“They can be, but with you and me, Esme, we’ll shoot for smoldering.”
Chapter 11
With his hand on her lower back, Keiran guided her to the double doors at the far end of the bar. When the pathway became narrow around the tables in the lounge and by the teeming dance floor, he wrapped his fingers around her wrist and led the way. It kept them from being separated in the crowd and also let him gauge her reactions, like the way she trembled with excitement, and how her pulse fluttered rapidly. She was a mix of nervousness and anticipation, but not panic. He’d seen her on the verge of it earlier and almost lost her. If her fear and uncertainties returned, he wanted to be the first to know and help her keep the tendency she had for running, in check.
She’d surrendered so much in their first session, but in the days following had time to rebuild her defenses. Three days was too long for them to be apart, but with work right now he couldn’t manage more often. Between filling in the gaps in staffing their regular security contracts, the new celeb stalker case that had fallen into his lap and providing personal protection for visiting dignitaries at the state capital, his next evening off was Saturday, four days from now.
He’d have to check in by phone and squeeze in another meeting with her outside the club, but he didn’t know when and where.
Her mood shifts between trust and panic, sweet and sassy, pushy and compliant told him she was teetering between acceptance and withdrawing again. To him, it seemed more than a prolonged grief reaction, but other than good instincts from over a decade in the lifestyle, and a talent for reading submissives, he was no expert in psychology. Eric’s recommendation of professional counseling was sound, and he hoped in time, she’d trust him enough to open up about it.
Up the short flight of stairs, he steered her into the alcove outside the door.
“I’ll need my bag, Deanna,” he told the attendant, “and a bin for shoes.”
“Yes, Master K,” the attendant replied.
“Isn’t there usually a chair?” Esme asked as the young woman stepped into the aisle of row upon row of cubbyholes.
Keiran glanced at her feet and understood why she might need one. Her heels were at least four inches, probably closer to five. He imagined her teetering on one foot at a time while trying to get them off. A sprained ankle or her toppling over and sustaining a worse injury were unacceptable. How women walked around for hours balanced on their tiptoes and razor-thin heels he’d never know, although he was glad for it.
Any red-blooded man worthy of the testosterone coursing through his veins appreciated what a pair of high heels did for a woman’s ass, how it made them sway more when they walked, or hold on to their man’s arm, hand, or shoulder to steady themselves. Even better, how they looked up beside a woman’s ears while being fucked.
If that made him a sexist pig, so be it.
“Someone borrowed the chair while I had my back turned, I’m afraid,” Deanna explained. “I’m sorry, but I haven’t had time to go hunt another.”
“I suppose I could use the steps,” Esme muttered while looking in their direction.
“I don’t think so.” With his hands easily spanning her trim waist, he lifted her and planted her ass atop the counter. She responded automatically with a yelp and curled her fingers into his shoulders. “Besides,” he added. “This will be my pleasure.”
Everything about her he found pleasurable. Esme was spontaneous and not the least bit affected. He enjoyed the sexy little sounds she made in her throat, how her color heightened to a rosy blush, and the way she became flustered while around him. He’d have to keep her off guard, so he could watch as she struggled to control her reactions, but try as she might, she couldn’t hide her body’s responses. Like how her breathing quickened at his touch, and the way it stuttered when he raised one foot and rested the sole of her shoe against his chest.
When her mid-thigh length dress crept dangerously higher, she pressed her legs together. Already off balance, she had to choose between grabbing her hem and flashing a peek of her sweet spot or toppling over and potentially showing a lot more. She opted for hanging onto him.
Good choice. Modesty was a pointless reaction when they were feet away from entering a BDSM playroom where he’d strip her, touch her, and do a host of other carnal things he had in mind.
Her bright green eyes rose to his, likely to see if he’d seen her unintentional Britney moment. He couldn’t help the slow grin which confirmed it. The flash of smooth skin and the hint of red-gold curls had burned into his retinas for eternity.
He didn’t say a word, however, as he went to work on the ankle strap.
She watched his fingers move over the small buckle, and he heard her throaty gasp when they lightly brushed her skin. He didn’t miss when her nipples hardened into sharp peaks and silently thanked the dress designer who made wearing a bra beneath it impossible.
He set the first shoe in the bin and reached for the other. Nudity was one of the many benefits of operating a private club, and at Decadence, bare skin was pervasive. He’d shamelessly enjoyed the flaunting of the female form that went on nightly, and like most everyone, had no problem revealing the sub he was with, or himself during a public scene.
With Esme, he was feeling unusually possessive. Their first scene hadn’t ended how either of them had expected. This time, when he touched her, stripped her slowly, teased her body until it hummed with desire, then drove inside her for the first time, he selfishly didn’t want to share that with the world.
But after so long, she was ready, and it was up to him to make this return to public play good for her.
“My claim ticket.” Esme’s call as the attendant moved off with the bin containing her shoes, pulled him back into the moment.
“No need, lass. Deanna has an excellent memory, you’ll see.”
“With so many people here, how can she possibly remember whose belong to who?”
“I have this thing for shoes,” the blushing young women said when she reappeared. “I never forget a color, or style, which makes this a perfect assignment for me. And I live for the designer one-offs to come in. Yours—ohmygod—stunning! There’s no way I could forget Louboutin or afford them.”
“Neither can I if they’re new,” Esme said with a smile. “I shouldn’t give my secret away, but I got those on consignment for one hundred dollars and according to the shop, they’d only been worn once.”
“That’s amazing. Where?”
Keiran didn’t know Louboutin from Adidas, but as the women discussed the prices of this “little gem of a store” and their generous return policy, he was seriously regretting the club’s rule of no shoes in the dungeon because he’d like to see her wearing nothing except the sexy as fuck high heels. Even better, digging into his backside while he took her.
Not having a shoe fetish, he was gaining a little insight into it.
With his erection pressing painfully against his zipper, he decided whoever coined the phrase, fuck me shoes, must have had a beautiful redhead with creamy white skin wearing ridiculous yet sexy translucent-pink, open toed strappy sandals in mind.
He needed to get her off the counter, inside the dungeon and the scene started before his rapidly rising libido changed him from the controlled, patient, experienced Dom he strived to be into a grunting, chest-thumping brute who wanted nothing more than to throw her over his shoulder and carry her off for a night of endless, carnal rutting.
Going caveman was his first inclination whenever he was around Esmerelda Spade, but he didn’t want to scare her off. Considering she’d been ready to flee only minutes before, if he swooped in and claimed her like a hungry predator he could blow the slow build up he’d put effort into so far. Except telling her everything he wanted to do to her tonight may have been pushing it. Instinct told him she needed finesse and a lot of romance before he commenced with the rutting.
“Deanna…” Keiran interrupted, intent on getting his sub inside, fast. “You may grill Esme about he
r shoes another time.”
“Oh...” Her exuberance evaporated. “I’m so sorry. Master Eric warned me about gushing over the subs’ shoes. You won’t tell him, will you, sir?”
“I won’t, but you will.” Her expression went from dismay to despair, like he’d pulled out a gun and shot her puppy. “You’ll be truthful if he asks,” he added.
Her eyes got bright, and she whispered, “Thank you, Master K. You’re the best.”
“That’s what you keep telling me,” he chuckled.
When he lifted her down, Esme also murmured her thanks. “You didn’t have to help me with my shoes, but without a chair, I likely would have fallen flat on my face. Thank you, sir.”
“As a dominant, it’s rare when I have to do anything. Most often, about 99.9 percent of the time, I get to do what I want, when I want, and with whom I choose.” Tipping her eyes up to his, he watched as heat suffused her lovely face. “Are you ready to play, Esme? Because that is something I definitely want to do.”
“Me too, sir.”
“Let’s go.”
Taking her hand once more, they entered the heart of Decadence.
A half hour later, he pondered his dilemma. As he’d predicted all the five different styles of spanking benches, which accounted for ten of the thirty stations, were in use. Facing away from the continuous flow of spectators would have provided a degree of privacy in this very public venue. Unfortunately, with all of them taken and a long line of players waiting, it left mostly unacceptable options. The standing pillory was open as were the kneeling stocks. Both would provide the strict bondage her file indicated she enjoyed but were too cold and impersonal for his taste.
The one vacant whipping post in the rear of the huge play space would have to wait awhile, at least until she felt comfortable enough with him to downgrade it from a hard limit.
This left an open chain station, but its location would leave her exposed from all sides and make their scene rather like a 360-degree theater in the round. He’d have to minimize the distractions of the crowd and had the perfect tool to do so in his bag.
He led her to the velvet rope, opened it, and let her precede him inside.
“Wait in the center,” he ordered. “I’ll need a moment to get ready.”
“Yes, sir,” she answered softly and moved the few feet to the ten by ten play space.
He set his bag on the table provided for implements, watching her from the corner of his eye the entire time. When her hands rose to her shoulders, and her thumbs slipped under the thin straps of her dress, he didn’t miss when they trembled. This prompted him to leave his prep and calm his skittish submissive.
“No, Esme,” he chided in a low voice, capturing her hands in his. “I’ll tell you what I want when I want it. Your only job is to obey me. For now, you’re to stand here, eyes down, hands clasped in front of you, understand?”
She nodded, luminous eyes still up and locked on his. A burst of laughter behind him, entirely too raucous and intrusive for the scene area, drew her gaze to the side. If he found out who was so discourteous, they would revisit the rules in one of Thomas’ classes. But his priority right now was Esme, and he didn’t take his focus off her.
He squeezed her hands firmly, pleased when her eyes came back to him.
“Breathe,” he urged, putting his face next to hers, so all she would see was him. “This is play, which is supposed to be fun, not torment.”
“I’m nervous, Master Finn.”
“I know you are, darlin’, but once we pass this first hurdle, you’ll be home free and ready to explore.”
“Do you think it will be that easy?”
“With me? It will be a piece of cake.” He winked at her and the tension around her mouth eased becoming a hint of a smile. “Now, where are those eyes and hands supposed to be?”
Instantly, her long, gold tipped, black lashes swept down.
“There’s my good lass. Concentrate on me and my commands rather than everything else cluttering up your brain.”
She huffed a little laugh, but her lashes stayed fanned out beautifully against her creamy cheek. “You do have the knack for knowing a woman’s quirks, don’t you, sir?”
“A submissive woman, yes. All women, like the three in my family, not even close.”
He stroked a finger along her jaw, then changed direction and glided his thumb the width of her full lower lip. He couldn’t resist leaning in and taking it between his teeth for a little nip, soothing it with his tongue then plunging inside while he kissed her.
“I’ll be back in a minute. When I say that I’m not blowing smoke, I mean under sixty seconds. Don’t move.”
“Yes, sir.”
He organized his bag with a purpose. To quickly get in, locate what he needed without digging and searching, and be back to his woman as soon as possible. He gathered four cuffs, tucked as always into designated pockets, a soft suede flogger secured in place by a Velcro strap, tucking a few incidentals in his pocket before returning to her in well under the minute he needed.
Standing behind her, with his lips near her ear, he ordered, “Keep those eyes closed,” then he tied the black satin blindfold in place. “This will help you focus only on me.”
“Thank you, sir.”
He moved in front of her next. “Now your wrists, lass.”
Without hesitation, she held them out to him palms up proving her husband trained her well. Keiran used rope or leather cuffs, never metal. They were more dramatic but too easily bruised delicate skin. Marks or pain given in a session with him were with intent and within limits.
He wrapped the fur-lined cuff around one wrist, checked the fit and secured it with a quick-release snap clip to the chain dangling from the ceiling. Before he cuffed and secured the other arm, he slipped the shoulder strap from her dress down her arm and off.
Although she seemed ready to strip herself bare, he didn’t intend that for this first scene, except for one of her beautiful breasts. That much would give her a hint of vulnerability and the lack of control she could expect but also teach her that covered or gloriously naked was up to her Dom to decide, not her.
Her ankles would come next, but only after he enjoyed himself a bit first.
Tilting her face up, he kissed her as he ran his hands up her sides, and all the way to her bound hands, checking for tightness or pinching once more, then retracing his path, gliding over her shoulders and down to her back all without breaking the seal of his mouth on hers.
As he caressed her body, his thumb caught on the loose strap. Her dress dipped lower on one side, but the gravity-defying fabric clung to her nipple. The upper swells were visible but the best part, the rosy tip remained covered, teasing him and the audience who leaned in anxiously waiting for it to drop.
It would be interesting to see how many strokes of the flogger it took before the laws of physics prevailed.
“Turn,” he murmured.
Once she faced away from him, he ran his hands down her back, slowing when he reached the curves of her luscious bottom, then as he crouched behind her, continuing down her long, satiny smooth legs to her ankles. He applied the two remaining cuffs, but rather than connecting them to the eye bolts embedded in the floor, he linked them together.
When he rose, he traced his fingers up the back of her legs. He hooked the hem of her dress lifting it, giving him and the onlookers a glimpse of white cheeks before he let it fall. Then, he reached for his flogger.
Lightly, he flicked the tails over her backside. Through her dress, it made an unsatisfying dull sound. Wanting more, he bunched the material at her waist. Now the suede thwapped crisply against her skin.
As a hum rose from Esme’s closed lips, a murmur of approval rippled through the crowd. He repeated the strokes for a ten count, then released his hold and moved around her. As the material slithered back down to cover her ass, the murmur turned to disappointment from the growing group of spectators.
Word was out the ice princess was in
chains. The fools didn’t understand how hot Esme burned. They soon would.
Coming to a stop in front of her, he sent the tails across her thighs. With three subsequent blows, he introduced pinkness as he increased the intensity moving higher each time. He skipped the obvious next step, and applied the flogger to her hips, up her belly, and below the curves of her upraised breasts, watching as her body swayed, leaning into each stroke not shying away.
Damn, she was exquisite, and her dress was remarkable because, through all of this, it stayed in place.
“Half turn.”
As she moved, she bit her lip, and he could tell she was holding back.
“No,” he commanded. “I want to hear the sounds of both your pleasure and pain. Honest responses. Like the other night, you’ll give it all to me.”
“Yes, sir,” she replied, her voice ragged along with her breathing.
He gave her a moment.
“No, please,” she cried. “Don’t stop. I can take more.”
“Good to know, but the decision isn’t yours. It ends when I decide unless you say the word. What’s your safeword, Esme?”
“Red, sir, but I don’t want to use it.”
“For both our sakes, I sure as hell hope not, you’re beautiful under the lash. But I hadn’t planned to stop, only give you a moment to catch your breath.” He leaned in, brushing a kiss over her shoulder, then licking up the side of her neck until his lips were close to her ear. “Guess what?”
“What, Master Finn?” she asked in a broken whisper.
“Your moment’s up.”
Sending his lash into motion again, he circled her rather than making her turn. The suede tails swiped over what little her dress covered, except her bottom. There, the exhibitionist in him couldn’t resist teasing her and the audience by lifting the fabric and applying the lash, repeatedly. Soon her skin matched the pale pink fabric, and it was hard to tell where one ended and the other began, except when he released it and it danced over her skin.
Dare to Love Again Page 14
