“No.” That band gives him too much power, and I’ve already given him too much of myself.
“You have your safeword,” he reminds me. “Take the band, Whitney.”
I look up, finding the bartender standing in front of me.
“Are you okay?” His eyes dart over my shoulder, to my eyes, and down to the yellow band in Wren’s hand. “This is your choice.”
My mouth opens and closes, no sound coming out, and suddenly I’m too crowded—not just by Wren at my back, but because other people are going to be standing around witnessing my emotional break.
“You’re safe,” the handsome bartender reminds me, kindness filling his eyes.
I nod, letting him know I understand, and I do. I can talk to Wren here with the guarantee that I’ll be safe. I don’t have those assurances if I leave with him, because let’s face it, I want to hear his reasoning, want to listen to his excuses so when I walk away, I can do it fully informed and not second-guessing everything we’ve experienced together.
“You’re sure?” the bartender asks again.
“Yes.” The cool blade of scissors scoop under my band and with a quick snip it falls free.
Wren doesn’t waste a second replacing it with the one in his hands.
“Which room?” I shrug, but realize he isn’t talking to me but the bartender.
The bartender gives him a cool smile before letting him know that his reservation is for room six.
I sneer over my shoulder at the bartender as Wren leads me away. Is everyone in this place in cahoots tonight. The bartender winks at me, blowing me an air kiss before I have to face forward again to prevent myself from tripping and follow Wren. His grip around my waist is soft but insistent as he urges me along.
We enter a hallway; the rooms sweep past quickly as he leads me deeper into the building. Without a flourish, Wren opens the door to the room labeled six, and when we step inside, I’m honestly taken back by the simplistic nature of the room. Of course heavy curtains hang on the far wall, and I wouldn’t be surprised to find windows for viewing on the other side.
But it’s the huge four-poster bed in the center of the room that seems out of place. I’d expect something harsher than a mattress covered in decorative pillows and a comforter that looks as soft as clouds. I expected black leather and red implements for pain, but there’s nothing, just the bed.
It shouldn’t seem as welcoming as it does. Despite the call of comfort, I know this room will bring me the most pain I’ve ever felt before in my life. And to make matters worse, it’s going to be emotional pain, something that will probably take years instead of days or weeks to heal from.
“Take off your clothes.”
I still haven’t fully faced him, and as much as I want to deny him, I know I’d never be able to do it if I were looking into his gorgeous blue eyes.
“No.”
His warmth is once again at my back, and it forces my eyes to slam closed.
“I believe the correct answer is ‘Yes, Sir.’”
I tremble with need at his words, my body betraying what my mind is fighting so valiantly for.
“Choose,” he whispers, and it’s another way he’s giving me an out, but is it really a choice? He knows what his commands do to me. Is this another way for him to force my hand?
My choices are obeying or using my safeword.
But it isn’t that simple.
Obeying means giving in to him and accepting that I’ll listen to him explain why he kept the box and the multitude of other things that have ripped my trust away. Whispering zero-day is telling him I won’t listen, and it’s that fear, knowing that he will leave me like I ask and never reach out for me again that makes my decision.
He steps back when my fingers begin to slide the buttons of my blouse free. Chills race down my spine with eagerness and at the loss of his warmth. I don’t feel as overwhelmed, and honestly, I hate the feeling. I want him near. I want him commanding me, forcing my hand, giving me permission to obey when doing so scares the daylights out of me.
Even though I know how this night is going to end, I continue to strip down to my skin. There’s no doubt I’ll be broken when he’s done, covered in his cum and panting from my own release, and don’t I deserve that? Sex and emotion can be separated. I think of the woman on the platform in the main room. She had, at my last count, five men inside some part of her body, and she only looked to one with love in her eyes. She’s able to differentiate the two, and I’m determined to do that same thing.
“On the bed,” he commands the second my body is free of clothing.
I move, my eyes staying downcast. I can obey without giving him the satisfaction of my full attention.
“On your back. Spread eagle for me.”
My legs go to the corners, as do my arms over my head, but I turn my head in the direction opposite of him, thankful for the curtains blocking the windows. Not only do they block others from seeing us, but they prevent me from having to look in his direction.
Gentle hands run down the length of my legs, and I squeeze my eyes closed when the sound of leather and metal echo around the room. I didn’t see the cuffs in the corners, but I’m not surprised. This is a BDSM club after all. I’m sure this room has a dozen more hidden toys for kink.
I don’t kick out at him or tell him to stop. I don’t open my mouth to say my safeword because I don’t want to stop. Not only am I determined to get the full story, but not once has this man made
