by Sable Jordan
“Oookay,” Kizzie drawled, starting toward the exit, “I’ll be in the car…”
Xander grabbed her hand, keenly aware of her resistance as he laced their fingers. He dragged her in the opposite direction, swerved through costumed bodies until they reached an abandoned table. Just one chair available, and he slid onto it before Kizzie got the chance.
“Poor, dead chivalry,” she muttered. Another Dom sat at a table nearby, his sub kneeling beside him. Kizzie smiled tightly and then made a show of hitching up her already short skirt to get into position. Xander snagged her elbow and hauled her onto his lap, the move startling her.
He seated her on the crease of his thigh, close to his torso. An arm cinched around Kizzie’s waist stopped any further protest. Lavender hair blocked his view, and he brushed the pigtail behind her shoulder.
Goosebumps prickled the skin where he’d grazed her, and Xander gave in to temptation, faintly caressing her collar bone. She shivered; he stopped at her throat, lightly stroking the hollow.
A training collar to start...
What was he thinking? He hadn’t trained a sub in a long time, and though he’d done some sceneing when he could to take the edge off, there wasn’t anyone permanent since…her.
A lifetime ago.
No one had made him consider revisiting that kind of dedication—that kind of risk—until Kizzie.
And wouldn’t it make sense the one woman he wanted for his sub was so adamantly trying to prove herself vanilla? Add to that they didn’t have the time a D/s relationship required and the idea was dead in the water before she even knew he’d thought it.
“Why are we here, Xander?” Kizzie asked, her muscles shifting beneath his touch. She leaned into him—with their proximity, she really had no choice—but sat rigid, her body wary. Those brown eyes had softened though, looking down at him from the slight height advantage being perched on his thigh provided. He stared into their depths far too long, planning things he had no business planning.
Her clean scent made him rethink having her nestled so close to his cock.
Equally problematic: she was so far from his cock.
Kizzie caught a corner of her lower lip between her teeth and he envied the pearly whites. Close enough to kiss her—he caressed her chin—just tip her head down a bit and taste her mouth. He wanted to. Had wanted to the moment he first spotted her.
She watched him through heavy lids; he licked his lips.
The lights in the room went down and a spot shone on the center of the “stage,” breaking the spell.
Xander dropped his hand and swallowed the lust clogging his throat. Tearing his gaze from hers, he jerked his chin toward the empty area at the front. “Watch.”
* * * *
The soft graze of his fingers lingered, matching the subtle burn on her throat. Kizzie was pretty certain Xander was going to kiss her, and 100% positive she’d do something stupid, like kiss him back. She willed her pulse to slow, her body to relax.
At the front of the room, a series of riggers’ hooks dangled from sturdy scaffolding. A bluish spotlight centered on the area, all else blanketed in darkness. The airy notes of bamboo flutes eased from the surround sound, creating a seductive mood.
The door on the wall beside them opened, and a figure in silky, dark robes emerged, heading for the light center-stage. A small woman, moving with a fluid grace and spiraling into the crowd where the darkness swallowed her up. Moments later, she returned to the front, weaving, robes rippling like waves lapping the shore.
“The moon,” Xander whispered, voice floating to her ear thick as syrup. He tugged her a bit closer, the hand at her waist slid down to rest on her thigh. Kizzie nodded, attention on both the woman and the heat bleeding through the taffeta skirt.
The dancer repeated her motions several times, arms lifting and twisting as she darted in and out of the light. Blue-black hair flowed behind her when she ran and swayed, covered her face when she folded with dramatic flair, back bowed and arms dangling. She lifted again, made a small pirouette, and then dashed away with the light chasing.
At the far side of the room another spot came on, warmer in tone and highlighting a man clad in burnished orange robes. Not quite as free-flowing as Moon’s, his were more of the Shaolin warrior monk variety, wrapped and tucked in an orderly fashion. Barefoot, he stood tall with a presence that radiated power, muscled arms crossed at his chest. He eyed Moon with a fierce intensity.
Kizzie made the connection—the sun.
Great.
The Mistress was out there somewhere with a salted bomb, women with In-Yo tattoos were dropping like flies, and she and Xander were hard at work watching interpretive dance at a costumed freak-fest! Rivaled the efficiency of any other government sanctioned op...
Kizzie swallowed her groan and observed the crowd. The limited light made it impossible to make out faces, not that she knew who to look for.
Still, she sifted through shapes to keep busy, or at least be on her guard. Sitting at the front of a room with an audience at your back wasn’t a smart tactical position—that’s just day one stuff. Where was her head that she’d blindly followed Xander to the worst seating arrangement in the place?
He patted her thigh. “The wall’s at your back, I’m right beside you, Phil’s close by. You’re as safe as you can be in a crowd, Princess. Relax for me and watch the show.”
It unnerved her that he could read her, and Kizzie didn’t like being unnerved as a general rule. Instead of defying him, she focused on the performance art. Even field agents needed a culture break every now and then, she supposed.
Sun dropped his arms to his sides, the grandest motion he’d made all evening, and Moon continued her slow dance to the flutes, edging closer. Sun reached out; she backed away, wagging a teasing forefinger: Can’t catch me.
She had no discernible pattern—into the crowd, off to one corner of the stage, always just out of Sun’s reach and always moving. The spotlight either chased or she dodged it, never getting caught in the bright ray for too long.
Sun moved as well, a distinct course carved with determined steps. Two strides toward the center of the stage and he’d stop, waiting patiently for Moon to come near enough to capture. His route brought him closer to the hooks, beneath which sat several coils of crimson rope.
The orange and blue spots briefly crossed paths, creating a soft, purplish light before separating again. A couple turns later, Sun stooped to retrieve a red pile. When he resumed his height, he pushed his arm through the ring of cords and shifted it to rest on his shoulder. Moon danced behind him, so lost in her freedom she didn’t realize how dangerously close she’d come to being in his grasp.
Kizzie’s rapt attention stayed on the two celestial beings, but she was still aware of Xander’s hand tightening on her leg. She adjusted her hips to stay on his thigh, and his muscles bunched beneath her. She shifted again. Christ, she was probably crushing the hell out of his leg.
Wait… Did he just…groan?
Moon swirled, dipped forward and tossed her long mane, arms floating up and out. Her robes shimmered, satiny blues appearing deep navy in places where the shadows hadn’t been chased off by the light. She stood and backed up…a little more…more…directly into Sun.
Her hand pressed to her chest, mouth and eyes rounded in surprise. Sun wrapped his arms around her.
Trapped.
Moon dipped her chin to her chest.
Kizzie swallowed, much too aware of Xander’s large body beneath her…beside her…around her. His hand was under the taffeta now, strong fingers draped over her inner thigh. When that had happened she didn’t know, but she forced herself not to focus on it.
The couple stayed in their embrace a long moment, Sun whispering words only Moon could hear and Moon nodding. Then he positioned her beneath the hooks, facing the audience. He made an orderly braid of her loose hair then, grip close to her crown, he guided her head in a sensual roll and yanked back hard. Her face shot up, loose ba
ngs framing rounded cheeks. Two more soft tugs and Moon’s eyes closed.
Sun continued whispering, hands snaking over Moon’s shoulders. Palms smoothed down her breasts, fondling the mounds a long while before continuing to her belly. Fingers hooked in the material, Sun ripped the plackets apart exposing soft porcelain skin. He tossed the robes away, then returned to admire his woman’s nude form.
Tattoos lined Moon’s side, the ink stretching from ribcage to ankle. Kizzie was too far to make out the shapes, but on her own leg Xander’s thumb stroked back and forth lazily, skin to skin, the relaxing motion etching in a permanent mark of its own. It tickled in all the right ways. Such a slight movement covering little more than an inch of her—a very intimate inch, mind—but it felt like Xander’s hands were everywhere on her body.
Kizzie exhaled the breath she’d been holding, unclenched her jaw to drag another in through her mouth.
Sun finished his survey of Moon. With practiced ease, he dropped the rope from his shoulder and caught it in his hand.
Then it began.
Reverently, he wrapped a doubled length of rope around Moon’s chest, right above her breasts. It disappeared behind her back where he fiddled with it before pulling it forward again, this time taking it along her ribcage, beneath the rounded peaks. He pulled tight, and Moon pushed her chest forward. Her head fell back, and Sun was there. He spoke in her ear as he made more adjustments to the rope. Tweaked her nipples and then slid his hand down over her hip, a passionate line of red following in his wake.
They continued in this vein, a sensual dance between Sun and Moon, the rope acting to bind her. Bind them. Every movement from Sun was methodical and focused; each response from Moon a reflection of her master’s skill.
Sun gripped a hook overhead, pulled it down until he’d secured it to the many ties at Moon’s back. Only then did he step away to work the black rope that would lift Moon into the air. He hoisted her easily, raising her a good foot or so from the ground.
Arms cinched tightly behind her and crimson cords going every which way around her body, Moon dangled from the single hook, almost parallel to the floor and completely helpless. Her legs weren’t fully bound yet, and they moved freely as she swayed from the energy in the lines.
The thicker black cord secured to a post, Sun returned to his sub. He spun her in a circle, let her body twirl a few moments, and then eased her to a stop. Another length of red rope in his hand, he captured one leg, bent it at the knee, tucking her heel beneath the slight swell of her ass. Several stylistic loops and ties later, the woman’s leg was immobile, the rope tight enough against her pale skin to force the flesh through the gaps. He tied the other ankle to the hook.
More rope was added, starting at Moon’s chest and then looping her neck before interlacing the suspension ropes. There didn’t appear to be a specific pattern, but the lines were clean and the angles held a kind of beauty Kizzie hadn’t seen before. She watched every movement Sun made, adding jute and knots and then displaying Moon to the crowd.
Still, his focus stayed on his sub.
The music shifted, drums joining the flutes and both rising in intensity. The rhythm became a visceral pound in Kizzie’s chest. She didn’t realize how much tension was in her belly until Sun reached for one of the suspension ropes. Her eyes widened, working to trace the red thread from hook to body. Pointless. Moon dangled there, in a zone and apparently none too worried with what the man behind her was up to.
Kizzie leaned forward a hair. Xander’s hand tightened on her thigh; two quick squeezes and his thumb resumed the light stroking.
Sun let go of one rope and selected another. He reconsidered, walked a tight circle around Moon—whose eyes fluttered and head lolled as though in a trance—then reached into a fold of his robes and emerged with a short, curved blade.
Kizzie’s heart beat in her throat, brows raised high. He didn’t intend to cut the ropes, did he? This had face plant written all over it! She gripped Xander’s knee, her other hand found his opposite thigh.
Sun knuckled Moon’s cheek, brushing back the bangs to murmur in her ear. No visible response from her, and he returned to the ropes, brandishing the knife. It was relatively small, the thick grip swallowed by his palm, but the blade curved back so far it looked like a half circle. It glinted in the spotlight a brief second—
—then slashed through one of the ropes.
Kizzie gasped—along with the audience—fingers tightening on Xander’s flesh as Moon’s head rushed downward and then stopped abruptly. Sun twisted Moon again and she spun unchallenged. Another cut and her head dropped more, stopped just shy of smacking the floor.
Sun added a rope here, cut one there, lifted and adjusted the main rope. A steady give and take with Moon completely at his mercy and too calm to be concerned. Kizzie watched it happen over and over again. Each time she knew full well what was coming, had faith Sun wouldn’t let Moon crash but couldn’t stop her own belly from falling.
Moon dangled upside down by what appeared to be the single rope tied around the ankle of her extended leg.
One thin red line of security.
One thin red line of trust.
The spot shone on her beautiful form. Burgundy slashes on smooth porcelain marked where the rope had hugged her body; bright red lines where the rope remained. Her head was only inches from the ground, arms still behind her and her other leg still bent and bound. Her eyes were closed, face burning from the blood’s bend to gravity.
Drums reached their zenith and then died abruptly, the flutes settled to their original tempo—slow and magical.
With great care, Sun made one more tie, this one at the harness around Moon’s breasts. Knot secured, he took the measures to bring her parallel to the floor once more. More ties and then he moved away to work the rigging rope.
Once Moon was safely on the ground, Sun freed her legs and then gathered the woman into his arms. She leaned against his chest, silent tears streaming down her cheeks. Sun brushed them away, murmuring a smile onto her face.
After a few moments he stood and helped his sub until she was steady on her feet. A hand on the rope that still bound her arms, Sun watched her bow as the crowd cheered—a noise like thunder.
Kizzie was too focused on the rope marks veining the woman’s skin to clap. The whole thing was…intense. Not what she expected at all. Hell, she had no idea to expect anything, but definitely not this, and certainly not to be so enthralled by it.
Absolute trust. Who knew?
Obviously they’d been together a long time, Sun and Moon, but there wasn’t a moment of concern Kizzie could see. It was beautiful, really. It was—
—not the reason they were here.
Sun helped his sub don her robes, and the din of the crowd picked up again.
Blinking herself back to the present, Kizzie turned directly into Xander’s scrutinizing gaze. How long had he been doing that? His thumb was still burning a brand into her thigh, sending that tingling fire through her body. His leg had to be asleep by now, seeing as how she’d spent the last ten minutes impeding his circulation.
She shifted to hop down and paused, her thigh snug against a thick, hard bulge.
Xander’s circulation was working just fine.
He stared at her openly, and they were so close that looking left or right didn’t take her out of his field of focus.
“Uh….” Kizzie stammered, sliding from his lap. The move made his hand glide up the crease of her leg and over her hip, lifted the gobs of taffeta. When she turned his wide palm dragged across her ass. Not what she’d planned, but a solid 9.6 from the American judge for the dismount.
Her feet tingled now that they were on the ground and her knees almost gave. Only reason they were weak.
Xander steadied her with his hands at her hips, and a hot flush rushed from arches to head. She had to think. Yes, kick-starting the brain was priority one.
“The Mistress…” Sounded like a lame ass segue even to Kizzie’s ears a
nd she’d said it. She cleared her throat. “We should look for her now…split up.”
Xander found her hand and twined their fingers, a move that was happening far too frequently and with greater ease. His gaze locked on hers. “No, we shouldn’t.” Her brow shot up and he jerked his chin toward the stage. “We’re here for him. Master D, the bakushi who just performed.”
He stood from the seat, hard body pressed against hers. Kizzie took half a step back.
“Because he knows the Mistress?”
Clearly Operation Brain Start was a failure. But the question was far more useful than the thoughts in her head, most of which involved a lot less clothing than the taffeta and tank top. Hovering too close to the forefront of her mind was something deeper than sex with Xander.
Far more dangerous.
Sleep with one eye open…
Kizzie twisted her head, hoping to shake the stupid loose. Whether Xander was in an open marriage or not wasn’t the issue. She was off the market. As an agent—and him a criminal—she had to be.
Master D and his submissive were still at the front, the connection between them a tangible thing. Sun’s need for Moon was obvious. Doms dominated, kinda right there on the package. It was Moon’s need Kizzie couldn’t wrap her mind around. Free as the day is long, she gets caught by the Sun and learns a new kind of freedom in reflecting his light. Mushy as mashed peas, but was that the draw of the D/s relationship? Not just pain or sex or control, but… balance?
All at once an overwhelming sadness filled the spot just behind Kizzie’s breastbone and she found it hard to breathe. Leaving The Point and joining the CIA in a covert capacity, there were a lot of things she’d given up. At the time, and due to the circumstances surrounding her abrupt departure from academia, walking away from “normalcy,” healthy relationships, and trust in sentient, bipedal organisms wasn’t a hard sell. She’d had no use for any of it anyway.
Now?