by Lilia Moon
She laughs, and then because she’s my very best friend in the world, she picks up her mug and does exactly the same thing.
I close my eyes and start talking. “I applied for membership at Fettered. Quint said he’d approve me, but only if I agreed to let him train me, and then he showed me porn that I think is Ari’s and he hit me with a riding crop and I liked it.” I suck in air and open my eyes.
She chuckles. “That still works, huh?”
I manage to laugh. Back when we were kids, she’s the one who figured out that sometimes the only way I can get stuff out is to blurt as much of the truth as I can before I need to breathe again. “Yeah. I haven’t needed it in a while. Boring life, I guess.”
She’s full-on grinning now. “It sounds like it just got a lot less boring.”
I grip my mug more tightly.
“Uh, oh.” She leans her head next to mine. “Talk to me, girlfriend.”
I don’t know if I can. “Damon spanks you, right? And you like it?”
She nods slowly. “Yes.”
I blow ripples into my hot chocolate. “Why?”
This time she shakes her head. “No. You don’t get to borrow my reasons. You need your own.”
I grimace, because she knows me too well—and because she sounds a little too much like a certain hard-ass Dom. “I don’t want to like being hit. That sounds like there’s something wrong with me. Or with him.” I can tell Emily the ugly parts, the ones that have been riling me up all day.
“Stop.” She slams down her mug, something fierce blazing in her eyes, and it shocks me quiet. “Consent matters, Meggie. It’s everything, and once it’s there, then almost anything that happens between two people can be okay.” She exhales hard. “Imagine a wedding. The bride walks down the aisle to the man waiting for her with love and forever in his eyes, right?”
She wrote that line in our marketing brochures. “Sure.”
She nods grimly. “Now imagine that exact same scene, except the bride has been told that she must marry this man, no matter what, or her parents will be shot against the wall outside the church.”
My stomach heaves, and I stare at the stranger wearing the skin of my best friend. “What?”
“It would be awful, right? Worst wedding ever, and we would never in a million years have anything to do with it.”
“Of course not.” I have no idea where she’s going with this, but I still want to puke.
“Right.” She nods, and her eyes are still fierce. “Two weddings that look exactly the same on the surface, but they’re different in every way that matters. Consent changes everything.”
I stare at her, and it feels like something in my bones is breaking up and re-knitting.
She wraps her hands around mine, steadying my mug. “Consent changes everything. It makes what happened between you and Quint beautiful, and it means you totally have permission to feel good about it and take pleasure from it and ask him to do it again.” She smiles, and it chases the last of the fierceness away. “You want him to do it again, right?”
“Yes.” I groan and gulp my hot chocolate, because she’s just blown up the nice, comfortable brick wall I was trying to hide behind. “I’m supposed to go to Fettered tonight and be his bartending assistant or something.”
Emily raises an amused eyebrow. “Darn. Damon’s taking me out for a fancy dinner, or I’d totally come and be moral support.”
I think this might be one of those things that’s easier to do without the watchful eyes of my best friend since third grade.
She grins and picks her mug back up. “What instructions did he give you?”
I shake my head, mystified. “None. Well, he said dress in something skimpy, but I assume he didn’t mean that.”
Emily manages not to snort hot chocolate out her nose—barely. “Quint always means what he says.”
She’s dead serious. “I’m a wedding planner. I don’t own anything skimpy.”
She laughs. “That, we can fix. You can borrow something of mine, or we can call Scorpio and have her run over with some of her stuff. She has a deadly lingerie collection. Harlan drowns her in the stuff, and I know there’s some of it she wants to make quietly disappear.”
I know I’m gaping, but I can’t help it. “Harlan buys sexy underwear?”
She laughs. “Yup. And Scorpio wears it.”
I’m having trouble getting over my disbelief, because punk rocker and silk–and-lace just do not go together in my head. But somewhere under that muddle, I can also feel something else rising, and it feels really good.
Whatever’s about to happen, I’m not on the outside, looking in.
Chapter Eighteen
Meghan
I stand behind three people in Fettered’s foyer, my head trying to slide into the collar of the trench coat I wore to hide how little I’m wearing underneath it. The tiny woman in front of me is wearing even less, which nobody seems to notice as she and her two Doms chat merrily with Ari.
She calls them that. Her two Doms.
Ari glances past the trio and spies me lurking. “Hey, sweetie. Quint’s waiting for you at the bar.”
Three heads swivel to check me out, and the tiny woman winks at me. “Good for you. He’s more of a handful than even my two here.”
I have no idea what to say.
One of the big guys beside her rolls his eyes. “Quit scaring the newbies, Shelley. That’s our job.”
She grins. “Nope. Your job is to scare me.”
Either of them could crunch her into a tiny ball with one hand—and yet the respect flowing between them is obvious.
The front door opens behind me, sending a draft up my trench coat and ushering in at least half a dozen new people. Ari glances at them and makes a face at me. “Sorry, I was going to walk you in myself, but apparently it’s rush hour.” She turns to the tiny woman. “Shelley, can you and your men make sure Meghan gets to Quint?”
“Sure thing.” Shelley takes me by the elbow, and then pauses as one of her Doms holds out his hand. “Oh, give Rio your coat, love—you can’t walk into the lounge dressed like that.”
I gulp. There are way too many eyes are on me right now. They’re all friendly, but none of them seem to think that wearing a trench coat into a bar is a reasonable thing to do.
I glance at Ari and she nods fractionally.
This is way harder than looking at porn. I unbutton my trench coat, and my hands shake hard enough that even two-inch buttons give me trouble. Rio steps behind me to slide it off my shoulders, his voice pitched low and firm. “Nicely done.”
I can feel my coat sliding down my arms. I close my eyes and try not to whimper.
Shelley tugs on my elbow, and somehow my eyes are back open and my feet are moving toward the inner door. “Let’s get out of Ari’s way and go show Quint the really hot outfit you put on for him.”
“It’s not for him.” I look down at the deep-purple corset and boy shorts that Emily and Scorpio swore were a good idea. “My friends helped me pick something appropriate to wear.”
“They did great.” Shelley offers me a bubbly, sympathetic smile and waves at someone as we enter the lounge. She blows a kiss at her two Doms, who are angling off toward a group chatting in the corner. “I’ll be right there, guys. Don’t start trouble without me.”
Rio growls at her, which only makes several people within earshot laugh.
Shelley leans in. “Breathe. You’re better covered than you would be at the swimming pool, I bet—and nobody will lay a finger on you in here without your explicit consent. You look gorgeous. If my ass looked that sexy in boy shorts I’d wear them every day of the year.”
I don’t look at her ass. Based on the brief glimpse I got in the foyer, it’s covered in a couple of scraps of see-through lace and not much else. “Thank you. I’m really new at this, which is probably obvious.”
“Totally.” She grins at me. “Which is why I’m giving you excellent advice. Quint is watching the two of us right now
, and we’re going to walk across this lounge and make his cock beg, okay?”
My cheeks are going to match my outfit. “It’s not like that between us. He’s just helping me learn.”
Shelley snorts. “He’s a guy, and you have really sexy boobs. Go with my version—it’s more fun. Strut your stuff and let him drink you in.”
I’m more self-conscious than I’ve been in my entire life, but she’s still making me giggle. “That’s pretty much the same speech as I give to nervous brides who are about to walk down the aisle.”
“Oh, are you Emily’s friend Meghan?” She bounces up on tiptoe and kisses my cheek. “Brittany’s my sister. You’re doing her wedding next month. I’ve seen all the arrangements, and you’re giving her exactly what she’s wanted her entire life.”
Brittany is a tall, skinny scientist who tried to talk her fiancé into a city hall quickie. Until he found her wedding board and send us a link.
Shelley’s eyes go a little dreamy. “I hope I can marry both my men one day. If I do, I’m going to have you guys plan it.”
This is so not the conversation I expected to be having here—but I’m a sucker for dreamy eyes, every time. “You can do a joining ceremony. It doesn’t have to be a legal wedding to be really beautiful.”
She gives me a soft smile. “Thank you. Maybe we’ll come talk to you.” She takes my hand. “Ready?”
Not one tiny bit. “I guess so?”
She leans in. “They don’t come any better than Quint. Don’t let him scare you too much.”
People keep saying that.
Chapter Nineteen
Quint
I have no idea what Shelley’s pouring in my new trainee’s ear, but it’s made Meghan’s eyes go all soft and goopy—and gotten rid of at least half of her jitters. Which is too bad, because in that outfit I can see just how curvy and delicious she is, and the short, shaky breaths were making her breasts put on a really nice show.
One that at least half the unattached Doms in the lounge have noticed.
I put out a broad-stream glare that will communicate to all but the dumbest. Shelley catches the edge of it and tugs on Meghan’s hand. I wait behind the bar, letting my green-as-grass sub for the night notice me watching her.
Her eyes drop, which is fascinating. Then she yanks them right back up again, but most of the jitters are back. She walks the last two steps to the bar counter and stops, her hands behind her back.
I dismiss Shelley with a glance, my eyes back on Meghan. “Hands on the bar, palms up.”
Query lines form on Meghan’s forehead, but she does what I ask. I reach for the pair of simple black cuffs I stashed behind the bar earlier. I set one down and unbuckle the other, holding it out. I see Shelley watching us over her shoulder, but she’s not the sub I’m paying attention to right now. Meghan’s breathing is high and shallow, and she’s watching the cuff like a rabbit watches a hawk in a tree. “Put your wrist in here.”
She swallows hard enough most of the lounge can hear. “Is this a scene?”
“Not yet.” I wait until her eyes come up to mine. “This is a form of claiming that everyone here understands. While you’re wearing these, you’re mine, and no other Dom will ask you to play. We have special cuffs for trainees once they’re ready to be on the floor, but you’re not ready for those. This is a fast, easy way for me to keep you safe.” I finish buckling the first cuff and slide a finger inside to check the fit. “How does that feel?”
She sets her wrist into the second cuff without me asking. “They’re soft, but they feel really solid.”
I add my fingers outside the leather. “How do you feel when you’re wearing them?”
She looks down at my hands, wrapped around her wrists. “Held.”
I don’t let her see my smile. “Good. Remember that tonight.” I don’t give her the rest of my usual speech, which I totally pilfered from Ari, about this being a safe space and a container that will hold her while she explores.
I want her to feel held by me.
I wave her around behind the bar. I wasn’t kidding about putting her to work. “Here’s the clean glassware. Use these if you don’t know what drinks go in what glasses. These are tonight’s drink mixes, all labeled.” I’m pointing as I walk us both down the length of the bar. “Fruit juices, soft drinks, fancy waters. Alcohol’s behind us, but you won’t be serving any of that.”
Her eyebrows go up.
One day we really need to write a fucking introductory user manual for this place. “There’s a two-alcoholic-drinks limit here, and very few people will touch even one before they play. Most of what we serve is virgin drink mixes I pull off the Internet.”
She clamps down on a smile. “Emily says they’re your secret recipes and I’m supposed to try to worm them out of you.”
I snort. “Emily can dream.”
She laughs. “I can be very persuasive.”
I give her purple-satin-clad breasts a nice, slow perusal. “I expected you to show up overdressed. You’re not.”
She swallows hard. “Emily and Scorpio helped. They convinced me that people walk around here in their underwear all the time.”
That and a whole lot less some nights. “The subs do. The Doms are mostly in leathers, but some are in anything from jeans to suits.” I tug on the front edge of my leather vest. “Anyone wearing one of these is staff or a designated monitor for the night. If you get in any trouble or have any questions, ask someone in a vest. And then be prepared to have your ass paddled, because it means you aren’t close enough to ask me, and that’s rule number one for tonight. You stay glued to me unless I tell you different.”
Her eyes are wide. “Okay. I can do that.”
Shit, I’m scaring her for the wrong reasons. Nobody out there will so much as blow on her fanny while she’s wearing my cuffs. “You’re safe here, Meghan. I want you close so that you can learn, and so that I can read your reactions.”
She blows out an unsteady breath. “Okay.”
I let her see my lips quirk, just a little. “Can you do that again and look more scared this time? I have a hard-ass rep to maintain.”
She rolls her eyes and mostly hides her grin. “Scorpio did mention the part where you like to beat your barmaids.”
Scorpio wasn’t lying. I take a step in, crowding Meghan’s space and pushing her ass back against the low counter. “I do. Or sometimes I tie them up and finger them in between drink orders.” I put my hands on the wide, curvy part of her hips. “What have you decided about your limits for tonight?”
It’s clear she can’t decide whether she should be protesting this treatment or not. “I don’t know. I thought I could just watch for a while.”
Not actually a bad choice, but she’s making it for the wrong reasons. Which I’ll let her get away with for now, since it makes the next part of my plan for her evening easier. “It’s early, so there will be lots of people looking for a starter drink and negotiating their scenes. I want you to fill glasses and open your ears.”
She tries to duck under my arm. “Eavesdropping is rude.”
“Be still.” I wait until she stands back up between my arms, fuming. “The bar area is a designated zone for people who want eyes and ears on their conversations. We always have someone experienced behind the bar who can lend a hand if a newer member gets stuck or in over their head.” Or, given the seasoned crowd tonight, for people who enjoy educating an audience.
Or shocking them.
The fire goes out of her eyes. “I’m sorry. I’m making assumptions, and the rules are different here. I like that you’ve made a safe place for people to talk. I wish they did that at regular bars too—it would be a lot more comfortable.”
I want to show her just how not comfortable my bar could be for her right now, but I can’t be a hard-ass Dom with a sub who will roll over and agree to whatever I want, and I can’t let her loose into my world that way either. Tonight is about training.
I see Tank talking with Eva, one o
f our veteran subs. He’s barely out of trainee school, but his negotiation skills are solid, and his confidence has gone way up since his scene with Ari a few weeks back. He might even be able to handle the woman he’s approached tonight.
I give him a nod. He’s used to me listening, and Eva will take one look at Meghan and know what I need her to do.
Tank puts a hand on Eva’s lower back and guides her in our direction. I nudge my trainee their way. “You take those two. I need to check our whiskey stock.” I know from long experience that I can look busy counting bottles for a really long time.
Time to see if my stick of dynamite can learn.
Chapter Twenty
Meghan
This is totally a set-up. I don’t know how yet, and I know Quint says we’re not in a scene, but this feels too scripted to be an accident. I watch the huge guy walking my way, his hand on a woman who’s willowy and graceful and nearly as tall as he is. She sits down on a stool and gives me a pleasant smile.
The guy stands at her back like a cop or a bodyguard. “I’m Tank and this is Eva. We’ll have two of whatever Quint’s mixed up that isn’t pink.”
His nickname totally suits him. I look down at the pitchers of drink mix and realize why they have labels. “Sorry. Apparently everything’s pink.”
Eva snickers, which is the last sound I expected from a woman with the elegance of a ballet dancer.
I wink at her. I know the backstory of the pink drinks, and it feels good to be in on the joke. I pick a pitcher at random and fill Eva a fancy martini glass and add a slender, curly straw. I pour Tank a hefty shot glass instead, for which he looks both amused and grateful.
She takes a sip and turns to Tank, tapping the stool beside her. “Sit down, handsome, and we’ll chat about what you want to do to me tonight.”