Chapter 9 Grant
GRANT
Life is good.
I’m in a booth at Club Wyld with a glass of excellent scotch in my hand, watching a hot as sin performance take place on the main stage. The best part? The woman curled up next to me in the booth.
This is becoming a regular occurrence for us, the way we spend most of our weekends these days. Not just lustful encounters and fantasy fulfillment behind the steel doors. Oh, we still have those—in fact, the sex between us has never been hotter. But it’s not the only thing we have anymore.
Now we have this. Moments spent together out in the main room.
Being social with my friends and other members of the club.
Sharing a drink. Sharing meals. It’s still less common for us to see each other outside the club, but that’s not completely off limits either.
I’ve had this woman in my house, in my bed.
If that’s not a reason to feel fucking fantastic on a Friday night I don’t know what is.
“How do you feel about that,” I murmur against her ear, relishing the way she shivers at my breath on her skin.
Her eyes are locked on the stage where three people dance to a low, steady beat.
A woman, dressed only in scraps of lace, is the center of the performance, while two men move around her in a sensual, complicated choreography.
One of the men holds a long length of red silk rope looped around his arm, connecting him to the woman.
Each time the first man approaches the woman, he adds more rope to his creation, wrapping around her limbs and torso, under her breasts, the knots intricate in a way that looks like art. Only her legs remain unrestrained so she can continue with the sultry dance.
The second man wields a leather flogger, simulating a whipping each time it’s his turn to dance toward to the woman under the spotlight.
“That knot tying is called shibari,” I murmur in Kensie’s ear. “It’s meant to be artistically stimulating as well as serve as a means of restraint.”
“It looks beautiful,” she says softly. “So intricate.”
“Some shibari masters train for years.”
Up on stage, both men approach the female dancer at the same time, their hands sliding over her in tandem, their touches becoming yet another form of the passionate choreography.
Kensie’s breath catches and I look down at her.
“You like this,” I murmur, brushing her hair out of her face. I know her tells enough to be certain what’s happening on stage is turning her on. I pull her up onto my lap so I can whisper in her ear without disturbing the rest of the audience.
“Tell me what has your chest rising and falling so quickly,” I murmur. “Is it the knots?”
“Um…not really. I mean, I like them.”
I watch the side of her face carefully. “It’s both of them touching her at the same time, isn’t it?”
There’s a pause where she seems to be holding her breath, before she finally nods and squeezes her eyes shut, as if embarrassed.
“None of that,” I tell her, nudging under her chin. “We’re passed the embarrassment stage, aren’t we?”
She gives me a shaky smile and nods again.
I lean back in the booth, bringing her with me to rest against my chest, both of our eyes back on the dancers. But I’m no longer paying close attention. My mind is pre-occupied with what Kensie just told me.
She likes the idea of multiple men touching a woman at once. It isn’t really a surprise—she’d checked the box for threesome on the interest sheet I’d given her when we first started this. I’d been pleased at the time, as threesomes and menage have always been favorites of mine.
But she’s never brought it up during any of our talks about her fantasies, and the more time we spent together, the less I really thought about the possibility.
But I’m thinking about it now, and I’m not quite sure what to do with that. The idea of another man touching Kensie makes me feel murderous, the jealousy rising thick and strong in my throat until it’s almost a struggle to breathe.
But my cock is also getting hard under her.
“Have you fantasized about this?” I whisper into her ear.
“Yes,” she admits, eyes never leaving the stage, and everything in me wants to destroy the faceless, imaginary men she’s fantasized about.
Fuck, this woman makes me irrational.
“Tell me what you fantasize about,” I demand.
She sucks in a shaky breath, her cheeks reddening. “I…um…I like the idea of being restrained while there’s…you know. More than one man.”
“Hmm.” My voice is a low rumble in her ear. “And do you fantasize about all of these touching you?” She nods. “Their mouths on you?” Her nod is faster, more urgent. “You want them to be in charge, don’t you? You want to be at their mercy.” This time she lets out a little whimper.
I close my eyes. Kensie is basically telling me that she’s down to explore my favorite fantasy.
I’ve tried just about every filthy thing a person could imagine inside the walls of this club, but multiple men with one woman has always been at the top of my list—and for the very reasons she’s saying.
The power dynamic, the focus on her pleasure.
Even the objectification. It fucking ignites something inside me.
But I haven’t imagined doing that with her, not since I read the survey, at least. Not since I got to know her and my feelings become…whatever this is.
I’m honestly not sure how I feel about it. Can I really let another man come into the playroom with us? Can I really stand by and let someone else touch her?
But isn’t this what you’re supposed to be doing? I ask myself. I promised her I would help her get comfortable in her sexuality, guide her as she figures out what she likes. I take a lot of pride in that role, and I assured her we wouldn’t drop the fantasy exploration when she agreed to “more.”
If she’s into this, and she trusts me enough to tell me about it, shouldn’t I make it happen for her? Isn’t that my job?
There are appreciative murmurs around the room as the music reaches a crescendo, and I’m sure the dancers on stage are reaching new heights of erotic beauty
But I can’t tear my eyes away from Kensie’s face. Her beautiful, excited face. So beautiful and sexy. So mine.
Can I share her?
I swallow hard, afraid to ask my next question. I still can’t tell if I’m excited or sickened by the possibility of her answer.
“Do you want to try it?” I ask, my voice rough and raspy. “Do you want me to arrange something like this for us?”
She gasps and turns back to me, and I can’t read her expression. Surprised? Excited? Scared?
“You can tell me,” I assure her, but there’s a part of me that wishes we hadn’t stayed to watch the show tonight. “You can trust me.” I hold her gaze. “Do you want to try this?”
She’s quiet for a moment, studying me. I find myself holding my breath, knowing that whatever she says next has the power to change everything.
“Yes,” she finally whispers. “I want to try this.”