The Secret Life of a Submissive and Bonds of Love: 2-book BDSM Erotica Collection. Sarah K

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      As it was, the words stayed wedged in my throat, unspoken. Maybe telling them about Max wasn’t such a great idea after all. Maybe just keeping my mouth shut, going to Joan’s do and meeting Shaun would be the easier option. We could have a quick chat over the Le Creuset display and I could give them the whole ‘He’s a lovely man, but not my sort of man, and maybe I’m not ready yet’ speech and get off scot-free. Too late now, though.

      I thought about Max and the things he had introduced me to. Was I ashamed? No. Was I afraid that they wouldn’t understand? Possibly. Was I afraid that they would disapprove? Very likely – although more because of the risk than because of being narrow-minded. Would they think I was barking mad? I was almost certain of it. But what worried me most was that they might think badly of me.

      All of which made no sense; I know things about them that would make your hair curl, things far juicier than any of the stuff I used in my erotic novels. They’re my best and oldest friends and yes, they’re judgemental, but aren’t we all? I think I was afraid that if I told them they just wouldn’t get it.

      ‘He’s nice,’ I heard myself saying.

      ‘Sweet Jesus,’ said Gabbie, rolling her eyes. ‘You really are scraping the barrel. Why don’t you just admit defeat and go and meet Shaun?’

      ‘Because I’ve just told you, I’ve met someone.’

      ‘Who is nice,’ chipped in Helen. ‘Oh, come on, Sarah, you’ve got nothing to lose. You heard Joan – “lovely” trumps “nice” any day.’

      I didn’t want to get myself into a who-has-more-oomph argument, so I didn’t say anything at all.

      ‘Well, you know what that means, don’t you?’ said Helen.

      ‘Oh no,’ I groaned. ‘Not yet.’

      ‘Come on,’ said Gabbie. ‘You’ve got no one but yourself to blame – you’ve just outed yourself. You know the rules: once he’s out he’s fair game.’

      We haven’t got that many house rules but the ones we do have are pretty much inflexible. And one of the biggies (besides everyone bringing chocolate, cake or dessert to every get-together) is that once we’ve announced there is a new man in our lives we have to let the others meet him as soon as is humanly possible.

      This may seem a little odd, but it’s the law. It’s also a real acid test. We’ve all made some horrible mistakes with men since becoming single, and good friends can help you save yourself the pain – if you’ll listen. Good friends can help you take seriously those first impressions you tried to kid yourself were just a trick of the light. Good friends can make the judgements you’re afraid to. Good friends can tell you when there’s something not quite right about him. And when you take no notice of what they tell you, and it happens anyway, good friends will refrain from saying ‘I told you so’ until one or both of you is pissed.

      ‘So,’ said Gabbie, folding her arms across her chest in a no-nonsense way. ‘What’s this new man’s name, then?’

      ‘Max.’

      ‘So far so good,’ said Gabbie wryly.

      ‘And what does he do?’ asked Helen. Helen likes a man with prospects.

      ‘It’s complicated.’

      ‘Oh my God, don’t tell me: he’s married,’ snapped Gabbie.

      ‘But his wife doesn’t understand him,’ added Helen.

      ‘And they stopped sleeping together years ago.’ Joan.

      ‘No, no and no,’ I said, holding up my hands in surrender. ‘He’s not married. I’m just not sure if he’s anything – not really,’ I bluffed, desperately trying to reel Max back in.

      I should have known that that wasn’t going to cut it. The ones who weren’t anything aren’t usually mentioned unless they are unexpectedly amazing in bed (Helen’s relief postman), have some very funny habits (Gabbie’s old dentist), are a dire warning (Joan’s version of God) or are used as an example of how best not to be Mr Right (so that’d be all four of us, then).

      Three pairs of eyes were locked on me now. I knew how it worked for potential partners, lovers and menfolk: trial by girlfriends.

      ‘OK,’ I said. ‘OK, he’s a business consultant, divorced, late forties, six foot something, dark hair.’

      ‘And where does he live?’

      I told them. He lived in a large village about forty minutes’ drive away from my place, which was close to perfect. ‘He’s got his own house; he’s got his oldest son living with him at the moment because he has just got back from a gap year in Australia, and he drives a Beamer.’

      They all nodded in unison. It meant so far so good, but I knew them: they wanted more. A lot more.

      ‘As well as his son he’s got a grown-up daughter and another daughter by his girlfriend. They’re separated. His daughter is six. I met him online. Joan was my safe call.’ I nod in her direction. Joan nods her confirmation.

      ‘I didn’t realize you were going to see him again,’ said Joan accusingly.

      ‘And it’s ironic, really, given that she’s just tracked down Mr Right for you,’ said Helen, picking at the remains of salad. ‘Do you reckon that your Mr Right would do for me, Joan?’

      I hoped that the spotlight had moved on but it wasn’t that easy.

      ‘How about Joan’s do? You could bring Max to that,’ suggested Gabbie.

      ‘I’m not sure he’s that interested in kitchen gadgets.’ Unless you’ve got any that you can use to torment naked women, I thought.

      ‘But he does like food?’ asked Gabbie. She has this theory that men who have generous appetites for food and wine take the same generous appetites to bed with them.

      I thought about eating dinner with Max – he obviously loved food – and how he laughed a lot, and I thought about how I really liked the way his eyes crinkled up when he smiled, and his generous mouth; but most of all I thought about how much he knew about women’s bodies and the way his fingers and tongue made me feel, the way he made me purr and beg and gasp with pure pleasure. My impression was that he liked everything and he liked lots of it.

      I realized that Gabbie was watching my face with amusement. ‘So that’s a yes, then, is it?’ she said.

      When I got home from our girls’ evening in, I discovered Max had left me a message on my answering machine: ‘Miss you. Hope you had a great evening. Ring me when you get in.’

      Embarrassingly my heart did that funny back-flippy thing. I picked up the phone and tapped in his number. After we’d exchanged social niceties, I said, ‘I don’t suppose you fancy coming to a glorified Tupperware party, do you?’

      He laughed. ‘I’m not sure. Why, who’s asking me?’

      I explained about Joan’s open evening, assuming that he would say no, and then added the real reason: ‘My friends want to interrogate you, Sir.’

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