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Remember what you promised.
“You’re the VIP attraction, kitten.”
“Huh?”
Again, no time to process any other reaction—not that she’d even be able to form it, as Zeke pressed a key card on a chain up to the shiny padlock. Instantly, the doors parted with ominous blasts.
Z flashed a grin at John. “If anyone’s checking, the log will tag my entrance, not yours.”
“Outstanding.”
Her Sir’s approving growl affected her bloodstream like solar flares. She had no idea why but simply flowed with the incredible sensation.
Whatwas wrong with her?
Every neuron in her brain screamed she should be shivering in trepidation, not burning up with arousal. This wasn’t a fantasy novel or a scene in a play. This was real. She was letting a man pull her through those doors, into an oddly quiet hall now defined by leather-covered walls, dark-tiled floors, and air smelling of patchouli, smoke, latex—and sex.
She was turning, watching as Max wiggled his fingers at them, crooning “You kids have fun”—before the doors slammed back shut.
She was standing, still trying to summon even one shudder, as Franzen—no, as Sir—pivoted so they again faced each other. Cupped her shoulders in his powerful, masterful hands. Tugged her so close, her aching nipples nearly brushed his wall of a chest. Summoned his voice in a rough, commanding inhalation.
“Kitten. Look at me.”
She tilted her head up. Got down a gulp like a wrecking ball, as his gaze affected her composure the same way. Her knees were dust. Her nerves were incinerated. Her pussy was a flooded, aching mess.
“You still trust me?”
Her senses surprised her with another smile. He was checking in, still conscious of her. Still caring about her. Still prioritizing her. Even if he handed her an orange jumpsuit right now, her response would be the same.
“Yes, Sir.” She finished the whisper by standing on tiptoes to kiss him. “I do. I truly do.”
He returned the pressure of her lips, though it was infused with fresh formality. The veneer toughened as he slid both hands beneath her short hemline—
Then encountered the barrier of her underwear. As his hand halted, she stiffened. In this new environment, with its new set of playing rules, what would ignoring his “request” mean for her?
To her shock, not much more than a mysterious hum.
At least at first.
“That means a lot to me, ku’uipo.” He pulled away—but as he went, smoothly scooping up both hands, gathering more and more of her dress. When he finally settled his stance again, he’d pulled the whole thing over her head, off her body. “Because it means you won’t have any trouble with me watching you strip the rest of the way.”
She forced down a deep breath—then on the exhalation, a dutiful “Yes, Sir.” What other choice was there? Rebellious brat was just stupid, after knowingly snubbing his direction. And no way was she chickening out of the adventure now, when it was getting pretty damn interesting.
More than any of that, she wanted this.
Wanted.
This.
How many times, over the last few days alone, had she blatantly fantasized about the chance to have this man drag her off into a place just like this? To brook no argument about his commands? To openly demand to have his way with her?
An equal number of times, she’d set aside the dream as just that. The logistical details of making something like this happen, even during this interim in which she was a non-person to the rest of the world, sent her head spinning. On top of that, it was a Friday night—likely one of the most popular periods for everyone to get out and “get their kink on” in a place as luxurious as this—blowing new depths of her gray matter apart in gratitude. He’d worked damn hard to make this all happen…all for her.
So yeah—it was time to strip.
The bra was the easy part. The little black demi-cups already exposed just about everything the man wanted to see about her peaks, which certainly weren’t anything special. Before Luke came along, they’d been…normal. Not too big, not too small. Now, they were normal but saggy—a truth not lending a shred of logic to the man’s starving beast snarl as she unclasped the bra. But if she’d learned anything about John Franzen over the last few days, it was the man’s insistence on enjoying what he referred to as her “juicy hua”.
His rasp of the syllables now, caressing the air so thick with sensual promise, turned her nipples into points of acute, aching need. She gasped as her areolas puckered, making the nipples stand out even harder. Dammit. Wouldn’t the man do anything more than stare at them?
