by Lilia Moon
Whoever this reporter is, they have no idea what they’ve just unleashed.
I already know that Fettered is more than a club. It’s a place where Damon lives the truth of what he did here for me. He will defend it fiercely—even if it means discarding what can’t stand in that fire.
He thinks I can’t.
He walks over to stand by the bed. He takes a breath, and some of the lethal predator slides away. “We’re not done talking, Em.”
I already know that. But I can see he thinks we’re done with everything else.
There are so many words to say, but I can’t find any of them. I reach up and touch his cheek. “Thank you. Go.”
He gives me one long last look and then he walks out, a man ready to fight for what is his.
I hear his front door close and I cuddle into sheets and silk and the smell of us for one final moment, but what was important there has already gone. I slide my feet out onto the floor and let the sheet slither off of me.
It takes me a long time to find my clothes. My yellow sundress is in a heap where I left it, but my shoes wandered drunkenly into the kitchen and I find my bra hanging on the knob outside Damon’s front door. It’s a sharp reminder of exactly who this man is and what it might be like to be in his life.
I don’t pretend, even to myself, that it’s something that would stay hidden.
It shocks me that I don’t know if I would want it to.
I collect my shoes, set them under the chair in the front entry where I’ve put my neatly folded dress. I don’t put it on. I’m not ready to wear sunbeams yet.
I wander down the hall into his library, remembering the last time I took this walk. I look over at the big recliner chair. We had a reckoning there and I want to go curl up in the soft leather, but my feet take me to the window seat instead. I sit and pull a light blanket up over my shoulders, and I do what I haven’t been able to do in the last twenty-four hours.
I think.
My eyes wander over Damon’s view. It’s one of Seattle’s high-gray days—the ones that keep the sun lovers from losing their minds and the rest of us from growing mold in our pores.
I move slightly, and the soft wool of the blanket brushes against my wildly sensitive nipples. I feel echoes in all the other places I’ve been touched—and my own astonishment at how easily some parts of this have come to me. I stripped at Damon’s door. I put myself in his hands and I surrendered in ways I didn’t even know existed.
I don’t want to lose that to a little rain.
I snug the blanket tighter around my shoulders. He’s not entirely wrong. Some parts of this would be very hard. Notoriety wouldn’t hurt my business as much as he thinks, but I live a very quiet and private life, and I like it that way. I meet the world in a yellow sundress, and I like that too.
I sit a while, letting memories from the last twenty-four hours wash over me. I let the ripples pass over my skin as I soak in the view that goes on forever of the city I love, warts and monsoons and hideous traffic and all.
I don’t need perfection. That’s what raincoats are for. The elegant rose one I wear for work and the one with happy pink flowers I wear the rest of the time.
I know how to live with a little rain.
My fingers shift their grip on my knees, and I remember just how little I’ve put on this morning. I stand up, neatly fold the blanket, and head for the chair with my clothes. One of my steadfast rules has always been that I don’t make decisions while I’m hungry or tired. It’s time to add naked to that list.
The Emily who will walk out this door isn’t the same woman who walked in, and I need to percolate a little on what that means.
And then I need to figure out how I might get a certain Dom to change his mind.
Chapter Forty
Damon
I glare at Ari and Harlan, who were waiting in my office when I got here, and try to remember that this morning isn’t their fault. Quint, who can be charming when he tries, has taken the reporter to the cafe down the street for a late breakfast.
Giving the rest of us time to get our battle plan in place.
I look over at Ari. She’s better than Harlan at talking fast. “What the hell’s going on?”
“It’s Mari Trilo. Lifestyle blogger for Seattle Dish.”
I grimace. She’s got a good following and a snarky way with words that keeps people reading. She’s also not typically out for blood. “Why’s she suddenly trying to climb up our asses?”
“Dunno.” Ari shakes her head. “Quint’s trying to find that out.”
Harlan leans forward and speaks for the first time. “I think it’s personal.”
I don’t ask how he knows. The man has the best instincts in the business, and a lot of people walk through our doors trying to exorcise their demons. “Shit.”
They’re both looking at me, tense and worried. I’m the boss. This is my show.
“I assume you guys have taken a look through the most recent members we’ve added.”
Harlan glowers. “We didn’t screw up.”
I know that and so does he. “Anyone who looks young, acts it?”
“Wrong season for that.” Ari’s fielding this one. “And I reached out to my peeps. Nobody’s been making noise with the youngsters.”
Ari has her fingers on the pulse of the twenty-somethings in the BDSM scene—hell, she is the pulse. People sometimes try to stir up shit by suggesting adults without wrinkles don’t really know what they want in bed, and Ari’s been the one punching them in the nose for years now.
I nod, thanking her for checking. “That’s a good thing.” A solo reporter on a tear is better than a wider attack.
She’s watching me, her game face on. “You’ll want me in the meeting with her.”
I absolutely do, but there’s no way I’m putting her through that. She might be out and proud but I still don’t need to make her the poster child for another shit storm. The last time that happened she and I both ended up on the front page of the Seattle Inquirer. In handcuffs.
The cops enjoyed slapping those on us way too much. And they made sure the photographer got a really good shot.
They knew the sexual-exploitation-of-minors charges wouldn’t stick, especially when the “minor” in question was twenty-eight—but that’s the last damn time anyone gets to put handcuffs on Ari without her consent. I glance at the newspaper photo, which Ari replaces on my bulletin board every time I take it down, and open my mouth to lay down the law.
Harlan snorts. “Boss, you might want to think a minute before you open your mouth and say something stupid.”
The fire in Ari’s eyes is saying exactly the same thing.
I close my eyes. The need to protect is fierce this morning, but that doesn’t give me the right to be an asshole. “Sorry. I’ve had an intense couple of days.”
Harlan’s inspecting me more closely now. “You dropping?”
It’s a thing that can happen to Doms or subs if the endorphins crash hard enough, and he’s right to be looking, but it pisses me off anyhow. “No.”
He shoves a bottle of electrolytes into my hand anyhow.
I manage not to stuff it up his nose. “This stuff tastes like crap.” It doesn’t, really—I had it formulated myself. But I don’t want to drink it, because if I’m crashing, then I left a sub alone in my condo who might be hitting the wall too, and I wasn’t even thinking about that, let alone taking care of her. I look over at Ari. “Can you check in with Emily?”
“On it.” She’s already pulling out her phone. “And then we can go talk to the reporter and get this bullshit stopped.”
Quint walks in, grinning. “That won’t be necessary.”
The three of us eye him.
He flexes his muscles and blows on his knuckles. “It turns out that a certain reporter has a weakness for hunky men who know how to use their brains.”
Quint absolutely knows how to use his, but I’m not pleased he tried to wield it over brunch with a reporter s
niffing out a story. “I deal with the press—you know that.”
He raises a wry eyebrow. “Well, you weren’t here, were you? So I could either give her a tour or take her out for breakfast. Since not all of us are lucky enough to find newbies who melt against the walls of the dungeon, I opted to try to woo her with poached eggs à la Roxanne.”
I want to wring his thick neck—and I want to kiss him for getting the reporter off our backs. “Keep Emily out of this.” I know I’m unreasonably cranky. They were absolutely right to call me in on this, even if it’s evaporated, but all I can think of is Emily in my bed with a sad look in her eyes.
Quint takes a seat by Ari and ruffles her hair.
She reaches over and ruffles his, sticking out her tongue.
Harlan just shakes his head. “And we wonder why some reporter got wind of underage happenings around here.”
Ari grins at him. “Underage and immature are totally different.”
I know why they’re doing this, and I’m grateful, even if it isn’t working.
Quint looks at me and clears his throat. “Mari had some misconceptions about BDSM and our membership intake process. I cleared those up for her and invited her to our next swing night.”
That’s one of Ari’s genius PR innovations. Big band dance night. No sex, no alcohol, no scenes—just a lot of fancy dance moves and fetish wear. A great way for newcomers to mingle and start to feel us out, and our members show up in droves. It’s a smart way to woo any wariness the reporter might have left and get her firmly on our side.
I nod at him. “Nice move. Make sure someone’s on her if she comes to visit.”
Harlan grins. “I’ll take her. She’s got sexy legs.”
Ari punches his tats. “She’s all soft and blonde and eats poached eggs. You’ll scare her silly.”
Normally, watching my very competent team act like teenagers in my office is a really good part of my day. Now I just want them gone. I uncap the electrolyte juice and take a swig.
None of them are watching—but none of them miss it, either.
Harlan climbs to his feet. “I need to go rearrange furniture for tonight.”
The man is always rearranging things. “What’s happening tonight?”
Ari rolls her eyes at me. “Fucking your brains out isn’t supposed to be a literal thing.”
I glare at her. “You can be fired.”
She just snorts and glances at her phone. “Emily’s fine. She’s on her way to work and I’ve pinged Leo so that he can check on her when she arrives.” She looks up at me and raises an eyebrow.
I glare again, but it’s got no heat in it this time. “Fine. You’re not fired.”
“Excellent. Tonight’s a bad time to be shorthanded on the floor.” She grins and then takes pity on me. “It’s newbie public scenes tonight. We could use your eyes if you’re back in action.”
Damn. This one is my bright idea and I need to be there. Lots of Doms and subs think they want an audience—until they have one. So a few times a year we hold an event where the uninitiated can try. It’s the kind of night where people tend to learn a lot about themselves in a hurry, and our job is to make sure they do it with a really big safety net ready to catch them.
Which means all experienced hands on deck, including mine.
No matter what they’d rather be doing.
Chapter Forty-One
Emily
I have no idea how to talk to anyone about this, but I need to, and my choices are really limited. I need someone who understands Damon’s world—and who knows me well enough to tell me the truth.
I walk down the street toward my office, hoping the man I need is there, and smile as I see him lounging on the steps outside the chic townhouse where we run our business.
He’s watching me as I walk up, and I can see something in him relax. I wave at him as I get close. “Hi, Leo.”
“Hey.” He stands up and falls into step beside me. “It’s a gorgeous day—want to take a walk?”
He’s not waiting for me by accident. “Damon called you?”
He shook his head. “Ari.”
I wince. Word is already traveling.
Leo’s arm slides around my shoulders. “It’s a small community and we take care of each other. Ari wants to know that you’re okay, and so does Damon.”
And so does my calm, suave videographer. I lean into his side-hug. “Thank you. I’m fine.”
He chuckles. “I can see that. Had a good time, did you?”
I have no idea what adjectives are appropriate here. Or how much detail I should spill. I’ve never been a woman who kisses and tells, never mind all the other stuff I just finished doing.
“I don’t need details.” Leo squeezes my shoulder again. “But know that this is a lifestyle where things can get intense, and because of that, we often talk in pretty explicit ways so that we can help each other process. If you don’t want to do that with me, Ari’s the best there is, or she can help you find someone else.”
I’ve leaned on Leo more times than I can count, but it’s always been professional. I’m deeply grateful he’s willing to let it be something else. “Thank you. This is all really new, and I’m definitely having some trouble thinking it through inside my own head.”
“You could just enjoy it and not think so hard.”
I can feel my cheeks flushing. “Is it so obvious that I enjoyed it?”
“Yes.” He walks down the sidewalk, whistling and grinning and pointedly not looking at me.
I will contemplate that later. “Damon wants to stop.”
Leo frowns. “Why?”
I wave a frustrated hand at my outfit. “Because my sandals match the little flowers in my skirt and I like them that way.”
My videographer looks completely mystified. “Damon doesn’t like the way you dress?”
I try again. “I didn’t mean it that literally. He doesn’t think I fit in his world.”
Leo is silent for a long moment. “I have two things to say about that. First, the Emily I know can fit in wherever she chooses, and if he’s not giving you that choice, I’ll be in line right behind Ari and Harlan to hit him with a two-by-four.”
A lot of the tension that’s been creeping into my shoulders over the last couple of hours slides off and slinks away. “Thank you. For seeing that, and for saying it.”
“You’re nobody’s fragile flower.” Leo opens his mouth and then closes it again.
I bump gently into his shoulder as we walk. “But?”
He looks over at me and his eyes are worried. “But he might also be right, and you need to think really hard about whether this is what you want.” He grimaces and shrugs. “I know a fair amount about coming out of closets, and this is a hard one to come out of.”
I consider the man I’m walking with. Everyone and their cousin knows he’s gay. I’ve worked with him for eight years and I didn’t know anything about this other part of his life. “You and Sam keep this pretty private.”
He nods. “Very.”
I’m not dumb enough to assume he’s a coward—or that I’m any braver than he is.
He scuffs his shoe along the sidewalk. “You’ve just barely dipped your toes into these waters, and I understand why you want more, but Damon is Seattle’s most visible Dom.”
I swallow. “I spent thirty minutes on Google before I came here.” Some of it was a blur, but two images stuck with me. One of Damon in a tux at a charity fundraiser, dancing with two small bald girls, one on each arm. And one of him in handcuffs with caged tiger in his eyes.
Leo’s watching me and gently saying nothing.
This is my journey to walk. “If Damon hooks up with a sweet, buttoned-up wedding planner with shoes that match her dress, that’s going to be a story.”
Leo laughs. “Sam’s deep into kink fashion. His shoes always match every damn thing.”
Somehow that makes me feel better. “Clearly Sam and I need to have a chat.”
“Any time.”
I know he means it. “I might be really new to this, but so far people have been so kind.” I move in the world of weddings, which can sometimes be anything but. “It’s really lovely.”
Leo smiles. “It is. It’s a great community to be part of and you’ll be welcomed with open arms if you choose to step in.”
That choosing thing again. “But I need to be sure.”
“Most newbies have a lot more time to decide.” He sighs and scuffs the sidewalk again. “Things with Damon might only last a few weeks or a few months. The impact on your life, your business, the way the world sees you—that could last a lot longer. It’s a hard thing to walk back.”
I think about how many times I’ve had this exact conversation with a confused bride or groom. “Kind of like getting married.”
He laughs. “Yeah.”
He’s given me a lot to think about, and I should be taking my time with it—but I don’t want to. “So you think Damon’s protecting me.”
“Yes.” Leo grins and winks at me. “And he’s being an arrogant ass.”
I grin back. “That too.”
“He knows how this works. He knows he can’t hide you, and he won’t want to. Sam and I are pretty quiet about our BDSM preferences, but Damon can’t do that, so by extension, neither can his subs. Most of them want that, seek it out. You’re different and he knows it.”
I don’t want to think about Damon’s other subs. “And if I get done thinking and decide I want this?” I eye my friend, considering him in a new light. “How do you convince a Dom to change his mind?”
He snorts and rolls his eyes, and then sobers up fast. “You talk. A lot. This lifestyle is all about talking. In a scene, you’re his—you give your power to him. The rest of the time you get to have any conversation you want.”
That doesn’t seem like enough. “And if he can’t hear? If talking doesn’t get me anywhere?”
Leo stops and faces me, blowing out a breath. “Officially, especially given your barely hatched status in this world, my answer is that you just keep talking.”