"So, tell me," Thomas asked her. "What is it that you want? Is sex all about whips and black leather, strangers seducing you in alleyways, and strings of one-night stands?"
Anne Simon shifted in her studded leather chair, noticing absently that the move revealed another inch of skin above the knee.
He continued without waiting for her to answer. "Or is it all hearts and flowers? Do you need love at first sight? Is being wined and dined with candlelight and roses the way to a woman's heart?"
She fought the urge to shift again under his intense gaze. The answers to these questions meant a great deal to him. She was tempted for just one moment to lose her objectivity, for the answers meant a great deal to her as well.
"Or is it a truly intimate connection that you are looking for? A bonding of two souls? Knowing the man that you sleep with will continue to desire you after ten years of marriage and two kids?" He took a deep breath filled with longing and frustration. "I really want to know. What is it that you would like me to do?"
She leaned forward in her chair, her arms crossed atop her knees. She was thankful that these questions were not directed at her, but women in general.
"These are excellent questions, Thomas. You're thinking about your partner's wishes and desires and not just your own. But let me ask you this: What is it that you want in your next relationship?"
She leaned back again, and snuck a discreet look at the watch attached to her clipboard. Rising, she said, "Our time's about up, so I'd like you to think about the answer to that for next week and we'll discuss it then."
Thomas hefted his two hundred pound frame from the leather couch her patients sat on and shook her hand. "Thank you, Doctor. I feel better just getting all this off my chest. My ex-wife refused to talk about sex, in or out of bed. It's good to have someone to listen."
Anne smiled. "That's what our therapy is all about - talking about desires and problems in a safe environment. Why don't you confirm next week's appointment with Betty on the way out and we'll explore this more then."
She walked around the office putting away files, adjusting knick-knacks her patients had moved about during the day, and straightening the pens on her desk until the rumble of Thomas' voice making arrangements with Betty was replaced with the click of the outer door closing. Only then did she flop down on the sofa and let out the sigh she'd been holding back most of the day.
How long could she continue this way? God, she needed a vacation.
No, she corrected herself. What she needed was to get and get laid properly.
She took off her glasses and threw one arm up over her eyes. It wasn't just listening day in and day out to other people's sexual practices, fantasies and fetishes that were wearing her out. And it wasn't because she was going through a dry spell of her own.
Mostly she was tired of being a hypocrite. How could she of all people dispense advice to others on how to satisfy their desires when she was just as dysfunctional as they were?
Betty buzzed through, her voice slightly fuzzy through the speaker. "Will there be anything else before I go? My kid's soccer game starts at 5:20 across town."
Anne reached over her head to the console on the end table and groped for the mike. When she finally found it, she answered, "No, that's it. Have fun. Tell Kevin to score a goal for me."
"Will do." The speaker clicked off, then back on. "Don't forget, Miss Ortiz's exhibition is tonight."
Anne suppressed a curse. She'd forgotten that was tonight. So much for that glass of merlot and a quiet evening she'd planned. Oh, well, she'd promised. And it was an opening - maybe they'd have merlot there.
"Okay. Thanks, Betty."
With another heavy sigh she got to her feet. She wished she could skip the exhibition, but Dana Ortiz would never forgive her if she did. A former patient, Dana credited her therapy with the inspiration for the installation exhibit being presented at the trendy SoHo gallery. She'd made Anne promise to make an appearance.
Before she could leave, though, Anne had to write up her notes on Thomas' session. She sat herself down at her desk, but her mind kept wandering back to the questions he'd asked.
What do women want? She could quote a dozen studies off the top of her head on preferred physical or personality types, dating rituals, fantasies and sexual positions, but today those answers didn't satisfy her.
What if the question had been directed at her? What would she have answered?
She knew. What she wanted was to be able to turn off her brain and for once in her life lose herself in passion.
No over-thinking every move she made. No obsessing about the outcome of the relationship. No clinical analysis of the sweet nothings whispered in her ear.
Just once she would like to feel. No thinking allowed. She wanted to be swept off her feet and into the bed of a man who knew what he was doing and not emerge until she was boneless with satiation.
She closed her file and picked up her purse and keys. It was a nice fantasy, but no matter how she'd tried, there was always some point where her brain interrupted the proceedings and ruined the moment. Eventually she'd stopped trying rather than relive the disappointment each time.
She locked up the office and started down the street toward her cozy little walk-up at a brisk pace. If she hurried, she might still be able to enjoy that merlot in the tub before getting ready.
That sounded good. A hot bath with a dose of jasmine oil added, a glass of wine, and some fantasy time with the mysterious stranger that would fulfill her deepest desires.
Not as good as the real thing, of course, but the closest she was likely to get.
* * *
"So what do you think of my pieces, Doc?"
Anne was sincere in her response. "I think you found the perfect way to express yourself. Congratulations! It looks like it's a big success."
Dana, a tall, striking brunette in a body-hugging suede catsuit preened at the compliment and took a quick look around the crowded gallery. "I can't believe so many people came! But then again, I shouldn't be surprised. Everyone wants to know what happens in other people's bedrooms, don't they?" She laughed throatily. "Look who I'm asking. If they didn't, you'd be out of work, wouldn't you?"
Anne shared her laugh and looked at the piece closest to her. It was a standard wooden-framed double bed. Totally unremarkable, it could have been found in any lower-middle-class bedroom in America. A flowered housedress was draped diagonally across one of the lower corners, a pair of worn, fuzzy slippers on the floor nearby. Hanging over the edge of the headboard was a pair of thick bifocals, the black plastic frames and metal hinges dating them from the early '60s. The sheets were rumpled, and the patchwork-quilt cover was shoved near the footboard. It gave the firm impression that an elderly couple had just gotten up in the morning and had not yet gotten around to making up the bed. A typical image of domesticity.
Or it would have been if not for the riding crop peeking out between the tousled sheets, the triangular-shaped leather tip shiny where it was still wet.
And, as it was meant to, her mind immediately filled with imaginings of how it had come to be there and who was this seemingly staid couple who'd used it....
"That's one of my favorites," Dana told her. "It's modeled after my Aunt Belina. I used to catch this gleam in her eye when she was whipping the eggs for breakfast."
Anne laughed again. "You've done a great job, Dana. And don't try to talk yourself into disbelieving it. You deserve all the praise you get."
The brunette threw her arms around Anne. "Thank you. And thanks so much for coming. It really means a lot to me."
Anne hugged her back. "You're welcome. Now, you'd better go mingle with more important people than me. There's a group over in the corner there that look desperate to interrupt."
Dana excused herself and made her way through the crowd. Anne watched how she drew the attention of almost everyone in the room. For once, Dana was enjoying being the focus of a crowd, and Anne felt a surge of pride for her. She hadn't always been that way.
A victim of sexual abuse as a child, Dana had always fought for every scrap of self-esteem she could get. When she'd hit puberty she'd been cursed with a face and figure every woman prayed for and every man lusted after. Throughout her life she'd only known worth as a sexual object, becoming a stripper and nude model because her body was the only thing she believed people wanted or expected of her.
Slowly, with the help of therapy, Dana had begun to see she could express her thoughts and feelings as well as her natural sexuality.
Now, seeing her shining eyes and exuberance, Anne knew Dana had received the self-confidence she needed. She was expressing herself through her art, and was being hailed as a result.
She was jarred - literally - out of her musings when a man bumped into her, sloshing the drink in her glass.
"I am so very sorry. Did you get any on you?"
"No, no, I'm fine, thank you...." She looked up into the eyes of the man who'd apologized and quickly lost her voice. Looking into his hazel eyes, she suddenly understood what the term "chemistry" meant. It was as though someone had just set off a reaction inside her on a cellular level that started all her nerves tingling, and her sense of time slowed to a snail's pace.
And it wasn't just looks - striking as his were. His light-brown hair fell back from his face to just above his shoulders, framing a strong face with cover-model cheekbones. He was lean, but not gaunt, his forest green cashmere sweater emphasizing the toned body beneath. His charcoal dress slacks fit him perfectly, and Anne felt a sudden urge to walk behind him to see the rear view.
Yes, he was handsome - but she'd met handsome men before and never had this kind of reaction to them. Maybe it was his accent. European - German, maybe. A throaty growl that made her want to be touched. All over. Slowly and repeatedly, until she was ready to scream. And she wanted it from him.
"If you are all right, then..."
He started to back away.
"So..." In a spurt of uncharacteristic panic she scrambled for something to say to keep him there. "Do you like the exhibition?"
He stopped retreating, thank God. He gave her a slow, charm-laden smile that pushed her pulse rate up several notches. "How could I not? It speaks to the two things that all people hold in common."
"Two things?"
He laughed lightly, his eyes dancing as he took in the people around them. "The first is obvious, is it not? Lust is a universal factor."
She looked at the other guests studying the dozen beds placed around the space. It was true, the works were affecting their viewers. Couples leaned more closely together, touched more than would be expected. Singles scanned the room more, their postures indicating possibility. Small talk was more charged, the laughter more throaty. The atmosphere was saturated with sexual excitement.
And to Anne's great surprise, she was not immune to this, as she normally would be. While she studied the reactions of others around her, she was thoroughly attuned to the fact that the stranger with the irresistible accent was studying her.
"And what is the other thing?" she asked, not looking back at him. She wasn't ready for that yet. Let her heart rate slow a bit first. "Love?"
She felt him move closer to her, casting an invisible shadow with the solidity of his presence. "No, not love. Love is not universal, I am sad to say. Some will search their whole lives and never find that which they seek."
She felt a shiver trip its way up her spine as his formalized speech and his tone of sincere regret wound itself around her.
"Then what is the other thing we all share?" she asked through a suspended breath.
His mouth closer to her ear, his answer just for her. "Secrets," he said.
She couldn't believe she was still standing, since her knees had melted away with that one whispered word.
He straightened, moving away from her, but not far. She turned to meet his eyes, praying her reaction didn't show in her face. "I don't have any secrets," she told him.
He raised his eyebrows and that seductive smile slid across his lips once again. "Then you are truly unique. What is it you Americans say, 'What you see is what you get'?"
"Yes, that's exactly it." She looked away quickly before he could see she lied. Oh, she had a secret, all right. She wanted him, and she was scared of the intensity of that feeling.
She was afraid he would leave then, but he merely gestured at the exhibits. "Tell me, which of these is your favorite?"
She pointed across the room. "I prefer that one."
His hand fell to the small of her back. "Shall we take a closer look?" he asked, applying the slightest pressure to indicate she should precede him.
She began leading him across the room, highly aware of the hand that remained touching her. She imagined his fingers moving over her flesh without the barrier of her silk dress coming between them.
They stopped in front of the piece she'd pointed out. It was a brass bed with a crocheted lace cover, one of the top corners turned down in a precise manner. Candles were lit and affixed to the shiny brass rails of the head- and footboards, and a small lamp shone a pink light over the scene. A pair of delicate sheer women's panties were draped over the pillow in readiness.
"And why is this your favorite?" he asked. "Why do you choose this over the others?"
"To me, this is the only piece that speaks of love rather than sex." She fought the blush rising in her cheeks. It was ridiculous to be embarrassed telling him this, she scolded herself. She talked about this type of thing every day in her practice.
Except what you say to a patient and what you say to a stranger who made your blood bubble with anticipation were two entirely different things.
"And why does it say 'love' to you? Because of the romantic atmosphere?"
"It sounds pedestrian, I know, but it tells me someone has put their heart, their emotions, on the line. If their partner agrees to that risk, it shows a true acceptance."
"And what of the handcuffs?" he asked, waving a hand at he dangling silver bracelets attached to one of the brass supports.
She felt herself coloring again. She never blushed, and now she'd done it twice in one night. "It's not exactly my thing, but it would be the ultimate way to put your trust in someone, wouldn't it? To put your body, your very life in their hands."
He was staring at her, his expression half satisfaction and half-puzzlement. "You are a very interesting woman, Miss...."
"Simon. Anne Simon." She held out her hand.
He took it, but instead of shaking it he turned it palm-down and leaned over it. "Gerhard VonAber. I am delighted to make your acquaintance."
She drew in a sharp breath as his lips made contact with her hand. Although the action was chaste, his lips making the merest brush against her skin, it was the most intimate gesture she'd experienced in as long as she could remember. On anyone else, she would probably dismiss it as an affectation, but on him it fit as naturally as his accent.
When he straightened, he did not release her hand. He gave her a look that warmed her all the way down to the toenails she'd specially painted for tonight.
With that look, she knew she had met the man who might be able to fulfill her fantasy. Already her brain seemed unable to function whenever his attention was focused on her. Could he be the one to finally take her to a place of mindless ecstasy?
She gently, and regretfully, pulled her hand away. She was jumping to conclusions. She didn't know him, nor he her. She was just carried away on the energy of the exhibit. He probably wasn't even interested, and she mistook his formal charm for attraction. Besides, it was too dangerous, too risky to accept a proposition from a stranger.
She tried to cover her confusion by picking up the conversation again. "You haven't told me which piece is your favorite."
He allowed her hand to leave his grasp gracefully. "Ah. With all apologies to the artist, none of these ensembles appeal to me."
"That's not fair," she chided him with a smile. "I pointed out mine. It's only polite for you to do the same."
"I am not trying to be evasive - but rather, honest. Here," he indicated the pieces with a sweep of his arm, "the emphasis is on arrangement. Props, if you will. To me, true intimacy lies with two people and a bed. All else is extraneous."
"Some people would say even the bed is unnecessary," she countered. She experienced a flash of panic. Oh, God, she was flirting! What if he took her up on it? What would she say if he did? Would she accept?
He gave her that slow, seductive smile once again. "Not for me. I am something of a connoisseur when it comes to beds. I have one, centuries old, that some say once belonged to a king. It is a magnificent piece of art, as well as a bed."
Anne felt her look of interest freeze on her face when he smoothly added, "Would you like to see it?"
