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“No, thank you,” Lia said staunchly. “I’m no slave girl.”
Beau chuckled. “Is that so?” He reached for one of the robes. “While it’s a shame to cover such beauty, perhaps this is the solution?”
Lia eagerly reached for the robe.
“Not so fast,” he said with a wicked grin. “I’m intrigued by the BDSM triskelion tattoo you have right over your pretty little cunt. Is that a sign to the vanilla boys that they need not apply?”
Lia laughed. “Yep. That about sums it up.”
Before she could react, he reached down, cupping her shaven, tattooed mons. The tips of his fingers grazed her outer labia, sending a jolt of pure lust directly to her nipples. Startled both by his uninvited touch and her own visceral reaction, Lia took an abrupt step back, causing his hand to fall away.
Beau’s eyelids hooded, a dominant fire turning his green eyes dark.
Lia never blushed, but damn if her face wasn’t in flames. To cover her desire and embarrassment, she stood on tiptoe and yanked the robe from Beau’s hand. She shrugged into it, pulling the sash tight around her waist.
Beau chuckled. “Now I see why Anthony used the word feisty to describe you, young lady. I think a good, hard spanking is in order to remind you of your manners.”
“Better men have tried and failed,” she quipped, pleased she was back in control, or at least doing a good imitation.
“Mark mentioned you were in The Enclave’s slave training program, but that things didn’t quite work out. What’s the story there?”
Lia groaned. How much did Beau know? He was Mark’s friend and guys talked. “Short answer—I quit before they tossed me out. I thought maybe their full immersion training would enlighten me about true submission. All it did was end up convincing me what I think I already knew—I’m no sub.”
Beau regarded her with such a penetrating stare that she had to look away. “I wonder,” he said musingly.
“I’m starving,” she said, suddenly desperate to change the subject. “A good whipping always whets my appetite. Let’s get something to eat.”
“Sounds like a plan,” Beau agreed easily, though somehow she sensed they weren’t done with the topic of her failure.
They made their way to one of the snack tables. Lia piled her plate with savory snacks, taking a second plate for the dessert items. Beau, whose single plate held perhaps a third of Lia’s, laughed as he watched her selecting items.
“Where the heck are you going to put all that? You can’t weigh more than ninety pounds.”
Balancing her plates, Lia drew herself up to her full five foot one. “I’ll have you know I weigh a hundred pounds. All of it solid muscle,” she added with a lift of her chin. “I practice Tae Bo. You don’t want to cross me.”
Beau laughed. “I’ll remember that.”
He led her to some comfortable chairs in a quiet corner of the room. He had thoughtfully snagged two more bottles of water, which he set on the small table between them. Shrugging off his gear bag, he set it beside his chair. They concentrated on their food for a few minutes, which, as always at The Enclave, was spectacular.
“Man,” Lia groaned with pleasure, licking her fingers. “Master Mason sure can cook.”
“That’s the chef? The one who’s in love with the writer?” Clearly, Beau knew a lot about this place and the people who lived here.
Lia grinned in spite of herself, still not quite able to reconcile the idea of Mason in love. “Yep. He’s also incredibly skilled with knives and blood play. I wasn’t his favorite person, though.” She frowned at the memory. “I was too much about the erotic pain, not enough about the protocol, slave positions and the endless kneeling and begging.”
She shook her head. “I don’t know what I was thinking, signing up for sub training. As one of my trainers—Master Drill Sergeant, I mean Master Lawrence—so charmingly put it, ‘You can put lipstick on a pig, but in the end she’s still a pig.’”
Beau winced. “That’s harsh. And you’re certainly no pig, Lia. You’re a sexy, lovely young woman with lots of complicated layers.” His lip curved again into that sexy smile. “Layers I’d like to unwrap.”
Again, absurdly, blood rushed into her cheeks. Desperate to take the focus off herself, Lia blurted the first dumb thing that popped into her head. “Enough about me. What about that woman you had on your arm at the wedding? Is she your Domme?” Tilting her head, she pretended to size him up. “Yeah. I can definitely picture you on your knees begging, ‘Please, Ma’am. May I have some more?’”
Beau’s green eyes narrowed as he let her ridiculous words hang in the air for several painful beats. Then, all at once, he reached for her throat. He gripped her tightly, thumb and forefinger pressed hard beneath her jaw.
Lia's breath caught, her heart beating a thumping tattoo against her ribs.
“I’m no sub, Lia. I think you know that.”
She couldn’t have replied if she’d wanted to, her breath constricted by his strong hand.
