Page 72 of Wait for Him

“Oh God. Oh my fucking hell—” I scream out as he slides two fingers inside, curling them in tight, and catching the barbell between his teeth with the same breath. I soak him. Literally, thoroughly soak his face with my release.

When I finally come back to myself I’m breathing like I’ve run somewhere instead of lying mostly boneless against a leather sofa.

The man pulls back looking dazed and absurdly pleased with himself before turning immediately toward his Domme for approval.

“Such a good boy,” she tells him with a soft smile.

His whole face changes at the praise.

I understand that feeling too well.

And there I am, wrung out and unsteady, staring at the ceiling while irritation slowly creeps back in around the edges.

Because I came here to get the want out of my system.

Instead, I just proved exactly how much of it I’m still carrying.

And whose name it answers to.

Chapter Four

Rose

After leaving the club, I raise the partition and rearrange myself in the back seat of the car. I slip out of the dress and into jeans, a T-shirt and a blazer, tuck the choker into my purse, then shake my hair loose from the ponytail and comb my fingers through it until it falls around my shoulders again. Two minutes of quiet work and the woman who held a leash tonight disappears, replaced by someone entirely appropriate for a nice dinner.

I've gotten very good at the change. I could probably do it in the dark.

I suppose, in every way that counts, I do.

Tonight is my standing reservation at Noctra, and I walk in the way I have every six months for the last four years. Call it my fix, my addiction, my preferred form of emotional self-harm. Whatever it is, it has a schedule, and I keep it. At least the food is exceptional. Noctra is the kind of place people wait months to get into, all low light, dark wood, impossible reservations and a menu that almost makes what I put myself through here worth it.

Almost.

Samson would never push me to come. That's important. He invited me once, years ago, and I said no. Six months later, he invited me again, and I said no again. Same thing the third time, and the fourth. Eventually, I gave in, and I've been here every friends-and-family night since.

He and Lauren moved to Los Angeles and opened Noctra about five years ago, and twice a year the restaurant closes to the public. The staff brings spouses, parents, children, whoever counts as family, and the whole place loosens its tie for the night. The kitchen sends out half the menu, cocktails circulate freely, someone always invents a game, and the polished restaurant that normally requires reservations and appropriate footwear turns loud and warm and messy in the best way.

I always book the same table. Far enough away that I can disappear if I need to, close enough that I can see.

The host walks me over, sets down a glass of water and a menu I don't need, then leaves me alone. I fold my hands together in my lap because otherwise they'll fidget, and I hate fidgeting.

This isn't something I bring Michael to. Not Jackson. Not anyone.

It's mine.

I make sure I arrive before Samson's family every time because seeing them walk in has somehow become part of the ritual too.

Everything in me goes still when the doors finally open.

Samson comes through first, still a brute of a man, six-foot-eight with blond Viking hair braided back from his face, looking like someone dropped a Norse raider into Los Angeles and gave him a liquor license. He greets the hosts and servers by name, stopping twice before he's even fully inside. Lauren is right behind him, all blazing red hair and sharp green eyes, Mason balanced on one hip while she calmly redirects his repeated attempts to steal one of her earrings. Layla, who's six now, has attached herself to Samson's leg and is refusing to walk on principle, so he just keeps moving with her wrapped around him like she weighs nothing.

Then James comes in.

Fourteen years old. Tall already, dark hair grown out into wild, wavy curls that look like they've never met a comb they respected. He laughs at something Samson says and punches him in the shoulder, which has absolutely no effect on the boulder that is Samson Monroe except to make him laugh harder.

I watch James move through the restaurant. He knows the staff, their spouses, their children. He stops to say hello, accepts a drink from someone near the bar, gets his hair ruffled by one of the cooks and laughs like he has nowhere in the world he'd rather be.

He's happy.