Briar Rose finished ordering dinner, pleased that the restaurant was willing to deliver the meal before Frank got home, and made her way to the master bathroom, feeling a tingle of anticipation. Frank's return text: Miss is playing a dangerous game made it clear he was more than willing to go along with her tease, and that boded well for the evening. She set out the clean, fluffy bath sheets and arranged a few fat candles along the counter while humming to herself.

"A dangerous game for him," Briar Rose told her reflection confidently. "Going to have to see how sassy I can get."

Which was pretty darn sassy, she knew. Although she and Frank hadn't done anymore playing with the costume, there had been a few other encounters since then that fell into that fun little power dynamic that they enjoyed. Being bossy came naturally to Frank Reagan, and Briar Rose felt he deserved the chance to benefit from it once in a while.

And sassing him was just fun. He responded well to her impertinence, enjoying himself even if it took a lot to admit it. That intimate honesty delighted Briar Rose as much as it amused her.

Downstairs, she checked that they had an unopened bottle of Knappogue Castle Irish Whiskey and one of the heavy cut glass tumblers. She set them on one of the little silver trays and carried them out to the living room, adding the ice bucket as well and making a mental note to fill it later.

George followed her, curious about the tray, and she patted him. "Hey there. Not for you," she pointed out, and he gave her a puzzled look before ambling over to the coffee table and lying under it, looking as elegant as ever. Briar Rose figured that Nala and Padraic, the cats were probably napping on Henry's bed; they were devoted to him and consequently weren't happy that he'd abandoned them this week for Florida.

Checking her phone, Briar Rose realized it was time to send the second photo, and did, hoping Frank appreciated the shot. The black lace alone would catch his attention she knew, and even now she did have good legs. Her husband was fond of them, and told her so often, although they weren't the only part of her that he seemed to appreciate.

But it was mutual, she knew. Briar Rose certainly liked parts of him too and didn't make a secret of that either. Broad shoulders, lovely chest fur and oh that very, very, dangerous mustache of his. It was his secret weapon, tickling and tormenting her when applied to sensitive skin. Frank had been good about using conditioner on it so the bristles weren't quite so scratchy these days, but even so, the softest scrape of it against her neck was enough to send a shudder through her hips.

And he knew it, the fiend. He knew it and used it against her. And on her. Ruthlessly at times.

Briar Rose grinned and found herself a little giddy.

-oo00oo-

The second photo arrived just as Frank had stepped out of a highly unproductive meeting with the Sanitation Department for Queens.

Salvador Bretaga was young and impatient, a hothead with definite ideas about traffic laws when it came to 'his' trucks and 'his' workers. Frank admired his loyalty while frustrated by the man's short temper. Essential as garbage removal was—and Frank had lived through the garbage strikes of '68 and '81—he also knew Bretaga's demands weren't backed by the union.

Consequently, the meeting had been a stalemate, with no forward progress and no satisfactory agreement. The Department heads for the other boroughs didn't support Salvador, but they weren't supporting Frank and his 'boys' either. At best, things were static, so a sweet distraction was more than welcome.

In the hallway, Frank let his gaze linger on the photo of Briar Rose's legs, feeling a sense of lustful possessiveness. Damned good legs; shapely and strong, especially when wrapped around his waist or even occasionally up against his chest and over his shoulders . . .

"Sir?" The young officer with his security detail spoke up, startling him. Frank harrumphed and quickly pocketed his phone, feeling both exasperated and aroused by his wife's impishness.

"Let's go," Frank rumbled, setting a pace a bit quicker than usual. They headed out and back to Manhattan within an hour, and in that time Frank managed to tap a message back to Briar Rose, hitting send with a sense of satisfaction. Two, he decided, could most definitely play at this game, yes indeed.

Back at his office he signed document after document, watching the requests, documentation, and HR paperwork scroll across his screen in conjunction with his electronic signature pad. While Frank appreciated it saved time and wear on his hand, the constant staring at the screen gave him a bit of a headache. He quit after an hour, forcing himself to drink water and down a Tylenol to counter it.

Not tonight. He wanted to be ready when he got home.

-oo00oo-

Continued impertinence WILL be dealt with, came the reply to her second photo. Briar Rose snickered, knowing full well that Frank was having fun. His implied threat merely reminded her that he knew what he was suggesting, and she was . . . amenable to it.

After all, she'd shown him that a swat or two in the right place could be pleasurable for both of them. It had taken some discussion and experimentation, but once he understood that the erotic potential of a paddling was both real and deliciously fun, Frank was willing to do it.

And receive an occasional smack on the bottom himself, much to her amusement.

Nobody in all of New York city AND state could get away with that except her, and Briar Rose relished that knowledge. Yes, she HAD slapped the ass of the police commissioner. She'd also pinched it, raked it with her nails, and even on one spectacular occasion . . . bitten it.

THAT memory sent her into a shiver of giggles as she remembered Frank's helpless growl of pleasure coinciding with a fairly spectacular orgasm. Apparently, a nip just above the crease of thigh and cheek was a previously unknown erogenous zone for the man and one Briar Rose hoped to exploit again.

Possibly even tonight, if things went her way, she preened.

By the time the sun was dropping on the horizon, Frank was restless to get home. The third photo Rose had sent was more than enough to drive him to distraction, especially coming as it did while he was finally on the phone with Albert Cruz at the Department of Transportation.

"Seriously? We can't just pull up the box because some ancient broad wants to park there!" Albert complained.

"I know," Frank agreed absently, "and I told her so, but Mrs. Henkel does have pull in this town and I don't want the Post to make her into a front-page story. Neither do you, I'm sure."

His phone pinged and up popped an artistic shot of his beloved's beautiful backside in glorious display amid black velvet and tulle. Frank bit back a groan and shifted at his desk.

"Why can't she use her own damned garage? 55 Central's gotta a HUGE one!"

55 wasn't the only one, Frank thought dimly, setting his cell down. "Look, here's the compromise. Let her park there and send the bill to the CFO of the hotel. Make it HIS problem, not ours. If she wants to pay fifteen hundred a month versus nothing, then HE'S the man to convince her. Neither of us has the time or responsibility to deal with this."

"Fine," Albert grunted. "But if she even touches that booth I'm billing her for the replacement, Commissioner. Them things ain't fucking cheap you know!"

"Got it," Frank sighed. When the call ended, he grabbed his cell and pulled the photo up again, shaking his head.

He tapped out a reply. Miss most assuredly WILL pay for this. Prepare for retribution, ma femme de chambre.