by Nikki Sloane
I tried not to sound skeptical. “Okay.”
“I want to tell you a story, but first, I have a question. How do you feel about sex?”
I blinked. “Uh, I like it?” How was I supposed to answer that? “I like it quite a bit, but maybe you want to be more specific.”
A tense laugh drifted out of her before she turned serious again. “Do you think it’s possible to separate it from emotion? Like, does sex need to be an emotional experience every time you’re with someone else?”
A warning siren wailed in the distance, telling me to choose my words wisely so I didn’t come off looking like a guy who was into meaningless fucks. I wasn’t. But between girlfriends in college, I’d had plenty of one-night-stands, and I was a man. Whenever the opportunity presented itself and a girl was interested, I usually didn’t turn her down.
“No,” I said. “Sometimes, sex is just sex.”
She nodded in agreement. “You don’t have to be in love, or really even in ‘like’ with the other person every time. Don’t get me wrong, with the right person? Sex is powerful and meaningful. There’s nothing else like it. But sometimes, it’s just about having fun and feeling good, right?”
Was this a trap? It felt like a trap. I hesitated before answering. “Right.”
“You look terrified,” she said. “I’m doing this all wrong, but what I’m getting at is, can people be in an emotional relationship, let’s say in love, and never have sex?”
“Of course.”
It was the answer she wanted to hear, because her eyes charged with energy. “So, would it be possible for people to be in a relationship when it’s the opposite of that? Sex without love or emotion?”
My mouth went dry. “Is that what you’re looking for with me?”
She let out a tight breath. “We’ll have to circle back to that.” She snatched up her wine glass and took a long sip, leaving me to wonder where she was going with this.
Did I want a purely sexual relationship with Tara? No. I’d want more. I’d want everything. But if sex was all she was willing to give right now, I’d take it without complaints and do my best to make her interested in more.
She licked her lips as she set the glass down, and her blue eyes clouded with an emotion I didn’t understand. Apprehension?
“Story time. Like you, I was the black sheep of my family.” Her gaze fixed on me. “So, when I couldn’t fit in, I decided I’d stand out instead. If everyone was going to go right, I’d go left. It’s why I started dancing.”
I understood what she meant. I’d grown up in a different hemisphere, but so much of my life had been similar. There’d been fights I’d gotten into over stupid shit, all just to get noticed. To make sure my voice was heard.
Her mouth twisted into an ironic smile. “Joke was on me, though. A lot of the time ballet is about blending in, matching the people around you. Anyway, when I got to college, I met this girl.” Pink tinged her cheeks. Either she was embarrassed, or the wine was warming her up. “She was smart, and funny, and kind of bossy. Like, in a sexy way, and . . . it was confusing. I always tried to be unique, my own person, so I couldn’t tell if I was actually into her, or if it was just—I dunno, me trying to be into her. Because it was different, you know what I mean?”
“You thought it wasn’t real.”
She nodded. “Like, all the cool girls at the time said they were bi. They weren’t. They were just playing at it. For most of them, it wasn’t sexuality—it was a trend.”
There was a clatter of silverware at the table next to us, but I didn’t give it any attention. I only wanted to hear what she was going to say next.
“I didn’t act on it. I was afraid to go down that road if it wasn’t true. I didn’t want to hurt anyone, and I didn’t want to get hurt either.” Her posture changed as she kept talking. She relaxed, tension leaving her shoulders. “About three years ago, I auditioned for the Chicago Ballet Company. It was my third attempt. I told myself if I didn’t get accepted, that was it. I was done trying to be a professional dancer.”
Even though I knew how it was going to end, I still had hope that her story would go another way.
“After it was over, I went to some random bar to get shitfaced. I’d spent my whole life trying to be seen, but that night? I wanted to be fucking invisible. I didn’t know what I was going to do with my life, or who I was anymore.”
I opened my mouth to say something, but she lifted a hand, signaling she had more to say.
“This guy comes over, and suddenly I’m telling him my sob story, whining to him over the drink he bought me.” She looked amused. “Not unlike what I’m doing right now. So, we have this long conversation about everything. I told him I’d spent the last twelve years of my life doing what other people told me to do, moving how they wanted, and now without a director, I was lost. To a man like Joseph—that’s the guy’s name—hearing that was, like, the greatest thing ever.”
“What?” I scowled. “Why?”
She swallowed hard. “Because he’s a Dominant.” The word hung, suspended between us. Tara toyed with the napkin on the table, tracing the edges with her fingers, hinting at her nervousness. “You know what that means?”
“Yeah,” I said quickly.
I didn’t get into details with Ruby, but I knew she lived the lifestyle, and it was good for her. She had issues with her temper, and Kyle helped her keep it under control. McAsshole had a history with Ruby that made me wary of him, but his positive influence on her was undeniable.
“I’m submissive.” Tara declared it with ease. “After a month with him, it was clear I was bisexual. Girls, boys, I like them all . . . as long as they’re the ones in charge.”
Beneath the table, I balled my hand into a fist. The idea of her with another woman was so hot, I had to do something to distract from my basic instinct. This isn’t about you. Don’t make it about you.
I thought my reaction was good. I wanted her to feel comfortable, but I must have failed. Her breathing picked up, and her gaze darted away from mine, which made me just as nervous as she looked. Did she think I wasn’t cool with this? Because I was. It was brave that she’d told me.
“Tara, I think—”
“I’m in a relationship.” She spat it out like she’d been holding it back and it escaped by pure force.
I flinched, even though I’d heard her. “You mentioned that.”
“Right, but it’s an unusual one. That’s why I told you all this, and why I asked if you thought it was possible to be in a relationship that excludes emotion.”
I fought to process what she was saying, “You and this guy, it’s just a sexual relationship?”
“Not a guy. It’s a couple.”
A couple. Her and a guy and a girl. My curiosity kicked in, overriding everything else and I asked it genuinely. “How does that work?”
“They’re together and very much in love. I’m their third. I care about them, and they care about me, but it’s a respect thing, not emotional.”
I picked up my glass of wine and drank, not so much because I was thirsty, but so it would give me a chance to organize my thoughts.
“They’re my doms,” she continued. “Because of where I am in my life, I don’t date. I like what I have with them, and up until recently, I thought it was all I needed. But if the right person came along, I’d . . . well, things would change.”
Wait a minute. I set my wine down, but my fingers remained on the bell of the glass. “What are you saying?
“I like you, but I don’t know you well enough yet. If you’re just looking to get laid, I’m afraid I can’t help you.”
“You have your doms for that.” The second it was out, I wanted to take the shitty comment back. I hadn’t meant to be so plain, but it felt like I’d already lost the chance to date her before I’d known I was competing, and I was a sore loser.
Thankfully, she didn’t seem offended. “Yes, exactly.”
; “And what if I’m not just looking to get laid? I asked you to dinner—”
“A lot of guys think dinner’s a prerequisite.” Her expression dared me to say otherwise.
I wasn’t going to, because she had a point. “Fair enough, but you didn’t answer my question.”
She sat back in her chair and evaluated me critically. “I’m not allowed to sleep with you, but we could get to know each other and see if there’s something here.”
My eyes went as large as the head of a timpani drum. “What about them?”
“I won’t be fucking them either.”
Was this crazy? I had to say it out loud to make sure I was understanding it. “So, you propose we date, but not sleep together.”
She nodded. “Yeah.”
“And your couple would be stuck in a holding pattern.”
“Unless I decide to end it, yeah.”
“Or I don’t make the cut, and you go back to them.” I shoved a hand through my hair, probably making a mess of it. “It sounds like they’re getting the raw end of the deal.”
“There are other ways for me to please them.”
“How?”
“I could give them control over us.” Her eyes were full of seduction. “If you were into that sort of thing.”
Beneath the table, my dick twitched. Her sexy voice instantly made me into a lot of things, including considering her strange offer. I knew nothing about this couple, other than one evening with me had her considering leaving them. If this couple and I went head-to-head, how could I not win?
“I know this is a lot,” she said. “I’m super excited you’re still sitting here after I laid all this out. But . . .” she took in a deep breath, pushed up her shirt sleeves, and leaned on the table, “there’s something else I have to tell you.”
My gaze locked onto the beautiful tattoo crawling along her forearm, and my heart stopped.
Bloody. Fucking. Hell.
-15-
Grant
Without thought, I reached across the table and grabbed Tara’s wrist, gently pulling her arm toward me and pushing up her sleeve. I stared at the tattoo in disbelief.
Like an idiot, my first reaction was to scan the restaurant as if Julius was going to appear from nowhere and throttle me. He’d warned me to stay away from his club, giving me a thinly-veiled threat. Yet, here I was, sitting across from the woman I’d tried to buy a night with. I was chilled with a cold sweat of panic.
My second reaction was a flood of memories. What Tara looked like naked and bound to the table. How the ice cube melted and slipped from my fingers. How she’d tasted. I ran the edge of my thumb over a curve in the ink, and her eyes hazed. My sweat turned from cold to hot, my body overwhelmed.
My third reaction was anger. I glared at the scrolling tattoo and grew mad. Not just at the patterned artwork, or the way I couldn’t seem to let go of her, but at myself. How hadn’t I noticed it before? Fuck her sleeves. And why hadn’t I recognized her? It was amazing what a difference a simple blindfold could make. I wanted to put one on now and go back in time to when I was blissfully ignorant.
Ignorant.
She hadn’t really told me what she did for a living, but judging by her expression, that confession was up next. If she didn’t tell me, and someone saw us together right now, I could claim I didn’t know. It was a stretch, but it could work.
It could save me.
“Do you like it?” she asked.
Wires were still crossed in my brain. “What?”
An incredulous smile warmed her lips. “My tattoo? You’re, uh, petting my arm.”
“Sorry.” I was finally able to pull away. “It’s beautiful.”
“Thank you.” She straightened in her seat, her expression filled with longing. Like she wished I hadn’t stopped touching her. It was the same for me. Wait, no. I needed to put distance between us.
The server appeared with our dinners, and we stayed silent as the plates were set down. I stared at my burger, no longer hungry. How was I going to keep her from telling me?
“I don’t need to hear more,” I said as soon as the server departed. When her face twisted with hurt, I felt it sharply in my chest. Shit. I had to fix it. “What I mean is, thank you for being honest with me. I bet it wasn’t easy, and I appreciate it. But I . . . need time to absorb all this.”
“Oh,” she said, confusion running visibly through her. “Okay, but—”
“Does anything have to be decided right this second?”
“No, but I should—”
“Perfect. I’m starving,” I lied. “We can eat first. You said you wanted to get to know each other better. Let’s do that.”
She was submissive and liked when the other person was in charge. That was good. I liked taking the lead, and right now, I’d do my best to steer her away from revealing the whole truth.
I picked up my burger, readying to take a bite. “Tell me about the Dance Dreams audition.”
“Um . . .” She struggled to pivot that rapidly. “What do you want to know?”
“What do you get if you win?”
“The whole show? It’s a cash prize and a contract with a talent agency, but I won’t win. I’m too old, my turns aren’t good enough, and it’s a popular vote system. The audience is mostly women, so guys are more likely to win.”
“But if you can’t win, why do it? What’s the goal? Exposure?”
She nodded. “That, and to get to work with some amazing people. I really like choreographing, and I’d fucking love to see other people’s process.”
“What’s yours like?”
“My process?” Her eyes lit up, and internally I breathed a sigh of relief. I had her hooked now. “I used to be really structured. I’d write out the eight count sections and map the whole thing from start to finish, but lately I’ve been improvising. I put on the music and let it tell me how the piece should go.” She picked up her fork and speared a leaf of her Caesar salad. “That’s how I’d like to do it with you.”
I paused. “With me?”
“I can get rehearsal space at my friend Elena’s studio. Just let me know when your cello is fixed and what days and times work with your schedule.”
The audition seemed like a very bad idea now, but I didn’t want to leave her stranded. “I’m pretty busy. Can I send you a recording?”
“Sure.” She lifted a teasing eyebrow. “But my routine won’t be as good, and I thought you were a competitor.”
I was. And this girl was killing me.
I couldn’t have her. Not as a girlfriend, or a lover, or even as a friend. I didn’t scare easily, but I also wasn’t stupid. What would happen if Julius caught me? I didn’t want to find out.
“One session,” I said. “I’m usually done around two on the weekdays.” I’d be careful and make sure we stuck to the task at hand. As soon as it was over, I’d have no choice but to ghost her.
My curiosity ate at me, though. Did the couple she was with know she worked at the blindfold club? And if so, why was it okay for her to fuck strangers for money, but not me?
Because it’s about power.
I was jealous of them. If things were different, I would have stepped up to the challenge. It was two against one, and I loved a good underdog fight. It made the victory even sweeter.
Somehow, Tara and I made it through the meal without straying back to our original conversation, and although we were friendly, there was tension hovering over us. She was probably worried I was judging her, which I wasn’t. I was worried about slipping and confessing that the brief night we’d shared three weeks ago had been one of the hottest things I’d ever experienced.
Not to mention, I’d spent months trying to get a lead into the story of the club, and Tara could bust the thing wide open for me. That was, if I was the kind of guy who was willing to use her like that.
I wasn’t . . . was I?
“I’m not going to hear from you again, am
I?” she asked when the check arrived. “I’m too weird for you.”
I snatched up the bill as she reached for it. “No, not at all. You’re exactly my brand of weird.”
“If you say so.” She didn’t believe me. “Okay, where does that leave us?”
There was a huge lie wedged between us, and I was the one who’d put it there. I swallowed thickly. “Hanging out and not sleeping with each other—I guess that makes us friends?”
She pressed her lips together. This wasn’t the answer she hoped for, but it wasn’t a total loss either.
“Okay,” she said finally. “But friends split the bill, Grant.”
Monday morning, I was drinking my second cup of coffee when a production assistant came scurrying up to me, her eyes wide with fear. “Morgan needs to see you.”
“What’s going on?”
“Wardrobe put her in a size eight dress.”
“Shit,” I muttered and drank the rest of my coffee in two huge gulps. “Where is she?”
“In makeup.”
I tossed my paper cup into the garbage and checked my watch as I made my way toward the makeup department. I’d need to handle this quickly. If she was in tears, we might not have enough time to fix the damage, and I wasn’t going to put her on-air with a runny nose and mascara smudged under her eyes.
Morgan was seated in the chair in front of the bright mirror, white napkins tucked into the collar of her dress to protect it while the makeup artist brushed powder on her forehead. As soon as the artist saw me, she stepped back, shoved her brush into her apron, and gave me a knowing look.
“I’m gonna grab some coffee,” she said.
The woman didn’t want to hear the upcoming conversation, and I couldn’t blame her. I certainly didn’t want to be having it . . . again.
Morgan’s gaze found mine through the mirror, and she grabbed the armrests of the chair, pushing up to stand. “Grant, finally. Look at this dress.”
It was hard to miss because it was a bold yellow. Wardrobe liked to put her in happy colors because it was a morning show, and the short dress was cute with scalloped edges. The color was good on Morgan. Her skin looked tan and her blonde hair was a softer hue, complimenting the dress color instead of clashing with it.