Second Chances

She really wasn't a tease. Teasing implied some kind of sexual knowledge, some instinctive awareness that how she acted, what she said would produce a specific male response. Teasing sounded so calculated, so knowing, so deliberate. Better to wrap the tease in innocence and just a touch of the demure and, honestly, that wasn't so far from the truth. She would have gotten the medal for both at one point, plus the blue ribbon for "most naïve" college freshman. Somehow, she'd never really lost that innocent aspect and men just seemed to sense that about her. Besides, she never teased indiscriminately. Most of the time, she was just friendly. Only when she was really attracted, really intrigued, really challenged, did she bring out the tease. It happened rarely and it hadn't happened in a long time.

She pushed back from the desk, reached for her coffee cup, found it cold and buzzed her assistant for more. Swiveling around to look out the walls of glass that bounded her office was Santa Monica at its best; early summer, bright blue sky, glorious wedge of sapphire water. The view took the edge off sixty hour weeks and needy celebrity clients with too much time and money and not nearly enough common sense. Not exactly what she thought she'd be doing when she entered law school but, as it turned out, she was damn good at dealing with the law and the stars. Didn't leave much time for, what did they call it, oh, yes, a balanced life. No husband, no children, not even a cat although she did have a drop dead condo, a killer wardrobe, and the sweetest little Beemer. And friends, lots of them. Most of the time that was all she needed since she was just a mite picky about men, love and sex.

5:30. She had a 6:30 cocktail party and a limo coming at midnight to take her to the Bahamas on a private jet thanks to a grateful client who was not going to see his photo plastered over People while he slobbered over some woman who was definitely not his wife. Perks of the trade and most of the world would think she was lucky. Well, it would be nice—a few days away—but alone in the tropics was still alone. If she weren't so exhausted, she'd have passed it up but she needed the time to think. She was pushing thirty-three, more successful than she ever imagined and lonely as hell. If she stayed in the game, she knew exactly what the future looked like. More money and bigger perks, the best tables, the A list parties and endless work. Celebs were like needy children; always promising to be good and always in trouble. No wonder she'd not even considered marriage and a family; who needed to leave the office and go home to the same damned thing.

Time to change. A quick shower, redo the makeup, slip into a slinky pewter satin backless sheath. Her office came with its own bath and dressing room—another perk— and downstairs to the waiting limo; grateful clients did come in handy. Fifteen minutes later she was walking into the foyer of Martin Grey's over the top house where the requisite A-list milled around standup tables and a poolside bar. She made her way over the nearest group, didn't matter which one; she fit in any of them and well enough known to be a desired compliment. Good lawyers were a dime a dozen in LA, really good lawyers who were female and easy on the eyes, knew now to keep a secret and didn't sleep with anyone's husband, they were at a premium. Someone handed her a glass of champagne, someone said hi, someone kissed her cheek and she would have missed him completely if a waiter hadn't accidentally bumped her. She started to shift away when she caught the eyes of a tall, dark haired man standing alone across the terrace. He had the most amused expression on his face, as if the whole scene arrayed before him was some kind of movie set (well, he wasn't that far off) and he was the only one in on the joke. He looked back at her, raised an eyebrow, shook his head back and forth once, and turned away.

It bothered her, that rebuff, and it had been a very long time since she had entertained that feeling. Did he mean it for her? Who else was he looking at? Was she imagining it? No, he was still there, still looking over the terrace and she was still bothered. A smile, yes, we must get together for lunch...say whatever it takes to gracefully extract herself from the group and wander across the terrace. She recognized the feeling; it was a challenge. It had been awhile and she wanted to play.

She walked toward him, instinctively knowing that she had to make the first move. Well, that was part of her tease persona; a bit brazen and then back off. Her heels clicked on the stone terrace announcing her arrival when he suddenly turned to face her.

"Long time, Clare." The words were scarcely out of his mouth when a flood of memories rushed her. Lordy, he had changed, well, filled out was probably the better term. In place of that tall, skinny college kid with glasses was a well muscled man, clearly at ease in Armani although in her mind he was still wearing jeans and a sweatshirt. He still parted his hair on the left, still had a clef in his chin, still had a voice like warm chocolate and clearly still remembered her. She blushed a bit, didn't quite know what to say. Fifteen years was a long time to remember a brief college fling if you could call it that. How long had it lasted? A week?

He held her glance, a slight smirk the only clue that he might, just possibly remember that last time. Shoot, of course he remembered. Who wouldn't? She'd made an absolute fool of herself, going from pseudo-femme fatale to gawky freshman in less than thirty minutes.

She'd gone off to college pretty darn naïve, the result of a somewhat sheltered education and parents who were pretty strait laced: a professor dad with his head buried in a chemistry lab most of the time and a mother whose chronic asthma kept her housebound. From a small college town in Pennsylvania to UCLA had been a giant leap forward. But her grades had been outstanding; her SATs off the chart, and both of her parents were totally convinced the good sisters at St. Mary's Academy had drummed the importance of virtue and responsibility into her head, so they let her go on a full ride with total confidence. She didn't disappoint them; Dean's list every semester, summa cum laude without breaking a sweat but along the way, she made good on a few promises to herself.

She wanted to shed every vestige of small town Pennsylvania, goody two-shoes, and total innocent that she could. It was an impossible task and she was doomed to failure, something she discovered the first week when some guy tried to cop a feel around an orientation bonfire. Okay, she was never going to be the easy lay (amazing how her vocabulary had broadened after only a couple of weeks living in a dorm) but she certainly was going to test the waters.

He, Brad, of the current bemused expression, had been a genuine fiasco, a total failure on her part. She was intrigued with him from the get-go which had been a chance encounter in the bookstore and then, surprise, he was also in her Psych lecture. She'd smiled, he sat down beside her and something had just fluttered inside. He'd said bye after the lecture and walked off but the next week he found her again, sat with her and ended up asking her to his frat house for a Friday kegger. She'd met a lot of people, sipped very little beer, and was feeling trés sophisticated so she figured that this was a good time to try out her new persona—sexy college coed. Right. When he suggested that they go up to his room, she tipped her head down a bit, looked up, and smiled. Walking up the stairs with his arm around her shoulders felt pretty good. He was awfully cute and, heck, only a couple of years older. Besides, she was getting tired of being the only girl on her floor who had nothing to share at the Sunday night pizza fests.

His room was pretty tidy; bed made, books piled on the desk. He put on some music, sat down on the bed, gave her arm a little tug and, before she knew it, she was sitting down next to him.

"Not so bad, is it?" he said, pushing her hair behind her ear. "I've wanted to ask you out from the first but, I don't know, you always seemed so aloof. I'm glad you came tonight. I was beginning to think I didn't have a chance. Besides, I was hoping that we could partner up on that Psych project."

Psych project-- that was his interest, her mind? No, no, no. She was not going to be the study date. What was wrong with her? The entire situation called for a change in tactics.

She looked straight into his eyes, said she'd love to work on the project with him, spied the textbook on the nearby desk and suggested that they get started. She opened the book, bending her hair so the mass of it fell across her check and they shyly looked up and him and smiled.

"Exactly what did you have in mind for our project?" she asked. "Maybe we could..." She never got to finish the sentence. The hand around her waist pushed the book to the floor, his other tipped her head back and an instant later he was kissing her.

She'd been kissed before but this was different. He sucked on her lower lip a little, eased his tongue into her mouth, applied more pressure, all the while pulling her closer and slipping a hand under her sweater. She wasn't sure exactly what to do; it all felt so good. She found herself kissing him right back, running her hand over his back, meeting his tongue with hers. She hardly noticed at first that he was cupping her breast and rubbing her nipple with his thumb although that probably accounted for the sudden gush of wetness that she felt in her panties and the overwhelming urge to rub against him.

"I don't think we should...Brad...what are you doing?" Well, it was pretty clear what he was doing. He had his hand on her breast and was rubbing her nipple into a hard pouty nub sending the most exquisite spiral of pleasure all the way down to her crotch. She could feel herself arching against him and making little whimpering sounds against his lips. Good as it felt she knew this was something that the good sisters would want her to stop so she put a hand down on his leg with the intention of pushing away but somehow ended up pressing her hand against...No, that must be his cock (only she clearly remembered at the time that the term that came to mind was "his thing") and she wasn't all that sure what to do so the fact that she gently squeezed wasn't really intentional, it just happened. That's when the problem started. Brad must have thought that she was moving things forwards because his hand shifted down from her breast and moved up under her skirt and under her panties and through the damp curls of her mound and before she could think he had slipped a finger into her cunt and was rubbing her clit and moving his finger inside her and she was pushing against him and still stroking his cock. It felt incredible, so good that she just wanted to push herself against him and feel...what was she thinking?

She shook her head abruptly and brought herself back to the present. The rest of that evening has been mercifully short and humiliating. She distinctly remember jumping up to her feet, a flailing hand knocking his glasses to the floor, and stammering apologies before she bolted out of his room and down the stairs and...well, enough. So much for the sophisticate, bring on the bumpkin. She'd avoided him at Psych, creeping in late after the lecture began, mortified that he would see her and laugh. That he might not have laughed, that he might have liked her enough to get past her obvious inexperience, that inexperience might even have been an attraction had never occurred to her then. By the time that she realized all three were perfectly possible, it was way too late, years too late.

He was still looking at her, that same amused expression on his face. Well, things were different now and she wasn't some naïve freshman and she was going to wipe that ridiculous smug male look off his face tonight.

"It has been a long time, Brad, and how do you know Martin?" She asked, slipping effortlessly into celeb lawyer mode.

"We're old friends, I was in town and he insisted I come over. And you?

"Martin's a client. Where's home for you now?

"Omaha. Just here for a couple of days, a few meetings and then I'm off for a short vacation. Martin and I were going to have dinner but he seems pretty caught up in guests and martinis. On the other hand, you look pretty bored and probably do these kinds of things on a regular basis. Why don't you let me take you to dinner and you can tell me what you've been doing since you ran out of my frat house."

That was it...the gauntlet. He hadn't forgotten. If he thought for one second that she was the least anxious, he was very, very wrong. Clare the naïve bumpkin was history.

"Exactly what I was thinking. You know, my condo's just a couple of blocks away. I'll bet you're tired of restaurants and I'm a dynamite cook. Why don't you let me make dinner and we'll catch up." That'll show him. Omaha, what's in Omaha? Times have changed Brad and you're on my turf now.

A few air kisses and quick goodbyes and fifteen minutes later they pulled into a soaring luxury high-rise on Wilshire. She handed the keys to the doorman and moments later they were walking into her foyer of her penthouse condo.

"Drinks and ice that way," and she pointed toward a bar set up near the glass walled living room that overlooked L.A. , walking down the hall to her bedroom. While he got accustomed to the view, she'd just change into something a little more casual, something to...well, to tease. She left the door open, heard ice clinking, and pulled on a coral, knitted silk low necked patio dress. Perfect. Soft, sensual and she didn't need a bra. Let's see if he noticed. She smiled at her reflection in the mirror and left the room knotting the tie belt around her waist and letting the tasseled ends fall to the floor.

He was holding a short cocktail glass in one hand and a champagne flute in the other—nice touch, he remembered what she had been drinking and certainly wasn't shy about foraging in her kitchen. As she recalled he wasn't shy about much. She sipped champagne and was just about to ask him what he did, make some kind of small talk when he reached over and pulled the comb from her hair.

"Better with the dress this way," he murmured into her ear as a mass of sun- streaked tresses spilled onto her shoulders. "I assume that women who put their hair up with a single clip expect a man to pull it out. Wouldn't want to disappoint you and, yes, I did notice that you're not wearing a bra and this is the kind of dress that says, touch me."

What? Had she missed something? He was supposed to be awed by the million dollar view, her casual sophistication, the way that she glided from Hollywood party to intimate dining. She was going to cook, damn it and she was going to run this show. Who did he think he was?

"You ran out on me the last time, Clare. It's not going to happen again. We have something to finish here."

Her eyes went wide and something clutched in her stomach. What did he mean, finish. She would have said something, anything but his hands moved around her waist and he pulled her into his chest, lowered his head and began kissing her neck, bending her back to get better access. She would have said something but his hands spread and strong fingers moved up her ribs, pressing her into his erection while his lips slid down her throat into the hollow of her breasts. She should have said something when he slipped straps off her shoulders, a move that exposed her breasts and she didn't have to look to know that her nipples were tight firm buds aroused by his lips or that she was arching into him on her own now. She wasn't eighteen anymore, or naïve. She didn't intend to run away but she would control this seduction. Things would move at her pace.

Wait. What was he doing? Unlatching the glass doors to the terrace, and pushing the doors open. Well it was warn and there was a double wide chaise so perhaps they could neck for a bit. She just didn't expect it, the sudden swoop of being picked up and deposited on the chaise, or the odd tingle in her stomach when he bent over and dragged her lacy peach thong off in one smooth movement. Then he just stood there over her, looking down. And she just laid there, breasts fully exposed, hair mussed, the hem of her dress somewhere between calf and knee. She didn't move, almost mesmerized as he shucked off jacket, tie, and shirt, exposing a well muscled chest and biceps. Nice, but what was he thinking? Belt, pants, briefs; he was standing there absolutely naked and very aroused. His cock was engorged, tilted up, and leading a very determined man who was untangling the knot in his tie.

She should move, or say something but "What are you doing?" sounded so lame. Somewhere she had the tiniest inkling of what was coming and she wasn't sure whether she wanted to stop it or let it happen. He hadn't said anything; just kept looking at her with that same bemused expression. She scooted her legs up, drawing her body into a ball. He sat down on the side of the chaise, put one hand beneath her head and she felt him gathering her hair, holding her head and then he was kissing her again, deeply, telling her to open her lips before his tongue invaded the soft warmth of her mouth. He probed, touched, kissed her hungrily and she responded in kind. Her arms ran up the length of his, fingertips pressing into his shoulders, breasts aching to be touched, arching toward him. She could feel his fingers at her waist, untying the sash and pulling it from under her and then his voice, quiet and low, telling her that she'd gotten away from him the last time but that it wouldn't happen again and did she know how he was going to make that happen.

She felt him take her hands from his shoulders, kiss her palms and then raise them over her head and then, suddenly, he was looping his tie—that very costly Armani tie— around her hands and, what was he doing...good lord, he was tying her hands to the iron frame of the chaise. Was he crazy? They were outside, on a terrace, twenty stories up...why...

"You're a little tease, a bit of a temptress, aren't you? And little teases, well, they always want the same thing, but you knew that. They want to get caught. And now that I've caught you, I get to do whatever I want."

"This is ridiculous. Untie me, right now." She did say that, didn't she? She intended to, but, and this was just the tiniest bit hard to explain. She liked it, being tied, being handled, being dominated. She could feel tingles in her cunt, knew she was wet, knew he would touch her, and knew he would spread her legs even as she drew them closer to her body.

He knelt at the foot of the chaise and slid his hands under the soft coral knit of her dress, grabbed hold of both knees and pushed them up and apart. She gasped as the dress fell onto her belly. Her legs, mound, vagina were fully exposed, open to the night breezes and this man. She pushed her knees against his palms, testing to see what he would do, knowing that he would...and did push them further open. He looped one end of the coral sash around an ankle and then tied it under the chaise, securing it to the wrought iron frame, repeating the same technique with the other. Way too good with knots, must have been a boy scout. What was she thinking? This man had just tied her up and she hadn't screamed or scratched or... She'd watched him, amazed at her reaction because now she was effectively immobilized. She could move her knees back and forth, could achieve some small measure of modesty, if you ignored the bare breasts, but for all intents and purposes, she was at his pleasure.

He stood, walked back to the living room and retrieved his drink. Took a sip, put the glass down, and returned to the chaise.