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With thoughts of Katelyn scratching inside my head and chest, I am in no shape to perform either function. It had been stupid and childish of me to visit the club. And in rejecting this woman on the cross, I am about to make yet another person suffer for my bad decision.
I put the clamps on the shelf as I carefully consider my next move.
Untie her, of course.
I free her ankles then press my chest tightly against her breasts.
“Put your arms around my neck,” I caution as I remove the restraint on the first wrist. “You’re legs won’t work right now.”
She is shaking too hard to comply. I guide her hand in place, free the other arm then scoop the woman up and carry her to the couch. I sit down with her across my lap.
Cradling her upper body, I stroke her cheek.
“You may tell me your name,” I say. “If you want to.”
“A—” She stops then roughly swallows before answering. “It’s Amanda.”
“You’re very lovely, Amanda.” My lips gloss over her cheek, the blindfold covering her eyes. “But I'm not looking for a slave and you shouldn't be looking for a master in this state.”
She tries to protest, but I shush her. With my mouth remaining pressed in a kiss against her forehead, I run one hand down her stomach. My fingers dip beneath the lace to stroke at her wet pussy. I start softly, the caresses and pinches roughening only when her slave nature becomes frustrated.
Wrapping her arms more fiercely around my neck, Amanda clings to me.
She seeks my mouth. I do not give it to her. My mouth is not mine to offer. If I am being honest with myself—for the first time in a long time—none of my body is mine to offer.
Not my mouth, not my cock, not even the hand I deploy to make Amanda arch and moan until she is breathless and can do nothing more than tremble violently in my arms as she comes.
My body belongs to Katelyn. But rejecting Amanda outright became impossible once I entered the scene. Some man she called master has stripped layer after layer away from the woman’s spirit with each new injury. He would have blamed the cuts and bruises on her—accusing her of being too slow, too fast, too thin, too heavy, too everything and anything.
Martinique made a terrible mistake in selecting Amanda to play with anyone. I refuse to compound it by rejecting the woman.
As far as the situation with Katelyn, I am sure I damned myself the second I pulled into the garage beneath the club.
I sit with Amanda until she quiets in my arms and then I kiss her forehead and leave the room. I find Andre, the club’s other manager and discuss Amanda’s situation. Satisfied he will find someone suitable to foster her, or ban her from the club if she insists on participating in scenes too soon, I go in search of Katelyn.
All I find is Mac, his lips pressed tightly together.
“Where is she?” I growl.
“In a club car,” he says. “You know I am not allowed to force her to stay.”
I nod. He hands me a slip of paper.
“That’s where the driver dropped her off.”
“Right.” I shove the paper with Katelyn’s home address in my pocket and head for the garage.
Katelyn
Two packed suitcaseswait by the front door of my apartment. Next to them is a trash bag filled with the designer gown in copper-dyed silk and the matching clutch. I still haven’t decided what to do with the outfit. I could slap an address on the bag and mail it. I could leave it for my landlady to find, along with everything else I’m abandoning because the suitcases are already too full.
I doubt Montgomery will send me a bill. I’d say he could take it out of the thousand I am owed under his dirty little contract, but—given the label sewn inside—a thousand won’t begin to cover the cost of the dress. If he decides to sue me over it, he’ll have to find me first. And, with his stupid little non-disclosure clause, I doubt he wants anything to wind up in court, especially over a dress that financially means nothing to him and worn by a woman who means even less emotionally.
A few minutes remain to decide its fate. For the moment, though, I have something more important to pack. Adding to my frenzy, the shredder I am feeding paper through jams. I kick it, then swear because I picked the wrong damn foot to kick it with. Exposing its ugly grinding teeth, I lift the shredder’s top, bang it against the collection bin a few times, then set it on my coffee table. The bin is only half full. I dump the bin’s contents into a medium-sized cardboard box.
Since I returned to the apartment, I have been shredding and packing. I have an appointment out of town tomorrow with an auction house. The company is not as high end as Alstrom, but the item I am selling, despite it being priceless to me, is too mundane for Alstrom.
I swipe at a couple of maudlin tears, return the top to the shredder and coax it into accepting several more sheets. I need to finish soon. I don’t expect the Uber driver to wait if I’m not ready and I won’t wake my neighbor to use her phone to call another. But I need the box properly packed. I cannot show up at the auction house with my panties and socks wrapped around the leaded glass for cushioning.
