Dangerously Bad

by Eden Bradley

  She swallowed, blinked once, color rising again in her smooth cheeks. “Yes. All of that. Or it did at one time.”

  “So, are these things a yes, a no or a maybe?”

  “Yes to all of it,” she said without hesitation, making him smile.

  “Excellent. Now what about electrical play? Be sure you answer honestly.”

  “I don’t use it as a Top, and never as a bottom. It . . . it scares me, to be honest.”

  “Honesty is what I want of you. But are you telling me no?”

  She swallowed again, bit her lip. “I don’t know.”

  He watched as the pulse ticked in her throat. Her pupils were enormous, and she’d crossed her arms over her chest.

  “The electrical really scares you,” he said.

  “Yes. It does.”

  “But it’s a maybe—is that it?”

  She nodded. “If I’m going to do this, then I may as well face some of my fears.”

  “I think doing this at all is facing your fears.”

  Her green eyes went dark and stormy. “Damn right it is. And while we’re talking about some of my hard limits, I will not bottom at the club. I’m known as a Top there now, and I prefer to keep it that way. I am absolutely not going there and bottoming in front of other people.”

  “Agreed. It’s one of my favorite things, you know—electrical play. But I understand it’s not for everyone.”

  “I’ve seen you with a violet wand at the club. With Tasers. I really don’t like the fucking Tasers. That is not happening.”

  “I’ll make note of it.”

  She nodded.

  “You’re beautiful when you’re angry,” he told her. It was true, with her flushed cheeks and her green eyes blazing, the square set of her shoulders. But then, she was always beautiful. Beyond beautiful, this woman.

  “Is that a distraction technique?” she asked, still huffing.

  “Merely making an observation,” he answered, only half a lie. “Tell me about your limits.”

  “Aside from the usual—scat, anything nonconsensual, anything involving minors, risky cross-contamination—my hard limits are humiliation, age play, anything that leaves a permanent mark, marks that can’t be hidden with clothing, foot worship, needles, and I will not sleep with you just because we play.”

  He ignored her comment about sex. For the time being. “I notice you didn’t mention knife play.”

  “That’s because knives are not a hard limit.”

  “Interesting. Fear play with a blade? Scratching? Actual cutting?”

  “Scratching is fine. And fear play. I’m not really afraid of much, and I sort of like the idea of pushing that boundary.”

  He grinned. “I’m sure we can find something for you to be afraid of.”

  “And I’m sure you know saying that to me will mess with my head.”

  “Of course. But don’t you find that negotiations are really the beginning of play? That even discussing what we will and won’t do is a little thrilling? That it all really begins here?” He sat back in his chair, and without waiting for her to answer he said, “Tell me about your triggers.”

  “Why did you wait until after negotiating specific toys and acts to ask me about triggers?”

  “Because sometimes your response to a question—your body language—tells me more than you can with words. Most people hold the real truth about their triggers back, or aren’t aware of them enough to verbalize clearly. But you’re a Domme—and a good one, from what I hear, and from what I’ve seen at The Bastille, so you must already know that.”

  She nodded. “I do. I wanted to see if you did.”

  He arched an eyebrow. “Testing me, are you?”

  “Maybe a little.”

  Leaning forward, he caught her gaze with his. Hers looked a little haunted. A little wary. He kept his tone low. “You have to trust me, Layla, or this is not going to work.”

  “I trust you as much as I can any man,” she answered with a small shrug.

  He sat back. “Ah, there it is. But you can, you know. I take the responsibilities of dominance and play very seriously. It’s the only way I can do it. It’s part of the reason why.”

  “Is it? Why is that?”

  Blowing out a breath, he scrubbed a hand over his head. “We all have our pasts, don’t we? Let’s just say being a Dominant fills up a part of me that needs it—needs to feel responsible, to be behaving responsibly, if that makes sense.”

  “It does. I’d still like to know what it’s about. That sort of real need to be responsible? That kind of hyperresponsibility? It’s not a bad thing, not at all, but there has to be something in your history that’s made you feel that way.”

  “You’re too used to interviewing your subbies, aren’t you? But I’ll tell you a bit about it, if only because I don’t believe there can be a power exchange without the ‘exchange’ part.” He leaned back in his chair, playing with a paper napkin on the small table, rolling it between his fingers. “I suppose I’ve let people down in the past. Too many people. And they’ve paid a price for it. So have I. This is my redemption, of sorts. But what is kink if it doesn’t redeem us? Aren’t we all looking for the structure and the pain and the release to cleanse our souls in some way?”

  “Wow.”

  “What?”

  “I guess—and don’t take this the wrong way—I just didn’t expect anything so profound to come out of your mouth.”

  “I’m a big lug. I know it. And believe me, it was more than I expected to say, as well. But I do have a deep thought now and then, in between visions of Harleys, sandwiches and sex, not necessarily in that order.”

  She smiled, and he was reminded why her gorgeous mouth made him hard. “Yes, you do.”

  “Does knowing I have my vulnerabilities make you more comfortable with me?” he asked. “With the idea of us playing together?”

  She stared at her glass for a few moments, stroking her fingers over the side, wiping drops of condensation away with her thumb. And even though negotiations were serious business, he couldn’t help but imagine it was his cock she was stroking.

  Focus, damn it!

  “We all have our vulnerabilities,” she said with a small shrug. “I’ve found that’s a big part of what makes up the kink dynamic. But maybe it does make me a little more comfortable.” When she glanced back up at him, her gaze had gone a bit hard. “Maybe I feel like I have some sort of control still, if you have a chink in your armor. It evens the playing field a little.”

  Ah, he could see the admission of her own vulnerability was making her feel just that. Well, it did him, too. But this conversation was necessary—more with her than with anyone else he’d played with before. He didn’t want to look at it, though. No, better that he keep forging ahead. There would be time for a dark night of self-reflection if he really must go that route. Not his usual style, but things with Layla were different already. He had a feeling there was more of that ahead. Which made this woman feel dangerous to him—not something he was used to; that was certain. Apparently it was something he liked.

  “I can assure you I have many chinks, as we all do, just as you said. Why do you feel the need to retain control as a bottom?”

  “For the same reasons the whole concept of bottoming freaks me out.”

  “Fair enough, my mysterious, clever beauty. For now.” Reaching across the table, he stroked her cheek, was pleased to see her lashes flutter, to see her full lips part in surprise. To feel the slight leaning of her face against his hand. “I’ll let the rest go for the moment. But I know you understand that bottoming is, in some sense, at least, about being broken down. It will be my job to do just that. My job and my great pleasure. I want to see what makes you tick, princess. I want to discover what turns you on, what frightens you, and what’s behind it all. Oh, I know you don’t want to tell m
e. But you will. In your own words, in your body’s response. You won’t be able to help it.”

  She looked up at him, a small fire back in her eyes. “Is that a challenge?”

  “It’s a promise. Do you know what else I can promise?”

  “What?”

  “That you’ll like it. No. That you’ll love it.”

  She simply stared at him, her pupils going wide. Then she shook her head, her shoulders dropping. “Fuck,” she muttered.

  “What is it?”

  “I just have to stop fighting it. I know that. But it’s going to be a hell of a struggle for me. I don’t fucking like this part.”

  “I understand that. I’ll also enjoy every second of it.”

  Layla rolled her eyes. “Of course you will.”

  He chuckled. He couldn’t help himself. He was too delighted with her. Layla Chouset was going to be a goddamn wildcat, and he fully expected to get scratched. But he’d like it. No. He’d love it.

  He grinned at her, then sent her a saucy wink, making her roll her eyes again. Oh, yes, he had this woman exactly where he wanted her. And it was going to be so damn good he could hardly stand to wait.

  CHAPTER

  Four

  “SO, WHEN ARE you going to take me for a ride in your Mustang?”

  Layla smiled at the sudden change in subject. This man liked to do everything he could to keep her off-balance, and for once she wasn’t entirely certain she was up to the challenge he presented—to the many challenges he presented. But this fact in itself was intriguing. Provocative, in every sense of the word. That and his lethal dimples combined with his bad bad-boy giantness and the dominance that seeped from every pore were more than she could resist. She’d given herself over to that fact when they’d talked the other night and she’d agreed to meet him here. But that didn’t mean she wasn’t still going down without a fight. As much as she could manage to muster in the face of this man. This man.

  She sighed.

  Just handle it. Be your badass self.

  “Are you done with your tea, Duff? Because we can go for a drive right now.”

  Yes. Get behind the wheel. Grab for some last scrap of control.

  Jesus, she’d really lost it.

  Duff took one final swallow, then got to his feet, offering her his big hand. “Let’s go.”

  She had to admit she loved the way he kept his hand at the small of her back as he guided her through the crush of tables and out the door, then down the sidewalk until they reached her red convertible Mustang, where it was parked beneath a streetlamp.

  Duff let out a low whistle. “She really is a beauty.” Glancing up, he said, “Just like her owner.”

  To fight off the blush heating her cheeks, she said, “You don’t have to try to seduce me, Duff. I’ve already agreed to play with you.”

  “Oh, there will still be seduction, princess. But I don’t pay empty compliments. No need to. And this ride is fucking something.” He walked around the back of the car. “Dual tailpipes. Nicely chromed. Good chrome rims, too. Quality stuff.” Moving around to the driver’s side, he took her keys from her hand and opened the door, holding it for her. “Shall we?”

  She slid onto the black leather seat, took her keys from his offered hand and started the engine up.

  “Love that low rumble,” he remarked as he got in on the passenger side. “Two eighty-nine V8 in the ’66, yes? Yeah. I’d bet there’s a lifter cam to get more power, from the sound of ’er. Very slick car. I like the Fastback, too, but this model gives me more headroom with the top up. But I’m glad you’ve got it down. It’s a beautiful night. Let’s take her out and feel the wind in our hair.”

  Layla grinned. “Duff, I hate to tell you this, but you have no hair.”

  “I have a little scruff on the old dome. And I have quite the eyebrows, I’m told.”

  “You want to feel the wind in your eyebrows?”

  He smoothed a hand over his head. “You work with what you’ve got. And I’ve got other qualities. Too much charm in one man could be lethal, hence the shaved head. Balances the world out a bit.”

  She laughed as she shifted, then signaled and pulled onto the street. As she headed down St. Claude they were both quiet, enjoying the ride as the rich, sultry tones of Jill Scott played from her iPhone hooked through the car speakers. Eventually she hung a right on St. Bernard and caught the 10 south, heading toward the center of the city. She opened the engine up, and the familiar roar purred through her body.

  “Ah, there she is,” Duff said so softly she could barely hear him.

  He said it as if he were talking to a lover with approval, coaxing her, seducing her, and she didn’t know if that low tone was aimed at her or her car. But it almost didn’t matter. It had the same effect either way. Suddenly she was acutely aware of the powerful engine rumbling beneath her, making the seat vibrate—making her vibrate in all the right places. Between her thighs. In the steering wheel beneath her hands. Deep in her belly. And it was a huge turn-on—the power of the car, and controlling that power, next to the man she was going to hand her power over to. She had to bite back a groan.

  Focus on the road, woman.

  When the 10 turned into the Pontchartrain Expressway she pressed down on the gas, and the wind whipped around her head, her curls bouncing against her cheeks.

  “Beautiful,” he murmured, and once more a shiver of lust went through her.

  Turning to him, she marveled at how finely carved his profile was, silhouetted against the amber lights from the highway as they flashed by: the square jaw, fine jawline, high cheekbones. Handsomest damn man she’d ever seen. She had to force her eyes back to the road.

  “Layla.”

  “Hmm?”

  “The speedometer only goes up to one-forty. Can this baby go any faster?”

  “Yeah, it can. But we’d have to wait until at least midnight before I’d dare race on the highway.”

  “Another time, then,” he said.

  It warmed her up inside for some inexplicable reason—that there would be another time. That he wanted there to be.

  “Come on. Let’s see a little taste of what your girl can do.”

  Laughing, she hit the gas and felt the world rush by. Duff let out a hard chuckle, and she knew he was feeling that same deep pleasure at the power of the car, at the freedom of speed.

  “You’re a bad influence—you know that, don’t you?” she yelled over the roar and the wind, easing up on the pedal a bit.

  “I try.”

  She turned to glance at him once more, found his gaze on her and a grin on his face.

  Oh, Lord, those dimples.

  As she turned back to the road, she felt a wet drop on her cheek. “Damn it, it’s starting to rain.”

  “Pull off here.”

  She got off at the next exit, and Duff got out to put the top up while she wiped down her leather seats with a towel she kept on the backseat.

  He got back in the car. “Hey—how far is this City Park I keep hearing about?”

  “The park? Not far. You want to go to City Park at eight o’clock at night? You can see a lot more during the day.”

  “All of New Orleans is better at night, or so it seems to me. Or maybe that’s the morbid Scotsman in me. But I also may have heard that the café there is open twenty-four hours. Something about the best beignets in the city. Why don’t we go wait out the rain there?”

  “You’re right. New Orleans is better at night—I’ve always thought so, too. Well, not better. Maybe simply more suited to me. I can feel the old magic of the city after dark, you know?”

  He nodded, smiling just enough for one devastating dimple to crease his cheek. “We are on the same page, my lovely. Take me there.”

  It was a request as much as it was a command, but she didn’t mind the command part—that was
the part that made her all soft and shivery. She started the car and turned around, driving back toward the city.

  “Who did you hear about the beignets from?”

  “Jamie. Well, his girl, Summer, actually. Do you know her?”

  “A bit. We’ve run into each other at the club, and chatted a few times. I like her.”

  “I’d have thought you might. She’s a spitfire, that one.”

  “So she is,” Layla agreed.

  “So are you.”

  “You don’t even know the half of it,” she told him, grinning as she maneuvered the car over the wet streets.

  “Not yet. But I’ve seen enough of a preview to understand you’re no pushover. Don’t ever think I’m that delusional. And I’m not interested in a pushover. Not since I met you.”

  “Am I supposed to swoon at your feet now? Imagine that I’m the first woman you’ve said something like that to?”

  He was quiet a moment. “You are, in fact.”

  “Wh—” She had to stop herself. She didn’t know how to respond. He couldn’t have meant that. And yet, apparently he did. She bit her lip.

  “Are you surprised?” he asked. “Well, so am I, to be honest, but there it is. Ah, I see the place.”

  Glad not to have to explain herself—or for him to have to explain any further—she pulled into a spot in front of the Morning Call café. Through the rain the red-and-blue neon sign seemed washed in color, and she had to squint to make out the shape of the giant coffee cup with the words “Open 24 Hours” beneath it.

  Shutting off the engine, she turned to him. “Ready for a good soaking?”

  “No one in this town seems to carry an umbrella, no matter that it rains without a moment’s notice on a regular basis.”

  “A little rain never hurt anyone.”

  “Watch it, princess—you’re speaking to a Scotsman. We know rain.”