L. Marie Adeline- S.E.C.R.E.T

“Are we gonna have a problem?” he asked, with a kind of cocksuredness that made me
a little weak. He didn’t seem like a man used to hearing the word no.
“Are you going to tell me your name?” I asked, feeling bolder.
“I use a different name for my work, but my real name is Shawn.”
He turned the heat o and came around the kitchen island to stand beside me,
towering over my little red stool. His hair was shorn close to his head. His right wrist
held a riot of leather bracelets, rubber bands, and a gold chain that was thicker and
shinier than mine. No charms. I caught a hint of musk o his skin, something that came
from an expensive bottle.
I clenched my jaw. His boldness seemed to bring out something in me, something new
and fierce. “Are you going to tell me who you are?”
“That’s for you to gure out. Later. Right now, what I am to you is your sex-withsomeone-famous
fantasy. But this is S.E.C.R.E.T., remember? These things tend to work
both ways, as I’m sure you’re discovering. So, do you accept the Step?”
“Do you mean my fantasy is actually yours somehow too?”
“Yup.”
“And I have to take it on your word that you’re famous?”
“That’s right.” He placed one strong arm on the bar stool where I was sitting, right
between my yoga-clad legs.
“Okay. I get that. But how on earth could I possibly be your fantasy.”
As he spoke, he ran a rm nger up and down my thigh. Shivers darted right through
me. “Cassie,” he said, meeting my eyes, “when you’re famous, everyone wants a piece of
you, and only because you’re famous. You asked for a fantasy with a famous person, but
you didn’t say they had to be famous to you. I said I’d do it if it was with someone who
didn’t know who the hell I was, like some anonymous soccer mom type, I said. Someone
too busy shuing her kids around to bother wearing anything but yoga pants and T-
shirts. ’Cause I’m sick of show ponies. Know what I’m saying?”
“Soccer mom. So that’s what I’m supposed to be?” I started to laugh then, and so did
he. “Have you done this before? With S.E.C.R.E.T.?”
He ignored the question, making his way back to the oven range behind me to check
on something baking inside. “Looking good. Corn bread.”
He shut the door. A moment later, he was behind me, inches away. He placed his
hands on my shoulders and moved them slowly down my arms. I felt my pulse quicken
as he gently gathered my hands behind my back and held my wrists together with one
hand. I could feel his breath on my ear.
“Will you accept the Step, my little soccer mom?” he asked, reaching a hand up to my
ponytail, sliding out the band holding back my hair, his mouth breathing into it as it
cascaded down my shoulders.
“Yes,” I managed to say, giggling. Soccer mom is a fantasy? Who knew?
“Good.”
Then he moved his mouth closer to my ear. “Wanna know who I am?”
I nodded. He whispered his name, his work name, his “stage” name. I was glad that he
wasn’t facing me because my eyes bugged out. I wasn’t into hip-hop music, but even I