Purely Professional

By Elia Winters

Columnist Bridget Hartwell agrees to write about BDSM to impress her new executive editor at Sultry, the "sex-positive magazine for sex-positive women." Unfortunately, it's a topic she knows absolutely nothing about but if she ever wants that promotion, she'll need to learn the ropes, fast.

English professor Max Harlow is active in the Dom/sub scene, but only for casual play. He's never found his ideal partner: a woman who is his equal, but sexually submissive. When he's asked to explain the lifestyle to his cute but obviously inexperienced neighbor, Max is certain it's best to approach it academicallyto keep things purely professional.

Until Bridget's first article is a huge hit, giving her the perfect excuse to delve deeper into the naturally submissive side of her sexuality. As their encounters intensify and each of her boundaries is skillfully pushed, Bridget must decide what this all means for her identity, her career and, most importantly, her future with Max.

60,000 words

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media
• Release date: Jan 13, 2014
• ISBN: 9781426897863

Elia Winters

RITA™ Award-winning author Elia Winters is a fat, tattooed, polyamorous bisexual who writes geeky, kinky, cozy erotic romance. She holds a Master’s degree in English Literature and teaches at a small rural high school, where she also runs the drama club. In her spare time, she indulges in baking, geekiness, and fighting the patriarchy. She currently lives in western Massachusetts with her loving husband and their weird pets.

Book preview

Chapter One

The morning was almost too perfect: cool late-spring air, the sky sunny with a light scent of recent rain. I’m in a coffee commercial. The thought came to Bridget unbidden as she jogged down the sidewalk, wet pavement slapping beneath the soles of her running shoes. She looked down the street, expecting to see children playing with a puppy, or a family washing their car, or maybe both, set to a swelling orchestral melody in the background. The neighborhood was silent, though, and she ran alone through the picture-perfect morning.

Well, not completely perfect, she amended. She had to admit to herself she wasn’t much of a runner as her side began to ache with each breath. By the time she looped the neighborhood and reached the end of her driveway again, her breath was coming in gasps. Winded, she walked back and forth for a few minutes, trying to slow her racing heart. Maybe she wasn’t as fit as she thought. Maybe she’d been a bit impulsive to throw on her crappy tennis shoes and go for a jog, like she was back in high school on the cross-country team and not a thirty-something woman procrastinating about work.

When her heart rate slowed to something resembling normal, she stopped pacing and wiped her sweaty face on her shirt. Maybe the exercise had cleared her brain and she could write the article she’d been putting off for the past week. Her deadline was looming, and she never missed a deadline. She checked the mail: a few bills, a magazine subscription renewal notice and a small package.

A package? Ooh. She pulled it out to look and sighed: it wasn’t for her. This wasn’t a new occurrence. Bridget checked the return address label but didn’t recognize the company.

Fortunately, it was no hardship to bring the package to its rightful owner.

Her next-door neighbor Max lived in a house much larger than her quaint Cape-style home. As she walked up the flagstone path leading to his front door, she admired his well-appointed Colonial flanked by nicely trimmed plants. She wondered (not for the first time) how a college professor had time to landscape, then rang the doorbell.

When Max opened the door, looking predictably gorgeous, Bridget immediately wished she had showered first, or at least changed out of her running clothes. No one should look as good as he did in jeans and a T-shirt. He ran a hand through his hair, the dark curls tousled and damp like he’d just come out of the shower. He leaned against the door frame and surveyed her with his bright blue eyes, looking her up and down, taking in her attire and her breathlessness. His gaze lingered on her body a bit longer than necessary, but he always seemed to study her like this. From anyone else, the survey would have made her uncomfortable, but Bridget liked the way Max ignored propriety in these moments, a lazy smile crossing his lips as his eyes returned to her face.

Miss Bridget Hartwell. He raised his eyebrows. Been running, I see.

A little, she said. Clearing my head.

Writer’s block? He shifted against the door frame, scratching his hip with one hand, the motion shifting his loose jeans just enough to reveal the jut of his hip bone—had hip bones always been so sexy?

She nodded, forcing her gaze away from the distracting stretch of skin. I’m just stuck. I’m not sure the run helped, but at least I’m not home staring at a computer screen. Of course, that’s where I’m headed back to...so we’ll see. You’re lucky you don’t have to worry about writer’s block.

He gave her a pinched expression. They do require me to publish things from time to time.

And how do you break your writer’s block?

He grinned and raised his eyebrows, but didn’t answer. She shook her head and sighed in mock exasperation, then looked down at the package in her hands. Remembering why she was there, she handed the small, light box over to him. Another package of yours. I swear to God, I’m just going to start opening these if they keep coming to me.

Yeah, I’d love to see your face if you did. Max took the package from her and read the label with a cryptic half smile. You know, if you’d just change your last name, this wouldn’t be a problem. He pointed. It clearly says Max Harlow, not Bridget Hartwell.

Well, if you didn’t live next door to me, this wouldn’t be a problem either, she bantered back. Something about the way he looked at her, his gaze lazily poring over her body, made her skin feel hot in a manner completely different from her run. This was Max, though, and this was just how they were with each other. Months of flirtation that never amounted to anything, neither of them pushing any further, comfortable with this harmless give-and-take.

You’d be heartbroken if I moved away. Max tossed the package and caught it lightly with one hand.

I know, she said with mock sadness. I’d be completely bereft. Bridget felt her face flush and hoped he would mistake it for physical exertion.

Are you sure you’re not stealing my mail so you have an excuse to come see me? I know you just can’t stay away. He hooked his thumb in the waistband of his jeans, angling his hips even more. This was going a little further than usual, but his half smile said it was all just teasing, none of it real. When she found herself staring at the place where his fingers rested on the denim, she jerked her gaze back up to his face again. His smile had broadened. Were they playing some kind of flirtation chicken here?

You’ve figured me out. She stretched her arms up and back, knowing her shirt was riding up, and grinned when she saw him follow the motion with his eyes. I’d better go home and shower. Unless I can come in and use yours? She batted her lashes.

He laughed, and Bridget knew she’d won this round. My door is always open. Are you ever going to let me read those magazine articles of yours?

Not in this lifetime, Harlow. See you later, she called over her shoulder, already walking down the path. When she made it back to the sidewalk, Bridget looked back to see him still standing in the doorway, leaning against the doorjamb and smiling at her. She jogged the rest of the way to her own front door. Had to put up a good front, after all. No need to let him know that she was still tingling from their encounter, no matter how much she played it off. By the time she looked back across the grassy expanse between them, he was gone.

Bridget shut the door behind her and leaned against it, feeling suddenly winded again. Why did he always do this to her? She had exchanged packages with him almost every week since he moved in six months before, always the banter and flirting and sexy looks, never anything more, of course. That was just the kind of man he was.

In her bedroom upstairs, she looked out the window at his house across the lawn, unsurprised to see a car in his driveway. His guests came and went at all hours, and if she didn’t know better, she’d swear he ran some sort of drug cartel. But every one of his guests was female, and they all looked pretty damn happy when leaving. She hadn’t been spying—of course not, she told herself—but she couldn’t help noticing these things. No way around it, he was a playboy.

Bridget sighed and let the curtains drop back across the window. She padded barefoot down the hall to the bathroom, leaving her running clothes in the hamper, enjoying the feeling of the house’s cool air on her naked skin before climbing into the shower.

Her thoughts drifted immediately back to Max and their little flirtation about his shower. It was a joke, of course, maybe just one step up from their regular banter, and yet she felt a spark run through her at the thought of him right outside the curtain, or perhaps in the shower with her, running his soapy hands across her bare skin...

She wouldn’t get anything done if she kept up that train of thought. And yet there was a trick for ridding herself of writer’s block that worked nearly every time.

Hair still damp, Bridget sat down on her bed and opened the bedside cabinet drawer. Her favorite glass toy in hand, she settled back against the pillows and closed her eyes.

There was something so delicious about starting off slow, postponing the inevitable, something her sexual partners never seemed to appreciate. A gentle brush against her swollen nipples, once, twice, then a slightly firmer tug that made her suck in a breath. A light touch of fingertips over her stomach, one deft flick against her clit, then back up to her breasts again. There were never enough hands.

At last, she began to rub her clit in slow, purposeful circles. This was nice, familiar, the arousal sliding through her veins like hot wax. The glass shaft felt icy cold against her heated, sensitive skin, and when she slid it deep inside, she couldn’t help but clench around the firm, unyielding surface. Bridget drew it out slowly, imagining her partner poised above her. His identity didn’t matter in the moment, just his glorious cock with its firm tip still inside her, and she thrust the toy hard back in.

It never took long. No matter how she wanted to draw it out, savor the moment, it didn’t matter: the more she fucked herself, the sooner she reached the edge, and the faster she wanted to go. In those shimmering moments where her world dissolved down to the sensations between her legs, the man above her became Max, his gaze locked on hers, wry smile gone, eyes bottomless and dark with passion. She may have started with the idea of a faceless partner, but as she approached the brink, it was Max; it always became Max. When she came, it was with that image fixed in her mind, the thought of him watching her fall apart beneath him. The pleasure drove all else from her mind.

Once everything was put away, she dressed in comfortable clothes and padded downstairs, feeling refreshed, renewed, ready to face the article she’d been avoiding writing for days. She couldn’t deny her responsibility any longer. With a new executive editor at Sultry, she couldn’t afford to miss deadlines or do anything less than her best. Maybe she didn’t really have writer’s block, and just enjoyed having an excuse to masturbate.

She really had no right to think about Max, the man she didn’t even know well but enjoyed casting as the star in her sexual daydreams. Honestly, she didn’t know much about him other than he was an English professor at the local university, frequently received packages in the mail at his gorgeous house, entertained a lot of female callers and had an amazing body. Not much to build on. Should she feel guilty? No. What he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him, and she set the thought aside.

With a mouse wiggle, Bridget’s computer screen came alight, document open just as she’d left it. Playtime: a Defense of Toys. It seemed all the more appropriate to be writing about this now.

The words didn’t exactly come easily, but it wasn’t torturous, and she finally finished her piece about why sex toys were beneficial to a healthy relationship. And why not? Even though her own sex life rarely extended past that bedroom nightstand drawer, if she were to bring a partner home, she would expect him to accept her toys. True, she hadn’t had the opportunity to show them off, but she’d be all right with it. It wasn’t like she was playing with anything hard-core, right? Simple vibrators and dildos. Totally boring.

Her fingers paused over the keys. Boring? She’d never thought of her masturbatory hobbies as boring before. She included toys, and that was a little kinky, right? Not as kinky as some of her favorite fantasies, the ones she didn’t share with anyone, not even her sexual partners...

Bridget had stopped typing, her mind wandering down the dimly lit hallways of her kinky fantasies, when the doorbell rang. A quick glance at the clock confirmed that it was almost two; she’d been writing for a while. She checked her appearance in the hall mirror as she walked by. Her hair had dried into its usual curls, albeit a little more wild than usual, but her face still had a recently fucked look to it. She tried to compose herself a little. How did one do that, anyway?

Bridget peered through the peephole first and sighed. Of course it would be him.

Max was slapping a few letters against his hand when she opened the door. Time for me to return the favor. He handed her the letters with a smile.

Thanks. She smoothed a hand across her hair. You didn’t have to do that, though. You could have just stuck them in my mailbox.

He shrugged. One’s a bill. Looks pretty important. He pressed a hand to his heart. And I just couldn’t bear to be separated from you.

Bridget rolled her eyes and smiled despite herself. This was the subject of her fantasies?

Max thrust his hands in his pockets and leaned against one of the pillars framing her front steps. So, according to record, we should be able to go another few days without having mail to exchange, right?

That’s how it usually goes. She looked past him and noticed his driveway was empty again. Your company’s gone already?

Oh, yeah, only a little lunch meeting. She just left. Was it her imagination, or were his blue eyes twinkling with some kind of mischief? Lunch meeting, sure.

Max seemed in no hurry to leave her porch, studying her in a way that was familiar but not intrusive. All right, back to work. She gestured over her shoulder, hoping he would take the hint. It wasn’t that she wanted him gone, but having him so close to her was making it difficult to think properly.

You get that writer’s block worked out? Or are you going to try a marathon next?

I’m fine, thanks. And you know, lots of people run.

Lots of people warm up for it first, he replied with a half-smile. All right, I’ll let you get back to it.

I have to. My editor wants the piece by this evening.

A slave to the machine. He tipped an imaginary hat to her before turning away. Good luck.

Thanks. Bridget shut the door and leaned against it, relieved that she probably wouldn’t see him for a few days. Not that she disliked his company, but she couldn’t help feeling awkward. She needed to cultivate a new fantasy that didn’t involve her incredibly sexy neighbor.

* * *

Chinese tonight? Helen leafed through the menus she’d taken off Bridget’s fridge.

Whatever. Bridget was scrolling through the Netflix instant-watch options and didn’t look up. Comedy or drama?

Comedy. My week sucked. I want something to make me laugh. Helen handed Bridget the menu for the Golden Peacock. I assume you’re trying something new tonight? You know, since you haven’t liked any of the last three meals you’ve ordered?

Bridget nodded, taking a break from Netflix surfing to scan the menu. I should really start keeping track. I don’t want to order the same sucky thing twice. Okay...Number Five. Extra spicy, with an egg roll and pork fried rice. She put a finger on her nose. ‘Not it’ on calling.

You never call. Helen had already started dialing.

You know I hate the phone.

While her best friend ordered dinner, Bridget went back to scanning the movie listings, eventually choosing a rom-com they’d both seen. It was easier to talk while watching a familiar movie than a new one.

So your week sucked? Bridget asked when Helen put down the phone. What happened? As the opening credits began to play, she curled her legs up on the recliner.

Just obnoxious clients. Helen ran a hand through her long blond hair. Helen Simmons was always dealing with extremes: ecstatic prospective homeowners who’d been preapproved or morose wannabes with bad credit. Apparently it had been a bad-credit week. There’s an upside, though. She settled back against the cushions. I’m going out with Jessica again tomorrow night.

Again? That’s three weekends in a row. Bridget grinned.

So it is. Helen smiled a bit. She actually asked me out tonight, but nobody messes with Netflix-and-takeout Friday.

Aww, you could’ve gone out. I’d have understood. Bridget fetched them each a beer out of the fridge.

Far be it from me to mess with tradition. Cheers. Helen clinked her bottleneck with Bridget’s and took a long swig, then looked at the label. Sam Adams Summer, already?

It’s almost June, Bridget pointed out. So things with Jessica are going somewhere?

Maybe. Helen studied the beer bottle with more pointed interest, not making eye contact even as her mouth quirked upward in a smile. What about you? How’s your moratorium?

Bridget grimaced. It’s not a moratorium. I’m just giving up dating for a while.

Until when?

Until I find a man who’s not so stupid. She drank, the beer sour in her mouth.

You’re just too critical.

So I should settle? Bridget shook her head. No, thank you. I have no desire to hop into bed with some moron just because it’s been a while. She stared at the screen, where the leading lady was being introduced to the leading man.

How long? Helen cast a sidelong glance at her from the sofa.

How long for what? Bridget feigned confusion and began picking at the label of her beer.

How long since you’ve had sex?

With someone other than myself? Bridget paused, counting months. A long time. I don’t really want to think about it. It’s depressing. She took another swig from the bottle and stared at the television, looking without seeing. Her last sexual partner had been Ryan, who worked downstairs from her. It had been their second date, and he had cried afterward. She snorted.

It was Ryan the Crier, wasn’t it?

"I said I don’t want to think about