Page 70 of Wait for Him

That's all she needs.

She changes direction and crosses toward me without a word, stopping beside the booth before laying the leash across my open palm.

The second the leather settles against my skin, something in me clicks into place.

There it is.

Not a man, exactly. Not even sex, not yet. It's the weight of the leash in my hand and everything contained inside that small exchange. Clear edges. Clear rules. Trust offered deliberately instead of assumed. No guessing. No betrayal hiding behind intimacy. Nothing I haven't agreed to and nothing that can happen without agreement in return.

My fingers close around the strap, and for the first time all day the noise in my head lowers enough that I can breathe around it.

The Domme takes the opposite side of the booth and settles into the cushions, crossing one leg over the other as she watches. There's no tension in the way she gives him over to me, no uncertainty about what she's offering. She knows exactly what she's lending out and trusts me to return it intact.

I like her immediately.

The man remains where she left him, eyes lowered, posture loose and waiting, and I let myself take him in for a moment before reaching for my drink.

I bring the straw toward his mouth.

“Drink.”

He obeys without hesitation, and I watch his mouth close around the straw as he takes a slow sip, his eyes staying on mine because he knows better than to look away. I reach out and push the hair back from his forehead, an idle, proprietary gesture that feels good in my hand, and he tips his face into my palm without being told.

Then I see it.

Fuck.

He looks like Jackson.

Not exactly. I'm not drunk enough to start putting Jackson's face on random men, thank God, but there's enough there to piss me off. The jaw. The blond hair falling across his forehead. Something about the angle of his face when he looks up at me while I'm looking down at him.

My subconscious has preferences too, it seems, and the bitch lacks subtlety.

My stomach tightens before I can stop it.

No.

Absolutely not.

I push his hair back again, almost like doing it twice will prove the first reaction meant nothing. This man is not Jackson. Jackson is across town with his wife, doing whatever Jackson does with his wife that I have made a concentrated effort never to picture and therefore can picture in distressing detail.

Wonderful.

The man in front of me is here because his Domme offered him to me and I accepted. He's attractive, consenting and very clearly enjoying himself. He deserves better than being turned into the human equivalent of emotional tracing paper because my brain spotted a jawline and decided to become fucking sentimental.

I know what I'm here for tonight.

Control.

Not Jackson.

Those are two entirely different problems, and I refuse to combine them.

“Anything?” I ask his Domme, and thankfully my voice comes out exactly the way I want it to.

Steady.

"Anything you like." She tips her chin, generous, certain. "He's yours."