Bound to Submit

Master Griffin.

Hoping to see him and terrified of it, too.

And she wasn’t ashamed to admit that. Courage wasn’t not being afraid. It was being afraid and doing something anyway. Or so they said.

“Hey, there. What can I get you?” came a man’s voice.

Kenna looked up into the familiar eyes...of Master Quinton. Would he recognize her? “Hi. Can I have an orange juice, please?” she asked, her brain reverting right back to one of her old habits. She never drank alcohol when she played because it left her feeling too dehydrated. She always stuck with juice or water.

Master Quinton’s head cocked and his eyes narrowed. “Coming right up.” As he retrieved a glass and poured, his gaze cut to her, moving from her face to the wrist cuff on her flesh-and-bone arm with its colored ribbons and back to her face again.

And she took him in right back. With brown hair and eyes and a handsome face you couldn’t help but stare at, the five years since she’d left had been good to him—damn good.

“I know you,” he said. She was just about to remind him of her name when his eyes went wide and he broke out into a big grin. “Holy shit. Kenna?”

She smiled, pleased but a little self-conscious, too. She accepted the glass with her left hand. “Hi, Master Quinton.”

“Damn, girl. Where have you been all my life?” He leaned onto the wide counter in front of her.

Now she laughed. Master Quinton had always been good for that. “Ha. I don’t ever remember you wanting for...friends.” She winked at him.

Laughing, he nodded. “Well, I can’t ever have too many friends, little Kenna. Now can I?”

She hid her smile behind her glass as she savored a sip of the sweet juice. Master Quinton was still looking at her. “What?” she finally asked.

He shook his head. “Nothing. Just good to see you. You look great. I like this.” He tugged on the end of one blond curl, the long ends of her loose hair hanging out from underneath the generously cut hood.

Once, she’d enjoyed wearing it all different colors. It had been fun. Silly. Frivolous. She hadn’t colored her hair in years. In fact, she and George had bitten the bullet and shaved their heads entirely at boot camp. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he said. Just then, someone called his name from further down the bar. Master Quinton waved but turned back to Kenna. “Master Griffin know you’re here?”

She immediately dropped her gaze.

“I didn’t think so,” he said. “Well, in case you’re interested, you’ll find him on the stage.” He gave a nod to indicate the area behind the bar, but she didn’t need the reminder.

“Thank you, Master Quinton.”

He reached out his hand, palm up. A silent command.

Unquestioningly, she put her left hand in his. He brought it to his mouth and kissed her knuckles. “Don’t make it so long next time. That’s an order.” His light brown eyes were full of affection and welcome, and that look went a long way toward calming down some of the butterfly Olympics taking place in her belly.

“Yes, Sir.” The words slipped off her tongue with ease, a kind of muscle memory she hoped the rest of her body still possessed. He released her and moved down the bar.

And then Kenna sat there calmly sipping her orange juice. Okay, not so calmly. She was, in fact, trying not to freak out over the fact that she was in the same room as Griffin Hudson after all these years. When the glass was empty, she settled it on the counter, took a deep breath, and spoke softly to herself. “Oorah, Sloane.”

With the Marine service call bolstering her courage, she got her butt off of that stool and around the bar. It wasn’t long before she was confronted by a crowd of onlookers in front of what had once been the church’s altar. And up on the raised stage was a woman bound in dark orange ropes that matched her braided hair so beautifully that it stole Kenna’s breath. She knew that rope work immediately. Intimately. Remembered its feel around her body. Remembered the touch of the hands responsible for the rigging against her skin.

And then she let her eyes move to the tall, beautifully built, black-haired Dom wearing a pair of black jeans and nothing else. Griffin Hudson. He stood behind the bent-over woman and held a vibrating wand between her spread thighs, his other big hand tracing the patterns of rope on her back.