She shrugged. “It’s nothing. I mean, I wish I could do more, but I gotta work, too, so I don’t end up in the shelter.” Again. But she didn’t say that. A second date was no time to get into her life story. “How’d the wedding go? Did your friend like your haircut?”
“She did. Though she was pretty googly-eyed for her Master.”
Her brows rose as her interest piqued. “It was that kind of wedding?”
“Yes. Well, it was both. She had vanilla family and friends there, so the Master/slave part was very subtle.”
“Are all your friends kinky?”
He laughed. “A lot of them are. My two best friends are both Masters.”
Jealousy speared her. What she wouldn’t give for that. “That’s awesome. I wish I had actual friends in the lifestyle. I have some vaguely kinky friends who are understanding, but no one to really talk to about this stuff. A few acquaintances from the club, but that’s it.” She gave him a sidelong look and smiled. “Maybe I can wiggle my way in and steal your friends.”
“You don’t have to steal them. I know how to share.” He winked. “I’m sure they’d like you anyway.”
“You think so?”
“What’s not to like?”
Though the sentiment was sweet, he really had no idea what he was talking about. She frowned then stared at the floor. “I’m a brat.”
“So?”
“Masters hate brats.” She knew from experience. And if his friends were Masters . . . they didn’t stand a chance together.
He placed a hand on her knee and she looked up at him. “My friends understand there are all types of subs. And they respect the girl I’m with, regardless of whether they like the kind of sub she is or not.” He sat back, withdrawing his hand, and she wished he’d put it back. “Besides, it’s none of their fucking business. I like brats, and that’s all that matters.”
She beamed at him. God, he was sexy when he swore. She liked that rough-around-the-edges thing—the attitude that they didn’t give a fuck what anyone thought of them. Yeah, Ambrose had that in spades.
Her gaze droppe
d to his arms again. Mmm. She’d like to see where else he had tattoos. Maybe lick them.
“What do your tattoos mean?” She eyed the Roman numerals. They made him look even more dangerous, which made him more irresistible.
His smile was wicked. “If I tell you my secret, you have to promise not to rat me out.”
“Rat you out?” She laughed and traced the figures with tentative fingers. “I can keep a secret.” Had he done time or something? Maybe he had kids from a previous relationship?
Ambrose held his arms out to her. “The story behind these probably makes me sound crazy, but since you seem trustworthy, I’ll tell you.”
He sighed dramatically, like he was weighing whether or not she could handle what he was about to say. Now she was more nervous than intrigued.
“These are the dates . . .” He paused, eyeing her cautiously.
“Yes?”
“. . . that both sets of my grandparents got married.”
She arched a brow at him. He couldn’t be serious. Shouldn’t they be something less . . . sappy?
“You don’t believe me? It’s true. Both sets of my grandparents had serious romances going on, and stayed married until they died. Maybe it’s not very cool for a guy to want to immortalize that with ink, but it reminds me that life isn’t all about paying bills and collecting shit.”
Oh God. He was serious. That was possibly the sweetest thing she’d ever heard.
When he looked at her weirdly, she realized she was smiling up at him like a giddy schoolgirl. She gave her head a shake. “That’s really cool, actually. I didn’t expect that.”
“Did you have fun the other night?” he asked, as if struck with the urge to suddenly change the subject.