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The clink of metal on metal reverberated as I secured the last cuff to the bondage table. My hands moved with practiced ease, every action precise and purposeful. But then, the soft padding of footsteps behind me snapped me out of my focus.
"Shit," Mira breathed, her voice a mix of shock and wonder as she stepped into the back room, her eyes wide as dinner plates.She was supposed to be waiting up front, but I should have known from our first meeting that she was never where she was supposed to be.
"Thought you'd gotten over your curiosity after what happened the first time you spied on me," I said without turning around, not wanting to see the judgment in those intelligent brown eyes. She let out a shaky breath, and I wondered if she remembered everything.
"Is this gear what I think it is?" Her voice trembled lightly, betraying a hint of excitement as she approached the table I was working on. Her delicate fingers traced the outline of the padded top, sliding over to fiddle with one of the wrist straps.
"Depends on what you think it is," I replied, my words short and clipped. The sight of her touching the equipment stirred something primal in me, a surge of possessiveness that had no right to take hold. She was Jay's date, Vin's daughter—off-limits in every way—and too damn innocent for the likes of me.
She smirked at me, a little saucy. "Don't worry, I know what a St. Andrew's cross is."
"The fuck you do," I muttered. "How old are you now, 23, 24? You're a baby."
"24-year-olds do… stuff," she said, rolling her eyes. I held back a laugh. She couldn't even say it out loud. "Why do you have the gear here and not at your home?" Her fingertips lingered on the straps like they were calling out to her.
"My house is small. This space works better for parties," I responded, my tone guarded. Her presence was throwing me off balance, the scent of her perfume mingling with the tang of polished metal and worn leather. It was unsettling how much I wanted to show her exactly how it got used.
"A party. Like an…" Her voice died, as if the dirty word in her head couldn't quite make it past her perfect lips. Her gaze flicked up to meet mine, searching, questioning. There was a heat there, a spark of interest that couldn't be denied.
"Not always an orgy. We do scenes, demonstrations. It's part of the lifestyle." I needed to maintain some semblance of detachment so I switched gears, squaring my shoulders and stepping closer. "You think you know about BDSM, sweetheart?"
"I've, uh, read some things." She bit her lip, a flush creeping up her cheeks as if the mere mention of it was enough to set her skin ablaze.
"Innocent girl reading dirty books?" I had to choke back a bark of laughter. "Hopefully not that series about the billionaire and the virgin, because I'm nothing like the asshole in those books."Not that I needed to know what her fantasies were. It wasn't like I was planning to fuck her.
She said nothing for a moment, her cheeks getting pinker. "No," she sighed. "Something else. I'm not like her, either. Not a virgin."
"Well, no matter what you're reading, books can't teach you anything. You have no fucking clue what this is all about."
She blinked up at me, those big dark eyes defiant, and for a second, I could swear she saw right through me.
"That's true. Reading didn't teach me what you look like when you come." Her eyes darted to mine. My cock twitched to life, remembering the innocent young woman she'd been the first time I'd met her. I'd been 27 at the time, way too old for a 19-year-old. She might be more mature now, but nothing about our age difference had changed. She swallowed, playing with a snap on a leather cuff, watching me out of the corner of her eyes.
"You don't know what you're talking about, little girl."
"Don't I?" With a challenge in her eyes, she hopped up on the table, spread her legs a little, and arched her back. She had the grace of an athlete or a dancer, and it was like seeing a siren call out to a ship full of doomed sailors—mesmerizing, dangerous, and completely off-limits.
Still, the sight of her, vulnerable yet brash, fucked with my head something fierce. I wanted to tell her to back off. But the words wouldn't come; they were strangled by the same desire that made my cock press hard against the zipper of my jeans. I stepped close, placing my hips between her knees before speaking.
"Books don't teach you how to handle the bite of leather on your skin or the sweet sting of a whip," I said, my voice rough likegravel dragged over pavement. I planted my hands on either side of her and leaned in making sure my lips were close enough that she could taste me. "Reading's safe, sweetheart. Real life, not so much."
"Maybe I want to know how it feels." She beamed up at me, reckless girl. "I want to know why it makes them come."
"Fuck, Mira. You're playing with fire here, and I'm not the kind of man you do that with."
"Because you think I can't handle a little heat?" Her eyes locked onto mine, challenging, unyielding, and I was caught in the tempest of her gaze, unable to look away.
"Because I know you can't," I said. "This isn't some college boy and a pair of handcuffs, this is sadism and masochism. This is blurring the lines between pain and pleasure, marking you in a way you'll feel for days to come."
"Sounds fun," she said.
"Walk away, Mira. Wait in the showroom for my little brother to show up and take you out for a cliché romantic meal." The words were a command, but they sounded more like a plea—one last chance for her to back out. Instead, she arched her back more, a challenge in her eyes.
She wasn't a sweet little submissive. She was wanton and impulsive. A brat.
"I can't stop thinking about it," she said. "Your body, your taste. Your cock."
Mira
