Page 2 of The Roommate Subtext

Maggie cringed. Their parents had left them a sizable inheritance, yes, but it was all invested, and the dividends bought them security rather than luxury. Maggie had tried to keep Cora from worrying about money, but the long-term side effect was … Cora didn’t worry about money. At all. Even when she probably should. She was perfectly content to let Maggie manage the entire inheritance and investments. Fortunately, Cora had a good work ethic and no real taste for luxury; she remained devoted to her career in a research laboratory and her fastidiously tidy studio apartment.

Do you want to reschedule? Maggie asked.

Yes! Tomorrow? Cora replied. I know I’ve been canceling a lot. We’re up to our necks in grant funding hell. But my weekend is open.

That was Cora, putting the job first. Tomorrow sounds good, Maggie confirmed. Good luck tonight. She cradled her phone in her lap, staring blankly out the window of the train. She had to focus on her upcoming meeting, not on Cora, not on her perpetual worries that she was not doing enough for her sister. She was going to meet with Arnold Chauvel for an unknown reason, and she couldn’t afford distractions.

Fingers crossed this meeting would be for something good.

After Maggie left, quiet settled over Blake’s condo like a blanket. Distant city sounds sifted through the open windows: the engines of cars and trucks a few blocks away from their much calmer residential street. Blake flipped on a fan to circulate the air and breathed in the stillness. It felt weird having the place to himself again.

He didn’t need a roommate to make ends meet; he’d inherited the condo from his aunt, so he didn’t have a mortgage, and his income was enough to comfortably live on. He’d lived alone for a few years, had used one bedroom for sleeping and the second for his office, had filled the space with his plants and his art, but he had missed the companionship of having someone else around. He’d confessed this to his best friend, Andrew, and had been affectionately teased. Andrew loved living alone. He’d told Blake that he could not imagine inheriting a two-bedroom condo in a nice neighborhood and voluntarily inviting another person into the space. That was when he’d gently but firmly turned down Blake’s invitation to move in, informing Blake that he would never voluntarily live with another person unless he was in a serious romantic relationship with them.

But Blake liked having another heartbeat around. He had considered a cat—he’d always been a cat person—but had decided instead on a roommate. The extra money was nice, and he could save toward … whatever it was people saved for. Maybe travel? He’d never done much traveling. But the money in his bank account felt more padded with Maggie’s rent in it. They both worked mostly from home, and he’d grown used to her near-constant presence in these last two months. When she left, it felt like the old days when he had had the whole place to himself, which had pros and cons. It felt empty, which he didn’t love.

The best part about being alone, though, was indulging his alter ego, which he sometimes felt too self-conscious to do when Maggie was nearby. Only a few people knew that community activist Blake Peabody was also the Dom known in various kink circles as the Scarlet Pimpernel.

In years past, indulging meant heading to the private play parties where he always had an invite, those local kink events where he’d first explored this side of himself back in college. He’d gained a reputation as a desirable play partner, respectful of boundaries while knowing exactly how to drive someone wild. What perfect times: no long-term commitments, no expectations beyond a fun evening, and no shortage of willing companions.

That was before.

The more he became the face of fundraising for PlantSeed, the less confident he became in his anonymity. The nonprofit depended heavily on the support of wealthy donors, many of whom embodied old money and conservative values. He needed a squeaky-clean public image with no possibility of scandal. With each play party he attended, he began to worry about seeing a potential business contact or a donor. It got to the point where he couldn’t enjoy himself. Last spring, a few months into that new job, he hung up his flogger—real and metaphorical—and limited his kinkiness to his online Scarlet Pimpernel persona. Six months since he’d shifted from play parties to blog posts; six months of writing about kinky play instead of having any.

Six months of hoping that could be enough.

Blake settled in on the couch with his laptop and a cup of tea for a cursory scan of social media. The Scarlet Pimpernel had accounts everywhere, letting him control that online identity in all its manifestations. He didn’t post very much; he mostly shared his recent blog posts and occasionally responded to readers. Occasionally, he got propositioned by a stranger, but he always declined. The messages were one-note, very transactional, never curious in the ways that intrigued him. He’d considered playing online, but it never felt right, and he couldn’t imagine how that could be satisfying. Tonight, he had two notifications: comments from readers about how much they enjoyed one of his stories. He sent back a quick reply thanking them for their interest before opening his latest in-progress doc.

His short stories had gotten some decent traction over the last few months. They were all written in third person, starring some unnamed woman for reader-insert. Shorter ones went up on the blog. For the longer ones, he put up a preview chapter on the blog and posted the whole thing for sale online. It made him a few dollars here and there, a nice bonus when his original goal had only been an outlet for his kinky fantasies.

He skimmed through what he’d written so far on this one, which left the main character waiting for a mysterious visitor to her hotel room. Obviously, that was incredibly dangerous; he was spinning fantasies, not reality. But the fantasy always drew him in. He’d loved mystery, secret identities, all that spy game rigamarole. It was why he’d spun up his persona in the first place. Many people at play parties went by different names, and he loved the idea of cultivating an alternate persona free from his innocent plant nerd image. Even if he had chosen the name of … a plant.

He began to type.

She’d done as he’d asked. She wore only the blindfold and leather cuffs on her wrists and ankles. Her legs were stretched uncomfortably wide, ankles bound to the corners of the king-sized bed, and even though her hands were free, she felt as trapped as if he’d been the one to tie her there.

The hotel door opened with a click, and her heart began to race. It must be him … unless he’d given the key card to someone else. It could be anyone, and she was helpless to get away.

He could ignore the danger of someone giving her hotel room key to a stranger. The danger was the root of the fantasy.

In the quiet room, only the low hum of the air conditioner and her own heavy breathing broke the stillness. The heavy door swung shut, deadbolt rasping into place. She could take off the blindfold right now, but instead she wrapped her fingers around the bars of the headboard and exhaled.

“Good girl.”

His voice sounded exactly like she had imagined. They had communicated entirely in texts until this point, when she left a hotel room key under his name at the front desk. And now he approached the bed, footsteps light.

The first touch of his fingertips on her stomach made her jump. He traced up to her breasts, lightly brushing her nipples, barely making any contact. She gripped the headboard to keep from shaking apart; adrenaline ran through her like fire. Then he slid his hand downward, trailing his touch lightly over her stomach, then lower.

Her breath caught, sensation sparking outward. “So wet for me,” he murmured. She was already so turned on that even this was enough to get her close, body racing toward orgasm though he’d barely touched her. He got her right to that edge before stopping, removing his hand so quickly she gasped from the suddenness.

Then her hands were pulled taut, cuffs fastened to the headboard, sudden and tight enough that she couldn’t get away even if she wanted to. She didn’t want to. She wanted to yield to the helplessness.

She heard a condom wrapper, unmistakable in the stillness, and it was hard to breathe with her own excitement and desperation. It had never felt real before this moment, when the bed dipped down between her legs. He slid slowly inside, inch by inch, until she was so full, she could barely breathe. His trousers brushed her inner thighs. He hadn’t even undressed; he was fully clothed while she lay completely naked. The thought made her clench around him as he thrust forward the final inch.

Blake sat back to catch his breath. He often got carried away writing these stories, which were as much for him as for whoever was reading them. The stories were always better if he waited until he finished writing to come. He’d always loved that delay, making himself wait, making his partner wait, letting the need become unbearable. He returned to the story.

She couldn’t believe she was here in a hotel room, letting a complete stranger have his way with her. She trembled and tugged at her bonds as sensation gathered low in her belly. His warm, wet mouth closed over her nipple, sucking hard, sending a jolt of pleasure through her system that made her writhe. Her nipples had always been sensitive. He switched sides, paying close attention to each. She could do nothing but lie there. She whimpered with every thrust, her whimpers turning into moans, climax shimmering a breath away.

“Don’t come.”