“This is Sinclair’s woman, Elle,” Cage introduced.
“Sinclair?” Pascale asked, roused from her post-orgasm daze by the sound of my man’s name.
Jealous flared through me.
She noticed, addressing me with a soft smile. “He was a good friend to my Master once, Elle, that is all. I have never had the pleasure of playing with him.”
“Good,” I said, with a smile to dilute the edge of my possessiveness.
She laughed musically and wriggled closer to Laurent. “Sharing is a special thing, not everyone is into it.”
“I am not,” Laurent admitted with twinkling eyes. “Pascale is for my hands, cock and mouth only. But she gets off on sharing me, which is why we come to these soirees.”
My eyes widened, comically apparently because Cage and the couple laughed.
“If you are interested, I would love to watch him play with you?” Pascale suggested seductively, biting the tip of her pink tongue.
I stepped closer to Cage who wrapped a protective arm around me but it wasn’t because the idea held no appeal to me. If Sinclair had been there, had deemed fit to share me, I would have been thrilled.
“You like that idea,” Cage ducked down to whisper in my ear.
I shivered as his breath wafted over my neck.
“Tell me, cherie, what would you do if Sinclair shared you with me?”
Honestly, the thought had never occurred to me. Cage was sinfully beautiful, the kind of handsome that was intrinsically linked to thoughts of sex. I remembered thinking that if I hadn’t met Sinclair first, I would have found Cage the most beautiful man that I had ever laid eyes on. We were good friends so I never would have entered into a sexual relationship with him, there wasn’t that inherent chemistry between us, but if Sinclair brought him into our bedroom, would I have objected?
I looked up into his glittering black eyes. “If Sinclair wanted it, it would be my pleasure.”
I watched with a feminine thrill as desire blasted across his features, stark and harshly highlighted before he could get it under control.
A thought occurred to me though, an uncomfortable one.
“You like Elena,” I said softly, because I wasn’t sure but I suspected.
His lips twisted in a cruel mockery of a smile. “Maybe I just have a thing for sassy redheads?”
I laughed lightly, because it was clear he wanted me to and that he wouldn’t talk about his unrequited crush with me, at least not then.
“Are you ready?” he asked me after another few minutes of conversation with Laurent and Pascale. “Sinclair will be here soon and we want to be prepared.”
I nodded and before I could fully process what had happened, we had confirmed my goals, limits and safe word, and I was strapped into the device Cage had called a St. Andrew’s Cross. My cheek was pressed to the cool, smooth wood while my back and bottom were exposed to the crowded room. No one was paying me much attention yet, probably because they were used to the sight and also because a powerful tool of domination was denial - of touch, of sight and acknowledgment. I was living evidence of its success; my flesh was raised with goose bumps, my inner thighs slick with my arousal even though no one had touched me.
Cage’s dark voice wafted across the back of my neck like smoke. “He’s on his way. Just a few more minutes, cherie.”
“She’s gorgeous,” another masculine voice said from over my shoulder. “Are you in the mood to share, Cage?”
“She isn’t mine to share.”
“If she’s without a Dom, I’ll ask her directly.” There was a shuffling sound behind me. I didn’t need to see to know what was going on, Cage had stepped in front of the curious man, his chest puffed and legs spread.
“You will do no such thing,” Cage growled.
But he didn’t have to because I could feel the change in the air, the static current that suddenly zinged through the room like an electrical storm.
Sinclair had arrived.
The room quieted so much that I could hear each sharp clack of his expensive leather loafers cross the hardwood floor. I shuddered violently when they came to a stop just behind me, the space between us thick with crashing neutrons.
“No one will be touching her. We’re leaving.”
I gasped as the sound of his voice vibrated against my skin. It took me a moment to recognize his words from within my fog of desire.
“No,” Cage said, and for a second my confused brain thought I had said it. “She needs this, you need this.”
“I do not.” Sinclair’s voice was glacial.
“Fine, you think you don’t need this. You want to be miserable, that’s your decision. But Giselle has a choice and she’s made hers.”
“I want this,” I said, my voice strong and clear despite the awkwardness of my position.
“Giselle,” he began but I cut him off.