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“And I do enjoy playing, kitten.”
“You mean blowing a submissive’s ever-loving mind?”
“Yeah. Something like that,” he chuckled back.
“You’re still avoiding the question, but keep rubbing my head and I’ll let it pass.”
“Hmmm.” He expanded his touch, massaging deeper. “Well-played yourself, Tracy Rhodes.” He pulled in a long breath, raising and lowering her head along with his chest. “And still another reason why I never thought someone like you didn’t exist.”
She let out a breath on a hum before burrowing tighter against him. Hopefully, it demonstrated how thoroughly she absorbed the confession into her heart. It was more than just the words. It was the walls he smashed through to speak them…the basement he had to push out of.
“It’s really been that hard for you?” She tilted her face up, so he could see the sincerity of her gaze. “I mean, I get it, John; a life in public service doesn’t lend itself to a lot of Netflix-and-chill. On top of that, you usually can’t talk about your day at the office.”
“And there’s the small issue of not being able to leave the orders on the battlefield. And the handcuffs. And the rope. And certain blunt instruments capable of leaving interesting marks on a bare ass.”
His rejoinder made her frown. “Wait. Has that seriously been an issue for you?” Because just the idea of him, wielding any or all that stuff on her, flipped about a dozen new switches of arousal between her thighs.
“At first, yes.” A frisson of something strange took over his face, especially his eyes. After a couple of seconds it was gone, though Tracy still felt the tense twitches in his body, indicating an inner battle. “But not since I partnered with my best friend to open a club of our own.”
Aha. The war of the psyche, explained. She’d seen enough internal skirmishes like it, sitting across conference tables from people debating what truths to reveal in the name of political gain, to peg the behavior. But in this case, he was willing to lose—doubling her esteem of him.
That felt…
Really nice.
Even nicer, when she was able to lift an impish smile and dancing eyes, enjoying the new flare across his face as she purred, “Well. Just when I thought you couldn’t get any hotter.”
He grinned. Not just any grin. It was his look of supreme, sexy pride, curving his lips into curves more enticing than she’d seen on him yet. “Lighting it up is a favorite specialty.”
“You mean like fire play?”
His smirk gave way to a new gape. “Shit.”
“What?”
“You know about that kind of kink?”
He was being honest. She had to do the same. “If you must know, I’ve dreamed about that kind of kink.”
He blinked. Stared as if she’d just slapped him—to the point she reached up, spreading fingers across his jaw. “Have I officially freaked you out?”
He snorted. “In about seventeen ways.” After sliding his tongue between her lips for a brief but searing suckle, he ensured, “All the best ways.”
The words, and that kiss, spread tingles through every extremity of her body—to the point she almost ditched the conversation just to have more of that contact. She forced herself to focus on words instead. Essential ones. “So at your club, surely you had a line of subs waiting to get beneath you.”
A line. Ha. Who was she kidding? The queue had probably wound out the door and down the block—a conclusion she was so certain of, it pitched a damn tent in her mind despite Franz’s rough laugh.
“Bastille isn’t McDonald’s, kitten,” he chided. “One just can’t drive in, order their Dom or sub with no pickles and extra mayo, then get busy. There are nuances. Variables. A lot of them.”
She mulled on that for a second. “I get that, I think.” Tilted her head in deeper thought. “I guess, the way I always perceived it, was that BDSM had gradients…lighter play to the hardcore things…and as long as you met someone with the same tastes, you were pretty good.”
He dropped his head the same direction as hers, lining up their stares once more. “True, if one is only in it for the obvious surface benefits.”
“And you’re not a surface benefits guy.” She was damn glad she could issue that as a certainty too—but even more joyful about his matching conviction of an answer.
“Never was. Never will be.”
For all the surety of his statement, there was another blatant ingredient. Sobriety. Resignation. And yes, sadness. A double dose of the last—slapping Tracy with a solid stunner.
