"Why?"
He only lifted a brow, signaling that even though they might not be inside the club yet, the time to remember their roles had arrived. To his relief, she understood and lifted her long, thick ponytail. Once her neck was exposed, he reached into a satchel he'd left on the floorboards and pulled out a velvet bag. From that, he removed a stunning pounded-silver submissive collar, a single copper ring providing the only hint of color.
Her eyes went wide, and he tensed, mentally readying himself to deflect her protest. Instead, he only heard her slow exhalation of breath.
"That's stunning. Is it..." She trailed off, then licked her lips. "It's a collar, right?"
"It will mark you as mine," he said. "I'm going to put it on you now."
He didn't ask permission, but neither did she protest. On the contrary, she held the ponytail higher and leaned forward as he latched the clasp in the back.
When he leaned back and saw her, a dark goddess with a ring of starfire at her neck, he seriously considered raising the privacy screen to block the driver's view, peeling her out of those pants, and fucking her hard and fast. Just a little appetizer before the main event.
But that, of course, wasn't happening.
Instead, he drew in a breath and reached for the door. "Ready?"
When she didn't answer, he looked back, expecting her to be focused on the facade just beyond their window. But she wasn't. Her attention wasn't on the club, but on him. And when he thought about it, he knew why. She'd seen the inside of the club already. It wasn't a mystery.
But she'd never seen him in that environment. Hell, collaring her had probably only added to her confusion.
"Trust me," he said, the words both gentle and commanding.
He expected her acquiescence--that was the game, after all. What he hadn't expected was the simple truth that colored her voice when she finally spoke.
"I do," she said, the obedience and submission in those two simple words positively slaying him.
That was when he knew the truth. This woman had him by the balls.
More than that, she always had.
Chapter Six
The entrance area to the club is nothing special, but unlike the last time I was here, that reassuring simplicity doesn't calm my nerves. Before, I was nervous about what was behind those doors. Now, I'm nervous about who I'm going through them with.
As Riley instructed, I walk two steps behind him, and though that distance makes me feel alone, when he holds the door open for me and brushes his fingertips over my shoulders as I enter, the shock of connection rushes through me, centering me and reminding me that we're here for a reason, and that there's a point to this game we're playing.
It's a good reminder, actually. Because the more time I spend with Riley the more frustrated with myself I'm becoming. I had my reasons for putting so much distance between us in the past. But now that he's here--even under such odd circumstances--I can't deny that I like it. And more than just the warm and reassuring feeling of knowing he has my back.
The truth is, Aly was right; I've always felt the spark where Riley Blade is concerned. But in the past, I've always been able to extinguish it. To throw water on it and then hurry away before the spark could flicker back into existence.
Yet here I am now, and instead of water, I'm throwing gasoline. And I'm terrified that walking through these doors and into this aptly named club with him will cause the spark to bloom into a full-on blaze.
And what scares me even more is the tiny, secret part of myself that craves the inferno. That longs to burn, as long as it is Riley who reduces me to ashes.
It's an uncomfortable realization, particularly since I've worked so hard to keep my distance from the man. And though I tell myself that this heated craving stems solely from the nature of this situation, I know that isn't true. Riley Blade has always had the power to get under my skin, but I've always had the strength to hold up my walls.
Now, I fear the walls are starting to crumble. And if they do, where will that leave me?
"It'll be okay," Riley says, obviously mistaking my hesitation for trepidation rather than excitement.
"I know," I say, then consider taking the words back when he holds up a leash.
"I want to show you off," he says in response to my raised brows. "More than that, I want to see who takes particular notice of you."
I swallow, but the truth is that the idea of a leash is reassuring. No matter what, I know that Riley will be right there to keep me safe. So I draw a deep breath, then lift my chin as he clamps the leash to the copper loop. He holds one end, and we enter the first area of The Firehouse. Matthew had explained that while there are some even more exclusive clubs that allow drinks, the no alcohol policy at The Firehouse helps ensure that everything that goes on inside these walls is consensual.
That's fine and dandy, but right now I'm really wishing I'd finished off that bottle of Chardonnay.
"There's no guarantee he'll be here tonight," I whisper as we pause at the next set of doors before entering the main play area.
He strokes my cheek, then trails his fingertip over my lips, making me tremble. "Then we'll have to come back," he says, the words firing my senses and my imagination more than I'd like to admit. "Come on, sweetheart. Let's show you off."
He pushes the thick oak door, once again holding it open for me. For a moment, I'm in front of him, and trepidation cuts through me. Then I feel the pressure at my neck and remember the leash. Riley.
He's with me even though I can't see him, and the awareness of that constant connection strengthens my resolve.
I take another step and walk all the way into the playroom. I suppose the regulars at the club would call it a dungeon, since there are chains and manacles on the wall and other implements for binding and torture, but it's so clear to me that what is going on here is pleasure and not pain--or, at least not unwanted pain--that I can't think of it as a place meant to subdue and punish.
"You're intrigued," Riley says, and I jump. I hadn't realized he'd come up beside me. "Which scene catches your attention the most?"
I tell myself that I should avoid the question and just let him lead me. Answering would reveal too much. And yet I can't deny that my senses--and my imagination--are on fire.
"There," I say, nodding toward a woman whose arms and legs are strapped to a
padded, wooden X. She's naked, and the man standing in front of her is teasing her skin with something that looks almost like an old-fashioned mop, only in leather.
"A flogger," Riley explains when I ask. "And a vibrator," he adds, when I tremble as the man uses what appears to be a Magic Wand on her sex, obviously taking her close to orgasm, but not letting her go all the way.
"Come here," Riley says, taking a seat on a leather bench and forcing me to kneel in front of him, my back to him. He leans forward so that his hands rest on my shoulders and his lips brush my ear, making me shiver. "Tell me what you like about that scene."
"I--I'm not sure."
"No?" His fingers tease my collarbone, and I'm hyperaware of his touch, my skin tingling beneath his fingers. "Is it that she's naked? Does seeing her exposed like that make you hot?"
I swallow. "A little," I admit.
"Can you imagine that's you? Bound and helpless for everyone to see, completely at your master's mercy?" As he speaks, his hand dips lower, caressing the curve of my breast and making my nipples spring to attention. "Is that what turns you on? Is that what you want?"
"No," I whisper. There's something erotic about watching her, about knowing and seeing how aroused she is. But I wouldn't want to be exposed to the world like that. "Not in front of everyone," I say, and only after I've spoken do I realize the full meaning of my words. Because I wouldn't like that in public. But in private...dear God, just the thought makes me wet.
I can tell my admission is just as unexpected to Riley, because his hand stills, and he makes a small noise in the back of his throat. I expect the next question will be who--who do I imagine is touching and teasing me like that?
That question doesn't come, and I'm grateful. Because I'm not ready to admit it's him.
But Riley says nothing. Instead, the fingers of one hand dip under the leather bustier, then roughly pinch my nipple. I cry out, my pussy clenching as sparks shoot through me, making me gasp with surprise. It wasn't a massive orgasm, but damned if I didn't just come.
"Oh, Christ, baby," he whispers. "I'm sorry."
I turn to face him, the sensation still lingering on me. "Sorry?"
He cups my face. "I promised you'd be safe with me. That everything in here would be consensual. I had no idea you'd come from nipple play. That you were so incredibly responsive."