by Joey W. Hill
"Why do you need what I say to be a lie, Madison?"
"If you don't mind," she said tightly, "I'd like to skip the psych evaluation. We can do the store tour another time."
She turned away without waiting for his response and moved to the door. She was being rude again, but in all her relationships, she'd tried to be so accommodating, so pleasant. After lucky number seven, she'd finally decided her best dating strategy was not giving a shit about what was expected of her. Which, given that was almost physically impossible for her, meant not dating at all. She was reminded of that now, because a big part of her didn't want him to let her blow it off. Or let her go.
"I'd prefer to give you the full tour now."
Looking over her shoulder, she saw he was replacing the sides of the cage, transforming it into a chest again. When he straightened and turned toward her, he didn't look irritated. She wondered what it would take to rile him up, and whether she really wanted to go down that road. A part of her did. A very dangerous part.
He strode across the room to join her. She moved out of range, a pointed message that she didn't want to be touched. He respected it, though when he opened the door for her, he slid his fingertips along her lower back, an incidental touch that set off nerve receptors all around it. What was it about that guiding, protective hand that could wake up so many things inside a woman?
As they exited the room, he left the door cracked, suggesting he planned to do some work later. How many evenings did he spend here? If she worked late hours, it was likely he would be nearby. He and all his creations. Another hazardous thought.
"Do you listen to music while you do the building and sanding?" she asked, shoving that away.
"Sometimes. Depends on my mood. Usually the local oldies station. They play everything from Motown through the eighties."
"You're showing your age."
"Closing in on forty fast, and proud of it, baby." Giving her a wink, he pulled back the curtain that separated the storeroom from the main floor. "The center aisle here has fasteners, hooks, tie-downs and rope. It's the one Alice needed most often when she was running short on things for her displays. She'd nip in here, grab something and disappear through the curtain, waving at me with what she was taking."
It coaxed a small smile from her, especially when he gave her hair a quick, playful tug. She wanted to apologize for how defensive she'd become in the other room, but she bit it back. He'd been pricking things she'd rather not explore, and maybe her brusque responses would keep him from revisiting that territory. For her part, she knew it was best she steer clear of that room in the future, and show only a distant politeness if he brought up other projects.
Yeah right. Because so far she'd passed that test with flying colors. Not.
"Do you offer discounts to the local dungeon members?"
He nodded, not taking it as the joke she'd intended. "If they show me their membership card, I give them ten percent off for bringing their business here instead of 'Dom Depot'." He fingered a length of chain on a spool, and she found herself caught by how the silver links looked, twined around his knuckles. "D/s equipment is expensive and practitioners are creative. We're always looking for new ways to restrain, to punish."
"Not pleasure?"
"It's all about pleasure, Madison." He met her gaze. "Give me your hand again."
She thought about saying no. Instead she laid her hand in his, curiously docile. When his grip closed over it, he used the other hand to pull off a length of blue nylon rope. He wrapped the silken cord around her wrist. Once, twice . . . three times. Then he held the end of the rope under his thumb over her pulse, his other fingers wrapped around her forearm.
"Breathe," he reminded her. "When I did that, your eyes glazed and your lips parted. Something inside you focused and got still, waiting."
"What am I waiting for?" she asked, hearing a whispery note to her voice. She cleared her throat.
"To see what I'll do next. What I'll demand from you." Slow and easy, but confident--the way she suspected he'd deal with a shy wild animal--he shifted behind her, his chest pressed against her back. Sliding his free hand onto her shoulder, he gripped it briefly before he moved to her throat, his fingers settling over it in a firm collar.
"Ah . . ." Her mind flailed for an appropriate response, but every other part of her got even more still, as if waiting for the answer to a question.
"When I place my hand over a submissive's neck like this, she might be keyed up, anxious, or aroused, but there's a subtle give, a relaxing of tension. In this position, where I hold all the power, there's nothing she can do. Nothing she needs to do. I've got her, on every level."
Oh God. It was just like her fantasy. I've got you. You're all fucking mine.
"Like a rabbit in the jaws of a wolf?" She forced out the comment, all too aware she was leaning against him, not pulling away, when she should have jumped back like he'd hit her with electrodes.
"You know how they say magic is just unexplained science? In D/s, chains are magic. Binding the body frees the soul, lets it fly. A woman stops thinking. She just feels."
"You're thinking again. You get punished when you think." More of the same fantasy.
He stroked her carotid with light fingertips and she barely suppressed a moan. She expected he felt the vibration beneath his hold, though.
"Think about Naughty Bits," he murmured. "Some women walk by it with those ugly-assed rectangular glasses and their overeducated noses in the air, and see it as frivolous or worse, a disgrace, where women do things to please men, serve their baser desires."
"Alice would talk about that. She knew it wasn't true."
"So do you. Deep down, you know the opposite is true. It's where a woman can explore a different, powerful side of herself, unleash it for mutual pleasure."
His thumb holding the rope lifted, and she watched it loosen and uncoil, dropping away as she lowered her arm and he stepped back from her. He kept a hand at her waist, not removing that support until she was steady on her feet.
Just as she'd thought, he was teaching her. He probably did demonstrations at his club. That was why he could draw her into something as captivating as any stage performance. It wasn't personal. She could tell him to back off if she thought he was going overboard, if he was using it as an excuse to feel her up, but this didn't feel like that.
Alice had told her to trust him so he could make her see Naughty Bits in a way that would help her continue its success. All this was merely an unusual on-the-job training program. Thinking about the customer earlier in the day, versus this moment, Madison could see the connection, a hint of the possibilities. She wasn't supposed to be a clerk, telling her clientele which aisle held nipple clamps. She was a travel agent, helping plan a memorable experience. It made her wish she could turn the clock back to the morning and do it over.
But if she could do that, she'd turn the clock back for far more important things.
"Alice used to say, if time travel were possible, people shouldn't go back in time to stop huge catastrophes. They should change small things, because a pebble has the best effect. Ripples-on-the-pond."
She wasn't sure why she'd said that out loud. She turned to face him, putting more space between them.
"Sounds like her," he said.
"Hmm. 'A woman stops thinking.' So you're saying nothing gets in the way of a woman's desires like her mind?" Madison arched a brow. "So sad for you men, that females can't be lobotomized for our mutual pleasure."
He shook his head. "When a woman gets out of the way of her instincts, and doesn't let the baggage she brings from her day-to-day life drag her down, she's the one who leads. As her Master, I put her in touch with those instincts; she's the one who uses them to take us both to a deeper level of connection."
As her Master . . . The way he said it, it was so painfully straightforward. The way his gaze stayed trained on her, waiting for something, made her shift uncomfortably, look elsewhere. "I think it's time for me to go
home. It's getting late."
"All right," he said at last. "But I have something for you up front. Based on what I overheard today, I think it will help you with the store."
After today's disaster, she thought only a miracle would do that, but she was willing to give anything a try. Then she registered his words. "What do you mean, 'overheard'?"
He held up a placating hand. "Patrons tend to talk about their shopping experiences elsewhere on the street when they're in the store."
Her first impetus was to tell him to mind his own business, go to hell, but he was only telling her what she already knew, right? What good would it do to jump in his face about it? But it still rankled.
"They talk about you, too. One of the women said you had a really poor selection of wood chippers. Nothing the right size to dispose of her husband's body."
"I'll work on that. I do like to satisfy a woman." Giving her a wink, he moved toward the counter while she thought about whacking him with one of his hammers. Seeing its price tag brought her to a stop.
"Over a hundred dollars? For a hammer?"
"There are five-dollar ones as well. That's titanium, perfectly balanced, guaranteed for life." He came back to her and picked it up, handing it to her to examine. "The tool you choose should fit the job. To a craftsman, or a person who makes his living building, it's essential to pick the right one."
"What about the guy with more money than sense who wants to have the best in his garage, even if he hires out all his handiwork?" That had been Henry, relationship number four.
Logan acknowledged the truth of that with a half chuckle. "They're a good revenue source, but most men take their tools seriously. I know I do."
He picked up one of the tool belts. "In the box stores, you'll find plenty of tool belts made in China that can handle a year of wear, if you're lucky. I don't carry much stuff like that. People don't come to me when they're looking for cheap and disposable. This one costs far more, but it will last a good long time. The material is supple but strong, double-stitched around the buckle and edges."
He wrapped it around his own wrist to show her, his knuckles curled into a fist, his forearm flexing below the rolled-up cuff of his shirt. "I depend on my tools to hold up to what I require of them. In return, I take very good care of them."
Hanging the belt back up, he guided her onward, that broad palm resting on her lower back again, and her moving slow enough to feel its pressure. At checkout, he had an antique cash register with metal keys and a pull-down arm. Since a computer system was next to it, she assumed the antique was for show, but he'd used the metal sides to display magnets like "if I can't fix it, it ain't broke" and other appropriate sentiments for a hardware store.
He had to lift his hand from her back to stretch over the counter, reach beneath it for whatever he wanted to give her. While that was a pleasure to watch, she felt the loss of his touch. While she'd learned to be hellishly good at repressing her desires, he was way too immediate, too strong an impact on her senses. She reminded herself she was going home in a few moments. It was all right. She could hold it together until then.
Logan revealed a carved wooden box that matched the workmanship she'd seen in the back, clearly another of his creations. Placing it on the counter and opening it, he withdrew a pair of police handcuffs, a key, and what appeared to be a tarot deck, contained in a transparent gauze bag. The cuffs made her stiffen, but he put the three things down before her in a precise line.
"I thought a little experiment might help you understand how Alice ran her store so successfully. You'll be alone when you do it. It's a self-test."
That made her feel a little better, but even so, she wasn't giving an unconditional response to anything. "What kind of test?"
He put his finger on the key and met her gaze. "Freeze this in an ice tray. Change into something that makes you feel sexy. I'm thinking you go for the simple and devastating. A lace black thong and nothing else, except a necklace. A pretty choker."
She had a jet bead choker. It was one of her favorites, reminiscent of the 1940s. Maybe because of the close fit around her neck, the caress of the beads, it always made her feel supremely feminine and sexy. She'd had an all-too-similar sensation when he'd closed his fingers around her throat.
She didn't say anything, waiting for him to continue. She wasn't going to tell him about the choker, and she definitely wasn't going to get in an in-depth discussion about her underwear choices. But she didn't tell him to stop.
"After the key is frozen in the ice, put on the cuffs. Take the ice and this deck of cards to an open space on your floor. Kneel."
When he spoke the one word, her knees weakened. She thanked the gods she was wearing slacks that covered the reaction. With that penetrating scrutiny, Logan could probably discern an elevation in heart rate, let alone a visible quiver in her knees. "Fan them out in a circle around you," he said, "and flip thirteen of them randomly. When you look at the images, think of them like breadcrumbs, leading you to your own fantasies. Then think about the type of breadcrumbs your store can offer people coming through your door, helping them reach their own."
He was an expert in his field, so to speak. This was his milieu, and he was simply trying to be helpful. Being entranced by how he put the items back in the box, and how his fingers felt brushing hers when he handed over the box was incidental.
The carving on the top was the triskelion. As her fingers slid over it, he nodded to the symbol. "Do you know its meaning?"
"I know it represents BDSM somehow."
"It can represent a lot of things. The three sections"--he placed a finger on one of them-- "can symbolize safe, sane and consensual, the core mantra of BDSM. Or the three types of practitioners; Doms, subs and switches. A lot of important things in life connect to a trinity." He shifted his hand, touching her knuckle as he did so. She didn't move it away. Acknowledging it, he lingered there, teasing the soft, thin skin between two of her knuckles. She realized she was holding her breath again. She felt his eyes on her, but kept her own on their hands.
"The small hole in each section represents how the need for Dominance or submission can't be satisfied alone."
He touched her chin, lifting it so that her eyes met his. He'd said he liked that. "No one figures everything out the first day, Madison," he said mildly. "Alice said you were a type A personality, a perfectionist. You have to give yourself time to learn."
Alice was never afraid of making mistakes. Of course, why would she have been? Alice's mistakes had a way of turning into successes, whereas even Madison's successes often turned out to be failures in disguise. She was afraid of doing the same to the store Alice had loved.
"Thanks for the box." Hugging it to her, she stepped back. "I might do it. It beats surfing cable."
Or dreading another day of the polite, get-away-from-me looks from her customers. If this could help her feel better about that, it might be worth it. But she wasn't going to make him any promises about doing it. "Thanks for all the lessons. Professor."
He didn't say anything and she frowned, looking down at the counter again. "You make me uncomfortable when you stare like that."
"I don't think making you comfortable is what you need from me, Madison. But I do like to see you smile." Pulling a magnet off the antique cash register, he handed it to her. "On the house."
"Think of all the women on the Titanic who passed up dessert." She couldn't help it; she smiled, and it stayed there when his expression eased into the same.
"That's better. I'll walk you out." He took her elbow. "When you stay late, you should move your car to the front, or let me know when you're leaving, so Troy or I can escort you. It's a safe area, but a deserted alley is still a deserted alley. Best not to take risks."
Yet he and her dead sister had no problem pushing her to risk her sanity, with his not-so-subtle offers to unleash his Dominant side on her senses. Hell, he was already doing it, as if it was such an intrinsic part of him, he couldn't help himself when h
e was around a submissive.
She flinched inwardly. Stop thinking of yourself that way. "It's nice of you to do this, but I'm sure it's fine."
"I'm sure it is. I'm still walking you to your car."
He was moving her down the center aisle, back past the fasteners, hooks, ropes. She tried not to think of all the ways they could be used. Dom Depot, indeed. But the danger was never the sword, but who was wielding it. Nice phallic entendre there, Madison. Alice would be smirking.
She set her jaw and stopped, pivoting toward him. "Even if I say no?"
She'd put the box under an arm and held out her other hand to bring him to a halt, which brought her palm in contact with his chest. He was solid muscle, and distracting curls of gleaming chest hair, revealed by the open collar of his shirt, tempted touch. They were only a few inches above where her fingers rested. She pressed them against his flesh, an attempt to quell the urge, and realized she'd conveyed something else.
He closed his hand over her wrist, then he closed the space between them. It was a gradual but inexorable movement, like tides rising. The words she intended to say went away as he held her gaze, a restraint as effective as the ropes behind her. Which kind of proved her point about the sword, but she wasn't opening her mouth to make it.
Keeping his attention on her face, tracking her every reaction in a way that couldn't help but make a woman feel like the center of the universe, he lowered her arm to her side. His grip shifted, and now that same arm was being slowly twisted behind her, her knuckles brushing her ass, then the small of her back. His knuckles pressed against the top of her buttocks as he held her hand. The position arched her body so the tips of her breasts almost touched his chest.
"No means nothing to me when it conflicts with your well-being, Madison."
Her swallow was audible. "Let go of me," she whispered.
"That's not what you want me to do."
"No, but . . . please."
He did it with kindness, caressing her wrist before stepping back. "I'm walking you to your car," he said firmly. When he gestured her to precede him, she turned back in that direction, trying to scrape up her shattered composure. As they moved toward the exit, he thankfully stayed quiet, though his hand settled on her back again. The gesture was so easy for him he couldn't possibly know how raw and exposed it left her.
