Knight Nostalgia: A Knights of the Board Room Anthology(95)
She was, but she had a question, one she was a little self-conscious about asking. She whispered it in his ear, her lips teased by the soft strands of his black hair.
Even before she and Jon had come together, she’d surfed the BDSM sites online, lurking and looking at the things she yearned to do and feel. She’d done it so much that, in the months before they met, she’d stopped, because it hurt too much to see what she wanted and had to accept she’d never have. But for all her personal understanding of what being a submissive was, she really wasn’t all that sophisticated when it came to terminology.
Jon lifted his head, brushing his nose against hers with tender affection before glancing across the table. “Matt, can you tell Rachel what frottage is? I think she’d also like the story of why you particularly like watching it, if you care to share.”
She’d whispered it for a reason, but from the sensual warmth in his eyes, she expected he had a good reason for making her question public.
“Frottage is two women rubbing against one another,” Matt said, in a matter-of-fact way that didn’t make her feel like he found her lack of knowledge anything unusual. He shifted back in his chair, resting his ankle over his opposite knee and placing a hand there. His dark brown eyes were as direct and piercing as always, but she also sensed he was looking at a picture in the past as he continued.
“Years ago, in Amsterdam, I’d had a meeting with a man I didn’t particularly like, but we did a good deal of mutually beneficial business with one another. Later that night, I decided to take a walk. In Amsterdam, there are windows where women and men display themselves in a sexual manner to coax visitors inside for paying services. Some of the situations are reputable and consensual, while others don’t feel that way.
“But one particular window caught my attention, and not just because it was at an upscale club I knew to be run the proper way. Two dark-haired beauties were in the window, lying naked upon a mattress draped in dark green shimmering fabric, framed with gold posts as if it were a bed.”
As he continued, offering more description than Rachel would have expected from the laconic Matt, the picture unfolded in her mind. She was aware of Jon’s hands upon her, stroking her skin, her hair. His lips brushing her temple.
“A flowing gauze gold canopy hung from it, partially screening them, but not so much you couldn’t see the golden tones of their flesh, the movement of their bodies as one lay upon the other. They moved like a man and woman, only smaller movements, more circular, as the woman on top rubbed her clit over the one on the bottom. All while she played with the bottom woman’s breasts, with her large, pink, pierced nipples.”
He paused, a light smile touching his lips, but she noticed there was no humor to it. “Now, what drew my eyes to this window, even more than the lovely women in it, was who stood before it.”
His lips tightened. “The man I had met in Amsterdam was Geoffrey Tennyson. Savannah was his CFO at that time. She’d capably pulled more than her share of weight at our meeting.” He paused. “She was the person in front of those two women.”
Rachel blinked. Matt’s dark eyes sparked with the light she most often saw when he looked at or, in this case, thought of, his wife. Whereas he’d said Savannah’s name with undeniable devotion, it was obvious he didn’t care to even speak the name of her father.
“While my first reaction was what the hell she was doing on that street by herself, it was quickly replaced with something else, because rather than distract her, I watched.”
His expression became even more distant, yet Rachel felt almost as if she stood next to him on the Amsterdam street. “Now, mind you, I could only see her from the back. She was wearing a pair of trim black slacks, a sky-blue long-sleeved shirt tucked into it. Short heels. Her form of casual wear, nice enough to have drinks with her father’s clients, but not as dressed up as she’d been for the earlier, more formal meeting.
“Her blond hair was twisted up on her neck, and I’m glad for that, because she conveys so much through the set of her shoulders, the tilt of her head, the tightening of the muscles in the back of her neck. From those things, I could tell she was utterly absorbed. Mesmerized, even. I began to walk toward her, one slow, quiet step at a time. When I was three steps from where I wanted to be, right behind her, she put a hand on the glass.”
He twisted his half-finished whiskey around, one circle, on the square cocktail napkin Rachel had placed beneath it earlier. The other men were listening to him as attentively as she was. From the way Jon had asked him about it, she knew they knew the story, but she wondered if they knew it in this detail. Dana, despite her unreleased state, appeared to be caught up in the tale as well, her head cocked to listen. Peter had moved his hand from her sex to her thigh, and was idly stroking the slim column.
“It was as unexpected as an eclipse,” Matt said, lifting his gaze back to Rachel’s face. “Savannah was different then. Every movement precise, disciplined, thought out. Pressing her palm to the glass, something she was not supposed to do, was the least of it. It revealed something inside her that wanted to connect to those two women. She told me, much later, what had captured her attention was how genuine these two women were. They were obviously lovers, as well as co-workers, because there was an intimacy to their lovemaking, as if they were unaware of anything but one another.
“And yet, though Savannah wasn’t supposed to touch the window—a sign next to it said not to do so—it was as if those women recognized she had acted purely on the feelings they’d evoked in her. So, as the women began to climax, the one on the bottom reached out and pressed her palm to the window, right beneath Savannah’s. They stayed linked that way for a few vital seconds before the woman took her hand away and looped her arms around her lover’s bare shoulders.”