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He’d fucked up for the second time in an hour.
Unacceptable. Completely unacceptable.
Fuck, he missed her already. The scene had been empty from the start without the little sub’s eyes haunting his every move. He was so used to feeling her stare on his back, catching sight of her from the corner of his eye. Not having her there made the hollow chasm in his belly widen.
Jasper helped Tiffany stand straight, reaching for a blanket to wrap around her, but she waved him off with a strained smile that sent regret surging through his veins.
“You’re different tonight, Master Jasper,” she said in her husky voice, a little Texas twang beneath the words. “Are you okay?”
No, I’m far from it, he thought. Movement caught his attention and his head snapped around, his gaze landing on Atticus and the tiny submissive padding along behind him, her hand in his. Absently, he murmured, “No, poppet, I’m not. I’m sorry, we shouldn’t have done this tonight.”
Tiffany tracked his line of sight, and she made a soft ah sound. “I must admit, I wondered where our little voyeur was. Everything makes sense now. She finally had enough of waiting for you. Never figured Master Atticus as her type, but I never pegged her as a masochist either.”
Neither had he, but perhaps nine months of torturing herself waiting for something that would never happen made her the biggest masochist in the club. His eyes narrowed as Atticus stopped beside a spanking bench, turning to face a wide-eyed, pale-faced Anarchy.
Jealousy roiled in his gut as big, clumsy hands lifted to her shoulders and slipped the thin straps of her teddy down her arms. Removing what she’d worn for Jasper’s benefit, a temptation she’d dressed herself in for him.
His teeth ground together as his friend peeled the pretty garment away to reveal beautiful, full breasts and lush curves. Five feet, five inches of perfection. He damn near cracked a tooth when Atticus’s hands stroked over that flesh, fingertips grazing her nipples.
He barely felt the pat of Tiffany’s hand on his arm before she drifted away. His muscles were rigid, fists clenched.
It hurt more than he thought it would to see another man’s hands on Anarchy. Ripped his fucking insides to shreds and made him bleed. The urge to charge across the barn and tackle Atticus to the floor, pound his friend’s face into mulch, only intensified as the asshole bent and—bold as fucking brass—claimed Anarchy’s mouth with fervor.
She responded hesitantly, he noted with grim satisfaction. Didn’t throw herself into the kiss with passion and an eagerness to…ah, fuck. Satisfaction burned to ash and scattered when her arms lifted and curled around Atticus’s massive shoulders, coming alive and kissing him back fiercely.
This was the choice I made, he reminded himself as red hazed his vision. The choice I made for her. This is what she needs—he can give her what she wants.
Forcing himself to turn away, Jasper started tidying up after his failed scene. It wasted a little time, and he knew it was best for all concerned if he finished up and went back to sulking in the bar. Liam would give him a glass of the good stuff if he asked, and he could spend the rest of the evening lamenting and drowning his sorrows in liquor.
When he finally gave up the ghost of pretending he didn’t care about the scene happening behind him and risked a glance, his eyes met Anarchy’s across the room.
What the fuck have you done, Fairfax?
*
Standing beside the spanking bench, a weighty pair of fur-lined leather cuffs on her wrists, Anarchy struggled to control her breathing. Waiting for Atticus to select his weapon of choice for her flogging was wrecking her nerves, and being naked in a room full of kinksters after so many months of being out of the spotlight upset her balance.
She was sorely tempted to sneak away into the shadows where she belonged. Against her Dominant’s orders, she kept shooting glances toward Jasper. Her heart ached for the man she loved despite everything that had gone on tonight.
He’d lost his proud bearing, the posture which made him so intimidating. He moved slowly, cleaning the station he’d used with the redhead. When he suddenly looked over at her, she was too lost in watching him to react quickly and fell headlong into his icy blue gaze.
Drawn to him, she took a step forward.
“Naughty sub,” Atticus growled, clamping his hand down on her nape and halting her in her tracks. “Do you need a reminder already about where your attention should be, Anarchy?”
Jasper’s eyes flashed with blue fire a second before Atticus released her neck and grabbed her hips, lifting her effortlessly and spinning her around to face the bench. But he didn’t stop there; he plunked her down on top of it, her pussy landing on cool leather.
“No, Master Atticus. I’m sorry, Sir.”
“Too late for apologies, sweetheart. Submissives who can’t do as they are told face consequences. Submissives who can’t keep their eyes off another man during a scene lose their right to see.” Setting his massive palm in the middle of her shoulders, he braced her gently until she found her balance. Then he stepped away and rummaged around in the cupboards lining the wall.
Trembling, her hands gripping the edges of the padded bench, she jolted when his presence returned ominously at her back. A whimper bubbled free as a swath of material appeared in her vision…then stole it as he covered her eyes.
Oh fuck, a blindfold.
Anarchy flailed as her body tilted, disorientated by her sudden blindness. She tipped backwards with a little cry, only to fall against a broad chest more solid than a brick wall.
Calm as a lake in summertime, Atticus secured the blindfold in place. “There’s no need to panic, sweetheart. I won’t let you fall. In fact, I’m going to make doubly sure you’re not going anywhere at all.” His dark laugh offset the sweetness of his words. “Lean forward carefully and rest your front along the bench, Anarchy. Let your hands and arms fall naturally down the sides.”
