by Joey W. Hill
Logan glanced toward the door. It was monitored by two classy-looking, Secret Service style bouncers, definitely security muscle.
“I’ll be fine,” Julie further assured him. “You said the party was by invitation, so everyone’s been vetted. I won’t be getting any rude overtures. And I live in New York, remember? I ride the subway and deal with cabbies.” She shot him an impish look. “I want my first impression of this shindig to be with him.”
She also wanted him to see she’d waited for him, another of those subtle cues, right?
Logan pulled out his phone and looked at the screen. “He’ll be here in about ten minutes.”
“So good. See? It all works out.” Julie kept her tone casual, though the news sent a little frisson of nerves through her. Both in anticipation of his arrival and from the psychological impact of his continuing direct communication with Logan. Dom to Dom, man to man, watching over the women. Terribly sexist, yes, but she didn’t deny in the current circumstances it had a not-unpleasant effect.
Logan pursed his lips and slid his arm around Madison, hand intimately molded over her hip. “We don’t mind staying with you until he gets here.”
“I know you don’t. I just…I’d really like him to see me, and me to see him, on my own. If that’s okay.”
She hoped they’d understand without her having to embarrass herself with more explanation. She liked dramatic entrances and exits, portentous meetings with the setting framed the right way. For this, she wanted only two people on the stage, so she could drink in everything about him without embarrassment. All this prep made her feel like Cinderella at the ball in truth.
At Madison’s weighted look, Logan relented. “All right. Just promise you’ll stay here, where the guys at the door can see you. It’s a nice place, but not the nicest area. Sometimes you New York types think you’re the only one with violent crime.”
“Hey, our muggers can kick your muggers’ asses. But since either one could kick my ass, this is where my ass will be staying.” She scooched up to the pillar and gave said booty a little shake, eliciting a chuckle from her companions.
“Do that little move when Des first sees you and we won’t see you again tonight.” Madison winked at Logan. “Don’t pretend you didn’t notice.”
“On the contrary. I’m going to take you inside and see if you’ll do the same move for me. Only I’m going to be that lucky column. Double entendre fully intended.”
Madison laughed and the two of them went inside, though Julie was amused to notice Logan stop by one of the doormen and point her out. Protective men could be so offensive and sexy at the same time.
Now that her escorts had gone inside, she could put her hand on her stomach and try to hold in the swirl of nerves happening in every area of her body. She was no stranger to embracing drama, but putting on this outfit wasn’t about her asserting her flamboyant personality. As such, when she’d looked at herself in the mirror, she’d almost retreated to her little black dress. Then she’d looked at his text again about what she should wear. She thought about it now, and what might happen when he arrived. Would he like what she’d chosen?
Adrenaline was keeping her toasty. She sent one of the bouncers a little wave as he looked in her direction and made eye contact. Madison had said everyone involved in events like this was usually part of the lifestyle, so Julie wondered if he was Dom, sub or switch. His formidable appearance made no difference; she’d learned that much.
The other couples, singles and groups she saw going into the building supported that. Bless a world where racy, barely disguised fetish fashion could pass as club wear. She kept herself occupied by guessing the Dom or sub orientation of the people approaching the door with their invitations. When she went inside, she’d find out if she was wrong or right.
Would the large male with a woman half his size be a sub who liked to kneel and kiss her stiletto clad feet? Would the threesome of two men and one woman tie her up in so many ways she’d be unable to move as they feasted on every part of her body? Protected sex was allowed at this party. Everyone would be what they most desired to be with one another. At least that was how she was picturing it. Maybe the reality would be even more fantastic than that.
She’d chosen her own part for tonight, embraced it for her own pleasure as much as the pleasure of her Dom. Remembering their first meet and the temporary tattoos on Des’s arms, as well as his fascination with her curves, she’d catered to those tastes and dressed accordingly.
She was a starlet. A lush, Hollywood starlet, unattainable except by one man. The man who made her knees weak. The one coming across the parking lot toward her.
While he was wearing an outfit far different from anything she’d previously seen him wear, she’d know the way he moved anywhere. Her gaze tracked and lighted on him when he was ten paces away from his parking space.
She’d wondered if he’d look as good in slacks as he did his customary jeans. She’d have to find out another time, because he wasn’t wearing slacks. What he had chosen gave her heartrate another nice bump.
He was wearing a black utility kilt, the sporran held in place with a combination of silver chain and sleek black rope that passed over his hip bones. He’d left the ties loose enough at the neckline of his black laced shirt to show a triangle of his chest and the light layer of gleaming dark hair over it. The sleeves were fitted to his taut biceps and rolled up to reveal his forearms, which bore laced black gauntlets. The folds of his sleeves were secured with another short fall of silver chain and held there with silver Celtic knot studs.
He’d donned a black felt fedora with a black braided rope band, his hair sleekly queued back beneath it. His black combat boots had silver buckles with skull heads.
It was Goth meets Scot meets 1950s style meets… Hell, it defied description. It was Des, and it worked on him, from head to toe. She’d take his idea of formal wear over a tux any day.
Then she lost her train of thought, because he saw her. His shift in expression pulled her into a world populated only by the two of them and a lot of passionate, dirty, sacred, sweaty, breathless scenarios of sex, taking, and pure need.
He came to a stop, twenty feet of parking lot between them. Hooking a thumb into his waistband, he cocked a hip to settle in and do an in-depth inventory of her, starting with the four inch heels she wore. The strappy shoes buckled over shimmering stockings that were attached to slim garters. He could tell she was wearing garters, because in her position, leaned against the pillar, the skirt had inched up on the right side enough to show a peek of the ribbon attachment to the stocking.
The dress was ruched sunset-colored gold lace over lighter gold satin that hugged every curve to the mid-thigh hemline. On the sides, from hip to thigh, the satin under layer was absent, so lace covered only skin. The bodice of the dress displayed her breasts like unfrosted cake, the satin straps snug over her shoulders adding to the high, firm, pushed-together and quivering display. While he couldn’t see it yet, the straps connected at her nape and one narrow line of satin followed her spine to the back of the dress, scooped well below her shoulder blades. It gave a man’s hand plenty of area to caress before he decided to explore how the fabric clung to her round ass.
It was a dress a woman from the age of silver screens would have worn, and in which she would have been immortalized. She felt exactly that way as Des consumed her with his dark eyes.
Shifting away from the pillar, she stepped off the curb. She’d practiced a sultry, hip-swinging walk, intending to add it to the fantasy, but there was no need for calculation. Her body moved the way she felt and how he’d demanded—as the most desirable thing he could ever want.
His attention followed the movement of her body, the quiver of her breasts, and lingered over the fullness of her hips. When he reached her face, she knew the makeup Madison had expertly applied had turned her striking brown eyes into pools in which a man could be lost. She wanted him to dive into her very soul and stay there. She’d take ca
re of his every need, because he would do the same for her.
When she reached him, she didn’t say anything. Normally, a hundred things would have come to mind. Sassy, snarky or smartass, words tumbling out from her moist lips to protect herself from being perceived as too over the top, to mitigate self-consciousness, or to let him off the hook before he could say or do something that might disappoint the fantasy. But she chose trust, and stayed quiet, drinking him in with her eyes the way he was doing to her.
His hair was burnished like a bird wing, his eyes as penetrating as she’d ever seen, his lips inviting. You’re beautiful, she thought, and her hands curled at her hips, wanting to touch. Touch him for her own pleasure, or touch herself for his, and to see if she could feel all the energy his admiration had fueled beneath her skin.
Keeping his eyes on her, he opened the sporran. “Turn around,” he said in his compelling voice. With the things moving between them, it was an unmistakable order, sending a quiver through her. She obeyed, cocking her hip to emphasize her ass, and was thrilled at his muttered expletive, a reverence. He stepped close enough his body brushed hers and his arms came around her.
Her heart thudded hard in her chest. He held a strap of thin woven cord, intricately worked with knots and delicate silver links. Tiny charms which had the Celtic design of the studs holding his sleeves sparkled from it. When he fitted the strap around her throat and buckled it, she thought of the times he’d put both hands around her neck. He’d made this for her himself, she was sure of it. The knots pressed into her throat, a mild but stimulating pressure.
“I thought you said collars weren’t your thing.”
His grip settled on her hips, and he pulled her closer to him in one smooth move, a decisive impact that took her breath and pressed the sporran against her buttocks. “I’ve never had the urge to make sure other men know the woman I’m with is taken. Often, thoroughly and with extreme prejudice.”
The surge of response heated her from head to toe. “Oh…well. Okay.” She closed her eyes as he nuzzled her throat, biting it below the hold of his gift. Then he had his fingers in it and twisted, restricting her air so her head tipped back, her fingers lifting to curl around his wrist.
“Feel that?” he whispered, a dangerous rumble. “Your life in my hands, love. Yet you stay so still and trembling, not fighting it, like a wild creature that’s given me her trust. Tell me to stop.”
She shook her head, fingers tightening on him. He let out another curse beneath his breath, and slowly eased the hold, massaging the constricted area. She kept her eyes closed, absorbing his touch. God, she really had missed him.
“I’d rather just have you to myself right here, right now,” he said, echoing her own thoughts. “But we can create a world just for the two of us, no matter how big the crowd. As much as I want to have you alone, I want to watch you react to what you’ll see in there.”
Stepping to her side, he tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow and touched her chin when she opened her eyes and looked at him. “Want to go watch things far less amazing than you, but still well worth seeing?”
“Smooth talker.” Her smile died, because his eyes were too hot, mouth too firm. There was a whole conversation going on beneath the surface, for both of them. A storm of epic proportions. His attention was like a full body wrap around her senses. She wanted him so badly her body felt weighted by it, and she put that need in the clutch of her fingers on him. His answer came through the stroke of his hand on her hip.
“Come on,” he said, and led her across the parking lot to the door.
Chapter Twelve
The guys at the door opened it for them, so Des didn’t have to let her go. They went through the foyer checkpoint, clustered with people and rich scents of perfumes and colognes. Everyone was dressed for pleasure. Leather, lace, silks, satins and sparkles. She loved noticing the details and maybe she would later, but right now she only had one focus. As Des offered his invitation, she lingered on the way the laced gauntlet defined his arm. He wore no rings on his fingers, no jewelry, but that would make sense, wouldn’t it? He wouldn’t wear anything that could foul a rope. She was already close to him, but she shifted even closer, inhaling his scent.
Tonight there was something different. Like an exotic blend of masculine spice, possibly the type of aftershave he’d used.
He noted her proximity, his hand curving around her waist, palm resting on her buttock, fingers curved over her hip bone. His gaze slid over her parted lips, down to her throat. While he waited for his hand to be stamped, he bent and kissed the top of her breast, making her drop her head back and shiver at the brush of his jaw on her tender flesh.
Then her hand was stamped and he was escorting her forward to a set of double doors that opened to release the energy and noise of what lay beyond.
In some ways, it was no different from any nightclub she’d ever visited, crowded with people, inundated with music and visual stimuli, though she heartily approved of the current song choice of Bruno Mars’ “Moonshine.” There was a flashing disco ball, which delighted her, casting a snowstorm of light on the crowded dance floor. Solid spotlights divided the main room into gold, green, blue and red sections and imprinted the party goers with that color, depending on where they wandered.
“A dungeon is usually quiet, focused on building the intensity between Dom and sub,” Des said in her ear. “While I prefer that, this will be a fun change. A party can give you a different kind of privacy, thanks to the festive chaos.”
She was going to ask him what he meant, but he directed her attention to everything happening around them. And there was plenty to see.
The gold lit section had the disco ball and dance floor. As they moved past that area, she saw suitably sensuous movements that matched the music. Depending on what the participants were or were not wearing, some weren’t far off from outright copulation. Correct that. One couple who completed their turn against a wall stopped there, using it as a brace and confirming the undulating hip movements were actual thrusting. During the turn, the woman had had one leg high on her partner’s hip, but now, he lifted both legs around him to achieve deeper penetration as she clung to him, fingers digging into his shoulders.
Des let her linger there, watching the many different forms of foreplay and fucking done to a primal under beat, mixed with actual dancing. Couples became trios or more, all sorts of cross touching and stroking going on, one dance rippling together. Her own body rocked with the rhythm of the song, rubbing her against Des’s body behind her. When he cupped her breasts, a gentle, foreplay, she had no embarrassment or self-consciousness, sighing with need when he put his mouth to her throat and suckled the pounding artery.
He’d lowered his hands to her waist and she had her fingers wrapped in them when he lifted his head and moved them onward to complete their brief tour of each section.
Fire and electric play happened in the red lit area. Flogging and impact play in the blue, rope work in the green. Except for the fire play, there was overlap in all, restraints with rope combined with paddling or wand play, wax play mixed in with fire. It was an erotic circus, and the flashing light and shadows made all the players look surreal and breathtaking, caught up in a dimension where the world outside of work and worries didn’t exist.
She was sure that was a tired description for the marvelousness of it, but circus was what came to mind. Especially when they passed a gold painted woman moving through the crowd, her Mistress guiding her on a leash. The submissive wore an elaborate headdress that gave her a mane like a male lion. She wore an impressive strap-on, the harness of which seemed to be holding her long tail in place over her backside. Julie noticed the “lion’s” Mistress had a hand on the base of the tail and was playing with it. The tail was anchored to her body via a dildo sunk deep into her backside.
At Julie’s fascinated regard, the Mistress slowed. “My exotic pet wants to play with others tonight, Spiderman. Would you like your sub to be fucked by her? O
r feel my pet’s claws?”
Before Julie could react to the Mistress’s remarkable request, Des slipped his hand around her throat, just under her jaw, fingers hooking the rope and chain collar. A reminder that the question had been directed to him, not her. “Fucking her is my pleasure alone, Mistress, but yes to the claws.”
He tipped up Julie’s face, an unspoken but clear command to keep her gaze on his. They hadn’t discussed what Julie might or might not like, but she trusted Des to suggest things she might like. She also trusted him to honor her and not get out of sorts if she backed away from something he wanted her to do. Frankly, she was less worried about their lack of formal communication than her certainty she might not refuse anything he demanded, not when he was in his full Dom-wizard mode.
The lion sub had glittering metal tips on her fingers she feathered artistically high in the air where Julie could see them before she dragged them down Julie’s front. Over the exposed curves of her breasts, to the edge of lace that barely covered her nipples. Before she could worry she’d scrape those, the sub had dropped to her knees and reversed course, talons digging in and scraping up her inner thighs. Des shifted to grip her around the waist, so when Julie instinctively leaned back, her knees loosening to give those talons more access, he held her up. She made a noise of confused arousal and, as he turned her to face him, he adjusted his hand so it was still on her throat, keeping her head tilted up to meet his eyes. His grip was firm, intended to put strain on her neck, to make her feel the pressure of the knots in the collar he’d put upon her, as the Mistress asked a follow up question.
“What a lovely open back this dress has. Would you like my kitten to mark her there?”
Des caressed Julie’s throat. “How painful do you want it to be, love?”
“As painful as you want me to feel it.”
In a rational moment, could she explain how the flash of approval in his gaze, how pleasing him, made her feel? And how that connected to anything he did to her. It made pain something different, though she was no pain junkie.
