One memory stood out from the rest. Her mom’s cousin, who she’d been close to as a child—had died suddenly in a car accident. They hadn’t been welcome at the funeral.
Even though the rest of the family shunned them, her mom had grasped Everly’s small hand and held her head high. Through the heat of their glares, Everly drew on her mother’s strength.
Later, she overheard her grandmother whisper to people she didn’t recognize, “They can’t possibly be as poor as Lysette makes them sound,” she said. “Disgraceful. And just look at how chunky Everly has gotten.”
Her cheeks had burned and she ran to their crappy old car, vowing never to return to her grandma’s estate again, no matter who died.
So far, she’d kept that vow.
Although their family had multiple opportunities to be civil over the years, they didn’t even acknowledge her or her mom if they crossed their paths in town. She found a perverse enjoyment in being ignored, but she could tell how much it hurt her mom.
She knew not every rich person was cruel, but why did they deserve more than everyone else? Why did someone like her grandmother, who’d never lifted a finger in her life, feel she was better than people who couldn’t work or couldn’t catch a break?
No one deserved to go hungry or freeze to death.
The petition had twenty-five signatures so far. Not bad for only two hours and three of them working. Their Community Cares group had grown to about fifteen members, but they took turns volunteering on Saturday mornings to raise awareness. Today, she shared the timeslot with Chloe and Max.
Max had a nice, loud voice that carried well. And Chloe was model gorgeous, so she always managed to get the college guys to stop and talk to her. Everly figured they signed the petition just to get Chloe’s attention.
But they weren’t there to pick up. They were there to make a difference.
“We also need volunteers and donations to help run the shelter!” she yelled, handing over a flyer to a little girl smiling and reaching up. Her mother stood a few feet away, looking down at her phone.
“Give this to your mom, okay?” she whispered to the girl.
She nodded then skipped off and handed the flyer to her mother, who took one glance then shoved it back at the girl.
An older gentleman strode past as he said, “Tell them to get a job like everyone else.”
“Fuck you too,” she muttered to herself. Last time she’d been rude to a heckler, she’d gotten chastised by the others, so she tried to be more careful now. Chloe did have a point that they weren’t exactly being upstanding citizens by calling people “selfish dickwads who have more money than brain cells.”
“Don’t get discouraged,” Chloe said. “I think people will show up next week. Our Facebook post got a lot of likes.”
Everly wanted to be optimistic, but was starting to lose hope. The no-freeze shelter was an important part of their community. Open twenty-four/seven, they didn’t turn anyone away who needed somewhere warm to sleep during the winter months. Why was it so hard to get people to care?
Sometimes it just took a little perspective. She had perspective, which was why she spent her weekends off at protests and rallies, trying to fight for services and to bring awareness to the socioeconomic gap. There was a time where she wouldn’t have survived without the no-freeze shelter. Or worse—been taken away from her mother to live with strangers.
She fought back a shiver. Was it the memory or the unseasonably cold September air? She pulled her peacoat tighter around her body then spotted the coffee shop across the street.
“Hey, I’m gonna get something hot to drink,” she said to Chloe and Max. “You want anything?”
They gave her their orders, and she jogged across the busy street. The rush of warmth upon stepping into the coffee shop made her sigh with relief. Her nose started to thaw, along with her tingling fingers, as she waited in line.
After she ordered their drinks, she waited by the pickup counter and peered around the shop. She wished a place like this would let them hand out flyers inside, where it was warm and busy, but most places had a no-soliciting policy.
From the corner of her eye, she caught sight of a familiar form. Large and imposing, he was hard to miss, even from across the shop.
A thrill swept through her. The last time she’d seen Ambrose, he’d been holding her in the corner, whispering naughty things in her ear. Heat warmed her insides at the memory, making her clench her thighs together.
She hadn’t heard from him since then, even though they’d left on good terms. Then again, she hadn’t exactly texted him either. But wasn’t it the guy’s job to call first? She’d been tempted, stared at his contact info on her phone, thinking through what to say, but at the last second she always chickened out. Weird for her, because she was known for having brass balls. But something about him scared her. Maybe it was the potential—hot, funny, kind, and a damned good Dom, so far. She didn’t want to fuck things up.
It crossed her mind not to say anything, but she couldn’t resist. She checked that he was alone before calling to him. “Ambrose!”
He turned, and when he spotted her, he smiled. He pushed through the crowd toward her.
The grin and the way he walked—more like stalked—toward her made him look predatory. Her legs twitched with the urge to run, to make him chase her.
Whoa. Down, girl.
She didn’t even know if he was still interested.
“Hey, there,” he said when he reached her. His gaze swept down her body then back up to her face.
She didn’t miss the heated look in his eye. It stirred her in ways so not appropriate for public.
“Getting coffee?”
She nodded, unable to find her voice for a moment. What the hell? She was a brat—since when was she intimidated by a guy she barely knew?
“Where you headed?” he asked. “Can you sit for a while?”
Her brows darted up in surprise. Maybe he was interested. The offer was tempting. Their time at The Catacombs had kept her vibrator busy the last few nights. Gazing at his face as she sat across from him would be enough to get her imagination going. But duty called. “Um. No. I’m in the middle of a social justice event, and I have to bring drinks to my friends.”
“Everly,” a barista called.
“That’s me.” She turned to the counter. “Do you have one of those tray things?”
The barista shook her head. “We’re all out. Sorry.”
“Crap.” Heaving a sigh, she looked at the three drinks. She’d just have to juggle the third between the other two.
“Here,” Ambrose said, stepping forward. “Let me help you.”
He took two cups off the counter, and she took the third then looked up at him. “Thank you.”
“Where are we going?”
“Just across the street.”
“Okay.” They walked through the shop then out the door before he spoke again. “So what’s this event you’re doing?”
“We’re handing out flyers to raise awareness for the no-freeze shelter. The city council wants to close it. Such bullshit.” She shook her head, letting frustration seep into her voice. “So we’re trying to get people to sign a petition and come to the protest next week.” They crossed the street. “You should sign it. We could use all the help we can get.”
“Sure. Sounds like a good cause to me.”
When she reached her friends, she introduced Ambrose and they figured out whose drink was whose. Then he signed the petition and she couldn’t stop beaming up at him, feeling like a devoted little puppy dog following its owner.
She gave her head a shake. Since when was she so easily impressed? All he did was sign a piece of paper.
“Is that it?” he asked, sticking his hands in his pockets. “Do you . . . need anything else?”
How about answers about why he hadn’t texted her since the club? She wasn’t about to ask that in front of her friends though.
“If you have any old bl
ankets or coats or anything, we could use some donations.”
He nodded. “Sure. I have a bunch of stuff like that.”
When she creased her brow, puzzled, he added, “I’m a bit of a pack rat.” His chuckle sounded nervous. “I could . . . bring them by your place, if you want.” It came out like a question, and she appreciated the fact that he wasn’t being a pushy asshole.
She smiled. “Okay.” This sounded like the makings of a second date. “When are you free?”
“I’m off today.” He hiked a thumb at the coffee shop. “I just had breakfast with my mom. That was my big plan for the day. Are you gonna be done here soon?”
“Umm.” She turned to her friends. “We usually stop in about an hour, when people finish their morning errands and go home for lunch.”
Chloe made a shooing gesture with her hand. “Go ahead. We’ll finish up. We’re fine here.” Mischief twinkled in her eyes.
It wasn’t hard to tell what she was thinking. Everly wasn’t sure whether to encourage her or not. She’d love to go hang out with Ambrose, but she wasn’t the type to duck out of a commitment like this.
“It’s okay,” Ambrose said. “I’m not in a rush. I’ll run home and get the stuff, then you can text me when you’re done. Send me your address too.”
“Okay.” She tried to bite back a grin. Second date with a Dom who, so far, was cool, funny, and could handle her. Not bad for Saturday plans. It beat cleaning anyway.
Shit. Panic hit. Her apartment was a mess!
After Ambrose left, she turned to Chloe. “I gotta go clean!”
Her friend laughed. “He’s hot. If you’re not calling dibs . . .”
“Dibs!”
Max put a hand on his hip. “I was about to call dibs!”
“Pretty sure he doesn’t swing that way, sweetheart.”
“One night, baby.” He winked. “I just need one night.”
Laughing, Chloe waved her away. “Go. Clean your house. Don’t forget the bedroom. Do you need condoms? They have them at the health clinic.”
“Shut up!”
Chloe fell into a fit of laughter.
“I’m a grown-up,” Everly said. “I know where to get condoms.”
She handed off the flyers so they could return them to the community center then turned to leave, ignoring their snickers.
“We want details later,” Max yelled after her.
She gave them the finger over her shoulder.
* * *
Her apartment was presentable by the time the doorbell rang. Wanting to impress him with neatness seemed like the wrong way to start a relationship, especially since it was a lie. Normally, random clothes and shoes were strewn around each room as if someone had run out halfway dressed in an emergency. But that was just the way she lived. Her last vanilla boyfriend had been a mama’s boy—his expectations of Everly made June Cleaver look like a slob. Needless to say, they hadn’t lasted long.
Now that she had more experience with BDSM, she’d been safewording vanillas anyway.
She swept her gaze over the room one more time before answering the door, making sure she hadn’t left a pair of underwear out—or something even more embarrassing.
When she was satisfied with the condition of the place, she opened the door. Ambrose smiled, and her heart fluttered. In his arms, he held a bundle of blankets.
“Hi.” She stepped aside so he could enter. “You can just throw those on the couch.”
“Okay.”
After unloading the pile from his arms, he pulled off his coat. Her mouth went dry. The gray T-shirt gave her a good look at his arms again. Was there such a thing as arm porn? He’d be a star.
Fuck. Was it hot in here? Tattoos were her weakness.
Forcing herself to move before she drooled on her shirt, she went to the couch to see what he’d brought. Staying busy would keep her mind off wanting to jump him. “This was really nice of you, by the way.” She sifted through the items—each one in perfect condition. They even smelled new. “These are great. You wouldn’t believe the amount of . . .”
One of the cashmere blankets still had the tag on. “Um . . . Did you want to keep this one?”
“Oh.” He actually blushed. “That was a gift. I guess I didn’t take the tags off yet. Keep it. You need it more than I do.”
She didn’t see that coming. He’d been a gentleman at the club—a bossy one but still respectful and kind. But donating all this stuff took it a step further. The fact that he cared about the shelter gave him major brownie points. She pictured him at protests with her, holding signs together, cozying up to stay warm.
She’d tried dating a fellow protester once, but that ended up being the only thing they had in common. When they’d eventually made it into bed, and she’d told him about her kinks, he’d equated it to abuse against women and walked out. But if Ambrose cared about social justice even half as much as she did and he was good in bed, she’d hit the fucking boyfriend jackpot.
She realized she was doing that stupid puppy staring thing again and cleared her throat, trying to stay focused. “Um. Can I get you a drink?”
“I’m okay. Can I sit down?”
“Oh! Of course!” Why didn’t she think of that?
He chuckled then they both sat on the couch. Smiling, he said, “It’s really cool what you do. I mean, I know people who donate money, but I’ve never met someone so . . . hands-on.”
She laughed. “That’s what people without money do when they want to help.”
“How often do you do protests and stuff?”
“I’m an active member of Community Cares. It’s a nonprofit organization that advocates for community-based services for those who need them. We also work to change local policy to help close the socioeconomic gap and make opportunities more equal for everybody.”
“Wow.” He pressed his hands together. “That’s amazing.”
She shrugged. “It’s nothing. I mean, I wish I could do more, but I gotta work, too, so I don’t end up in the shelter.” Again. But she didn’t say that. A second date was no time to get into her life story. “How’d the wedding go? Did your friend like your haircut?”
“She did. Though she was pretty googly-eyed for her Master.”
Her brows rose as her interest piqued. “It was that kind of wedding?”
“Yes. Well, it was both. She had vanilla family and friends there, so the Master/slave part was very subtle.”
“Are all your friends kinky?”
He laughed. “A lot of them are. My two best friends are both Masters.”
Jealousy speared her. What she wouldn’t give for that. “That’s awesome. I wish I had actual friends in the lifestyle. I have some vaguely kinky friends who are understanding, but no one to really talk to about this stuff. A few acquaintances from the club, but that’s it.” She gave him a sidelong look and smiled. “Maybe I can wiggle my way in and steal your friends.”
“You don’t have to steal them. I know how to share.” He winked. “I’m sure they’d like you anyway.”
“You think so?”
“What’s not to like?”
Though the sentiment was sweet, he really had no idea what he was talking about. She frowned then stared at the floor. “I’m a brat.”
“So?”
“Masters hate brats.” She knew from experience. And if his friends were Masters . . . they didn’t stand a chance together.
He placed a hand on her knee and she looked up at him. “My friends understand there are all types of subs. And they respect the girl I’m with, regardless of whether they like the kind of sub she is or not.” He sat back, withdrawing his hand, and she wished he’d put it back. “Besides, it’s none of their fucking business. I like brats, and that’s all that matters.”
She beamed at him. God, he was sexy when he swore. She liked that rough-around-the-edges thing—the attitude that they didn’t give a fuck what anyone thought of them. Yeah, Ambrose had that in spades.
Her gaze droppe
d to his arms again. Mmm. She’d like to see where else he had tattoos. Maybe lick them.
“What do your tattoos mean?” She eyed the Roman numerals. They made him look even more dangerous, which made him more irresistible.
His smile was wicked. “If I tell you my secret, you have to promise not to rat me out.”
“Rat you out?” She laughed and traced the figures with tentative fingers. “I can keep a secret.” Had he done time or something? Maybe he had kids from a previous relationship?
Ambrose held his arms out to her. “The story behind these probably makes me sound crazy, but since you seem trustworthy, I’ll tell you.”
He sighed dramatically, like he was weighing whether or not she could handle what he was about to say. Now she was more nervous than intrigued.
“These are the dates . . .” He paused, eyeing her cautiously.
“Yes?”
“. . . that both sets of my grandparents got married.”
She arched a brow at him. He couldn’t be serious. Shouldn’t they be something less . . . sappy?
“You don’t believe me? It’s true. Both sets of my grandparents had serious romances going on, and stayed married until they died. Maybe it’s not very cool for a guy to want to immortalize that with ink, but it reminds me that life isn’t all about paying bills and collecting shit.”
Oh God. He was serious. That was possibly the sweetest thing she’d ever heard.
When he looked at her weirdly, she realized she was smiling up at him like a giddy schoolgirl. She gave her head a shake. “That’s really cool, actually. I didn’t expect that.”
“Did you have fun the other night?” he asked, as if struck with the urge to suddenly change the subject.
Maybe he didn’t like looking like a romantic sap. Did he think it ruined his image? Because she was pretty sure girls would be crawling all over him if they knew.
“Wasn’t it obvious?” The challenge in her tone surprised her more than it seemed to surprise him. It was a curse that whenever she got horny, she got bratty. The more turned on she was, the brattier she acted. And right now, her heart was pulsing in rhythm with her clit.
Playing Hard to Master Page 4
