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I clench my fists, staring into the L.A. nighttime horizon, not focusing on anything in particular. Since I saw Blakely and pulled her into my arms, my unsettled cravings spiked like an out-of-control fever.
I need my wife back.
I drop my head, inhaling the faint smell of her still left on my shirt. Muted sea salt and driftwood notes barely register, and my yearnings dig into me deeper.
She wore her pink collar.
It has to mean something if she's wearing her collars, not just with me but in public.
I go to my desk and tap the return key on my laptop. Images of my pet fill the screen from the search I did earlier today. I scan ten pages of results before I lean back, even more frustrated, tugging on my hair. And the carnal urges burning inside me plague me.
She has a collar on in every photo.
Since I became a Dom, I've never gone this long without making a woman submit. Normally, I can go to the club, pick a submissive or a switch who likes to play both roles, then demand they kneel before me. After I finish with them, if the itch isn't scratched out of me, I can find someone else and keep going, even if I'm there for days.
Not once have I been in a situation where I've committed to a sub and I haven't been able to have them whenever and wherever I wanted. So this entire ordeal tests every ounce of restraint I possess.
I'm pretty sure I'm losing the battle. Blakely's no closer to coming home than before she walked into my office today. If anything, I've pushed her farther away.
Reality makes my skin crawl with desires I can't act upon. I curse myself further.
Why didn't I make her submit in Detroit? I could have gotten some of this out of my system.
I shouldn't have let her leave my office.
I return to pacing the room, practically tearing my hair out, wishing my nerves weren't so frazzled. All our interactions since the charity event replay in my mind. They're on a movie reel that won't shut off, highlighting all the curves my pet displayed in the Detroit hotel room while she knelt by the window. It flashes against the smile she gave me when I held her earlier today, which all drives me to the point of insanity.
My phone jars me out of the nightmare, and my gut churns as I read the text.
Kalim: I dropped Blakely and Colton off at a private club. She slipped past the bouncer and went inside. He's not letting me in.
My chest tightens. I grind my molars, feeling sick.
Me: What club?
Kalim: There's no sign. The bouncer seemed to recognize her, and she seemed to know him.
He sends me a photo of the head bouncer at Club Indulgence.
My stomach flips faster. I grab my keys and get to my Porsche at record speed.
For the first time ever, I curse myself for having such strong security measures, and wait for the lift to position my vehicle on the ground floor.
I tap on the wheel in the darkness and call Blakely. It rings four times, then goes into voicemail.
"Fuck!" I shout.
I text her.
Me: Call me immediately. This isn't a request.
The message says delivered and I wait for it to say read, but it never does.
The lift doors open, and I peel out of the parking garage and into the L.A. streets, weaving in and out of traffic at a dangerous pace, continuing to call her but always getting voicemail. I run every stoplight, pull into my space inside the club's parking garage, and continue lecturing myself for my stupidity on the way inside.
I streak through the dark hallway, unsure where I'm going, and glance at the windows of the viewing rooms as I pass.
Where is she?
