I take his hand. “I’m Sasha. A friend of Tate’s from Ottawa.”
“Oh,” Vladimir murmurs, and I swear he’s thinking about lifting my hand to kiss my knuckles.
I pull back, because no thank you.
He winks at me. “We’ve heard a lot about Tate’s friend from Ottawa. We weren’t sure you were real, but you are, in fact, real and very beautiful.”
My mouth drops open, and I snap it shut as I give Tate a sideways, confused glance. What the hell?
20
Tate
Damn it. I try to signal to Sasha with my eyes that it’s not a big deal, and Andrushko doesn’t mean it like that, except he does, and God fucking damn it, why did I say anything to them?
Also, Andrushko needs to get his pervy fucking eyes off Sasha, right fucking now. Obviously they don’t know that this is a bad time to be social, but I have damage control to do.
Simec goes in for a handshake, too, but I cut him off at the pass. “We gotta go, guys. Sasha’s just grabbing something from my room, and then she’s got a busy afternoon. I’ll see you later.”
I don’t wait for them to respond. Planting a hand in the small of her back, I guide her around them and down the hall.
Her back is extra straight, her shoulders stiff and squared off, and the normally soft plump of her lower lip is flexed and tight.
I got a bit sloppy. I promised her we’d keep things on the down-low, and I can see from her perspective how it may seem like that didn’t happen.
But this isn’t a big deal. I just need to explain to her that the language happened to match up. Friend. Ottawa. And she is beautiful, that’s unavoidable.
Except when I let us into my room, she doesn’t move very far inside.
Damn it. I take one look at her twisting her arms in front of her and shake my head. “Okay, first of all. I’m sorry. No excuses, I shouldn’t have said anything at all to the guys. But I swear, they don’t know anything about you.”
“They know you have a friend in Ottawa. What else have you told them?”
“Nothing.”
She chews on her bottom lip. “I thought we’d agreed to keep this quiet.”
“We did. We are.”
“Who else knows about me?”
“Nobody. They don’t know anything, either.”
She frowns, her forehead pulling tight, and she squeezes her arms tighter across her chest.
This won’t do. I shrug out of my jacket, then wave for her to do the same. “Take your clothes off.”
She gives me a disbelieving look. “What?”
“I can see your brain spinning hard, Sash. And fair enough—you set some parameters, and those got busted today. My fault. I’ll own that. But we’re in private again. And before you storm out of here pissed at me, I want a chance to remind you what’s good between us.”
“Sex can’t save us from this being too complicated.” But her voice hitches as she says it.
Oh yes, I think sex can do exactly that. It’s not the worst hypothesis to test. “Are you sure? Because I’m pretty sure an orgasm or three would do wonders for clearing your mind.”
She looks past me, towards the window. Her expression doesn’t crack, doesn’t give any clue. The seconds tick by as silence stretches to the point of what-the-actual-fuck, and then she looks down at the plush carpet. “We need to reconsider what we’re doing here. I’m not going to storm out, and I’m not pissed, exactly.”
“You don’t look happy.”
She looks up at me. “The last thing I want is to be the centre of a rumour storm.”
“I’ll shut it down.”
“Please do. Our friendship is nobody’s business but ours.”
Friends.
I’d asked her last night if that’s what we were, and she didn’t answer me.
Now I know where we stand, and I’m not sure I like it.
But isn’t that how I explained our relationship to the guys at Moore’s house? I have a friend back in Ottawa.
It didn’t feel wrong.
It didn’t feel complete, either, but we are friends.
And I want to keep fucking.
The rest maybe needs to be off the table—for now.
Except she’s not the only one who gets to name terms. If we’re re-negotiating this thing between us—and apparently we are, because Sasha’s all business now, cool and in control—then I’ve got some demands of my own.
“I need to know why.” The words come out harder than I mean them to, but maybe that’s my secret. Maybe I’m getting close to my limit of not knowing what the hell is going on in her head.
“I have a history of being in the public eye. I don’t like it.”
“That’s bullshit. You’re photographed with Ellie.”
“That’s different.”
“How?” I peel off my shirt and prowl toward her. I’m not above using my naked body to get what I want.
“Tate, put your shirt back on.”
“Sasha, take your coat off.”
She rolls her eyes. “No, really, put your shirt back on. We need to take a selfie together.”
“I thought you wanted to be private.”
“Sometimes maintaining privacy means publicly establishing a plausible cover story.”
“Fine.” I turn around and grab my shirt from the bed. When I turn again, her coat is off. She doesn’t hang it up though. So I guess she’s still really planning on leaving. Damn it. I sigh and hold out my phone.
She takes it and moves us to in front of the window. “Try and hold it up like this—” She demonstrates what she wants. “So we’ve got the city in the background.”
I take two pictures, then twist quickly and kiss her on the cheek as I take a third. “That one is just for me,” I murmur as I pull her into my arms, dumping the phone on the side table.
We may not get to fuck right now, but kissing definitely makes me feel better.
“Tell me what I’m doing with the selfie,” I rumble as I haul us backwards and fall onto the bed, pulling her with me.
“Posting it to your Instagram with a caption like, Ran into a friend in New York. Got some Christmas shopping done.”
I kiss her instead of telling her that I want to post the last selfie instead. My girlfriend met me in New York. Having a stolen weekend in the Big Apple.
“It’s for the best,” she whispers when I finally stop, and I tug her into the crook of my arm as I stare up at the ceiling.
“You think we’re doomed.”
She waits a beat before responding. “I think there’s a natural end point to being—”
“Don’t say fuck buddies.”
“Intimate, then.” She says it softly. “I can only do this if it’s private. That’s just who I am. I’m finishing up my schooling, and then who knows where I’ll end up? We’re in different places. Literally, figuratively. Geographically.”
Emotionally, too. She doesn’t need to spell that out. I’ve wanted more from the very beginning.
How the hell did I get to a place where I’m the sap. What the hell?
She takes a deep breath and sits up, turning to look at me. “Anyway, I don’t like the word doomed. That suggests we have goals beyond the here and now, and I’ve been very careful—”
“Ever so careful.” I sound snarky, and we both know it.
She raises one eyebrow. “Have I not been clear?”
Yeah, she has. I sit up, too. And I take her hand. “Crystal.”
“So don’t say we’re doomed. We’re not. We are exactly what we are able to be, and nothing more. And when we come to a mutually agreed upon end to our fling, we’ll still be friends.”
Mutually agreed upon nothing. My chest tightens. “Is that so?”
“Of course.”
“Are you going to be able to see me bring someone else to Rapscallion? Fuck someone else, if she’s into public stuff? Are you going bring someone around? Because I won’t handle that well.”
She frowns. “That�
�s not fair. I mean, of course we’d both eventually have other relationships, but I wouldn’t rub your face in it.”
“You wouldn’t need to. The second you start dating someone else, I’ll know, Sasha.”
“I don’t want to think about that. I only want you. I don’t want…” She gestures at the window. The outside world. “All of that. But I do want you. I’m here, aren’t I? You knew I was upset, and yet I’m right here. I stayed. You said stay. You said come to New York, and I was here, no questions asked. I already had my plane ticket booked. There’s a secret for you. I was coming here already, before you even asked. I was going to be here just in case you wanted me as much as I want you.”
“I do.”
“Then stop worrying about what we aren’t. What we are is this, and it’s everything to me. So stop pushing me to give you something else.”
Something she never offered.
I tamp down my objection, because she’s right. And what we are is something special. I can focus on that. “I still want to take you to Miscreant tonight.”
She leans in, and this time it’s her that topples me over. She stretches out on top of me and kisses me softly. “Of course. I’ll meet you there, though. I need to go make sure I’m seen elsewhere.”
That’s something I’d never have considered, and it makes me curious all over again for what Sasha hasn’t told me. “Where can I send a car to pick you up?”
She wants to protest, but the address is private and for members only. She kisses me one last time, then gives me the address of her father’s building.
I’m about to protest again when she stops, her coat in hand, and gives me a coy, sideways glance. “I’ll still come back here tonight, though, if we can manage that in secret. I just won’t leave tomorrow, if you don’t mind me holing up for a few days.”
Relief blooms in my chest. “I won’t mind at all.”
“Then I’ll see you tonight.”
21
Sasha
Even though they weren’t expecting me, the concierge team at my father’s building is accommodating. I head back to the condo to do some work for the afternoon.
Tate texts me a picture of him, sweat-slicked and ripped post-workout, two hours after I leave his hotel room.
Tate: How I’m spending my afternoon.
I text back a picture of my laptop and research papers.
Tate: You should study naked.
Sasha: You should go find some teammates to have dinner with.
Tate: I’d rather bring you dinner. I can feed you while you study naked.
Sasha: I’m wearing six layers of flannel. I’ll see you tonight. What time is the car coming?
Tate: Nine.
Sasha: Can’t wait.
Tate: Get naked.
Sasha: Leave me alone.
At half-past-nine that evening, the towncar Tate sent for me stops outside a row of brownstones on a quiet street in Brooklyn. I hurry up the stairs and ring the bell. The ornate wooden door is opened by a tall, muscular man wearing a tux, who steps aside immediately and lets me in, but bars me from moving beyond the private foyer.
“Can I help you?” he asks.
“Yes, I’m a guest of Tate Nilsson. Sasha Brewster.”
He pulls a phone from his pocket and swipes at it with his finger a few times before looking. He nods, then steps aside, motioning me through the interior door he swings open. “Welcome to Miscreant, Ms. Brewster.”
I give him a quick smile at him as I enter a larger hallway dimly lit by crystal chandeliers.
“Sasha.” I turn at the sound of my name. I should have known Tate would be here, waiting for me.
He helps me out of my coat and hangs it in a large open closet next to the door.
“Ready?” he asks.
I take a deep breath and nod.
He leads me around a sweeping staircase into a larger room, with matching chandeliers, lit a bit brighter here. The walls are covered in a creamy floral print damask, and there are groups of vintage style leather sofas and arm chairs arranged throughout.
Elegant. Classy.
And crowded. I’m surprised at how many people there are. My limited experience has been in the context of an intimate gathering of friends. This is both a bit scary and freeing. Scary, because it’s unfamiliar, and freeing because it feels anonymous.
“Would you like something to drink?” Tate asks.
I nod my head. “Sure, a glass of red wine would be great.”
With this hand at my lower back, Tate guides me to an empty sofa with an excellent view of the room. “I’ll be right back,” he says before heading to the bar.
I watch him walk away. He’s wearing a black suit. The cut of the jacket accentuates his physique. My gaze quickly settles on his ass. Because it really is a very fine ass, and the fit of trousers show it off perfectly.
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch a flash of red, and I turn my head slightly. There’s a woman wearing a deep red corset with a black leather pencil skirt and red spike heel pumps leading a man on a leash. He’s trussed up in some kind of leather harness. Straps connected to metal rings cross his shoulders and circle his torso and connecting at his waist to a leather thong with a padlock. I’d been kind of fascinated by Beth’s dynamic with Lachlan at Rapscallion, but this is a whole different level.
Tate returns with our drinks and hands me my wine before sitting next to me. “Not my kink,” he says as he follows my gaze.
“Not mine either, but there’s something about it…” I trail off as the leashed man glances up at me, then immediately back to the floor. His…mistress?...says something under her breath, then gives me a cool look. Not negative, just dominant. Whoa. I raise my glass at her in respect and she smiles.
“Do you know anyone here?” I murmur, turning my head slightly towards Tate.
“Nope. But I know people just like everyone here. See anything else you find interesting?”
I look around again. Standing just to the side of us, is an auburn-haired woman in a gorgeous school girl uniform. A blue and green tartan skirt, white socks, black patent leather Mary Janes. Her white shirt is undone enough to show some cleavage, and her navy tie, complete with a crest, is knotted loosely below her first fastened button.
There’s the low hum of many voices resonating through the room, but I do catch snippets of the conversation she’s having with a guy wearing leather pants and a tight black t-shirt. Things like role play, no single tail, and liver.
I must look a little confused because Tate leans in close. “They’re negotiating. Discussing what they will and won’t do with each other. Safewords. Sounds like hers is liver.”
I laugh. “That’s a good one.” Not a word I’d ever utter by accident during sex, that’s for sure.
He grins at me. “Notice, she’s not wearing a collar? Not everyone who comes to a club like this brings a date. She’s free to play with whomever she likes, and from the looks of things, she likes,” he says as the couple wander off towards the stairs.
I nod and take a sip of my wine. It’s good—but then why wouldn’t it be? Everything about Reid Porter is pure money, in an understated, knows-where-to-spend-it kind of way.
And he attracts an interesting crowd. One of the things that really grabs me is how elaborate some of the outfits are. Not in a fashion-conscious upstage-each-other-and-gossip-later kind of way. I know what that feels like, and this is different. I’m captivated by the un-self-conscious way people present themselves.
When we’re finished our drinks, Tate takes my glass and sets it, along with his own, on the small table next to him. “Let’s go explore.”
“Absolutely.” Between the glass of wine and the people watching, I’ve shifted from uncertain to eager.
Holding my hand, he leads me up the twisting staircase. There’s a set of heavy doors on the first landing, and as soon as we walk through, the ambient noise morphs from the low hum of conversation to slap of flesh punctuated by moans, groans, and squ
eals.
On the next landing, there’s a long hallway to the right, and the other side opens into a room nearly as large as the one we’d just left. The scene is not unlike the one at Rapscallion, or Max’s holiday party. Only here, there is more equipment and people using it.
“Ah, the dungeon,” Tate says with enthusiasm. “I think we should start here. Let me know when you’re ready to move on to the next scene.”
There is a clear route through the various stations, almost like a kinky IKEA, and each has a small area for spectators. We stroll along the pathway past two couples still setting up their scenes. The next is a female Dom and a male submissive, similar to the couple I’d been fascinated by downstairs, and Tate stops to watch.
I lean into his side, my pulse racing as I watch people I don’t know do something incredibly private—in a pretty public way.
That’s so hard for me to wrap my head around.
“Enjoying yourself?” Tate murmurs in my ear.
I am. But I’m more interested in the woman’s leather corset than how she’s torturing her sub, so I nod my head toward the next scene. “We can move on.”
“Whatever you want,” he says, his voice low and for my ears only. A dark, heady thrill runs through me. I believe he means that literally.
I don’t know what I want, exactly, but the next scene is getting closer. It’s like what I’ve seen at Rapscallion, only amped up a thousand percent.
A dark-haired woman is strapped naked and face down to a spanking bench, where she’s being fucked by two men, and a blonde woman is helping them.
My breath catches in my throat as I try to take it all in. Straining muscles, guttural groans, and desperate, turned-on whimpers.
None of the casual restraints I’ve seen Max and Hugh use, either. This woman can’t move at all. Her leather-cuffed wrists and ankles are attached by clips, and thick leather straps span her upper and lower back. In her hand is a rubber ducky, which is totally incongruous to the scene.
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