TakingonTabytha Page 9

  “Sure seems like it.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong.”

  “Ooh, was that a trace of real emotion? Careful, you might turn into an actual person, all vulnerable and everything.”

  “I wish I knew who he was,” Harlan declared now.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The guy who hurt you so bad, I would show him a thing or two.”

  “Would you beat him up for me at recess?”

  He grinned. “Maybe.”

  She settled back in the seat, forgetting 9-1-1 for the moment. “So where is it you’re so gung-ho about taking me—other than your little forty-acres-of-dirt paradise behind the access tunnel?”

  He winked at her. “I’ve accessed your tunnel pretty good, haven’t I? Seriously, I want to take you to the place where I learned everything I know about sex. We are going to stay there overnight.”

  Tabytha arched a brow. “It will be crowded considering everything you know comes off the walls of your average men’s room stall.”

  “I won’t ask how you would know that. Actually, we are going to a monastery.”

  She had to laugh at that one. “Oh I get it, monks and whips, right, you have an Inquisition fetish?”

  “That was a long time ago, monks don’t do that anymore.”

  “So what do they do now, besides pray?”

  “They enlighten themselves, Tabby Cat.”

  “You mean like you are enlightened? Great, I can’t wait.”

  He just grinned, giving her the last word.

  For once.

  You would think she’d enjoy it.

  But it sucked.

  “I know what you’re doing, buddy.”

  “And what is that?”

  “Getting inside my head with the silent treatment.”

  “If you say so.”

  “I do.”

  She gritted her teeth, irritation steadily mounting as he began to hum.

  The bastard.

  Chapter Eight

  The monastery was too beautiful for words. Harlan held her hand as they walked up the stone steps that had been carved into the mountainside. Here and there flat spaces had been etched out for the planting of exotic flowers. Bees hovered, their buzzing sounds lending an air of lazy passion.

  Up above them at the very top the bell was ringing, six gongs for evening meditation, or so Harlan had informed her.

  “At one time there were dozens of monks, now it’s down to three or four,” he explained.

  “I can’t imagine ever wanting to leave,” she said, already feeling the weight and stress of the city lifting away.

  “It’s pretty amazing at first,” he acknowledged. “But it wears thin after a while.”

  Tabytha’s stomach was rumbling. How long had it been since they’d eaten?

  “I hope there’s a good cook here.”

  “The best, and you are looking at him, if you must know.”

  “In that case,” she teased, “I will fast.” She bumped against him, hip to hip for emphasis. Ever since they’d decided on a truce, just before arriving, she had felt dangerously calm, almost peaceful in his company.

  Bad Tabytha.

  The two hooded monks were waiting for them at the top of the steps. Even without seeing beneath the heavy brown material, belted about their waists, she could tell their genders.

  The female was on the left, the male on the right.

  “Greetings, Brother Harlan,” said the man with a slight bow.

  “Greetings, Brother Gordon,” Harlan replied in kind. Turning to the woman, he said, “And to you, Sister Ophelia.”

  “Greetings,” came the woman’s melodious voice. “Master Harlan.”

  Tabytha felt a chill down her spine. Even here, a thousand feet above the earth, in the middle of paradise, they could not escape the BDSM vibe, the slight hint of dominance and submission.

  “Sister Ophelia,” said Brother Gordon. “Go and fetch the belongings of our guests.”

  “Yes,” said Ophelia. “Master.”

  The way the word rolled off her tongue made Tabytha’s body heat up in uncomfortable, though not unfamiliar ways.

  Not again.

  “This is your new girl, Brother Harlan?” Gordon asked, sizing Tabytha up.

  “No,” she said indignantly. “I am nothing of the kind.”

  “Tabytha is a reporter,” said Harlan.

  “Damn straight I am.”

  “I see,” said Brother Gordon.

  “You don’t see anything,” defied Tabytha.

  Harlan put his hand on her elbow. “Down, Tabby Cat.”

  “I’m sleeping in the car,” she announced.

  “You’ll miss my mac and cheese.”

  She arched a brow. “That’s your fabulous monk cooking?”

  “He makes a very fine macaroni and cheese,” said Gordon.

  Tabytha rolled her eyes. “Spare me.”

  Gordon laughed before turning on his heel and walking ahead of them to the rounded wooden entrance doors. “Oh I am sure he will.”

  “Don’t mind him,” said Harlan, leaning across to whisper in her ear. “They don’t get much company up here.”

  “Gosh, I wonder why.”

  The inside of the monastery was spectacular—if you were a fan of the early Frankenstein period—stone walls with medieval tapestries, candelabras and huge cathedral windows and such.

  “Who built this, anyway?” she asked Harlan.

  “A Romanian architect, a mad genius they say.”

  “I see the mad part, anyway.” Tabytha noted the themes on the tapestries, sexual, depicting two or more partners engaged primarily in S&M activities. “I can also see the appeal for people like you.”

  “But not like you,” he mused.

  Tabytha cleared her throat. “I need to make a phone call. And don’t tell me the best reception is in the dungeon on the rack or some such nonsense.”

  He chuckled. “Actually, upstairs is fine. Ophelia will show you to your room.”

  “My room? As in a room without you?”

  “You don’t have to sound so thrilled.”

  Truth be told, her feelings were mixed. For the moment she focused on following the brown-robed submissive up the circular stairs.

  “This is lovely,” said Tabytha, awestruck at the sheer beauty of the guest room.

  “I am glad you find it acceptable.”

  Four-post bed, exquisite wooden furniture, Persian rugs, how could she not be?

  “What are you doing?” Ophelia asked now as Tabytha peeked here and there along the wall.

  “Looking for booby traps and such.”

  “You won’t find any,” Ophelia assured.

  Tabytha plopped down on the bed. “So what’s your story? Why are you here? You a runaway or something?”

  Ophelia laughed. “Hardly. I am the great-granddaughter of Count Grakujo, the builder of this castle.”

  Tabytha whistled. “And you fetch luggage for a living?”

  “I enjoy serving.”

  “I’m sure you do. Listen, if you don’t mind, I need to make a call.”

  “Of course. Shall I close the door on the way out?”

  “Definitely.” Tabytha was already all over the speed dial.

  Please, Martinique, pick up, if ever you’ve been free in your life let it be now.

  She got it by the third ring. “Wow, so you’re surfacing at last.”

  “By the skin of my teeth, I can’t believe you didn’t send out the cavalry,” Tabytha chided.

  “You’re with Harlan, you’re just fine.”

  “What? How do you know that? Wait, I don’t want to know how.”

  Martinique knew lots of things, through her family connections in the intelligence business not to mention a slew of former VIP boyfriends.

  There was probably a satellite on her right now.

  “Just tell me why you think I am fine, Nikky. Have you any idea what he did to me just on the way here, on th
e side of the road no less?”

  “Did you have it coming?”

  Tabytha resisted tossing the phone. “Of course I didn’t.”

  Martinique laughed. “You’re having a ball, I can tell.”

  “No, I am not, I hate it, I hate—” She was about to say she hated him but stopped herself just in time.

  Hate was a strong emotion, easily twisted.

  Everyone was always saying that.

  “I hate the whole thing,” she completed her thought.

  “Methinks the lady doth get off too much.”

  “That is not Shakespeare.”

  “If the quote fits.”

  “I don’t get off on Harlan Blake. He drives like a maniac, he’s rude, he’s a sex-starved maniac.”

  Martinique was practically cackling. “Girlfriend, you should hear yourself.”

  Tabytha tried not to laugh too. “And the worst part is he’s making macaroni and cheese as we speak.”

  “Oh the horror.”

  “And we’re in a castle, did I mention that?”

  It was like college all over again, the two of them in hysterics, Tabytha lying on her bed, rolling about, chatting endlessly about boys.

  “Tabytha? Is that you?”

  She froze. It was Harlan in the hallway.

  She could smell something burning.

  “Gotta go,” she told Martinique. “Talk later.”

  Running to the door, she opened it just in time to see him with the most sheepish look, utterly adorable. He had the pot in his hand, smoking and smoldering.

  “Don’t tell me,” she gasped.

  He nodded. “Apparently it’s been longer since I cooked than I realized.”

  “Harlan Blake made a mistake?”

  Finally, he’d done something human. Tabytha rewarded him with a peck on the cheek.

  “What was that for?”

  “I’m really not sure, but I was hoping we could just go with it.”

  “I’ll be flexible if you will, especially given that we have no dinner left to speak of.”

  Tabytha took his hand. “How about you show me where the kitchen is and we’ll see what I can come up with.”

  “I’d like that,” he said, his voice soft as velvet, firm and determined as steel, making her melt all over again.

  Just like the first time.

  * * * * *

  Harlan wasn’t sure what had changed but he was just thrilled that it had.

  All that attempt at control he had been making and ironically it was something he couldn’t control, like burning the noodles and finding himself the butt of a joke, that seemed to warm her most.

  Tabytha’s phone conversation had made a difference too. He made a note to thank whoever it was on the other end of the line. Maybe it was that friend of hers, Martinique, she had mentioned a couple of times at dinner.

  Watching her now, Harlan felt his heart swell. It wasn’t that she had any particular culinary skills—banging about on the pots and pans, she seemed as lost as he had.

  Worse, even.

  But she had such joy, such simple childish wonder in her every motion. How had he missed this before? In unlocking her secret fantasies to submit how had he missed her natural playfulness?

  Like a butterfly, too precious and beautiful to capture.

  Had he been approaching this too simply, just thinking of the sex?

  “I hope you like French cooking,” she announced as she broke egg after egg into an enormous bowl.

  Eying the pile of fresh bread, he said, “If you mean French toast, I’m a great fan.”

  She feigned outrage. “And who’s been leaking my culinary secrets?”

  He grinned, leaning against the counter of the refurbished, fully equipped twenty-first-century galley he’d had put in just a few years earlier. “There are spies everywhere, mademoiselle.”

  Tabytha wrinkled her nose at his appalling French accent. “And you are not among them.”

  He handed her a slice of bread. “I am starving, let’s get a move on.”

  Pushing out her hip, she reached for his ass.

  Harlan quickly found himself the recipient of a rather generous smack to the hindquarter.

  “Keep a civil tongue, slave boy.”

  That was all he needed to hear. She giggled, delighted to have him give chase. After a brief struggle he had her pinned, her back to the counter, exactly where he had been standing a moment ago.

  His hands moved up her hips, lifting her dress.

  She read his expression. “Someone could walk in, you know.”

  “In that case I will have to share you.”

  “You’d never share,” she predicted.

  “Why not, there’s plenty to go around.”

  She grabbed at him greedily. “You’re like me. We don’t play well with others.”

  “Is that a declaration of intent, Tabby Cat?”

  Tabytha scooted forward, allowing him to pull up her dress and slip down her panties. Just how many times could a man fuck a woman in one day? He’d like to find out.

  He’d also like to try out that dungeon downstairs.

  “I intend to give you hell, if that’s what you mean.”

  Harlan cried out as she leaned forward, this time not for a kiss but a quick nip of his lower lip. “What was that for?”

  “Letting you know my intentions. Also for calling me Tabby Cat.”

  Harlan impaled her. “The only thing I want coming from your mouth in the next five minutes is ‘Yes Sir’ and ‘Oh god, please, more, Sir’.”

  “Only five minutes? I was hoping for at least ten.”

  “That’s it.” He lifted her, screaming and laughing, over to the table, a great stone and wood structure with matching chairs. Laying her across it, he looked for the contents of a particular cabinet.

  “Good grief,” she cried out, seeing the contents. “You keep ropes in the kitchen.”

  “A good chef is prepared at all times.”

  “You know I could escape any time, right?”

  “Apparently, you don’t want to,” he observed as he encircled one wrist and then the other in the braided silk cords. Using a simple sailor’s knot, he tied down both arms and then moved on to her legs.

  “You are so beautiful.” He kissed her left instep, caressed her ankle and secured it before moving on to the right. In short order he had her splayed over the table, as vulnerable as a Thanksgiving turkey waiting to be carved.

  “And you, Mr. Blake,” she informed him, “are a very naughty man.”

  “Consider it a fresh opportunity to interview me.”

  She snorted. “I can’t exactly hold a pen, can I?”

  “I’ll remember everything for you. May I?” he said, taking hold of her dress, one hand on either side of the plunging neck line.

  “No, absolutely—”

  He shredded it before she could get the word not out.

  “You fucking jerk!”

  Harlan pulled the sides of the ruined dress away. “I would offer to pay for it, but I already did.”

  She sighed, fighting the pleasure as he laid his hand on her belly. “You can deny all you want, but your body knows what it wants.”

  “A decent night’s sleep would be nice.”

  He bent to kiss her bellybutton. She squirmed, arching her back.

  “No, no, stop it,” she moaned, but when he did stop she began to whimper, wanting him to continue.

  “For what it’s worth,” he told her, “I don’t think you are submissive.”

  “Fine time to tell me!”

  “I think you are something else.” He stroked her rib cage and moved onto her breasts, pulling them one by one from her bra cups.

  “You are something else too, and when you read my column you’ll find out what.”

  “Seriously, Tabytha, you are in your own category. You are kinky.”

  “Go me.”

  He took her lips, dry and so full of life, responsive, humming.

  He di
dn’t know how he would ever get his fill of them and this frightened him more than a little.

  They barely knew each other.

  “That means you enjoy the play, but you’ll never really submit to another.”

  Harlan rested his palm on her pussy, pulsing, damp through the material.

  “In fact, Tabby Cat, you are rather inclined to enslave your mates.”

  “Yep, got you right where I want you,” she quipped.

  He chuckled. “Be right back.”

  She watched with wide, alarmed eyes as he fetched the tools of his trade, spatulas, a serving spoon, a dish of leftover fruit from the refrigerator and of course the whipped cream.

  “You are a total prick,” she informed him as he shook the whipped cream. “Can I just get that on the record now?”

  Using a small knife, Harlan cut away the bra and panties. Naked and hot and writhing, that was how he liked her.

  “Delicious,” he rasped, spraying a narrow line of whipped cream down her stomach to the very edge of her pussy lips. He circled the mounds of her breasts next and then put a dab on top of each nipple.

  She alternated watching and not watching, thrashing her head and gritting her teeth. She was so sensitive, so curvaceous.

  “One for each,” he said, producing a pair of maraschino cherries.

  Tabytha groaned as he placed the first one on her nipple, delicate, gentle as could be. The flesh was so swollen, so edible, almost cherry red itself.

  Taking the spatula, he tenderized her hips, light taps, tiny slaps, along both sides, the motion making her undulate and gyrate.

  “Don’t lose those cherries,” he warned.

  When the first fell off he punished her by applying the cool metal spoon to her pussy, just grazing her clit, causing explosions of pleasure that he had no intention of letting her fulfill, not yet anyway.

  “All right, all right, I’ll be still, please, let me come…”

  He laughed. “If you come I don’t think you’ll be very still, do you?”

  “Oh god, I don’t know what I mean,” she exclaimed.

  Her fists clenched and unclenched. “My sweet, little, kinky Tabby Cat,” he said, kissing her gently and soft then hot and firm.

  Her lips opened, she drew him in, her tongue as aggressive as his. It was a perfect combination.

  His cock raged hard in his pants.

  It was time to get this show on the road.

  “Okay,” he said, kissing her earlobe.