TRUST - Meghan & Quint (Fettered Book 5)

by Lilia Moon

  Logistics, handled. I give her a look of profound relief and squat down in front of my second-oldest friend. “You’re going to be a dad, Leo. You’ve wanted that for as long as I’ve known you. Hold your damn breath so that you’re awake to see it.”

  He manages to catch the next exhale before he lets it all the way out—and then it whooshes out of him as Sam flies through the door and launches himself into Leo’s lap. “Today? Now?”

  Scorpio drops a second chair beside Leo’s. “Sit, Sam. They’re going to be here any minute.”

  He looks down at his clothes in horror. “I have to change. They’ll think I’m a freak or something.”

  The flamboyant orange shirt and striped pants are a pretty low-key outfit by Sam standards, but I know why he’s worried. I stand up, and then realize I can’t possibly get to their duplex and back in time.

  Scorpio glares at me as she bends over and kisses Sam’s forehead. “You look gorgeous. This baby’s going to have the most stylish dads in town. You’ve already passed all the tests and nobody can take that away from you. Today you get to be you.”

  Gabby walks into the room, wearing calm competence like well-worn battle armor. “They’re just pulling up. I saw them from my office window.” She smiles at Leo and Sam, and there are tears in her eyes. “Go meet your baby girl.”

  I don’t know what magic wand she’s just waved, but the two of them stand up, hands clutched together, and take tremulous steps toward the front door. Emily sweeps it open just as they arrive. We’re somehow coming together into the well-oiled unit that pulls off the perfect walk down the aisle even when there are wine stains, drunk mothers, and tantruming flower girls to deal with.

  I follow everyone out, and Scorpio shoves Leo’s video camera into my hand. I try to thrust it back at her—she’s better and we both know it—but she’s already off, Leo’s best camera around her neck, dashing for the curb as a mini-van pulls over and awkwardly parks.

  Leo and Sam die a thousand deaths as the driver inches back and forth fifteen times. Scorpio finally raps on the window. A harried woman jumps out and hails us all. “I’m so sorry I’m late. The paperwork has taken all day and then the baby needed to eat one last time and the foster mom wanted a cuddle and she’s going to meet you at your place later like you requested.”

  I’m recording her words for posterity, but no one is hearing them. We’re all staring at the tinted back window, trying to get a glimpse of the impossibly important treasure inside. Sam steps forward and tugs Leo with him. “Can we see her, please? Can we hold her?”

  Something soft slides into the social worker’s eyes. “Of course you can.” She pulls open the door and lifts out the infant car seat. All I can see is a knitted green blanket, but I don’t spend much time looking. Scorpio has that angle covered. I have my video camera pointed straight at Sam and Leo’s faces. At the fear. At the wonder. At the awe.

  The social worker sets the car seat down on the walkway and a pink fist emerges from the blankie. Sam makes a choked noise and squats down, catching the tiny fist in his hand. “Oh, sweet girl.” He pushes the blanket away from her face. “We have waited so very long to meet you.”

  Leo sits down on the sidewalk beside him, a man in an eggshell dream.

  Sam strokes his finger over a pudgy cheek. I can hear Scorpio clicking away and several somebodies crying quiet tears, but my eyes are glued to the faces of two men who can’t believe they’ve made it to this moment.

  The baby gurgles, her deep-brown eyes trying to make the world focus and turning into a frown instead.

  Sam laughs quietly. “It’s that way, is it? I might feel like that if I was strapped down in a car seat too. How about we get you out of there and let your pops and your daddy hold you, huh?”

  The social worker moves in to help and Gabby catches her arm. We all know Sam doesn’t need any lessons. He’s been practicing for this with every baby in greater Seattle for the last three years. He supports her head with one hand and undoes the buckles, crooning to her the whole time. When he scoops her out, I realize how tiny she is. Three weeks old, but born early, to a mother who signed away her rights and asked only for a picture or two.

  If I know Sam and Leo at all, she’ll get far more than that.

  Leo is still a statue, a man in total shock. And no wonder. This baby wasn’t supposed to be theirs—until two hours ago when a row of dominoes fell and Leo’s phone rang and their lives changed forever.

  The social worker had wanted to wait a day or two so they could get ready. I grin as I zoom in on Leo’s face. Emily totally won that battle. One baby, delivered just as fast as the wheels of government could be turned.

  Sam nuzzles in to a chubby cheek and inhales like he hasn’t breathed in a week. Then he turns, tears streaming down his face, and sets the baby against Leo’s chest. “Hold our daughter, Pops.”

  Leo suddenly reanimates, his arms coming up reflexively to cradle the tiny girl. When he speaks, his words are so husky I can barely hear them. “She’s so small.”

  “Five and a half pounds,” says the social worker briskly. “Healthy and eating well and ready for placement.”

  I can see their baby girl better now, and it’s all I can do not to drop the video camera. She’s got dark eyes just like Sam and a mop of dark hair that’s sticking up in every direction. She stares straight up at Leo, her little mouth caught in a pucker of surprise.

  I can feel my breath hitching. She’s totally gorgeous, but it isn’t the baby who’s making me cry.

  It’s Leo. With a look on his face that says he finally feels whole.

  Chapter Forty

  Quint

  I pull up in front Meghan’s office, nervy and unsure of myself. The world inside this townhouse exploded in the best possible way this afternoon, and the text Meghan sent me after feels like it got written in a puddle of tears.

  Even so, it was really damn clear. I want to be bigger, not smaller. I want to be whole. Yes to dinner, and yes to whatever comes after.

  Trusting me to give her what she needs. Which might be a night at Fettered wrapping baby gifts with a hundred really excited new aunts and uncles, not some hard-ass Dom pushing her back out onto an edge he’s already cracked her on. I look at my phone. Ari and Gabby are wrangling the baby-drunk troops. Mostly keeping them away, because the last thing Leo and Sam and Soleil need is the invasion trying to mass outside their door.

  The invasion that has been ably reassigned to shopping. I’m pretty sure the three of them aren’t going to need anything for the next five years.

  I grin at the new picture as it arrives on my phone. Ari, still mass texting material from Soleil’s arrival photo shoot. This one has Sam’s face in it too, looking more stunned than a Dom has ever made him. And a message. Her name means sunshine. Her bio mama picked it and the guys are keeping it. More pictures soon, and video as soon as Meghan is done editing.

  Somehow, that decides me. I text Ari back. The video edits might be a little delayed.

  I get back a laughing emoji. Bad Dom.

  With her, I can have doubts. You think?

  No, asshole. She’s blown wide open right now and she asked you to show her who she can be. Go give her what she needs.

  Thank fuck for Ari and her wonderful, wise, never-in-doubt opinions.

  My phone pings again. Besides, somebody needs to keep their people busy. Next time Sam and Leo have a baby, I’m enrolling them in witness protection.

  It’s a totally empty threat. Ari is the happiest person on the planet today after Sam and Leo. I put my phone away and get out of my car. My sub wants to be bigger. To be whole. Time to get on that. I pull the fancy shopping bag out of the back seat and take a breath, sliding into my Dom skin. I hold on to that as I wander in the front door, listening. Video edits are portable, and I don’t want my sub getting a whole lot of warning that I’m coming.

  I hear a quiet giggle and a sigh from the back room that serves as their kitchen. I’ve been in there before—it�
��s a small space with a bar table in a bay window that overlooks the back garden.

  I grin. Hopefully the neighbors aren’t paying attention, or they’re about to get an eyeful. I walk as far as the doorway and pause, giving myself a moment to drink her in. Giving her a moment to notice me. Standard Dom arrogance, but it feels like more than that.

  She looks up at me and startles, eyes wide. “Hi. I didn’t hear you come in.”

  I don’t smile. “I didn’t mean for you to.”

  She surveys me and the bag in my hand, her suspicions growing. “Why are you here?”

  I close the distance between us and shut her laptop, moving it to safety on a counter. If I break those videos, every kinky person in Seattle will hate me for the rest of forever. “I have a gift for you.” I hold up the bag. “Wear this tonight. Emily promised me you would have appropriate shoes.”

  She’s studying me like my tail might rattle any minute. “You’re dressing me?”

  I’m taking a cue from Sam. I want her to feel different tonight. New clothes, new skin, new possibilities. “Yes.” I might explain later. I’m definitely not doing it now.

  She peeks in the bag long enough to see the fabric of the sexy black dress inside. I see the moment she decides. “Okay. I can do that.”

  Small victory number one. I smile and run my thumb down the line of her jaw. “Good. Now stand up, drop your jeans around your ankles, put your hands on the table, and point your ass at me.”

  She stares at me.

  I put weight in my voice. “Now, sweetheart.”

  I can see the panic. The frantic glance around the kitchen and the moment she remembers her office is totally empty. The wide-eyed glance at the windows and their total lack of curtains.

  I reach into the shopping bag and pull out the short, whippy crop that’s one of my favorites and lay it on the table.

  Her breath gusts out. “Oh.”

  I give her time. She’s new. I hold where I am, Dom sternness in every line. Letting the trust build. Letting her see. This time, she needs to feel herself choose—because later I plan to be pushy as fuck.

  She gets to her feet, already wobbly, and closes her eyes as her cheeks heat. This isn’t my hot groupie, ready to be banged against a wall. It’s professional Meghan. The woman who wants to please people and lets that keep her small.

  She takes another breath and then her eyes snap open and she’s moving, unzipping her jeans, shoving them down her legs, slapping her palms down on the table.

  I make damn sure she doesn’t see my grin. A little pissiness can sometimes light a whole dynamite stick of courage. I reach forward and slide my finger under the bits of lace she’s wearing today. Hot pink this time. “These too.”

  The sound she makes is a beautiful mix of pissy and aroused. She pushes her panties down around her knees and puts her hands back on the table.

  I’m on her before she’s even realized she’s not angry anymore. One hand on her lower back, the other brushing over her pussy. Which is nice and wet already, and still beautifully swollen from last night. I give her a really light swat and chuckle as she jumps. “Tender.”

  “Yes.” A long pause. “Sir.”

  “Good.” I swat her pussy again. “I want you to feel what we did last night all through dinner. And what I’m going to do to you now.”

  Her breath hitches.

  I spank her ass. Time to get this skin warmed up. I have plans.

  Chapter Forty-One

  Meghan

  This is crazy. My brain is full of that thought, even as I tip my ass up to try and reach his hands. Emily is right. Spankings rock, even though that’s not where this is going to end. Sunburn sharp and then straight to pleasure. Even if it’s happening in my freaking office kitchen where my neighbors might see, I can’t come up with the words to stop the craziness.

  I don’t want him to stop.

  He pauses, rubbing his hand over my skin, and I whimper. This better not be the end.

  He chuckles and picks up the crop. “Patience, woman. The faster I get to this, the more it’s going to hurt.”

  I groan. I’m not at all sure that sounds like a bad thing.

  He makes an interested noise. “Like that, is it?” The crop lands just below my seat bone, a sharp sting that makes me jump. A second one on the other side. He’s not starting slowly this time, and these aren’t melting into pleasure like I want them to.

  “Breathe.” His voice is calm, dark gravel as he bends me over further, pushes my face onto the table. “Trust me to get you there.”

  It feels better now that I don’t need to use my arms to hold me up. The next sting is a little lower, a little sharper. I squirm, trying to shake it off. To move away. It’s harder now—he’s got me pinned between his hand and the table. He lands three more whacks and I give up. There’s nowhere to go and my ass is on fire. I whimper and try to breathe into the sting.

  “Beautiful,” he says quietly. “Gorgeous. Just like that.”

  Something in my lower belly heats and makes all of me feel warm.

  The crop lands again, and this time I don’t try to run. I let it become part of the heat. Part of the furnace building inside me. I wiggle my ass, toward him this time. He chuckles and suddenly there’s a lance of stinging fire right on my pussy.

  I literally try to crawl off the front of the table.

  “Feet on the floor, face on the table.” He’s in full-on hard-ass mode. “And be still, or there will be more of those.”

  I will die if he does that again. And possibly if he doesn’t. I’m pulsing where he hit me, a swelling, volcanic ocean of heat.

  His hand firms on my lower back. The crop lands again, this time back on my ass, and spaced enough that I can give them to the heat. Let them feed the furnace.

  And then I hear a strange, whiny sound and pain explodes right under my sit bone.

  I scream, but I don’t run away this time. I can’t. His hands are on me—not where he just hit me, but on my pussy. Circling my clit, not hard, but insisting on my attention. “Let it turn to pleasure, sweetheart. That one’s going to leave a mark, and it’s beautiful.”

  I freeze. He marked me.

  “I have one more for you. A matching one. For the other side. You tell me when you’re ready.”

  Never. And yet, even as I think it, I know it’s a lie. The fierce burn is spreading, setting things on fire as it goes. Good things. Needy things. And somewhere on my ass is a mark. I shouldn’t be so proud of that, but I totally fucking am.

  His fingers slow. “What color are you right now, Meghan?”

  It takes me a moment to understand. “Green.”

  He doesn’t give me any time to think. The crop lands again, and this time I’m yelling before it does, trying to give the pain somewhere to go that isn’t a couple of square inches of my ass. It doesn’t work, but it helps me feel better anyhow.

  Quint runs his fingers over his handiwork, which has me hissing. He bends over, and I feel the faintest brush of his lips replace his fingers. I’m pretty sure I should feel objectified or degraded, but I totally don’t. I feel honored. Like he’s as proud of me wearing those marks as I am.

  He runs his hand up my back and speaks close to my ear. “Want to see them?”

  I chuckle, and I can feel it lurch me around on the table top. “You have lots of special talents, but even you can’t make me bendy enough to see my ass.”

  He tucks some stray hair behind my ear. “I can take a photo with your phone.”

  I realize his other hand is cupping my pussy. Somehow, in two days, I’ve turned into a woman who can bend over a table half naked and contemplate cell-phone pornography and not even notice he’s copping a feel. I wiggle into that hand. “Maybe after you finish.”

  He snorts. “That’s called topping from the bottom, sweetheart. You don’t get to decide when we’re done. I do.”

  I’m getting a bad feeling about this. I make a face into the table.

  This time he kisses
my nose. “Careful, or you won’t get to come tonight either.”

  Yeesh. Meanie. I don’t say it out loud. I just think it, really hard.

  He grins and swats my pussy with his hand. Gently enough that it doesn’t really hurt, but still. “Want a picture or not? Final offer.”

  I can’t believe I’m going to say yes to this. But I am.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Meghan

  When I saw the two neat pink triangles on my ass in the picture Quint took, I thought they were the coolest things ever. Then I buried the photo so deep no one will ever find it, but I still thought they were cool.

  Now that I’m trying to sit in a chair at a very nice Italian restaurant and act like a grown-up, I’m a lot less appreciative. It hurts to sit—and the smug jerk across the table from me knows it.

  He grins and hands me a piece of bread slathered in enough garlic butter to scare off a herd of vampires. I know, because I’ve already eaten three pieces. “Did you always want to be a wedding planner when you grew up?”

  I take the bread. I have no willpower when it comes to garlic. “No, that was Emily. Even back in third grade, she’d set up a whole ceremony, complete with flower boys and plastic rings and vows she always made the happy couple write themselves.”

  He breaks off some of my garlic bread and eats it. “Flower boys?”

  I push the basket his way. I don’t share food. Not when I have a sore ass, anyhow. “The two boys who lived next door to her were about five years younger and thought it was fun to yank petals off of flowers in preparation for their big moment.” Supervising them had been Emily’s job. Recruiting brides and grooms had been mine. Even back then, we knew to play to our strengths.

  He’s playing with my fingers. Enjoying me. “So Your Perfect Moment was Emily’s dream?”