Afterlife (4 page)

felt so damn good.

Of course, like most things that felt

that way, it came with

a crash like a sugar high.
Damn it.

She’d been vacil ating

between reliving the moment and

being depressed over it

for most of the week. It hadn’t helped

that Jon hadn’t

showed for any of the week’s

classes. It just underscored

she needed to have herself

committed.

As she slid into her car outside the

hospital, she saw her

cel had a voice mail waiting. When

she listened to the

recording, she didn’t know whether

to laugh or cry.

“Rachel, this is Jon Forte. I’m sorry I

missed class this

week, but we had an engineering

prototype due and I was

burning the midnight oil. Would you

be free to do a private

for me on Sunday? Give me a cal and

leave your preferred

time on my message service if you

miss me. Sorry for

going the impersonal tech route, but

I’l look forward to

seeing you Sunday if you can do it.”

The impersonal tech route had given

her a permanent

recording of his voice. She could

listen to it whenever she

wanted, unless she made herself

delete it.
Yeah, right.
That

would happen after she got herself

sloppy drunk, which she

never did.

She needed to make up a lie, tel him

she wasn’t

available for a private this weekend.

Indulging in a one-on-

one class with Jon would be the

height of foolishness after

the way she’d been raking her

emotions over the coals and

dredging up dark memories that real

y needed to stay

buried. Next week would have been

her twenty-fourth

wedding anniversary. The smal

gumbal of nails rol ing

around her bel y grew into something

like a spiked mace at

the thought.

Knights carried maces, right?

Knights of the Board

Room.
Even her colorful self-

deprecations were making

her think of him.
Great.

When she hit the button to reply to the

cal , she didn’t

know if it was a positive or negative

sign she reached his

voicemail. Instead of tel ing him she

wasn’t available, she

opened her mouth and something else

entirely came out.

“Jon, thanks for your cal . I’l see you

at 10 a.m. Sunday.”

A time most people were in church.

Choosing to ignore

the significance of that time choice,

she snapped the phone

closed. Who real y cared if she stood

on the slippery bank

of a lake in which she could drown?

No one. Especial y not her.

* * * * *

Despite a glass of wine, maybe two,

she rocked herself

to sleep Saturday night, her thighs

pressed together over

that sick, unabated throbbing. Every

reformed drug addict

knew you couldn’t indulge even a

taste without awakening

the horrible, must-have-it-or-die

craving. But stil , she got up

the next morning, put on her yoga

clothes and went,

anticipation making her knees

wobble, her stomach flutter.

Her hands shook on the steering

wheel of her battered old

Corol a, fingers cold.

She’d spent a lot of time creating a

peaceful environment

in her yoga studio, which was an

add-on room to the local

fitness club. Rice shades, oak wood

floors and a high

ceiling with a slowly rotating fan.

Bamboo plants and

bonsai were displayed on a few

artful y placed pedestals.

He’d arrived early, of course. With

his masculine grace

and inexpressible beauty, Jon looked

like he belonged

here, though the feelings he evoked

this morning were

anything but peaceful. During those

few moments before he

noticed her arrival, she hung back in

the doorway of her

studio, remembering al the guilty

scenarios she’d played

out in her mind.

At appropriate intervals, she joined

other female rehab

professionals for lunch. Since they

were al of a similar age,

occasional y there’d be jokes about

“cougars”, women who

preferred younger men. Women who

fantasized about

those strong agile bodies, someone

who would make them

feel in their twenties again, males

who could match their

surprisingly expansive forty-

something sexual appetites.

Though she enjoyed the harmless

frivolity of it, that wasn’t

what she felt for Jon.

She wasn’t seeing herself as the

older, wiser woman,

taking him over like some kind of

Mata Hari, guiding his

steps in her bed. When she looked at

him, instead she

sensed his ability to take
her
over,

guide her steps. Why

couldn’t she say it, even in her mind?

She’d already

opened that can of worms, hadn’t

she?

Jon was a sexual Dominant, the same

as Peter was. A

Master. Now that she knew it about

Peter, she was certain

of it for Jon. In between the lines of

that gossip column,

there’d even been a couple of snarky

hints about certain

sexual tendencies the Knights shared,

but nothing stated

overtly enough to invite problems for

the paper or confirm

Rachel’s suspicions. But now she

was sure, and wondered

that she’d ever doubted it.

Though being a Dom didn’t make a

man more mature,

Jon gave her that feeling. She

responded to him, far more

than she had to any Master close to

her age, those few

she’d encountered on her Internet

forays. It was as if

whatever his particular brand of

Mastery was, it was cal ing

to her, and her alone.

Foolishness. The K&A men had

never lacked for female

companionship.

They

were

regularly

paired

with

Louisiana’s most beautiful women

for large charity events

or other prominent social occasions.

But always different

women. As if it was more for show

than a real relationship,

no commitment or meaning.

Oh God.
Was she real y doing the

rock star groupie

thing? Al those other women mean

nothing, because he

hasn’t met
me
yet. The real me. For

the mil ionth time, she

reminded herself al he’d ever been

toward her was warm,

cordial. Anything else was her,

reading things into his

behavior. The few times he’d tried to

draw her out about her

life beyond the studio or PT, she’d

firmly discouraged that.

He’d been enough of a gentleman to

take the hint, mostly

because she’d seen his eyes fal on the

wedding band she

wore. She liked that about him, that

he respected that, no

matter how false a signal it truly was.

However, now that

she knew what he was, she thought it

was even more than a

respect for the institution.

In his world, a man did not encroach

on what belonged to

another man. When she thought of it

in such an archaic

way, a way that would appal most

modern women, it sent

that inappropriate thril through her

again. Men with such a

code might demand a woman obey

their wil , but they

considered that a gift that should

never be abused. Their

dominance wasn’t a lack of respect,

but rather an

acknowledgment of their

responsibility to care for that

woman.

Yeah, right.
Damn it, she never

learned, already tripping

along in a romantic fantasy land

again. People were far too

messed up to figure things out like

that. Those who

understood it, on both sides, were too

few. Instead, they

usual y crossed the lines and abused

the boundaries,

making it al pointless. She knew,

from trying with her

husband. She hadn’t known how to

articulate what she

needed, and Cole…

It didn’t matter anymore. She’d enjoy

her avid fantasies

from behind the safe gate of her mind.

It was a torment she

was obviously wil ing to endure,

because she was here,

wasn’t she?

He was wearing natural cotton

drawstring trousers, soft

and worn, like the white tank tee that

showed off the wel -

muscled arms and chest. After class,

if it was a weekday,

he would shower in the locker rooms

and change into his

expensive suit. His dark hair would

fal in sexy disarray over

those thoughtful, incredibly intel igent

blue eyes, the cut

emphasizing the slope of cheekbones,

a firm jaw and

mouth that would actual y cause her

to stammer if she

made the mistake of looking at it

while she was addressing

the class.

He was sliding off the shoes he’d

worn from the locker

rooms. As he straightened, he saw

her. She couldn’t

speak, looking at him there. When he

walked over to her,

he passed through shafts of early

morning sunlight, filtering

through the rice paper shades.

Shadows and light.

“Good morning,” he said, and it

echoed through the

empty room, a resonance that

enchanted the senses. She

wondered if it was the same kind of

voice the Virgin Mary

had heard when an angel appeared

and told her about her

divine fate.

Okay, just because she was meeting

him on Sunday

morning didn’t mean she could

intertwine sexual yearning

with biblical passages. She’d be on a

one-way course for

hel for sure. She already felt the

flames licking over her

body, and the fact they felt good

wasn’t reassuring.

As he stopped in front of her, she stil

hadn’t said a word.

She couldn’t. Particularly when he

slid a knuckle along her

cheek, catching a loose curl of her

blonde hair and tucking

it back into one of her hair clips.

They al laughed about her

wayward hair that she French-

braided along her nape for

class. More than one student had

done the same thing he’d

just done. Only it meant so much

more when a male hand

did it, a hand attached to a body like

that and intense eyes

like those.

Snap out of it, Rachel. You’re

making a damn fool of

yourself.

The words came straight out of her

dead marriage, in the

same abrupt, impatient tone. They

propel ed her back a

step, the startled jump of her heart

making her clear her

throat with a rasping cough. “Good

morning,” she said,

though “Good” broke into two syl

ables because of the

catch in her voice. She shrugged her

shoulders, a mental

shake that might look odd, but it

helped get her mind back

in the right place. Or at least turned

in that direction. “Do

you have anything in particular you

want to practice today,

or should I fol ow our usual class

format?”

She should have indulged in more

inane conversation.

How was traffic, how was your

week, the weather?
Did you

have a Danish for breakfast?

Because your breath has a

sweet iced sugar scent that makes

me want to devour your

mouth.

However, since the rest of her class

wasn’t here, she

needed to get this progressing

forward, before she real y

did
do something foolish.

“You already know what I want,

Rachel.” As her stomach

lurched, he gave a half smile. “I

prefer the more advanced

sessions. Are you up for it today?”

Her advanced class met on Friday

mornings. He often

couldn’t make that one because of the

executive staff

meetings he’d told her were held on

that day. When he

attended her basic and intermediate

classes, he chose the

more intense modifications of the

asanas
, but he rarely had

the opportunity to do some of the

truly advanced positions.

“Yes, that wil be fine.” She nodded

like her head was

jerked by a string. “Let’s get started.”

Since he was studying her curiously

as they moved to

their mats, she tried to relax her

shoulders, loosen up

some. Then his next question coiled

her up like a spring

again.

“What are you doing on the last

Saturday of this month?”