She’d gone through an extreme experience with a Dom less than twenty-four hours ago. She could handle any Master here. Tonight she’d get some nice marks to overlay Ben’s, sashay into the office Monday, flip up her skirt and show him before she flounced down to her “place” in Research.
Of course, she’d have to use a Sharpie and circle the marks that were from her visit to Surreal. Otherwise he wouldn’t be able to distinguish them from his, or those that had resulted from today’s Dumpster adventure. She’d added a couple aspirin to the tequila to deal with that. She couldn’t believe she’d let that security thug get the jump on her, but maybe she’d been spoiling for a fight. He’d gone the intimidation route, the usual tactic for big guys, and it had become ugly. Unfortunately, he also got the raw edge of her temper, so it was a fair trade. At least the mask covered her black eye. Nothing could cover swollen testicles, so he’d probably taken the night off.
Yeah, she was a badass. A badass whose palms were sweaty. She ignored that, handed her credit card to the hostess, a gorgeous ebony-haired pixie in corset, tight skirt and boots. When she’d come here masked to observe Ben, she’d had a definite plan, a focus. To watch him, gather information. He’d commanded her attention so decisively, nothing else had intruded on that path. No room for this open-ended anxiety, the what-if or what-trouble-am-I-going-to-get-into feeling.
The hostess nodded to the pirate chest full of rubber bracelets. The various colors denoted categories of play. She hesitated long enough that she had to move aside to let more decisive people pick up their choice. Then, feeling the hostess’s curious glance, that sense that she was about to be asked if everything was all right, if she needed help, she firmed her chin and snatched up a silver one. It said she was a moderately experienced sub, that she was unattached and interested in invitations to play.
Of course, the fact she was here alone, and her outfit, made that patently clear. Her wet latex leggings looked poured on and rode low on her hips. They laced up the back, from crotch to just below the twin dimples of her pelvis, following the seam of her buttocks. She’d laced them snug enough that nothing was graphically revealed, but as her cheeks twitched along in a sauntering walk, interested parties might strain their eyes to see if they could discern any details through that shadowed sliver of exposure.
She’d left her tunic top in the Surreal locker room, so all she wore waist up was a shelf bra that pushed her up and almost out. The bra was the same bronze shimmering color as the leggings. The lace edges that barely covered her nipples were black, matching her five-inch stilettos.
Okay, she was tense, but it had nothing to do with the environment. The very first time she’d gone to a club, she’d expected to be nervous. Instead, watching the many different ways that Masters and subs fulfilled their mutual needs, soaking in the atmosphere through all senses, she’d felt like she’d come home. She’d known this world innately, even before she stepped across a club threshold.
She’d had a chance to let her guard down, immerse herself even more, when she’d visited clubs in New York City with Lucas’ friend Marcus. She recalled how Thomas, Marcus’ spouse and devoted submissive, had stood at her side. He’d slid an arm around her, letting her lean against his attractively half-naked form, since he wore only a pair of snug jeans and his wedding band, permanent proof of his bond with his Master. Looking down at her, he’d given her his slow, sweet smile that told her he understood exactly how she felt. Marcus had kept her close to the both of them on that initial trip, because she’d nearly floated off into a trance from voyeurism alone.
No, her tension was because of what lines she might cross tonight, and whether she could face herself in the mirror tomorrow. Everything about last night continued to haunt her, making her shiver at inappropriate moments.
She shoved that sentimental trash out of her head. This was her choice. If Ben refused what she offered, then she was going to see how she handled what else was out there. The copper-and-black eye mask bolstered her courage and hid the risk of tears. Okay, Marcie. Go out and get what you want. Or, if you can’t have that, let’s prove he isn’t going to change who you are just because he can’t pull his head out of his ass.
Taking one more deep breath, she stepped into the public play area. She was ready to be adventurous, to have a great orgasm and get her ass spanked. To hell with Ben O’Callahan.
Then she saw him at the bar.
He was cozying up to a blonde with tits so big they were practically in his drink. His hand was on her hip, giving her an idle stroke that ran his fingertips over the curve of her ass.
It hurt so badly, for a moment she hated him. From the beginning, she’d had to fight all the despicable voices of logic that said she was mistaken, that what she felt from him was imagined. That he truly wasn’t interested in her, that she’d been throwing herself at him. But he hadn’t been humoring her last night. She’d seen his eyes. Which made seeing this even worse.
She swayed on the five-inch heels. She couldn’t do this. She really couldn’t. She didn’t want what she was about to do here. Ben had always been caring, compassionate, funny. He was being something he wasn’t, she
