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I gasped out through stolen breaths, “Yeah, right, Anson. You don’t have a dramatic bone in your body.”

His hand flew to his chest and his mouth gaped wide before we all cracked up again.

***

After our promised round and more laughing until my sides were sore—a welcome respite from my self-imposed angst—Ethan headed out, claiming he was too old to stay late and watch the final demonstration. Though I teased him mercilessly, I waited until he walked away to glance over at Nate and Anson. “Hey, I think I’m gonna head out, too. Early morning.”

That was a lie, and I wasn’t even sure why I said it. I just didn’t want them asking why I was so miserable tonight. Hopefully I’d hidden it well. I usually did.

Anson’s brow furrowed. “Everything okay, babe?”

I nodded, scooting toward the edge of the booth and standing up. “Yeah. I’m just tired.”

Another lie.

Nate took a swig of beer then pointed the neck toward the stage. “Henry’s up next. You don’t want to stay?” He wiggled his eyebrows as he set his bottle down. “It promises to be hot. That man is . . .” He fanned himself as Anson smacked his bulky arm. Nate recoiled playfully. “What?”

Anson rolled his eyes hard enough I worried they’d get stuck that way, but he ignored his best friend’s question. “You sure you’re okay, Tris? You’ve been uncharacteristically quiet tonight.”

Dammit. I hadn’t hidden it as well as I’d thought. “Yeah, I’m good.”

I was a lying liar who lied.

Anson shrugged. “Alright. Be safe getting home. Text when you get there.”

“Okay, Daddy,” I snarked, amusing myself with their expressions.

Anson dismissed me with an ostentatious wave just as the music lowered in preparation for the emcee. “Go home, boy. Before I spank that ass of yours for mouthing off.”

I threw my head back and laughed as I turned and walked away. I’d like to see him try.

Chapter fifteen

Henry

My eyes were swollen and red as I stared into the lighted mirror in the aftercare room. Like a responsible Dom, I’d ensured Carter was okay before I left him on the couch snuggled in a plethora of blankets and pillows. He wasn’t one for cuddling, at least not with me, so he didn’t require much physical touch in his aftercare. I’d simply ensured he drank some water, helped him remove all the hardened wax, and tucked the blankets around him before tending to my own invisible wounds.

This was just Dom drop. I was fine.

I scrubbed my hand over my pale face then stared in the mirror again. I was not fine. I knew the minute it happened, too. I was okay as I handcuffed him, blindfolded him, and plugged his ears—even through the feather play—but the second I put Carter’s balls in that stupid vise he’d asked for, I’d started to feel ill. Then with the wax . . .

I shuddered. Sensory play always got me hard—giving and receiving—but as soon as I’d started to inflict pain, my dick had deflated along with my mood. I’d pushed through, though, and I knew we’d put on a good show, so I doubted anyone could tell I was sick to my stomach as I led Carter off the stage.

Fuck. Tears welled in my eyes as I gripped the sides of the counters in my fists until my knuckles turned white. My breathing shallowed, and I found myself staring at the off-white laminate counter, unable to look at myself as I willed my heart to calm down, my mind to stop swirling.

I didn’t think I could keep doing this long-term. But what choice did I have?

Carter was such a sweet guy and a great friend, and I hated letting anyone down. Though this probably wasn’t sustainable, I still felt like I owed him until he could find his own Daddy. But he was perpetually busy, so who knew when that would be?

My thoughts flew to Tristan, as they’d been doing since our night a couple of weeks ago. Did he stay and watch? What would he have thought if he did? Would he have noticed that I was faltering toward the end? Would he think less of me after that?

Fuck, I would give anything to have him hold me right now.

That was another thought I’d had often in the intervening weeks. I’d longed for just one taste of him for years, but now that I’d experienced what a night with him was like, that longing had turned into more. He’d burrowed under my skin, and now I craved him like a drug, needed him like air. I feared I’d never be able to extricate his imprint on my heart.

But he didn’t want me.

Shit. I sunk to a metal folding chair as Carter dozed on the couch somewhere behind me and dropped my head into my hands. Tristan didn’t want to be with me. He’d made that abundantly clear when he walked out on me that uncharacteristically sunny Friday morning.