Chapter 2 Grant
GRANT
Islip into the leather booth, trying to get my breathing under control.
Fuck, that was intense. I put on a good show when I left her in that closet, not wanting her to see how affected I was, but fucking hell.
My knees feel like jelly and my hands are actually shaking a little as I motion for one of the waiters.
“Another whiskey, sir?” he asks.
“Two, please.”
He nods once and heads back to the bar, leaving me to try to get a handle on myself.
It’s hard to act normal when I’ve just experienced one of the best orgasms of my life.
God damn, the whole thing had been hot as fuck. The anticipation of watching across the bar. The faceless, nameless nature of the hook-up. The darkness of the closet heightening all of my other senses. Her smell overwhelming me in the small enclosed space. The wet, tight heat between her legs.
And the way she’d responded to me—so needy, so accepting of my control.
Get it together, I tell myself, running a hand through my disheveled hair. But I can still smell her on my fingers, so I doubt calm will be coming any time soon.
The waiter returns, setting the two glasses down on the table. I grab one before he even leaves, downing half of it in one gulp. The fire of the liquor finally succeeds in centering me somewhat and I take a deep, steadying breath.
The calm doesn’t last—a moment later she’s sliding into the booth across from me. The same redhead I’d just had mind-blowing anonymous closet sex with.
“For me?” she asks, reaching across the table for the second glass of whiskey. I nod and she gives me a shy smile before bringing the glass to her plump red lips. I bite back a snort—she’s going to be shy now?
“So.” I lean across the table, waiting for her to meet my eyes. “Is that how you imagined it?”
Her shy smile turns into a grin. “Even better than I imagined it. Thank you, Grant.”
God, I love that fucking smile. She’s always so damn pretty when she looks at me like that.
“You don’t need to thank me, Kensie.”
Her expression turns soft. “I really do. You always make it so perfect for me.”
My stomach swoops at her words, but I keep a nonchalant expression on my face. “You know I aim to please, Miss Milton.”
It’s the truth. Pleasing her has been my obsession for the last three months. Since we started this little arrangement of ours.
Tonight, the fantasy had been simple. Kensie wanted to experience anonymous sex. Of course, it couldn’t actually be anonymous—we know each other too well for that. But she’s the type of woman to get off on the role play. It’s my job to make it as real as possible for her.
Just like I do every time she presents one of her fantasies.
“I have some ideas for next time,” she says, bouncing a little in her seat, clearly excited. I shake my head.
“You’re not even going to let me enjoy the high of really hot sex before you give me my next assignment?”
She smiles, sheepish. In truth, I don’t mind. I love that she’s so eager to do this with me. And she’s so fucking cute when she’s excited about our plans.
It hadn’t been that way at first. She’d seemed both mortified and terrified when we first met. When I’d presented her with a standard BDSM survey to help me get a sense of what she’d be comfortable with, I thought her face might burst into flame, it was so red.
She’d been nervous again at our second meeting to go over the survey and make plans.
Blushing, shifting in her seat. She was clearly uncomfortable with expressing her desires to me.
Embarrassed. Maybe even ashamed. It wasn’t until our fourth encounter that she started to really seem at ease with me.
So seeing her like this, eager to ask for what she wants, makes me pretty damn happy. I love that her confidence has grown so much over the past few months.
I blame that happiness for what I do next. “Why don’t you come over here and relax with me for a minute,” I say, gesturing her to my side of the booth.
She freezes, body going rigid. “Aren’t we relaxing now?”
I bite back a curse. I should have known better. I’ve done this before, pushed for more than what she’s willing to give me. It never ends well.
Kensie is pretty clear about what this is—and what it isn’t. She tells me about her fantasy. I make it come true. We both enjoy mind-blowing sex then go our separate ways. Rinse and repeat.
Post-fuck cuddles have never been on the menu.
And no matter how much I might want the situation to evolve, I know she’s not ready. Sometimes I wonder if she ever will be.
“Actually, I should probably get going,” she says, checking the silver watch on her wrist. “We both have to be up for work tomorrow, right?”
I sigh, irritation spiking. I’m annoyed at myself for asking for more. Annoyed at her for balking at the mere suggestion of sitting next to me in a booth. Pissed at the world, if I’m being honest.
So there’s a bite to my voice when I ask, “what’s on your work agenda for tomorrow?”
She visibly startles. That’s another rule we follow—no talking about our jobs. Or our friends. Families. Hobbies. Basically, anything that takes place outside of the walls of Club Wyld is off-limits.
I thought that was what I wanted, when this started. I had certainly never seen any of my subs outside of this place before.
So why does it feel so different with her?
I lift my whiskey glass. “We can’t have a friendly chat while we finish our drinks?”
She relaxes back into the leather seat. “I guess that’s okay.”
I grit my teeth against the sarcastic reply that wants to come out. I got her to stay for another few minutes. That needs to be enough.
“It’s been a busy week,” she says. “We have a new client and so far they’ve been impossible to please.”
“I know the feeling.”
She laughs a little. “It’s hardly the same thing. My clients aren’t entrusting me with tens of millions of dollars like yours are. I can’t imagine running a hedge fund is anything like working in an art gallery.”
“Dealing with people is pretty similar no matter what industry you’re in. The vast majority of them are demanding, irritating, and stupid.”
She laughs and I wish I could bottle up the sound. It’s not very often that we sit and talk like this. Most of the noises I’m used to hearing from her are moans and whimpers—which I fucking love, don’t get me wrong. But this is nice, too. Her letting me see another side of her.
It’s far too rare.
“That’s a pretty low opinion of your fellow man,” she chides, still smiling that sparkling smile that takes my breath away. The smile turns sheepish when her stomach audibly growls.
“Sorry,” she says, her cheeks growing pink. “I skipped dinner.”
Under the table, my hands turn to fists. If she was mine—really mine—I’d make damn sure she wasn’t skipping meals. It would be my job, as her Dom, to take care of her in every way. But that’s not the relationship we have. She allows me to take care of her pleasure, but not the rest of her.
And I fucking hate it.
“Why did you skip dinner?” I manage to keep my voice mostly calm, even though what I really want to do is pull her over my lap and show her what happens to subs who don’t take care of themselves.
Her cheeks get even pinker. “I’m always a little nervous before…you know. Our time together.”
It’s a lot harder to be angry when I take in the embarrassed, shy expression on her face. She can’t even bring herself to say the words.
“Before we fuck?” I press, and her cheeks go crimson now. I can’t hold back the wolfish grin that spreads over my face. “Well, if it’s my fault you didn’t eat earlier, you have to let me rectify the situation.”
“What do you mean?” She asks, but I’m already raising my hand to get the attention of the nearest waiter.
“Yes, Mr. Anderson?” He asks. “Another whiskey?”
“We’d like to order dinner,” I tell him, ignoring the way Kensie’s mouth drops open. “What can the chef prepare quickly?”
“We have a steak salad,” he says. “Or the shrimp and vegetable pasta. Both would be about ten minutes.”
I look to Kensie. “Salad or pasta?”
She opens her mouth and shuts it again. There’s something akin to panic in her eyes, as if the idea of sitting here and sharing a meal with me in public is too terrible to consider. I push back the swell of annoyance her expression inspires.
“You need to eat, Kensie,” I say firmly. “I’ll not have you driving home without food in your belly. Not after the way I exerted you earlier.”
She gives a shocked little squeak, gaze flashing to the waiter. I roll my eyes. “He’s heard it all before.” When she does nothing but glare daggers at me, I turn back to the man. “We’ll take the pasta. A bottle of Pinot Grigio would be appreciated as well. The Ruffino if you have it.”
“Of course, sir,” he says.
Once he’s left us, Kensie leans across the table, her eyes flashing. “I can’t believe you said that in front of him!”
“The man works in a sex club, Kensie. I highly doubt anything I could say would shock him.” I pause, gaze darting across her reddened face. “But if it makes you uncomfortable, I’ll be sure to be more circumspect in the future. I apologize.”
Her mouth snaps closed, as if my apology threw her off. Hopefully she’s too discombobulated to argue with me about sharing a meal, too.
No such luck.
“You don’t have to have dinner with me,” she says, eyes anywhere but on me. “I can easily wait until I get home—”
“Why would you do that when you’re already here? Club Wyld’s chef is world class. Besides, I’m hungry too.”
She bites her lip, clearly trying to come up with some excuse.
“Is there a reason you don’t want to eat with me?” I ask, and her eyes finally snap to mine.
“Of course not! I just don’t want you to feel…obligated.” She looks away again, fidgeting. “I know this isn’t what you came here for.”
“I came here to spend time with you,” I say sternly. “So we’ll eat.”