by Roxy Harte
“Welcome to Lewd Larry’s.”
“I get to work here?” he asks and I nod in answer, biting my tongue. This is actually the last thing I wanted, but at least he’ll be safe here…and happy. I was. If anything, Lewd Larry’s is distracting and entertaining. It’s hard to be sad or melancholy within the closure of its fantasy world.
I find myself already on autopilot, making sure that security posts have everything under control as I gauge the throng for the evening’s mood. The lower level Dominants work the crowd, deeming who is ready for admission into the more private arenas. It isn’t easy to get an invite, but for those who receive invitations to the uppermost levels of Lewd’s it is an eye opening experience. Assured the place has survived without me, I look at Nikos, finding his head tilted. He is close to drooling, something or someone has caught his attention. Not a real surprise here.
I follow the direction of his gaze to the descending glass elevator and the woman inside. Morgana. She stands close to the glass, watching the floor as she descends; I know it’s because she is terrifyingly claustrophobic. To the casual observer she appears regal, not scared shitless. The red satin gloves that extend past her elbows, hides the fact her knuckles are turning white.
The glass reveals shapely legs encased in thigh-high black leather boots, five-inch heels; the girl has a thing for very expensive, very sexy footwear. Only four feet, nine inches, she’s at a disadvantage as a female Domme, she needs all the height she can get. Flaming red hair cascades past her waist, hiding most of her barely there lace up the front corset and mind-fucking hip hugger hot pants, both in fire engine red. Tonight she is sporting a black leather harness with a flaming red, acrylic strap-on that would make most of the real penises in the room shrink with envy.
I tilt my head, seeing what he sees. Pale skin, very, very pale, I start imagining all the places her liberally sprinkled freckles hide and she’s not even close enough to see the freckles. Having seen her completely naked before, it’s not a forgettable memory, not that any man in their right mind would want to forget. I let out a long breath. It bothers me to think about her naked because we don’t have the kind of relationship that leads to where the thought of her naked would take my brain. For some reason, it bothers me Nikos would think of Morgana in a sexual way, and by the tilt of his head and glazed eyes his brain has already gone on an X-rated journey.
“Your post is over there, bartending.”
We both watch the sashay of her hips and bobbing rubber dildo bring Morgana closer.
“Fraternizing between employees is strictly prohibited.”
He purses his lips, and I see that he’s blowing a kiss to the woman in question.
She glares down her aristocratic nose at him, but because she is glaring means he has managed to catch her eye.
“It’d be worth getting fired to tie her up.”
I laugh at him. “Morgana doesn’t get tied up. Ever. She’s hands off. I mean it. You are here under the good graces of Garrett Lawrence, the owner and my lover. Do not fuck things up by thinking with your dick.”
“I could have her begging me to top her by the end of the night.”
Morgana parts the crowd without even trying. She walks, people get out of her way.
“Oh God, I think I’m in love.”
“Down boy.” I hiss.
She smiles at me, still several feet away, heels clicking on the wooden floor, hot-pink prosthetic bobbing in time with her barely restrained DD-cup cleavage.
“I think I just came in my pants.”
“Nikos.” I growl in warning. Leave it to him to find trouble without even trying. “Morgana is off limits. I mean it.”
“Fyre!” She squeals and jumps into my arms, throwing her arms around my neck and wrapping her legs around my waist, the hard dildo trapped between us.
I smirk, knowing this show is for my brother’s benefit, being way over the top, even for Morgana. I wonder just what kind of impression she’s trying to make on my brother.
“I am so glad you’re here!” Her voice alludes to more going on, that perhaps needs said in private. Over the top drama is not Morgana’s style, something is definitely up. “I thought you’d left forever, and Garrett wasn’t sure when or if you were coming back!”
Nikos takes that particular moment to kick me in the back of my calf, and I set Morgana gently to the ground. He interrupts, “Hello! New guy needs an intro!”
Morgana steps back to inspect the new guy. Half-lowered lids don’t reveal what she’s thinking. She lifts her lip in distaste and snarls, “Tell me this isn’t the new bartender.”
“Oh, yeah! That’s me, baby. Your new bartender. Why don’t you tell me your favorite drink so that I can have it and a backrub ready for you at the end of your shift.”
She turns to me with a snarl. “He isn’t going to survive the night.”
My brain snags on the freckle just above her upper lip on the left side, her cupid lips further setting off the paleness of her skin in a high cost, high slick shine of fire engine red lipstick. I manage to choke out, “How about showing the new mutt around?”
“Is he trained?”
I glare at Nikos, hoping he understands the consequences if he fails. “He can sit, heel, stay, and fetch adequately enough.”
“As long as he follows directions.”
“Ooh, baby. I’ll follow you anywhere.” He pants, then barks.
“Watch it, Fido. I have a single-tail with your name on in.” Making a face of total disgust, she lifts her arm, his signal to lift his for her to rest her hand and forearm atop of, while she does the tour. In true Sir Galahad style, he bows regally before sliding his inked forearm beneath hers. Red satin and tattoos collide, then mold with an ease I didn’t expect.
Morgana looks over her shoulder at me as she strides away, my brother lassoed and leashed by her mere magnetism. She winks at me, her darkly kohled and thickly mascaraed eye saying more than any words would have. She is going to eat him alive. God, I’m going to miss this place.
“I postpone death by living, by suffering, by error, by risking, by giving, by losing.”
Anais Nin
Chapter 42
Kitten
His text caught me by surprise: Meet me at Louie’s Barbershop, Chestnut St.
My heart is pounding, my palms sweating, and I may throw up at any moment. Despite my promise to Master to the contrary, I do not tell him where I am going or that I am meeting Thomas. What will I do if he asks me to go with him? My heart flutters, one or both of the babies kicks. Nervously, I rub my hand over my ever expanding girth and climb from the car. He is waiting for me outside on the curb when I arrive and holds open his arms for me to walk into. He kisses my forehead. “Thank you for coming. I don’t think I could have done this alone.”
He holds my hand and opens the door to the barbershop. Scents of menthol and cologne war on the air, making my nervous stomach roll. Apprehensively, I squeeze his hand.
Fyre leans close to whisper, “It’s a small world. I’ll text you every day. E-mail. Phone calls. You won’t have a chance to miss me.”
“You plan to keep our ménage together long distance?”
There is a line of red leather upholstered chairs which look right at home in the very retro barbershop. Thomas pushes me down in one, then sits beside me while we wait his turn. He insists, “Yes, I do. I’ll be in the United States. After the senator announces her bid for the White House, she’ll go on the campaign trail and sooner or later that will lead us to her home state. I will manage to come home then, even if it is just for a little while.”
“This sucks.”
“Yes, it does, but the senator isn’t heartless. I will do everything in my power to be home for the delivery,” he promises, and I start to feel hope for the first time since he explained what had happened. He kisses me in the middle of my forehead. “Tell me you love me.”
“You know I do.”
The barber calls out to him, “You’re up.”
/>
He says, “Tell me you’re going to love me after I have a military cut and no beard.”
Oh God. This is really happening.
“I love you.”
It is too painful to watch as the scissors cut off several inches and that is before the clippers whirr on. Within minutes he has hair shorter than Garrett’s and his face is smooth. The sight leaves me blinking back tears; not because he is ugly, far from it. With his military short locks and clean shaven face our nightmare is made real. He is leaving us. It hardly matters that he doesn’t want to leave, or that we don’t want him to go.
I remind myself he is a soldier and duty has called, feeling a sudden kinship to every woman who has stood in my place before…saying goodbye.
I remind myself he isn’t going to a war zone and this moment could be so much worse if I believed I would never see him alive again.
He pulls me into his arms as the first tears fall over my cheeks, speaking softly in his native tongue. I don’t understand a word except for the promise of love. Those words sound the same in any language.
I love you.
I love you.
I love you.
“I will come back to you, Sophia.”
“I know,” I answer, hoping we aren’t lying to each other. “I’ll be waiting.”
* * * *
I sit behind the wheel of the car, frozen in place, watching the airport shuttle until it disappears. I don’t start my engine because I know if I do I will chase after him. My heart is breaking and I have given up fighting tears. It is easier to hang over the steering wheel sobbing. A second later, I jump out of my skin, hearing a tap on my window. It is Master. He climbs into the passenger seat. His hair and jacket are damp.
Looking at the windshield, I realize it’s starting to rain.
He says, “I thought I’d find you here.”
“He text, I—” Shaking my head I stop myself mid-sentence. “I’m sorry, I should have told you where I was going, Master.”
He smiles and kisses me. Water from his damp hair drips on my cheek. He wipes it away. “Sorry.”
“It’s okay,” I tell him, meeting his gaze. “Well, it’s finally happened. It seems we’ve both been waiting for this moment for a year and now it’s here. He’s gone.” I blink back tears, feeling foolish and angry. I admit, “I’m scared.”
“Do you love me?” he asks.
“Yes! Don’t ever doubt that. I love you with all my heart.”
“Are you mine?”
“Yes, Master,” I answer, not understanding where this is going.
He lifts my arm and traces each symbol of the brand, saying, “Fire. Water. Ice.”
“But—”
He silences me with two fingers pressed to my lips. “Thomas has promised he will come back, and I believe him.”
I bite my lip to keep from saying the wrong thing.
“I think we have to trust him, or we have nothing. And while we wait for him to return to us, we have each other.”
I close my eyes to keep from looking at him, my stomach sinking.
Lifting my chin, he waits for me to open my eyes and when I do tears glisten in his eyes. “I remember the first time I saw you and you were wearing another man’s collar.”
“I’m not sorry for the charade, if I hadn’t lied I’d have never met you.”
“Let me finish.”
“Sorry, Master.”
“I thought to myself you looked broken, so sad, but then Doug slapped your hip with the chain and there was a flash of lightning that shot through your eyes, and I knew you weren’t a wounded sparrow at all but rather a mighty hawk. I fell in love with you in that moment because that woman, the woman who could express such passion and power with a glance, ignited a spark inside of me. I knew that with you I might find myself again. Do you understand?”
“I think so.”
“I’ve never asked you before if you desired to be mine and right now, before we go further, I need to know. Do you want me to master you? Do you want to belong to Lord Ice? Forever?”
“You are my Master, Garrett Lawrence.”
Lowering his mouth to my skin, he kisses the marking for water, and the barest touch of his soft lips to my scarred flesh makes me tremble. “I am one of your Masters, Kitten. Now, let’s go home.”
About Roxy Harte
http://www.lyricalpress.com/roxy_harte
Roxy lives in southwestern Ohio in a small town bordered by fields and railroad tracks with her husband and teenage daughter, two boisterous dogs, Petey and Jazzi, and two independent cats, Miss Kitty and Blackie. She can be found penning her next novel almost any day of the week. Writing for her is like breathing and sex, it is requirement for survival. However, she does have a few hobbies for when she is suffering from writer’s block including gardening, hiking, and rock climbing. She loves microbreweries, Renaissance festivals, and hearing from her readers.
Roxy’s Website:
http://www.roxyharte.com/
Reader eMail:
[email protected]
About the Chronicles of Surrender Series
Book 1: Sacred Secrets
Available in ebook from Lyrical Press
Book 2: Sacred Revelation
Available in ebook from Lyrical Press
Book 3: Unholy Promises
Available in ebook from Lyrical Press
Book 4: Echo of Redemption
Available in ebook from Lyrical Press
Book 5: Cries of Penance
Coming soon from Lyrical Press
More from Lyrical Press
Where reality and fantasy collide
Ready for more?
Visit any of the following links:
Lyrical Press
http://lyricalpress.com
New Releases
http://www.lyricalpress.com/newest_releases
Coming Soon
http://www.lyricalpress.com/coming_soon
