She obeyed, but as she did, everything quivered. Her nipples were stabbing against her bra, and her palms were damp.
He unhooked the key, smoothed her blouse back down over the area. “Lift your chin.”
As she did, he fitted the key to the lock. The collar loosened, came away in his hands. He laid it on the table between them. Her neck felt too bare, too light without it. Once she’d made her decision about Ben, she’d put it on, resolved not to take it off, and she’d been wearing it over a year. His gaze lingered on her neck, then lifted to hers. “Look down at the table, and don’t look up unless I give you permission.”
She was going to hyperventilate. Everything was tightening up inside. Her skin was cold and hot at once, and that trembling continued. It was as if she had the flu. Was he having the waiter box up the dessert to take her to the club? Was he going to agree to her desires? Was she ready for that?
“A slave doesn’t collar herself,” he said, his voice low. Uncompromising. “If you’ve ever set foot in a club, that won’t happen again. That’s not your world. You defy me on this, I won’t hesitate to take it to Cass and Lucas.”
He was chastising her like a child, but his orders, his touch, had been that of a Master taking sexual control. Another emotion swept through her now.
Anger.
She lifted her gaze, locked with his. Before she could respond, the waiter came back, carrying a to-go box. Ben rose, lifting his hand for one of the slow-cruising cabs patrolling for evening patrons. The waiter handed her the dessert box when Ben brusquely gestured for him to do so, then the man wisely retreated. They were too crowded in the dining area for her to try digging in her heels, so she set her chin, allowed herself to be guided back to her feet and out of that area to the waiting cab.
However, once there, she stopped and faced him, extricating her elbow from his grasp. He’d pocketed the choker, and she wouldn’t wrest it from him, no matter how much it meant to her. If he was right, and she knew he was, it was his to put back on her. She wondered if he’d read the inscription on the back of the pendant. If he did, would it have the same meaning for him it had for her?
Giving her a hard look, Ben spoke to the cab driver, telling him Cass’ address and handing him enough to cover fare and tip. He opened the door for her. “Get in. You’re going home.”
She set her chin. “I’m twenty-three. I’m no longer a child, Ben. Cass and Lucas don’t have any say in my decisions about this.” She drew a breath. “If you’re not willing to be my Master, you don’t either.”
The anger was strong enough she was tempted to tell the driver to take her to Progeny instead, right in front of him. But she wasn’t going to go without him, and she couldn’t bluff a man like Ben. She had to be willing to do everything she said she was going to do.
She got into the car with quiet dignity, though she was vibrating with emotion. As he closed it, he stepped back without saying anything more. He’d reverted to that unsmiling expression, his eyes so calculating, seeing so much. She wondered if he was going to end her internship, try to block her from seeing him again. But that was what could happen tomorrow.
While she hadn’t been completely prepared for the emotional impact of his rejection, she had anticipated something like it happening. There were always snags in a negotiation, setbacks. The key was a backup plan, and she had one. When she’d come up with it, she’d wondered if she’d have the bravery to pull it off. Now, galvanized not only by his stubbornness and anger, but those moments she’d seen and felt something entirely different from him, she had the courage to use a battering ram if necessary.
As the cab moved away, leaving him behind, it gave her the space to take some deep breaths, marshal her thoughts. It was time to stop reminding him of the child she’d been and hit him full force with the woman she was.
Ben brought the choker back out. It was still warm from her skin. Staring at the forget-me-nots pressed under the glass, he knew he needed to go to Progeny himself. He’d find a submissive, fuck her brains out, work her over hard. He’d pay a staff member to do the aftercare so he could walk away. Finish out the night at his favorite bar filled with questionable characters and the odor of stale beer. He might get a drink, or two or three. The Irishman’s crutch. He knew the dangers. Which was why he’d probably go straight to the bar.
Progeny wasn’t where he wanted to be. Doing a scene with a submissive required precision, control, artistry. A mutual exchange of pleasure. What he needed was a down and dirty whore, one who’d blow him off, let him fuck her in the ass with enthusiasm, and then leave him with a knowing half-smile and a pocketful of his money.
In the past when this mood took him, he’d go find one of the guys, hang out at a sports bar or one of the classy burlesque clubs, eye naked females, and it would be okay after a while. When Peter had been single, they’d often trawl the streets together until dawn. It was why they’d called the ex-National Guard captain Nightcrawler. Ben had even given him an original signed cover of the famous comic book character for his birthday. It was framed on the wall of Peter’s office.
But things were different now. Savannah was seven months pregnant. Matt wasn’t going out in the evenings right now, because her pregnancy hadn’t been an easy one and she was on bedrest until the baby came. Lucas and Cass still had three of her siblings at home, Cherry, Talia and Nate. He could call Peter and Dana, or Jon and Rachel, but it felt wrong. It all felt wrong.
He’d told her she was asking for trouble, and she’d parried with that half-smile, the taunt in her gaze. But she hadn’t been making light of the threat it was, and that made it worse. If she would act like a clueless kid, reckless and naïve, he could brush it off easier. But the knowledge was in her eyes.
She wasn’t experienced; if she’d been to a club, he’d bet money she’d only watched, not participated or given herself to a Master. Something ugly tightened in his chest at the thought of her being anywhere near a Dom in that setting. He pushed past that. No, she wasn’t experienced, but she understood. She knew what she was, what he was. She was daring him to let it loose, wanting to see if she could handle what he’d dish out.
He thought about calling Lucas, sounding him out on it, then played out how that conversation would go. “Hey, just wondering. Did you know your wife’s little sister is a submissive, and oh, by the way, have you been taking her to clubs to have her ass smacked by random Doms?”
Oh yeah. That would go over well. Luc would say, “Stay right there, Ben. I’ll be by directly with a baseball bat to beat your fucking brains into the sidewalk.”
He returned to the table, paid the check. He had some work he could handle at the office, but he wasn’t in the mood to go back and do that either. Jesus, she’d be there tomorrow. Alice was gone for two weeks. It was too much to hope he’d taken care of the problem tonight, spooked her. He’d read the stubborn jut of that chin when she got in the cab. She’d been one breath short of telling the driver to ignore his directions and take her to Progeny. If she’d done it, he would have yanked her out of the cab and blistered her ass right there up against it until she was moaning…
Holy fuck. He’d walked down the street several blocks, and now he decided to sit down on a bench. Seedier elements who kept an eye out for the solitary pedestrian traffic gave him considering looks and he met their gazes square on. Yeah, you want to be fucked up, you give it your best shot.
There were some working girls, and he motioned to one of them. When she approached, he shook his head before she could start her spiel. Instead, he nodded to the cigarettes in her purse. “A fifty for one of those and a light, darling.”
“For a fifty, I’ll give you two, sugar.” When he handed over the cash, she proffered the two cigarettes. He cupped his hands over hers to protect the flame as she used her lighter. She had wicked long nails, scarlet with some flashy stuff on it. Nodding, he sat back, and she trawled back to her friends, recognizing a man who wanted to be alone. Good whore. On another night, he might have taken a second look. Yeah right. He hadn’t tapped that risky kind of pussy since he was a dumb-ass teenager.
Drawing deep, he closed his eyes and laid his head back against the wall of the old brick building behind the bench.
Marcie lost her virginity at nineteen. Christ on a cupcake, she’d called him to talk about it. He’d given up lecturing her on what was appropriate to discuss with him. The last time he’d tried, she’d teased him, told him he was her best girlfriend, earning a snort. Then she’d become more serious.
You listen. You always give me the right kind of advice, and you know when not to give me any at all. You’re my friend, Ben.
She didn’t know him or what he was. He and that whore had way more in common. It was showing in the smoking, in the proliferation of f-words in his vocabulary lately. His increasing apathy about all of it.
Marcie had sex at nineteen. By the time he was nineteen, he hadn’t been a virgin for years. Those experiences weren’t innocent gropings in the back of a Mustang. They were the type of memories best left buried like the rotting corpses they were.
He didn’t want to dwell in those dark spaces, so he thought back to that phone call. In truth, he’d been surprised she’d waited that late, given that most teens these days lost their virginity in high school. She’d stumbled around a bit, but she’d wanted to talk about it. The guy had been an okay sort who’d done a decent job, not completely screwed up. She didn’t say so baldly, but he could tell she hadn’t had an orgasm, not unusual for a girl’s first time, but she’d felt those stirrings that suggested it could go that way sometime down the road. He’d confirmed her experience was normal. Without endorsing her going out on a Debbie-Does-Dallas pilgrimage to find the ultimate orgasm, he’d told her it would get better.
He’d cautioned her to be careful, told her what to watch out for. She’d gotten a little teary. After he made sure the tears were just typical female catharsis over an important turning point, and not because Bill What’s-His-Name needed to have his dick twisted off, he’d reassured her they were normal too.