“—restrain the volunteer on this bed,” the MC continued, “and use this interesting implement to sensitize her skin.” He held up what appeared to be a pizza cutter, only smaller. Everyone seemed to strain forward to get a good look. Amy missed what he labelled it, but she knew she’d read about it. “Whoever takes her home will be glad she volunteered.”
Amy shifted in her chair and Sandra gave her a warning glance. “Don’t. Why would you set yourself up?”
“Maybe because it’ll be a lesson, Sandra. Teach me not to want what I can’t have. I’ll be going home tonight alone, and won’t forget how I let my hormones get away from me with that man.”
“You don’t know that you won’t have something special someday, Amy! You don’t. Give it some time.”
“Nope. It’s my birthday.” She raised her hand when the MC asked again for a volunteer, having rejected all the previous applicants.
“Ah, the blonde in the corner. If you can navigate your way up on stage…”
Amy was up and moving, ignoring Sandra’s final plea. Calling on her strong center, the one that saw her through over the years, she made her way to the dais, threading through the tables. She was past tipsy, probably having imbibed close to a pitcher of her favorite tipple in a short period of time, carried forward on a wave of misplaced rebellion. Dumbing her intelligence down. And fuck Dean Chambray again, too. She was still lucid enough to want this.
The MC offered his hand once she mounted the stairs, and she took it, trying hard not to use it for balance and give her altered state away. His hand cupped her chin and he stared up into her eyes searchingly, speaking in a low voice. “I’ve seen you here before, girl. So you figured to try it this time? But you’ve had a lot to drink.”
“It’s my birthday.” She pulled her hand from his and waited for him to decide.
“What’s your name and who are you here with?”
“My friend, Sandra.”
“Your name!” She responded to the authority in his voice and her addled wits cleared more than a trifle. God, there was nothing like a self-assured, confident man.
“Amy.”
“I’ll take her as my volunteer.” The other Dom moved in, his blue eyes assessing, cold. Amy shivered and tried to regroup. “It’s only sensitizing and I’ll avoid the real erogenous zones.”
Still, the MC hesitated as the audience murmured and grew restive. “Okay. But I’ll be watching, Eric. And you, Amy, if you want it to stop you say red and it’s over. Got it?”
“I do.” Like, do you take this man to be—Amy swallowed a giggle, now stupidly nervous.
“Will you remove your clothes?”
Clothes. Hadn’t thought that through. She hesitated.
“Leave your underwear on.” Eric didn’t seem to be the type who negotiated, so she figured she would accommodate him. Her bathing suits revealed more than her boy shorts and bra. Wait. Was she wearing pretty underwear? This time a giggle did escape and Eric unexpectedly smiled. “It’ll be fine, Amy.”
The MC smiled, too, and left them to it. The lights dimmed and Eric had her sit on the bed, tugging off her shoes, then helping her with the tight jeans as she hitched up her hips to pull them down. Her shirt floated away and over her head and the coolness of the fans above the stage made her skin rash out in goosebumps and her nipples bead.
“If you’ll just shift up to lie on the bed, Amy. Do you want a blindfold? The live feed will be shown on the screens.”
For an instant she panicked. A video. Shit. While she’d been historically able to dissociate from her body—from anything unpalatable happening to her—pictures would make it all too real if they got out there.
Immediately soothing her with his voice and a gentle stroke on her arm, Eric whispered, “We don’t make copies for any reason and the lighting makes it pretty hard for anybody to tape it, and there’s no cell service in this room. The blindfold will heighten the sensation, though, and provide anonymity.”
“Why me?” She whispered back, having puzzled out that the MC would have likely turned her down because he’d recognized how much she had imbibed.
“If you enjoy this, maybe you and I can see where it leads.”
Amy liked the sound of it. Eric looked cold and dominant, but he’d already accommodated her boundaries and was suggesting things to her. Not telling her. Not suggesting a one off. Not like—she shut it down and nodded. A soft piece of fabric slipped over her face and settled across her eyes as the lights came up again, the elastic resting above and behind her ears to snug it into place. She took a deep breath and began to sink into that space she’d constructed for herself at an early age. Safe, separate and far away.
Vaguely feeling Eric stretch first one arm, then the other out to her sides to be secured in a firm but non constrictive way, she didn’t bother to test the restraints. She’d been at the club often enough to know that utmost care was taken on this stage, the breach of the rules about excessive alcohol consumption notwithstanding. Knowing people were watching would normally have caused her some anxiety, but the blindfold gave the impression of being alone with someone who understood what she needed. Eric certainly knew this gig. When her ankles were restrained in a similar manner, maybe shoulder width apart, her arousal spiked, already awakened by that kiss in the other club. She sighed and drifted, refusing to think about Dean Chambray watching. Refusing to acknowledge it was his attention making her wet.
A disembodied voice described her position, like a starfish, and the alcohol fueled her libido. Maybe being naked wouldn’t have been such a bad idea after all… A press of a number of sharp yet painless tiny objects at her left wrist took her focus, pulling her from her musings. Barely audible squeaking sounds accompanied the dragging, pricking sensations as the object worked past the heel of her hand and over her forearm, up her bicep, slowing to make the curve up to her shoulder. Blowing a breath past her lips, she tensed for the next movement, pulled out of her drifting state.
“Shh. Relax and feel.” Eric’s voice centred her and she sagged again, loose and compliant. The little wheel continued its torturous journey, traversing the length of her collar bone, pausing at the pulse in the hollow of her throat. Her blood began to thrum in response. Down the other arm and back, the sensation trickled over her rib cage. Not a tickle, just firm enough to be sensuous. She moaned as her belly received the attention next, little circles, then figure eights. Able to visualize the path on her skin, entirely in the moment, she arched slightly into the contact and it instantly ceased, returning only when she relaxed and received. Training her.
Amy’s eyes fluttered opened behind the blindfold. Eric’s voice was immediately at her ear. “Tell me.”
“You’re training me.”
“Of course. That’s what I do. Give in to it, Amy. It’s just for now.”
Not forever. Okay. She could do this. She nodded.
The sensitizing of her legs was indescribable. Even the arches of her feet cried out for more, more of something beyond her ken, but more. As the wheel creaked inexorably up to her breasts, the little teeth snagging the fabric of her bra, the alarm bells rang again and she tensed. Eric retreated, down over her belly to circle her navel, a sweet spot, and she thought everyone could hear her verbal response as it echoed in her ears. Over her hipbone to flirt inside one thigh, the tender flesh quivering, the wheel glancing off her labia, pressing … no.
“Red.”
Another press of the teeth, inward and up, her clitoris straining for the touch.
“Red.” Louder. No way could Eric miss it.
“You fucking heard her.” Not the MC’s voice, although his even deeper one joined in, a harsh whisper.
“Goddamn it, Eric! You’re pushing her. You had her surrendering, you asshole, but you just had to push it. Couldn’t you see it? No wonder subs don’t trust you.”
Fingers efficiently loosened her wrists while another set worked at her ankles.
“I didn’t hurt her. She’s submissive.”
Eric’s voice was defensive, if muted.
“You’re fired.” The rasp in Dean’s voice mirrored the one she’d heard after he kissed her. He was stoked.
“Who the fuck do you think you are?”
The MC spoke quietly, but firmly. “Part owner, Eric. Dean Chambray. Pack up your stuff and get out.”
The blindfold was eased off and Amy blinked up into a pair of molten silver eyes. She dragged her gaze away and looked at the MC who grimaced apologetically. Eric was nowhere to be seen. She noticed the lights were once again dimmed in her location, brighter towards the front of the stage, and realized no one could see the little tableau playing out. Unless the camera was still on. She sat up quickly and tried to scramble to her feet, foiled by a sense of light-headedness and Dean Chambray’s hard hands.
“You’ll be on your ass, sweetheart. Give it a minute while Lloyd finds your clothes.”
Shit. What on earth had she been thinking? Oh, right. The margaritas had ruled her frontal lobe. She acquiesced and accepted first her shirt, then her jeans from Master Lloyd, the MC. Pulling her top on gave her a better sense of control. She decided not to step into the jeans, but pulled them on past each foot and up her legs, jackknifing her bottom to get them up over her hips and zipped. Buttoned. Dean tracked her every move. She could feel the weight of his eyes and that sense of longing awoke. No.
“I’m sorry.” She spoke to Master Lloyd.
“What for, girl? I made a bad judgement call and let Eric compound it. Just don’t sue.”
A tiny laugh bubbled up. “Hardly. A ton of people just saw me splayed out in my underwear on a stage.”
“Did you like it? At least until Eric didn’t respect your boundaries?” There was clinical curiosity in Master Lloyd’s tone.
Shivering, Amy nodded. “Yes. I’m not interested in doing it again, but I guess something like that was on my bucket list.”
“Well then, it’s not a total fuck up.” Master Lloyd nodded to her and walked away, closely resembling that short guy from the Lord of the Rings. The one with the axe. She wished he wouldn’t go and leave her alone with Dean.
“I’ll take you home.” Not a request, not an offer. Telling her.
“S’okay. My friend—”
“I’ll take her, too. My man Enrico’s already with her, telling her to meet us in the parking lot.”
“No! Sandra’s not going to take some strange man’s word for it, telling her to leave without me.” She tried to control her concern for Sandra, and who was this Enrico? If he was anything like Dean…
He made an audible sound of frustration and stepped away. Amy rubbed her arms to counteract the crash of all those endorphins, the waning of the influence of the booze. Lighter steps resonated on the stairs and Sandra hurried to her, reaching to feel her pulse.
“They wouldn’t let me up here, just dimmed the goddamn lights and played like it was the natural ending of the demonstration but I knew different. Are you okay?” Sandra stumbled with pronouncing demonstration, and she was swearing, so she was still a little buzzed, but concerned, nonetheless. Amy hurried to reassure her friend.
“I’m okay. Honestly. It was a rush until the jerk pushed me and didn’t stop when I asked.”
Sandra looked at her searchingly then tried to smile. “And on your birthday, too!”
They laughed together and Amy pulled Sandra into an awkward hug. What a freaking night.
“Ready?” Shit. He hadn’t gone away.
“We can get a cab.” Beside her, Sandra nodded.
“I’ll take you. Think of it as an apology on behalf of the club.” Dean’s attitude brooked no argument, although his stance was deceptively relaxed. Amy could sense the tension behind it, feel it, and she was too tired to argue, worn down. And something else, something she wasn’t going to acknowledge.
“Thanks.” The least she could do was be gracious.
A younger, dark-skinned man, intensely attractive in a dark-flashing eyes, white smile kind of way, cupped Sandra’s elbow to escort her and her friend immediately pulled away to walk independently. Amy emulated her and carefully avoided any contact with Dean, who gave her a tight, knowing smile. The walk to the parking lot, out the back way, took an eternity and she was intensely aware of Dean’s bulk just behind her and to her left. She felt both protected and anxious at the same time.
The night was warm with the promise of rain licking over her senses but she shivered despite the warmth—he was too close. Dean immediately responded and wrapped her up, tucking her into his side, supporting her forward momentum. His misinterpretation of her reaction worsened her weakness. The asphalt felt spongy and yielding beneath her feet, and she tried not to breathe in his scent, reacting to the surfeit of pheromones he exuded. She felt incapable of resisting.
Clambering after Sandra into the large back seat of a big, black truck, with Dean’s helping hand far too close to her ass, it occurred to Amy they’d broken the first commandment of personal safety. Don’t get in the vehicle. Once you get into the vehicle, you’re toast. Or something like that. And she’d dragged her friend into this mess. She really wasn’t afraid, at least not of what usually happened in those scenarios. She was terrified of her response to the man now cranking the engine over, turning to ask for addresses. The strains of some classic rock had Sandra raising her voice to be heard over the music.
He dropped Enrico first, the other man sketching a farewell, his eyes lingering on Sandra, who didn’t acknowledge him. Amy made herself smile her goodbye. The drive to her friend’s flew by and she cursed her slow brain for not saying she lived with Sandra. It wasn’t too late. She could stay with her friend. They lived just a mile or so apart, after all. Amy had needed her space, her own independence but was glad to find a little house to rent so close to Sandra’s. Sandra leaned to her, speaking quietly.
“Stay with me tonight.”
That was such a good plan, Amy naturally rejected it. The part of her that had made poor choices all her freaking life raised its evil head, shoving her fear aside. Risk taker. Self-fulfilling prophesier. “It’s okay, Sandra. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“Amy, honey, he’s—”
“Dangerous. I know. I do know. I just need to see how this is going to play out. It feels different.” Maybe her stupid self was wrong this time. Just like she hoped every other time, although never with such intensity.
Sandra pressed her hand and shrugged, the movement almost lost in the dark interior.
“Ladies.” They pulled into Sandra’s driveway.
“Thanks.” Sandra pressed Amy’s hand again and allowed Dean to help her out. He watched until she opened the front door and went inside, before turning and offering Amy his hand.
“Sit up front with me.”
She obediently slid over and out of the truck. Shutting the door behind her, he opened up the front passenger side, a hand hovering as she navigated the running board. She knew he recognized margaritas tended to hang around for awhile. The truck smelled of leather and Dean. He went around the hood of the vehicle to vault into his seat.
Turning to her, face lit by the dash lights, he said, “We going to do this at your place or mine?”
Well, cutting right to the chase. No problem choosing the place. No question she wanted this and was going to do it despite all her good intentions to never put herself in this position again. But she wasn’t taking the walk of shame in the morning, or immediately afterwards, however he played his casual fucks. He could get up and put his pants on and hit the road. And she’d roll over and go to sleep, pretend the night before never happened when she woke up in the morning. But he’d better make it worth her while sexually.
“Mine.” She knew her voice reflected both her conflict and determination.
“Okay. And I think it’s time I learned your last name, don’t you?”
“Oh. Sure. It’s Copeland.”
“You have protection, Amy Copeland?”
Shit. She didn’t. No need for protection when
a hookup was something she never intended to do again for the rest of her life. It made for one little additional reminder, an obstacle to stinking thinking. “No.”
That garnered her a speculative look. “I only have one with me. We’ll stop at a pharmacy.”
How many did he think he needed? The question hovered on the tip of her tongue, but she bit it off. Better to focus on how she’d handle things afterwards and try to manage the intense, rising need to do the deed right on these leather seats. Maybe it was the drinking, the kiss, the little scene at Grand Masters, or the combination—but now that it was just the two of them, Amy was champing at the bit. This one off was going to have to do her for an unforeseen period of time and she hoped he was up for it, no pun intended. She thought again that he’d better goddamn well know his stuff, because there was just no room in her night for further disappointment.
Staying in the truck while Dean went into the all-night pharmacy, second thoughts sobered her, and she briefly considered making a run for it. Right, and B.O.B. would assuage this need? Uh huh, sure it would. Dean needed to get a move on. She watched his tall form exit the store, walking a little stiffly, noting his taut features as he neared the vehicle. The well-lit drug store, swirling neon, and bright, wide windows, with vehicles nosing in like suckling kittens to a momma cat, was an interesting backdrop for his imposing form. Handsome enough for a movie star. He strode close enough for a thorough inspection. A long, strong column of throat, wide shoulders, packed with muscle obvious even under his shirt in parking lot lighting. His jeans strained over a massive erection. Oh, boy. No wonder he wasn’t walking with his usual prowling gait.
A large plastic sack swung from his hand. Was that a gross of condoms? He climbed in, another inscrutable look on his face, and tossed the bag to her. It had too much heft so she peeked inside, reveling in the anticipation, the response of her body to this man. A box of ribbed condoms, little container of aspirin, a bottle of strawberry lubricant and a pint of chocolate milk. What?
Switching on the ignition he said, “Nothing like a couple of pain killers washed down with some chocolate milk to stave off a hangover, sweetheart. I don’t want you crashing on me before we’re done.”
Forever (Eternity #1) Page 3