All's Fair in Love and Mastery

by Sparrow Beckett

How was she supposed to answer Echo’s questions about Tarka with Grant standing there listening?

  Oh well. He’s the one who threw me under the bus.

  “Master Tarka is patient, but expects obedience. I think he also prefers partners who aren’t looking for pain. He likes to use a rewards-based system with the submissives he plays with.” She pretended not to notice the way Grant’s jaw tightened. “He loves aftercare, too, especially with a woman who will let him spoil her. If you ask me, I think he’s kind of a low-key daddy Dom.”

  “Yummy!” Echo said with a sigh. “He’s never given me the time of day before this though. I probably shouldn’t set myself up for failure.”

  “Girl, you’re gorgeous. Just go talk to him. Flirt a little. He’s played with me before and I’m not exactly supermodel material.”

  “You’re beautiful!”

  “I’m a bit of a shrimp.”

  Echo frowned. “You don’t have to be tall to attract a man, right Master Grant?

  “No,” Grant said, his voice a low rumble. “No, you don’t.”

  Echo nodded decisively and gestured to Grant as though he was an authority on the subject. “If anything, I think dominant men love the idea of being with a submissive woman who’s substantially smaller than them because it’s easier to physically control them.”

  Echo’s gaze flitted across the room, her expression determined. She didn’t even notice the starving way Grant was watching Dex, or the way Dex was melting in response.

  Echo said her good-byes and drifted off in Tak’s direction.

  “Will you come to my office with me?” Grant asked carefully. “Nothing sketchy, I promise.”

  “Hey, I’m all about sketchy.”

  “I heard that about you.”

  She grinned at him and would have shoulder checked him for old times’ sake, but the fact that she wasn’t wearing anything on her upper half other than Xs of electrical tape over her nipples made her feel like it might be inappropriate, considering. She deliberated whether to go back to the changing room to grab a shirt, but decided not to bother. If he couldn’t handle it, that was his problem. It wasn’t like she had anything he hadn’t seen before.

  “I don’t even think I’ve set foot in your new office yet,” she admitted. That was a sad statement considering the grand reopening had been months ago.

  “No one has been in my office except for Will. Hell, I’ve barely spent any time in there.”

  “Hard to believe we used to play poker in your office at least once a week.”

  “I guess sometimes when life changes it’s fast, and in completely unexpected directions.”

  Was he talking about them, about Will raising Bethany’s baby, or about something else entirely? It was hard to know. Maybe he was referring to all of it.

  It was true.

  Over the past while everything had changed. Some of the changes were good, though, like the fact that their businesses were doing well and none of them were in danger of becoming homeless anytime soon. Some of the changes were horrible, though, like Bethany dying. Like Dex losing Grant’s friendship.

  She sighed, still feeling weird that no one in her not-so-new-anymore life even knew about Nigel and Mia. Two best friends in a row—gone out of her life like someone had taken an eraser to them both and left a yawning, blank space where they’d been.

  If it wasn’t for her brewery, Evil Pixie, she wouldn’t have anything.

  At least business kept her busy.

  She should be going home to get work done, yet here she was, lusting after a man she shouldn’t be thinking about. They didn’t want the same things, but he wasn’t the only one who wished things were different.

  They got to Grant’s office and he went around his desk and settled into the seat.

  Wow.

  Will’s fiancée, Juliet, had redesigned the club to look classier, but there was something ironic, yet damned sexy about Grant sitting behind a huge executive oak desk while wearing a Kink Monsters T-shirt and beat up-jeans. He kicked his booted feet up onto the desk and then put them down again as though he wasn’t comfortable enough with her to relax that much.

  Grant had that irritating, hypermasculine self-assurance that men possess when they knew they could have any woman they wanted—cocky, arrogant, irresistible. She used to find it funny, but now it turned her on.

  He crossed his arms over his muscled chest and studied her as she took the chair opposite him. It all felt very formal, as though she’d been called into the principal’s office. Now there was a role-play she wouldn’t mind trying with him, although with all of the tattoos and the long hair he might really have to work to make it believable.

  “What’s up?” she asked, determined to ignore her imaginings of him in a suit looking severe and disapproving. He had the severe and disapproving thing down cold. The suit would just be window dressing.

  His lovely green gaze dipped to her breasts then back up to her face. Wordlessly, he reached a hand between his shoulder blades and yanked his T-shirt off over his head and threw it at her.

  She caught it. “Thanks. Although I have no idea why you are giving me another shirt. I have several of yours at home. I won’t tell you what I do with them,” she joked, smiling at him suggestively. Her words would have made him laugh back in the day.

  He scowled. Of course. So predictable.

  “Put it on,” he said quietly.

  “Are you suddenly offended by my breasts, Master Grant?” Dex asked sarcastically. “And is the issue my breasts, in particular, or just breasts in general?”

  He just held her gaze, his expression chilly.

  “I know . . . you’re taking holy orders next week and you’re trying to make sure that you’re not tempted to stray from the path,” she teased.

  “I want to have a serious discussion with you—a friend conversation. If we’re going to be just friends again, I need you to help me out by not making it impossible to think of you platonically when we’re alone. I know breasts aren’t necessarily sexual, but I can’t talk to you and not think of sex if you’re half naked.”

  “You’re welcome to think of me in the context of sex anytime you please. Hell, call me up in the middle of the night if you want. You’re the one making this weird.”

  “I know. I know!” He pulled the hair tie out of the bottom of his braid and ran his fingers through his hair, undoing her earlier work. “I’ve admitted before that it’s me and not you. And I know the last thing you deserve is to have a best friend dragging his ass around complaining about being friend-zoned, but this is hard for me and I’m just asking you not to make it worse.”

  Like it wasn’t hard for her?

  Pissed, she huffed out a breath. He wanted to act all butthurt? Whatever.

  Feeling vengeful, she peeled the tape off her nipples, careful not to snag her piercings, then slipped his T-shirt on. Maybe she enjoyed the way he couldn’t bring himself to avert his eyes as she’d done it, but she was a bitch like that sometimes. It was only fair, considering that she was now in the position where she was going to have to look at his gloriously muscled and tattooed bare chest and wasn’t allowed to touch. Men always thought they were the only ones with frustrated urges, but then sometimes men were idiots.

  The shirt was still warm from his body, and she tried not to let him see how comfy it was after her skin having been slightly cool all night. It smelled like him, too—that sharp, clean, masculine scent that had to be his deodorant or something because it wasn’t strong enough to be cologne or aftershave. Maybe it was just him.

  Jerk.

  “I—” He stopped and scrubbed a hand over his face. “There’s something I wanted to talk through with you.”

  She made herself comfortable in the leather club chair, draping her legs over the arm. “Shoot.”

  His gaze drifted to her thighs wher
e they were bare between her flared miniskirt and her black leather knee boots with the bat buckles.

  What? Was he going to offer her his jeans next? Hell, she’d even offer to help him take them off. She wanted to get another close-up look at his piercing anyway, just for the sake of science—and possibly her spank bank.

  He sighed, and returned his attention to her face, meeting her eyes with his intense green gaze. Women always went all gooey and stupid the first time they noticed Grant’s eyes. It was one of his superpowers. Not that his pretty red hair and wicked sense of humor weren’t close runners-up.

  “I couldn’t think of anyone else to talk to about this. You know Will—he’s supportive but he still sees me as a kid, I think. Sometimes he treats me like I’m an idiot.”

  “Well, there are times . . .”

  He flipped her off companionably. “Right back at you, babe.”

  She gestured for him to go on.

  “Maybe I’m having a midlife crisis.”

  “At twenty-eight?”

  “Well, I don’t think I’ll live to be a hundred, so this could very well be midlife for me.”

  “Fair enough.” After all, there were no guarantees. Her mom was evidence of that.

  He paused, as if to gather his thoughts. “Ever since we started the club, even though it’s half mine, you know I’ve never really had a controlling interest.”

  She stopped him. “I think Will would be more than happy to let you take the reins on a lot of things if you showed an interest. Usually you seem more invested in hosting than managing. There’s nothing wrong with that. Both jobs are necessary and important.”

  He waved a hand. “It’s not just that. Will busted his ass to get us off the streets—I just followed along and did what I was told. That was fine when I was a kid, but I’m starting to feel like I’ve been riding his coattails my whole life. I want something that’s mine and only mine. Or at least not his.” He winced and rolled his eyes, then ran his fingers through his hair absently searching for knots. “I sound like an ungrateful child.”

  It was obvious he was waiting for her to cast judgment.

  “You sound like a grown man who’s tired of living in another man’s shadow.”

  “Yeah.” He blew out a breath as though relieved, then pulled a pen out of his top drawer and started to twirl it between his fingers—surprisingly nimble for a guy with big hands. Then again, he was usually fiddling with something. He got bored easily.

  “Do you have a plan?”

  “No, not yet. But I do think I want to start my own business.”

  Hey, this really is a platonic friend conversation. Look at us go!

  “Doing what?”

  He grimaced. “I have no idea. I don’t really have any marketable skills—at least nothing I want to do for money anymore.”

  Dex raised her brows at him impatiently. “Think about the skill set you’ve acquired helping to run Catacombs.”

  “Hosting? Flirting? Showing new people around?” He glanced up at the ceiling as though it might hold the answer he wanted. The pen didn’t stop twirling between his fingers, and Dex found it as mesmerizing as she always did.

  “Customer service is a solid, transferable skill.”

  “Better than servicing customers, I guess.” His mouth twisted.

  “It’s been a long time since you worked as an escort,” she said carefully. This was always a touchy subject for him. “You need to get past the idea that your dick and your charm are your only assets.”

  “Right. I also have more money than I know what to do with.”

  She ran her tongue over her bottom lip, trying to think of something he might enjoy. “If you have no business ideas, maybe you could buy a house instead. A fancyass one.”

  “For what? So I can host dinner parties? So I can wear a Hugh Hefner robe with impunity?”

  “So you don’t have to live in a shitty addition on the back of the club? To keep you busy?”

  He made a dismissive sound. “It doesn’t matter where I sleep. As long as I have a roof over my head, and no one making me service them, I won’t complain.”

  Inwardly, Dex flinched. A few times now Grant had alluded to having been assaulted when he and Will were staying at the shelter, back when he was seventeen. She’d thought it was typical inappropriate guy humor, but she was starting to suspect it was a fact.

  Her heart broke for the kid he’d been, with no one to look out for him except Will, who was two years older. If she ever met their father and stepmother, she was going to give them a piece of her mind.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, knowing that no matter what she said it wouldn’t be enough to express how she was feeling. Angry. Violent. Sad.

  “It’s ancient history.” He pierced her with those feral green eyes of his. “Will doesn’t know what happened when we were living at the shelter, though, so please don’t bring it up.”

  She dropped her feet back on the floor and went around the desk to him. He turned his chair to follow her movement toward him.

  “What?” he grumbled, leaning back, away from her. With him sitting and her standing, they were practically the same height.

  “I’m going to hug you now.”

  “I don’t need a hug.”

  “I need a hug.” She waited, not wanting to push him, but also knowing that he didn’t get a lot of affection.

  He opened his arms without enthusiasm, but it was good enough for her. She hugged him, even though his seated position made it awkward. She melted against him, having missed his arms.

  Don’t think about him being bare-chested, Dexter.

  But it was difficult to ignore hard, sliding muscles sheathed in tattooed skin. He grunted in irritation and dragged her into his lap, then caught her wrist and twisted it up behind her back so suddenly it made her gasp in pain.

  Faster than she could react, his mouth lowered to hers, his kiss hot and insistent, as though touching her had snapped the fragile thread holding back the beast. He devoured her mouth, and she felt his cock harden against her ass cheek. His free hand slid up inside her borrowed T-shirt and he cupped the weight of her breast in his palm, his fingers plucking roughly at the barbell that pierced her nipple.

  She moaned into his mouth, ready for anything he had in mind.

  So, so fucking ready.

  Only his jeans and her panties were keeping their bare flesh from each other, her skirt rucked up around her hips. She squirmed, trying to find some relief against his rough denim.

  “You’re already fucking wet for me,” he snarled before taking her mouth again.

  Damn it. He could feel her soaking his jeans?

  Like the man needed an ego boost?

  He broke the kiss and gasped, like a diver breaking the surface of the water. He stood then, dumping her off his lap, but then caught her arm before she could hit the floor.

  “Fuck, Arabella,” he groaned, glaring down at her as she regained her feet.

  “Anytime.”

  He didn’t loosen his grip on her arm, and they stared at each other for a long, long moment before he let go and they stepped apart. Damn, the man was huge. She forgot sometimes how tall and broad he was up close. The nipple he’d been teasing ached for him almost as much as her heart.

  “Not going to happen—not unless you’re willing to give me what I want.”

  “Well then, I guess we’re at an impasse.”

  “Still.”

  “Still.” She was going to make a joke about having blue balls, but she was too flustered and hot to make light of things. Too vulnerable and too frustrated with him.

  “I just needed to talk,” he said defensively.

  She let her gaze slide down to the bulge in his jeans. “Maybe the next time you want to talk to me alone like this you should blow off some steam first.”

&
nbsp; “I thought I did,” he admitted. “This can’t keep happening.”

  “Fuck me again,” she almost begged. “We need to get this out of our systems.”

  “No. It’ll just make things worse.”

  Silence fell between them, as awkward as usual.

  “I miss you,” she said, her eyes pricking with tears she refused to shed.

  “I miss you more,” he replied, opening the door to his office with an air of finality and regret. “Get out.”

  She left the rude bastard standing in the doorway, not looking back even long enough to swear at him or remind him that she hadn’t been the one who’d crossed the line tonight.

  And she’d be keeping his damned shirt too.

  Chapter Two

  Grant left his office as soon as his humiliating high school-esque boner had subsided. He made his way around back to his apartment without so much as saying good-bye to anyone. If anyone was looking for him, they all knew where he lived.

  The apartment behind the club had been a strange, late addition to the building, originally built as a storage space. Early on, after they’d bought the property, he’d had it upgraded with insulation and a bathroom with a shower. There was no kitchen, but he had a fridge, a hot plate, and a sink.

  Who gave a shit about cooking, anyway?

  Everything about the place served to keep him humble and reminded him of where he could end up again at any time if he didn’t watch his step. The last thing he wanted to do was get used to living rich again. The adjustment from growing up wealthy to being sent to an austere boarding school had been rough, but homelessness had still come as a shock. The way he lived now, the step would be much smaller.

  There really wasn’t any reason for him to worry, considering most of his paycheck went to the bank and sat in low-risk investments. Even if they somehow lost the club, he’d have years and years of money left to live on. The problem was, after having gone without as long as he and Will had, no matter how much of a financial cushion Grant hoarded, he never felt safe.

  A tendril of hair tickled his cheek and he realized he’d left his hair down, which was something he rarely did. Long hair got in the way and dragged in things and was a general nuisance. The only reason he even had long hair was Arabella. It had begun as a discussion between the two of them about why she always kept her hair cropped so short and she went on and on explaining how much of a pain in the ass having long hair was. He’d grown his out just to prove she was full of shit, but she’d been right. Unfortunately, if he cut his hair she would win the argument, and that was something he just couldn’t live with.