“The club would appreciate it,” Mal says.
“Fortunately, I’m not in the habit of taking other people’s wishes into account when considering the needs of my pet,” Beauty says, her voice sugar sweet and I’m not sure what shocks me more—that my Domme just slapped Mal into place, in his own fucking office, or that she called me hers.
I stare at her, shocked and delighted, and she rolls her eyes at me. Something is distinctly amused about her expression and she leans down, brushing her masked lips over my hair before she unclips my leash. "Thirty minutes, Beast," she murmurs and I nod once before she turns and leaves.
I try not to consider how much I want to go with her, how much I want to demand she put her leash back where it fucking belongs—on my neck.
"Did we put something in the water and I wasn't here that day? Something that is making folks settle down in domestic bliss?" Wolf asks, dryly amused, and my gaze jerks to him, a little bit abashed.
"If we did, I skipped it too," Mal answers.
I snort. "No, brother, you drank the damn Kool Aid before the Kingdom was ever conceived."
His eyebrow arches and he shrugs, accepting that. Then his gaze narrows on me. "Are you ok?"
"Yes," I say, simply. "She's been trying. I don't think she ever meant to withhold aftercare. I think she never considered it was something I needed."
Wolf huffs his opinion of that and I sigh. "Guys, I know you don't like her and you think I'm trapped in this contract, but she isn't what we thought, ok? She's—she's a good person."
"And you like her," Mal says, quiet and even.
I nod, and he shakes his head. "You never do things the easy way, do you?"
"You wouldn't love me if I did," I say, grinning at him and he laughs at that.
"She's never going to be the kind of Domme that you can marry and take home to Grace and Leo."
"She doesn't have to be," I say, and it's true. I don't even realize how true it is until I'm saying it. "She just needs to be mine."
Wolf shifts, but he's an afterthought, almost forgotten as I stare at his brother, at my best friend, at my sometimes Dom, at the man I've loved in one way or another for the better part of a decade.
I'm never going to kiss Mal again. I don't think that thought occurred to me either, until right now.
From the very sad smile he sends me, he had already considered it.
"Then you better get out there, Beast," he says softly, "Remind your Domme who you belong to."
It's not a goodbye, because Mal will always be a part of my life and we both know it, but it is the end of something, and it hurts when I nod and leave the office.
It hurts like hell.
But it doesn't stop me.
~
It's strange and familiar, walking through the club. I wear no leash, and I've only ever worn a collar in the club, the same one I wear now—a thick black band with a simple silver hoop, plain and bold in one simple curl of leather.
It's no different from any of the other times I've walked the Hall or the Floor, but it feels different.
I want Beauty, suddenly and desperately, a kind of ridiculous urge for her that almost freezes me in my tracks.
The music changes and I approach the dais, ignoring the hum of sex that runs through the club like a live wire. Celeste is perched on Charming's lap, sprawled there almost bonelessly, and I grin at her, nudging her with a knee. She blinks, and flashes me a wide smile.
"Your girl let you off your leash," Charm teases and I shrug.
"For a minute. I'm looking for her, actually—"
"Black Room," Celeste says quickly, and I nod at her. Charm huffs, as amused as he is annoyed by his little sub's quick answer, and I wiggle my fingers in something that passes as a wave as I retreat.
Of course she’s in the Black Room. My Domme does love the shadows.
The room isn't empty, but it's close, and I drift through it in silence until a hand, slim fingers and unlikely strength, circles my wrist and pulls me down onto a couch.
I murmur her name and she tilts her head up, and—
The world stops as her lips touch mine.
There’s no mask. There’s no cool soft silk and satin, or the unbending plastic. There’s only the soft slick touch of her lips.
I groan into her and move my hand, a helpless abortive move that she stills instantly, her grip tightening until my bones grind together and my wrist aches and her lips are still there, moving over mine in a gentle caress as she pushes me back into the cushions and glides over me, her body a warm dark shadow.
She's controlling this utterly, giving me only what she wants, and I go boneless with that knowledge, sprawling out and letting her straddle me, her hair brushing my skin as she nips at my lip and I gasp, and then—
Oh, fuck, and then—
She's everywhere. Beauty kisses like she does everything, with an almost clinical precision, licking into my mouth and nipping at my lip, biting down hard enough that pleasure flashes pain for a hot moment, and I writhe as her teeth dig into my lip, pushing past that heartbeat and I shudder, hips jerking against her.
I'm about to come from a fucking kiss.
But it's Beauty, her kiss, and after all this time, I'd written this off. Written off the chance of her ever kissing me, because she hides behind her fucking masks, and that's ok—it's part of her, and important part, so it's ok that she hides.
She licks at my lips and into the wet heat of my mouth, and I groan at the taste of her, tart and sweet, with the metallic taste of blood from biting me.
And salt—there's salt there, too.
She lifts her head and licks my face, a quick darting thing that's not quite a kiss and her voice comes, raspy, "Beast, shh, shh. Don't."
I'm crying.
She's kissing me and I'm fucking crying.
"Beauty," I gasp, my hands flexing against her, and she makes a low noise, the noise that hums approval and warmth into my skin, and slides down my body.
"Easy," she murmurs, pressing her lips to my bare chest, licking the sweat she finds, swirling her tongue against my nipple before she nips it, hard, just to make me squirm.
"Stay still, Beastie," she murmurs against my navel, dipping her tongue in and driving me crazy, and I nod, frantic.
I can do what she wants. I can be what she needs.
She releases my hands and her three slim and perfect fingers press against my lips as she fumbles with my belt.
Leather is kinda a bitch to take off, if you want to hurry. She drags my cock out and I almost come just at the feel of that, her hand on me, her fingers in my mouth, but then she slips off the couch, and takes me in hers.
The only thing that keeps me from screaming is her fingers. The wet heat of her around me is everything I didn't expect and I lurch, a full body shudder that has no grace or training in it. It's all want and need and she takes it, takes my thrust and hums around it, that fucking happy noise that I love as she takes me deep, gagging a little.
It's wet and messy and not very good and I don't give a flying fuck because Beauty is on her damn knees, my cock in her mouth.
I whine when she pulls her fingers away, and she lifts her head.
"Trust me, Beastie?" she murmurs, wicked sweet, and suddenly I remember that we’re in a room of the club, that there are other people here, and that I don't do this. I sub in public, I'll take beatings in public, I'll even go down on a Dom in public. Humiliation is part of the sub's role.
But I don't do this.
Beauty’s fingers, wet from my mouth, circle and press and I never even fucking think my safe word. I spread my legs wide for her and whisper, "Yes," and "Please," and, when she presses in and her mouth lowers on my cock again, "fuck, yes, Beauty, yes."
It hurts, the slight burn as she fucks me slow and methodical, while her mouth is wet and sloppy and everywhere, and the dichotomy is fucking up everything I know.
She's taking me apart and I don't even care.
Her fingers, deep ins
ide me, hook and rub and I scream, arching as I come, hot and hard and she takes it all, swallows around me as I spasm and jerk, rubbing that sweet spot inside me while she sucks me off and licks me clean until I'm twitching. It almost hurts, yet I still whine when she pulls away, not willing to give up that connection, not yet. She leans up and kisses me again, deep and filthy, her tongue fucking into my mouth the way her fingers fucked my body, and I sigh, content to let her take what she wants—content to give her everything she asks for.
For a moment, Beauty pulls away and I want to beg for her to return, but I bite it down. Trust her. When she comes back, she’s wearing her mask, and I brush my fingers over the curve of it as she lays next to me while I pant and I turn into her, nuzzling at her hair as the world settles.
“Thank you, Mistress,” I whisper, my voice slurring toward sleep and she presses her lips—mask—into my hair.
“Sleep now, Beastie.”
I smile, happy she knows me well enough to realize I’m sliding toward slumber, and then I do as she says.
Chapter 17.
After the club, things are easier. Beauty feels distant and skittish for the next day, like she's afraid I'm going to bolt, or—possibly worse—push her for more than she's willing to give.
I don't do either. I curl at her feet and read my book while she works, and ignore the press of her gaze to my lowered head, until she runs her fingers gently over my hair. I twist, press a kiss against her bare thigh, and turn back to my book.
She settles and her quiet ease in my company returns.
It makes me laugh, when I think about the fact that this scared me, that she scared me—that I almost chose to not do this.
The first night Beauty falls asleep in my bed, I lay awake until dawn, waiting for her to wake up and freak out.
She never does. and when she slips from my bed in the morning, it's with a quick press of her face into my shoulder, the gesture I've learned to interpret as a kiss, and a caress of her fingers over my chest before she slips away to stumble to our breakfast.
Things are good, better than I ever expect—not just from Beauty, but ever.
Of course, that's when everything goes to hell.
The phone ringing startles me. Wolf and Charming haven't needed me as much at the club, and the work I'm doing with Mal is largely online, doing bookkeeping and scheduling staff, or answering questions in the forum we keep online for members who aren't always able to come to the club.
"Go," Beauty says when I hesitate, and I do, hurrying across the room to where I discarded my phone after lunch. I scoop it up and my stomach pitches unpleasantly.
Beauty watches me as I answer it, watches the way my hands shake, and her eyes narrow, just a little. She's very smart, my Domme.
"Hey," I say, too bright and cheerful. "What's going on?"
"James," Grace says, and my sister sounds choked, exhausted, old.
My sister has never sounded old.
"I'm here," I say, softly, turning away from Beauty. This feels too intimate and personal to share, even with her. I step out of the office and move down the hall to the balcony. When there’s only the sound of the wind and the low call of traffic far below, I take a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Ok, Gracie. Tell me. What's going on?"
"You need to come home," she whispers, "I'm so sorry, James. I—I've done everything. I don't know what to do with him."
"Do you want to tell me what happened?"
She lets out a shuddering breath. "No. No, the specifics don't matter. You just need to come home."
"Grace, I can't just drop everything and run home."
She makes a noise, something that could be a laugh if it weren't so fucking ugly, and says, "He's in jail, James. I had him arrested."
My stomach drops and I close my eyes, cursing under my breath. "I'll be home as soon as I can," I say, finally.
Grace doesn't answer. She just hangs up.
The silence that settles over me is choking. I lean against the rail of the balcony, looking at a world that I've been ignoring for the better part of two months, and I don't want to leave.
When I was fifteen, my father took me to a drafty old building in downtown Atlanta, and I took a test. It changed everything, threw open doors I never even dreamed existed, much less that I could walk through them.
It terrified me, being shoved into a world so different from my own.
Nothing was ever the same, after that stupid test. Sometimes, I wander Atlanta, looking for that building, and I've never found it. It bothers me, a little. I feel like the faultline for where my life changed should be lit up with neon signs.
It should be something I can find again.
I let out a breath and turn back to the penthouse, and Beauty is there, still and straight, on the other side of the glass, her black mask another wall between us and her brown eyes alive with warmth and concern, and I feel some of the tension drain out of me.
This isn't that fucking factory building. It's not me stepping into a world I don't know or want. My life changed again, when I asked a mysterious Domme with too many security system skills for help. And I don't regret that. I don't regret why I did it or any fucking thing that's come after.
I might not have every predicted what would come of that favor, but I accept it with my eyes wide open.
I accept her, with every barrier and all the hesitance between us.
She waits patiently, as still as stone on the other side of the door, head cocked just a little as she studies me as I smile at her and step forward, pulling the door open and reaching for her.
Some of the tension eases in her as I dip my head to the curve of her shoulder, pressing my lips to the skin there.
"Is it bad?" she asks, finally.
I shake my head, and then shrug and nod.
"I have to go home."
Beauty flinches, a full body thing and I squeeze her tighter, closer to me.
"James—"
"I have to," I say, "I don't want to, Beauty. I have to."
"The contract," she begins weakly, and I shake my head.
"There is a provision for family emergency. You know that."
She's quiet, and when she finally speaks, her voice is small and unexpectedly hurt. "I was merely going to tell you that the contract is ending in a week." She swallows hard and I pull away to stare at her.
"You don't have to come back. Take care of your family, Beast. You've fulfilled your contract."
I do something then that I know will scare her. I catch her face in my hands, and push my fingers into her hair. Her mask bends and shifts a little under my touch and I can feel the tension in her, the fear, but she doesn't fight me.
"I'm leaving, but I'll be back. I'm coming back to you, Beauty."
Her eyes close and she doesn't argue, with me or my promise, as I hold her in the sticky summer heat.
Chapter 18.
I moved to Atlanta after college, but I left home—God, I left home when I was fifteen, bright eyed, furious, and out of place at Wilderwood Prep. Being tossed in a room with Wolf was probably the best thing that could have happened, because it meant I was shoved in Mal's—and Charm's—orbit. Everything after that was history.
I went back home, of course, but it wasn't somewhere that captured me. I think Dad knew that's what would happen.
Sometimes I think that's why I hate him so fucking much. He knew what he was doing when he shoved me into the entrance exam for Wilderwood, knew that my life would never be the same—that it couldn't be—and he did it anyway. He shoved me out of my life and into someone else's.
I love him for it almost as much as I hate him.
I drive slowly through Bellville and even though I don't appear out of place, not in my F150 that I've been driving since before I left this hell hole, it still feels like it.
The truth is, you can't go home again.
I'm really fucking tired of trying.
~
Grace is waiting for me. She's sitting on the porc
h of the house we grew up in, a rambling two story thing that needs a coat of paint or a bulldozer, and I'm leaning toward the bulldozer.
I keep trying to fix the place up and Grace gives me that patient my-brother-is-an-idiot stare she does too fucking well and says they're fine.
They aren't, but I can't force her to take my money. God knows I've tried.
She doesn't say anything as I climb the stairs and sit on the porch swing next to her, just hands me her coffee and leans against me, and we rock there in silence.
~
"He broke into Billings Hardware and stole my car," Grace says, and I slide a look at my sister.
"And Billings didn't press charges?" I ask, arching an eyebrow.
"Says Daddy just needs a little understanding."
I snort. My father needs a fucking straight jacket, not understanding.
"How long has he been off his meds?" I ask.
Grace shrugs. She looks tired, more tired than a woman of only thirty-two should ever look.
"James, he hurt Lainey. He—I don't think he realizes it. I was in the shower, when he stole the car. She tried to stop him and ended up getting pushed around. Nothing lasting—she's scared, but she'll be fine. But I can't have him in the house like that."
Ah, so that's why she had him arrested instead of trying to take him home and deal with this privately. It makes sense. My sister has the patience of a saint and has dealt with our father for far longer than I could have—but she has a limit.
As I pull into the courthouse parking lot, my phone buzzes in my pocket and I look at it, earning a snort of disbelief from Gracie.
BEAUTY: how is he?
I smile at the tiny screen. I wasn't sure, when I pressed my phone number to her desk, that she'd actually use it. I wanted her to, of course, but Beauty has weird hang ups.
ME: We're about to see him. I don't know. I don't know how to help him.
I pocket it and look up to find Gracie watching me, and I flush. "What?"
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