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"Do that little move when Des first sees you and we won't see you again tonight." Madison winked at Logan. "Don't pretend you didn't notice."
"On the contrary. I'm going to take you inside and see if you'll do the same move for me. Only I'm going to be that lucky column. Double entendre fully intended."
Madison laughed and the two of them went inside, though Julie was amused to notice Logan stop by one of the doormen and point her out. Protective men could be so offensive and sexy at the same time.
Now that her escorts had gone inside, she could put her hand on her stomach and try to hold in the swirl of nerves happening in every area of her body. She was no stranger to embracing drama, but putting on this outfit wasn't about her asserting her flamboyant personality. As such, when she'd looked at herself in the mirror, she'd almost retreated to her little black dress. Then she'd looked at his text again about what she should wear. She thought about it now, and what might happen when he arrived. Would he like what she'd chosen?
Adrenaline was keeping her toasty. She sent one of the bouncers a little wave as he looked in her direction and made eye contact. Madison had said everyone involved in events like this was usually part of the lifestyle, so Julie wondered if he was Dom, sub or switch. His formidable appearance made no difference; she'd learned that much.
The other couples, singles and groups she saw going into the building supported that. Bless a world where racy, barely disguised fetish fashion could pass as club wear. She kept herself occupied by guessing the Dom or sub orientation of the people approaching the door with their invitations. When she went inside, she'd find out if she was wrong or right.
Would the large male with a woman half his size be a sub who liked to kneel and kiss her stiletto clad feet? Would the threesome of two men and one woman tie her up in so many ways she'd be unable to move as they feasted on every part of her body? Protected sex was allowed at this party. Everyone would be what they most desired to be with one another. At least that was how she was picturing it. Maybe the reality would be even more fantastic than that.
She'd chosen her own part for tonight, embraced it for her own pleasure as much as the pleasure of her Dom. Remembering their first meet and the temporary tattoos on Des's arms, as well as his fascination with her curves, she'd catered to those tastes and dressed accordingly.
She was a starlet. A lush, Hollywood starlet, unattainable except by one man. The man who made her knees weak. The one coming across the parking lot toward her.
While he was wearing an outfit far different from anything she'd previously seen him wear, she'd know the way he moved anywhere. Her gaze tracked and lighted on him when he was ten paces away from his parking space.
She'd wondered if he'd look as good in slacks as he did his customary jeans. She'd have to find out another time, because he wasn't wearing slacks. What he had chosen gave her heartrate another nice bump.
He was wearing a black utility kilt, the sporran held in place with a combination of silver chain and sleek black rope that passed over his
hip bones. He'd left the ties loose enough at the neckline of his black laced shirt to show a triangle of his chest and the light layer of gleaming dark hair over it. The sleeves were fitted to his taut biceps and rolled up to reveal his forearms, which bore laced black gauntlets. The folds of his sleeves were secured with another short fall of silver chain and held there with silver Celtic knot studs.
He'd donned a black felt fedora with a black braided rope band, his hair sleekly queued back beneath it. His black combat boots had silver buckles with skull heads.
It was Goth meets Scot meets 1950s style meets... Hell, it defied description. It was Des, and it worked on him, from head to toe. She'd take his idea of formal wear over a tux any day.
Then she lost her train of thought, because he saw her. His shift in expression pulled her into a world populated only by the two of them and a lot of passionate, dirty, sacred, sweaty, breathless scenarios of sex, taking, and pure need.
He came to a stop, twenty feet of parking lot between them. Hooking a thumb into his waistband, he cocked a hip to settle in and do an in-depth inventory of her, starting with the four inch heels she wore. The strappy shoes buckled over shimmering stockings that were attached to slim garters. He could tell she was wearing garters, because in her position, leaned against the pillar, the skirt had inched up on the right side enough to show a peek of the ribbon attachment to the stocking.
The dress was ruched sunset-colored gold lace over lighter gold satin that hugged every curve to the mid-thigh hemline. On the sides, from hip to thigh, the satin under layer was absent, so lace covered only skin. The bodice of the dress displayed her breasts like unfrosted cake, the satin straps snug over her shoulders adding to the high, firm, pushed-together and quivering display. While he couldn't see it yet, the straps connected at her nape and one narrow line of satin followed her spine to the back of the dress, scooped well below her shoulder blades. It gave a man's hand plenty of area to caress before he decided to explore how the fabric clung to her round ass.
It was a dress a woman from the age of silver screens would have worn, and in which she would have been immortalized. She felt exactly that way as Des consumed her with his dark eyes.
Shifting away from the pillar, she stepped off the curb. She'd practiced a sultry, hip-swinging walk, intending to add it to the fantasy, but there was no need for calculation. Her body moved the way she felt and how he'd demanded--as the most desirable thing he could ever want.
His attention followed the movement of her body, the quiver of her breasts, and lingered over the fullness of her hips. When he reached her face, she knew the makeup Madison had expertly applied had turned her striking brown eyes into pools in which a man could be lost. She wanted him to dive into her very soul and stay there. She'd take care of his every need, because he would do the same for her.
When she reached him, she didn't say anything. Normally, a hundred things would have come to mind. Sassy, snarky or smartass, words tumbling out from her moist lips to protect herself from being perceived as too over the top, to mitigate self-consciousness, or to let him off the hook before he could say or do something that might disappoint the fantasy. But she chose trust, and stayed quiet, drinking him in with her eyes the way he was doing to her.
His hair was burnished like a bird wing, his eyes as penetrating as she'd ever seen, his lips inviting. You're beautiful, she thought, and her hands curled at her hips, wanting to touch. Touch him for her own pleasure, or touch herself for his, and to see if she could feel all the energy his admiration had fueled beneath her skin.
Keeping his eyes on her, he opened the sporran. "Turn around," he said in his compelling voice. With the things moving between them, it was an unmistakable order, sending a quiver through her. She obeyed, cocking her hip to emphasize her ass, and was thrilled at his muttered expletive, a reverence. He stepped close enough his body brushed hers and his arms came around her.
Her heart thudded hard in her chest. He held a strap of thin woven cord, intricately worked with knots and delicate silver links. Tiny charms which had the Celtic design of the studs holding his sleeves sparkled from it. When he fitted the strap around her throat and buckled it, she thought of the times he'd put both hands around her neck. He'd made this for her himself, she was sure of it. The knots pressed into her throat, a mild but stimulating pressure.
"I thought you said collars weren't your thing."
His grip settled on her hips, and he pulled her closer to him in one smooth move, a decisive impact that took her breath and pressed the sporran against her buttocks. "I've never had the urge to make sure other men know the woman I'm with is taken. Often, thoroughly and with extreme prejudice."
The surge of response heated her from head to toe. "Oh...well. Okay." She closed her eyes as he nuzzled her throat, biting it below the hold of his gift. Then he had his fingers in it and twisted, restricting her air so her head tipped back, her fingers lifting to curl around his wrist.
"Feel that?" he whispered, a dangerous rumble. "Your life in my hands, love. Yet you stay so still and trembling, not fighting it, like a wild creature that's given me her trust. Tell me to stop."
She shook her head, fingers tightening on him. He let out another curse beneath his breath, and slowly eased the hold, massaging the constricted area. She kept her eyes closed, absorbing his touch. God, she really had missed him.
