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“Actually, yes, you are, unless there’s a pretentious color you want to bring up.” He arched a brow, and it took her a moment to realize he was asking if she wanted to safeword. Irritated, she hiked up her dress and used the facilities, since she felt like she was about to burst and didn’t want to take the time to argue with him about this. He watched the whole proc
ess rather than averting his gaze. Jerk.
“That’s a good shade of red on you,” he murmured stroking a finger down her cheek to indicate the blush she could feel burning there.
“This is the extent to which these sorts of bodily functions will ever be a part of our relationship,” she snapped. “Anything past this is a hard limit.”
“I didn’t think you’d actually do it.” He chuckled, looking inordinately pleased. “It’s not even my kink, but you blushing is.”
“Bastard.”
“What was that? Did you say Master?”
“Yes, Master,” she said sarcastically. “Thank you for letting me use the washroom and not making me pee my pants.”
“Also not one of my kinks, although I do feel the need to point out you don’t have any pants. Or panties, for that matter.”
She rolled her eyes. “I have to admit, when I told you a leash wasn’t on my list of hard limits I hadn’t really thought it through. I thought maybe five minutes in the privacy of a bedroom? I didn’t realize how exhausting it could be following someone around for hours while they make small talk at a party. I mean, I would have been doing the same thing off leash, but the leash makes me far more aware of where you are every second and what you’re doing. There’s no wandering off to join in other conversations.”
“And there’s no privacy in the bathroom, poor muffin.” He chuckled and led her to the sink. He tucked her leash under his arm, then wet her hands and soaped them. The slide of his palms against hers, and the slip of his fingers between her fingers, the warm water, the mild scent of the expensive soap he’d insisted she choose for the club—it was more intimate than any nonsexual thing had any right to be. Hell, it was more intimate than most of the sex she’d had before she met Will.
The fuzzy submissive haze had settled over her brain again. His mood had changed. He was calmer, and seemed more centered on her as she was on him.
“You seemed to be angry for a while tonight, Master,” she observed neutrally. “I hope I wasn’t displeasing.”
“You were too pleasing. That was the problem. We’ve had the place to ourselves for the past couple of days as we put the final touches on the club. Now that it’s opening night, I resent having to share our space, and having to share you. I guess it would be bad form for me to kick everyone out?”
“Probably.”
“Well, this was me on my best behavior. I hope people don’t expect this on an ongoing basis. For some reason, I’m not feeling very social lately.” He grinned at her ferociously, then tossed her over his shoulder and headed across the club.
Juliet struggled to get down, although she wasn’t sure why considering he was probably planning to bring her upstairs to give her exactly what she wanted. His arm banded tighter around her legs and he gave her ass a sharp smack. The sting of it spread through her turning her on and yet making her want to fight harder.
“Is your slave being disobedient, Master William?” a female voice asked. “It must be something in the air. Mine seems to be in need of some discipline this evening too. It’s not like him.”
“Mine isn’t being disobedient, Mistress Ying. I think she just wants it rough.”
“Don’t they always?” Her laugh, cold and cultured, was devoid of humor. Juliet felt bad for the woman’s submissive, whoever they were.
She fought Will’s hold all the way to the second floor, grabbing at corners and wall sconces, screeching, beating her fists against his back and kicking her feet, loving how none of it even fazed him. At one point she almost fell because she was struggling so much, but he caught her just as she squeaked in dismay. He yanked up her dress, exposing her ass to anyone who might be going by, and started to spank her in earnest as he walked, despite her protests.
As he entered the attic room—the only room in the building that hadn’t been remodeled—she realized that maybe getting him all riled up had been a mistake.
He kicked the door closed and bolted it behind him.
“You’re well and truly fucked now, sunshine.” He swung her down from his shoulder and threw her on the mattress so fast her scream didn’t even come out until she’d landed.
He pulled off his shirt, and while he was busy with that she jumped up off the mattress, a weird giddiness filling her chest. What would he do? Was he going to punish her or get rough with her? Her heart was pounding. She ran for the door, struggling to push the stubborn bolt back open.
His big boots thumped across the floor behind her. She could hear him coming, and the sound of it thrilled and terrified her. He caught her around the waist and jerked her away from the door.
“Where the fuck do you think you’re going, woman?” he growled.
She fought his hold, hoping not to get away, and enjoying the feel of his arms trapping her.
He made her feel reckless and alive. She could do anything she wanted—try anything she wanted—and he wouldn’t judge her. He wouldn’t harm her.
She fought hard, scratching and kicking, trying to push him away, trying to get away. Fuck, he was strong! She took a swipe at his face with her fingernails, and he caught her hand before she connected, trapping it in his big paw, gently smacking her face with his other hand. She stopped dead, shocked.
