by M. A. Ellis
“I find it interesting that’s the part of that statement you latched on to. So, a twenty-pack of AAs for your birthday?” he teased.
“Sure,” she shot back. “Going with the over-under on whether I have a lover or not, those could keep me saying ‘Golly, that was fun’ for the next four months.”
“But if you did, are you saying they’d last longer?”
Becca’s uh-oh sensors went up but she didn’t consider her answer. “Of course.”
“Why?”
A tiny flutter in her stomach started to build and she answered slowly. “Because I wouldn’t need a toy to satisfy me.”
She glanced over and found him staring at her with such intensity her throat went dry. She couldn’t say the same for other areas.
“So you wouldn’t use it when you were with him? Let him know exactly what you liked?”
A jolt of desire shot to her pussy. She had a flash of them lying in her bed, him propped up on one elbow between her spread legs, silently watching as she rubbed her favorite bullet vibe between her folds and around her clit.
The stoplight ahead changed to yellow and she stepped on the brake. Maybe a little too hard. She wasn’t about to look to see his expression. But she needed to get him back on track and away from fantasyland.
“Who said I was talking about a ‘he’?” There. That should do it.
“Oh, now you’re just freakin’ teasing me.” His laugh sounded a little off. “That statement isn’t going to have the effect you were going for but let’s move forward since you’re trying to deflect. Your soon-to-be-customer, Andres Herzog.”
She did love how he was able to let things go. But she had a feeling if they weren’t on their way to a sex club to do some ownership tattoos, a straightforward conversation about masturbation might have added another layer to their relationship.
“Forty-eight years old. U.S. citizen for the past seventeen years. C.O.B., Germany.”
“C.O.B.?” she asked.
“Country of birth.”
Becca laughed at his seriousness. “Okay, Riley, Ace of Spies. Carry on.”
He made a noise, something between a snort and an exasperated sigh, then he continued. “Herzog bought the former G Spot nightclub two years ago and renamed it after one of the foremost books on BDSM, something about screwing the roses and wanting thorns instead. He’s a highly sought after Dom and Master. Men and women line up to have him mentor them in the ways of the lifestyle.”
She caught his air quotes out of the corner of her eye.
“Optimal triumph is when they work their way into his inner circle of submissives. Your friend, Mr. Bulky—”
“He’s not my friend. He was just delivering the offer.”
“Yeah. Whatever. You checked out those abs. Thought about the gun show. Admit it.”
She wasn’t sure why he was egging her on and she shook her head. “You’re an idiot.”
“You know something, Bec? Words hurt.” He’d teased her with that particular phrase so many times she’d lost count. But inside, it always made her smile.
She flipped him off and kept driving. “Continue.”
“Bossiness. According to my research, a sure sign of a natural-born ‘top’, many of whom start out as ‘bottoms’ before finding their way to roles of dominance. So keep that in mind if this inking gig you have going takes a header.”
She could have flipped him off, but it would have been bad form to do that twice in a one-minute period.
“Then there are the ‘switches’. Not the branches that some people like to have their bodies caned with, and let me tell you, that’s some fucked-up shit if ever there was, but switches of the human variety. The ones who can either top or bottom depending on their mood or the circumstance. You following all this?”
She nodded. It definitely went beyond her idea of what constituted kinkiness.
“Anyhow, douche-a-rific has been with Herzog since day one. Started out as a hustler on Jefferson, near the bus station according to his rap sheet. Today he’s Herzog’s number two guy. It was a big deal, him coming to see you. But he does love his Master. Enough that it’s suspected he took the rap for Herzog on a battery charge earlier in the year. He’s taking his chance at trial, which has been postponed twice and is scheduled for next month. He’s done anger management. Him grabbing you might be admissible, if it’s on Joe’s security tapes.”
Becca raised a hand and stopped him. “Are you channeling Judge Judy or Jim Phelps?”
He didn’t miss a beat. “Your mission, doll, should you choose to accept it…”
She loved that he got her movie and television references, especially since most of the time both of them were too young to remember the original shows. But her girlfriends always said rerun junkies and comic book freaks always found each other. She and Chad liked both.
“Jim Phelps would have never called anyone doll,” Becca pointed out.
“I know. But I like working it in when I can. The chances of you tolerating me calling you that in real life are extremely thin.”
“If you want a pet name for me, just say so.”
“I really don’t think you want to use the word ‘pet’ while we’re going over this stuff. That shit’s even more bizarre. Bottom line is this, the club has turned a sizable profit since conception. It has a membership list that is so secure that even Seal Team Six couldn’t penetrate and retrieve it—”
“Seal Team Six? Now I know you’re full of it.”
“Rumor has it, more than a few local, national and international dignitaries have walked through the front door. Or more than likely, through an underground passage that spikes off to several parking garages throughout the city. And one that may actually lead to a private estate along the river, for those wishing to arrive by yacht.”
“How did you get all this info?”
“Intel, doll. It’s called intel.”
She turned onto Fourth Street and he pointed to a spot down the block, on her side of the street.
“How?” Becca asked again.
“It’s not important.”
His little oration started out as if he had gone on a fact-finding Google-a-thon, but it ending with just enough secrecy that Becca was skeptical. “Did you have to pay?”
“Good god, woman, let it go.”
She pulled to the curb, killed the engine and turned in her seat to face at him. She wasn’t going to give up. He knew that.
“For shit’s sake,” he muttered. “A bottle of ‘03 Château Margaux and the chef’s table next New Year’s Eve. No biggie.”
“No biggie?” Did he not realize she paid attention during their lengthy conversations about everything under the sun? “Is that 1903 or 2003?”
He laughed. “Two thousand three. The crop a hundred years earlier sucked ass.”
“From your stock or the restaurant’s?” She stared at him, waiting for an answer.
“Where do you think?” he replied.
She realized, at that moment, there couldn’t be anyone more selfless than him. Or maybe she’d known that all along. Maybe it was one of any number of underlying qualities that made her adore him. And she did adore him. More than she probably should.
Without looking she undid her seat belt, leaned across the console and gave him a quick kiss on the lips, one so brief, she didn’t have time to think. Or feel. Which was a tad disappointing. Because in her fantasies, their kisses were mind-blowing.
“Thank you…so much,” she stumbled.
“For what?” he asked. His breath warmed her already heated lips.
“For always being there. For being an awesome friend.”
It was his turn to stare. His gaze drifted to her lips and her heart beat a little faster. She should lean in and give it another try. But he jerked his head away and gave her a look that bordered between surprise and upset. She’d said something wrong, she could tell by the way he sat up straight and reached for his own seatbelt buckle.
The driver’s d
oor was suddenly pulled open. She spun around to find Mr. Bulky standing on the sidewalk. He reached quickly for her elbow and Becca acted instinctively, knocking his hand away with an upward chop.
“Good girl,” Chad praised in a rich tone.
Becca’s head snapped around. Where the hell had that specific timbre come from? And good girl? Seriously?
Chad hopped out of the vehicle before she could offer a response. Or remind him the Blazer didn’t have automatic locks. She reached over and pushed down the button on his door before turning in her seat. She had the sudden urge Chad might leave her behind. Which was ridiculous.
“Andres is waiting,” the other man said, barely glancing at Becca as he watched Chad walk around the front of the truck. They had another brief stare down before Chad gently elbowed him aside and took her hand as if she were royalty. Chad helped her out of the vehicle, let her walk a few steps and then opened the back driver-side door and grabbed her machine and supply case. He stacked them together and wheeled them out of the way.
The whole scene was becoming a little surreal, but what had she expected with them rolling up to the local BDSM club? Becca locked her side, slamming the door when Chad was clear. She reached for her equipment but he placed one hand on her hip and moved her effortlessly aside.
“I’ve got this. You go ahead,” he said, sliding his palm over the back of her thin More Ink T-shirt until it rested low, against the base of her spine. His hand was warm, but she shivered nonetheless.
They reached the door of the club. Glossy black. No windows. Not at all inviting. “This way.” Mr. Bulky opened the door into even more darkness.
For the second time in as many days, Becca was happy to have Chad by her side.
Chad’s thoughts kept looping back to how that kiss had sucked. It had surprised him, but it had still sucked. It was so quick he hadn’t had time to react as he should have. As he’d dreamed of. And then she was thanking him for being her friend. Fuck. All that was left at that moment was for someone to cue the Golden Girls theme music.
This had to end. He’d hit the proverbial wall of self-denial. When they were done and Becca drove him home, he’d show her how to do it proper. How two people who had no earthly reason not to be together actually kissed. Body to body. Tongues dueling. Hands trying to touch a hundred places at one time. But he couldn’t think of that now. Not with the asshole leading them into the dark foyer of the club.
It took a moment for his eyes to adjust but when they did, he was shocked at the opulence that surrounded them. Tufted leather seating areas. A huge mahogany bar that ran in a horseshoe shape against the far wall. He doubted the wineglasses perfectly aligned on clear shelves were your standard restaurant grade. The stems were too fine. If they were Riedel like he thought, there was easily twenty-five grand in crystal. And that was just the red wineglasses.
“Andres is waiting in the new game room.”
Becca remained silent, which set him on guard. He assumed she would go in there with her usual confidence. It would be the best way to deal with a man who was used to people groveling at his feet. If he knew there was the possibility she would clam up, he’d have talked to her about that. Emphasized that point.
They followed the man down a long corridor lined with mirrors on one side and windows on the other. There wasn’t a doubt in his mind that both were two-way. Chad watched Becca’s profile, could almost see the internal battle she was fighting. She didn’t like to be told what to do, didn’t like not being in charge. But he knew how beneficial a large payday would be for her independence. They slowed their pace and she squared her shoulders. He admired her strength. Her adaptability.
Two warnings had been given along with the info on Andres Herzog. Be careful, and show no weakness. It was like dealing with a bear, he’d been told. It was doubtful any harm would come to them if they didn’t piss Andres off too badly. But his intel came with an additional request Chad readily agreed to. He’d given up the time of their meeting and promised to drop a text when the audition tattoo was over and both he and Becca were on their way home.
The echo of their footfalls changed and Chad looked ahead to where the corridor ended. A set of antique double doors. Burled walnut. With thick hinges and two roaring lion doorknockers indicated their trek was over. Without knocking, the dude who Chad actually hoped he’d have a chance to knock out opened both doors and stepped to one side, allowing Becca and him to pass. It was a grand gesture that Chad knew was totally false and misplaced.
“Welcome,” a heavily accented voice greeted from the center of a column-flanked rotunda. It was three steps higher than the rest of the room, giving it the appearance of a temple.
With the over-the-top-ornate vibe going on, Chad expected to see Herr Herzog sitting on a throne, but the man perched on a backless barstool. He was the textbook definition of mature and distinguished. White hair in the quintessential executive cut, healthy tan. Wide smile, perfectly fitted suit. As much as Chad hated to admit it, the guy gave off a refined air. He was expecting something a little more sleazy.
A padded table and low doctor-type stool shared the obvious place of honor.
“I’m glad you accepted my offer, Miss Wiley. Your reputation precedes you, you know?”
“Yes. I do.” Becca’s words were clipped. Delivered in a no-nonsense tone that had Chad giving her a mental high five. “This should do just fine. I’ll need an electrical outlet.”
Chad wondered if nervousness was manifesting itself into terseness. Or if she just wanted to get in the zone without the usual pleasantries. Or maybe she’d noticed the iron rings attached to each pillar they passed and had figured out the various ways a person could be restrained. Or stretched. Chad had gone home the other night after work and internet-searched the club, followed the links that had led to a quick explanation of a lifestyle that so many found fascinating. He had thought he already knew the rudiments of the fetish, but he’d been sorely mistaken. The research, most of it visual, had ranged from informative to the point where he thought he might actually puke.
“My goodness.” Herzog tipped his chin upward and looked down his nose at Becca. Even on his perch he was a head taller than she. Chad nearly smiled when she put her hands on her hips.
“Have you always been this direct, Miss Wiley?” Herzog asked. “Or is it a role you like to play?”
“I’m a tattoo artist. That’s all, Andres.”
Chad didn’t miss the way Herzog’s eye twitched when Becca used his given name. The intel was spot on. The man obviously thrived on respect.
“But that isn’t the role you’ve played, now is it, my dear?”
Chad watched her closely and fought the possessive urge to step next to her. He knew her past. Knew it wasn’t what she’d want.
Becca laughed, low and deep, and it startled them all.
“It’s the only role I’m going to play with you. Now get me some electricity or we’re walking.”
Chad tensed. The dude who walked them in was moving around to the left.
“Troy,” Andres finally spoke. “Electricity please.”
The man, who now had a name of his own, went to the post closest to Becca and pulled a piece of the column upward, revealing a hidden socket. He reached out his hand, silently offering to plug in her machine but she ignored him and did it herself. Chad stayed out of her way, waiting until she was ready for him. When she had her mobile tattooing station arranged the way she wanted, she turned toward him.
“Which one?” she asked, opening a folder.
Last night they had talked about the three designs she came up with but he’d yet to see them. He studied all three, once again blown away by her creativity and skill. A Celtic knot. The single Chinese character for balance. And a gnarled root of a grape vine.
They each had merit, and they each held meaning. He’d been shocked when she’d told him the three designs. Shocked that she’d paid enough attention when he rambled to recognize the things in his life that held sign
ificance. He’d been engaged two years and his fiancée hadn’t bothered to find out half of what Becca gleaned in just eight months.
“This.” He pointed to the intricately twisted knot, a fitting choice for his Irish heritage and his new acceptance of life and death. She nodded in return and picked up the transfers, clearing off the table. He knew the drill. Same one he’d gone through when she’d done his first and only ink, the memorial tattoo of his nephew that graced his right pec. All she had to do was pick the exact spot on the inside of his upper left arm she thought would be easiest to work on.
“Should I be concerned that you don’t have any visible tattoos, Miss Wiley?” Herzog asked.
“I’ve got plenty of ink,” Becca’s reply was short. To the point.
“I can’t see a thing showing. In my experience, most people get the outer extremities done firsthand then move on to the more private areas. I’ve never met a tattoo artist who wasn’t nearly covered from head toe. That says something about your level of comfort where nudity—”
His words were cut off when Chad reached behind his head and pulled his T-shirt off his body.
“I’m an anomaly,” Becca interjected.
The silence stretched and Chad eased onto the table. He worked hard to keep in shape. He wasn’t usually uncomfortable being shirtless but both of the other men were staring at him as if his abs held the secret to world peace. Or more than likely, world domination. The latter took on a whole new meaning when Chad thought about the metal rings attached to the pillars.
Chad looked his way and Herzog cleared his throat. “I assumed ten thousand dollars would give me carte blanche to choose where—”
“Think again,” Chad interrupted. “Unless you have another ten Gs at your disposal. If you do, then we can discuss.” He raised his arm over his head and watched Becca roll her stool to the top of the table. It would be easier for her to work that way than him trying to keep his arm turned at an outward angle.
The man gave him another slow once-over and Chad forced his features to remain neutral.
“You’re a delicious specimen, but not worth that price, I’m sorry to say. That’s a rather odd place for the tattoo, don’t you think? When you’ve got two strong healthy biceps. Bare and available.”