass of very good whiskey. Neat. There was nothing extraneous about Jack. Nothing spare on his six-foot-two frame. No nonsense about his short, dark hair or his ice-blue eyes. He fit into his environment perfectly. But I didn’t. I sipped my drink and felt like a wildflower growing in a sidewalk crack. I had that sundress on, a pastel riot of tiny flowers adorning the sheer silky fabric. My shoes were silly, tall wedges with laces that ran up my calves. To be like Jack, I should have had on a sleek pair of black leather pants and a wife-beater. Or an inky black dress with no adornments whatsoever. What did he make of me? Of the flush of color in my cheeks from only the first few sips of the fiery liquor? Of the way I couldn’t stand still, but needed to pace to the windows, then back to the nearly wall-size modern painting above the uncomfortable-looking sofa?

“What are you thinking?” Jack asked.

“That I don’t fit in,” I told him. Whiskey makes me honest.

He smiled, and immediately his features lost their craggy seriousness. His smile changed everything. Lit his eyes. Turned him model handsome. “You fit in perfectly. You transform the place.”

I shook my head. I felt like a hick here. The women Jack ought to date ran studios. They had people like me working to organize their pedicures, their facials, their love affairs. Jack had nothing in this place that showed a person lived here. No books scattered about. No trashy magazines. It was like a showroom from an architectural magazine.

He leaned against the bar and stared at me, and I felt myself needing to pace again. I couldn’t imagine sitting on the sofa, or on the oddly shaped chair.

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