Chapter 7
T he ache between my thighs reminded me with every shift in my seat – Chad had claimed me, changed me, marked me as his.
I winced slightly as I leaned forward to inspect Mrs. Peterson's cuticles, my body's soreness a secret badge I wore beneath my practical uniform, invisible to everyone but thrillingly present to me.
The salon's familiar scents of acetone and lavender hand cream seemed somehow sharper today, as if my senses had been recalibrated along with everything else.
"Just a little filing needed here," I murmured, my voice betraying none of the electric current that seemed to hum beneath my skin. Mrs. Peterson nodded absently, more interested in her gossip magazine than in my assessment of her nail health.
I reached for my file, the motion pulling at muscles that had been stretched in ways they'd never experienced before.
Last night played in flashes behind my eyes—Chad's powerful body, his commanding presence, the discipline bench, his words: "My brave, beautiful girl.
" The memory of his hands, alternately punishing and reverent, made heat rise to my cheeks.
Glimmer Beauty Salon bustled around me, the same as it had yesterday and would tomorrow.
The rhythmic snip of scissors from the stylist stations, the hum of hair dryers, the occasional burst of laughter from the front desk.
But I felt different inside—grounded in a way I'd never experienced before, as if Chad's gravity had altered my orbit.
"Earth to Daliah!"
I blinked, realizing I'd been staring at Mrs. Peterson's hand without actually filing anything. Trina stood beside my station, one hip cocked, her perfectly plucked eyebrow raised in a question mark.
"Sorry," I muttered, resuming my work. "Just thinking."
"Must be some thoughts," Trina said, her voice dropping conspiratorially as she leaned closer. "You've been walking funny and spacing out all morning."
I felt heat crawl up my neck. Had I been walking differently? Of course I had—my body carried the evidence of Chad's thorough attention. The marks from his paddle probably still bloomed across my backside, and certain muscles protested movements I'd previously taken for granted.
"Just tired," I lied, focusing intently on Mrs. Peterson's pinky nail.
Trina made a noncommittal noise, clearly unconvinced. "Well, try to wake up before your two o'clock. Mrs. Henderson doesn't tolerate daydreaming during her weekly French tip."
I nodded, grateful when Trina sashayed back to her own station. She moved with the confidence of someone who knew exactly how good she looked—all sleek ponytail and tight black uniform that highlighted her gym-honed figure. I'd spent years trying not to compare myself to her, usually failing.
"You are perfect to me, exactly as you are," Chad had said, his hands mapping the geography of my body with reverence. His voice echoed in my memory, drowning out years of criticism and self-doubt.
The morning crawled by. I filed, buffed, massaged, and painted, my body on autopilot while my mind drifted repeatedly to the discipline room, to Chad's nursery, to the contract sitting in my nightstand drawer that put words to desires I'd never acknowledged.
The mundane task of discussing polish colors seemed almost absurd when just hours ago, I'd been on my knees worshipping Chad's body, when I'd felt the exquisite sting of his paddle, when I'd discovered parts of myself I never knew existed.
At eleven-thirty, the salon hit its mid-morning lull. I was cleaning my station, organizing bottles of polish by color family, when Trina appeared again, two coffee cups in hand.
"Break time," she announced, placing one cup in front of me. "You clearly need the caffeine."
"Thanks," I said, genuinely surprised by the gesture. Trina's kindnesses usually came with strings attached.
She perched on the empty salon chair beside my station, sipping her own coffee – some complicated concoction topped with whipped cream. "So," she began, her tone deliberately casual, "what's got you so distracted today? And don't say 'nothing' because I've known you too long."
The coffee was hot and sweet, exactly how I liked it. I took another sip, considering how much to share. Twenty-four hours ago, I would have deflected, changed the subject, kept everything locked safely inside where Trina's judgment couldn't reach it.
But I today, I didn’t want to do that.
"I've actually started seeing someone," I said, the words feeling strange and wonderful on my tongue.
Trina's perfectly glossed lips formed a small 'o' of surprise before settling into something more measured. "Oh, really? That's . . . nice for you, Dali." The slight emphasis on "nice" made it clear she was mentally assigning my mystery man to the "better than nothing" category. "Anyone I know?"
Her expression held the same patronizing pity I'd seen when clients requested styles that Trina deemed unsuitable for their face shape or age—a mixture of condescension and forced supportiveness that made my skin crawl.
"I don't think so," I replied, suddenly enjoying the game. Let her imagine some schlubby, desperate guy pathetically grateful for my attention. Who cares?
"Well, good for you putting yourself out there," Trina continued, her tone suggesting she was bestowing great wisdom. "Everyone deserves somebody. Though if you want any tips on, you know, keeping his interest . . ." She gestured vaguely at my body, her implication clear.
The familiar sting of her judgment hit me, but rather than burrowing into my flesh as it usually did, it seemed to bounce off some new protective layer I'd developed overnight.
I remembered Chad's eyes, dark with desire as he'd looked at my naked body.
"So fucking beautiful," he'd breathed. "I knew you would be. "
I smiled, a small, private expression that had nothing to do with Trina and everything to do with the man who had shown me my own worth. "I think I've got that covered," I said.
Trina's eyes narrowed slightly, obviously thrown by my lack of insecurity. "Well, don't get too excited. First dates are always great. It's making them stick around that's the challenge."
"I'll keep that in mind," I said, rising to throw away my empty cup. I could feel Trina's gaze following me, puzzled by my newfound immunity to her barbs.
I ran my hands down my uniform, smoothing imaginary wrinkles, and felt a small thrill at the tender spots my palms encountered—each a reminder of Chad's possession, each a secret that Trina, for all her prying, couldn't access.
For once, I felt sorry for her rather than intimidated by her.
She had no idea what real connection looked like.
***
I was massaging cuticle oil into Mrs. Henderson's fingertips when the salon's front door swung open.
The usual gentle chime that announced a new customer seemed to hang in the air a beat longer than normal, followed by an unnatural hush falling over the normally chatty space.
My back was to the entrance, but I felt the shift in atmosphere like a drop in barometric pressure.
"And my son says to me, 'Mother, you can't possibly wear that hat to the garden club luncheon,' but I told him—" Mrs. Henderson's steady stream of chatter faltered, her attention caught by whatever was happening behind me.
"My word," she murmured, her wrinkled face registering something between shock and appreciation.
I turned, following her gaze, and my heart did a gymnastic routine in my chest. Chad stood just inside the entrance, his powerful frame making our delicate reception area seem suddenly small and fragile.
He wasn't in his gi or training clothes but wore dark, perfectly fitted jeans and a crisp navy button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up to reveal muscular forearms crossed with faint scars.
The top button was undone, offering a tantalizing glimpse of his throat and the strong column of his neck where I'd pressed my lips just hours before.
Time seemed to slow as I watched him scan the salon, his gray eyes cool and assessing, like a predator calmly surveying new territory.
He wasn't making a show of it, wasn't posturing or demanding attention—he simply commanded it by existing.
Every woman in the salon—clients, stylists, the receptionist mid-phone call—had gone utterly still, their expressions ranging from startled appreciation to outright hunger.
"Who is that?" Mrs. Henderson whispered, not nearly as quietly as she thought.
I couldn't answer. My throat had closed up, my pulse hammering in my ears.
Then his gaze found me, and everything else faded away.
The stern lines of his face softened into a smile meant only for me—intimate, warm, full of private meaning.
My body responded instantly, a flush spreading across my skin as it remembered his touch, his command, his approval.
From the corner of my eye, I saw Trina frozen mid-sentence at her station, scissors suspended in the air, mouth slightly open as she stared at Chad.
She'd been regaling her client with some story about her weekend clubbing adventures, but whatever scandalous detail she'd been about to share had evaporated from her mind.
Her expression shifted rapidly from appreciation to confusion as Chad began moving with purpose—directly toward my station.
He carried a single red rose, its deep crimson petals perfectly unfurled, its stem long and elegant.
As he approached, the salon seemed to hold its collective breath.
I was acutely aware of every pair of eyes following his movement, particularly Trina's, which kept darting between Chad and me with growing disbelief.
"Hello, Little One," he said when he reached me, his deep voice pitched low enough that the endearment wouldn't carry to curious ears. He extended the rose to me with a small, knowing smile. "Ready for lunch?"