Chapter 2
Master Mercer’s hand stayed on her back until they were standing at the bar in the bookless library.
This was familiar territory. Often for something to do, Mara would play bartender.
She slid out from under Mercer’s hand. The resulting cold imprint left from losing the heat of his touch, burned her. That little touch threw her off far more than it should have, because escorting with a hand on her back felt intimate yet also casual in the best way.
It felt like belonging, though she didn’t know if it was belonging to a place or a person.
Circling around behind the bar, Mara joined a few other subs already there. The club was full tonight, and there were no open seats that she could see anywhere in the large room.
“What do you want?” she asked Mercer as she washed her hands in the small sink. That was a far less weighty question than, “What’s the point of this continued interaction?”
Mercer had his elbows braced on the bar, leaning forward like a hunting cat poised on a rock as it prepares to pounce.
“What are you offering?” he countered.
His question was thick with innuendo, and for the first time, Mara felt unsure.
What was going on? He didn’t want to scene with her.
They would for the sake of the game, in a purely perfunctory way.
And that perfunctory scene didn’t require verbal foreplay, which is what his question felt like.
With a different tone and expression, it might have even been flirty.
“Anything,” she said slowly, feeling her way through what now seemed to be a minefield.
His gaze flicked down her body, and she chickened out—unlike her, but his attitude shift had thrown her off.
“I mean, I can make anything. It’s a full bar.
” She turned to examine the glass shelves and to hide her grimace of embarrassment at her awkward attempt to backpedal.
“Though since it’s busy, some things might be running low. ”
“Let’s do a shot.”
She turned back, brows rising.
There were no rules around drinks at the club—another thing that made it unusual. Members were expected to know their limits and restrain themselves to one or two drinks if they were going to scene.
Either he didn’t care about that, or they weren’t going to scene.
“Whiskey, vodka, or tequila?” she asked.
“Whiskey.”
Mara grabbed a bottle of Canadian whiskey, then sour apple schnapps and cranberry juice.
Master Mercer’s lips quirked as he studied what she’d set out on the mat.
“Washington apple shooter.”
It wasn’t a question, but she nodded. “I don’t like straight liquor shots. I’ll pour your whiskey first.”
“No, I’ll have what you’re making.”
That surprised her, though she mentally berated herself for making assumptions based on physical appearance. Stereotyping said bikers wouldn’t drink anything that involved schnapps and cranberry juice, so therefore he wouldn’t want a tasty, fun shot.
He watched her as she filled the shaker with ice, added the liquors and juice, and shook, the rattle of ice against metal a pleasing sound.
She poured the mixture into two shot glasses, topped with a dash of club soda, and passed him one. They locked eyes, tapped their shot glasses once on the bar, and tossed them back. The whiskey burned as the sour apple and tart cranberry made her mouth pucker.
He was still looking at her, that almost-predatory intensity making her nervous. To have something to do, Mara took the shot glasses away, fitting them into the small tray for the under-counter glass sterilizer and then filled two highball glasses with water and passed him one.
He studied her for another long moment. “If I paddle you for the sake of the game, it won’t be submission for you, will it?”
Mara cocked her head, considering. She took a sip of water before answering.
“It will be submission, because why else would I allow a total stranger to do that to me?”
He shook his head slowly. “It wouldn’t be real.”
“Did you expect me to fall deeply into subspace with only minimal effort on your part, Mercer?”
He barked out a hard laugh, though the humor barely touched his eyes.
“Call me Cole.”
She’d assumed Mercer was his first name, so was surprised both to find out it wasn’t and that he’d asked her to use his first name.
“You’re calling my bullshit, Brown Eyes,” he said with a chuckle. “And that’s fair.”
“Not bullshit. You don’t want to scene with me, and you made it clear. As I said we have three options—”
“No, I don’t want to be told who to scene with.”
Mara cocked her head. “A Dom with control issues? A bit of a stereotype.”
This time, the smile-smirk was slow, working its way across his face. Almost a Cheshire cat smile.
The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end once again.
“Smart mouth,” he said, still smiling.
For a brief moment, Mara wondered if it would be safer for her mind if not her body, to get away from Cole Mercer as fast as possible.
Mara stepped away and spent the next half an hour pouring wine and mixing drinks. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched Cole have what looked like an intense conversation with the man next to him. It surprised her. She assumed he’d brood silently rather than chat.
When everyone was taken care of, she slid back to Cole.
They took another shot—this time a shooter Mara’s college roommate taught her to make. Amaretto, orange juice, and SoCo were easy to find behind the bar, but she had to hunt for the sloe gin to make the Alabama Slammer.
Cole hadn’t had one before, so he took a sip to taste before they tapped and drank.
New people had bellied up to the bar, so Mara once more slid away to serve them.
She continued to pour wine and mix drinks—including one rather disgusting sounding drink called a kalimotxo. The room had cleared out a bit as people finished their negotiations and left to start scenes in the courtyards or playrooms.
When she slid back to where Cole sat, he cocked his head toward the open end of the bar. “Come on.”
Mara felt vaguely pathetic for the little thrill that went through her as she wiped her hands, then the bar, and joined him on the other side.
He’d turned, leaning back against the bar, elbows braced. She stopped in front of him.
“I’m going to try something.”
It wasn’t a question, but she nodded.
His arm shot out, hand closing around the back of her neck in a possessive grip.
It was so quick, she didn’t have time to consciously react. She didn’t flinch but froze as his fingers and thumb pressed in on the sides of her neck, his palm heating her nape. She’d worn her hair down, and it was now trapped under his hand.
Mara felt her eyes go wide and she held her breath.
Slowly he straightened and stepped toward her, bringing their bodies nearly flush. He looked down at her.
His eyes were hazel, the centers a warm gold the color of the whiskey she’d poured, bleeding to gold-green around the perimeter of the iris.
He increased the pressure on her neck. Her pulse fluttered under his fingers, and a second later, her eyes slid closed.
“There you are,” he murmured.
She didn’t know exactly what he meant, but the words felt right. Yes, here she was, trapped in the cage of his control.
She felt him lean in, and his next words were spoken against her ear.
“Do you know what the Masters say about you?”
She made an odd whimpering noise of distress that would have embarrassed her if his hand wasn’t on her. That touch made it okay to whimper submissively.
“They say you’re a Domme who hasn’t realized it yet. That you never fully give in to a scene, no matter how intense the pain or pleasure.”
Her heart stuttered, and she opened her eyes, lips parted on a protest that would have been a partial lie.
He gave her a little shake. “No.”
She closed her mouth as languid heat slid along under her skin when he told her no. It felt like she was melting from the inside out.
“You don’t want to be ordered to kneel and perform; you need to be fucked and forced to your knees.”
He wouldn’t have to force her. Right now, she would happily, willingly, kneel.
Some rational part of her mind was shocked by the response he’d elicited with a comparatively simple touch. Except it wasn’t just his hand gripping the back of her neck. It was the way he loomed over her all tattoos and leather. The way he spoke to her.
“You’ve been playing with rules and structure. Polite negotiation. It’s not what you need.”
She started to shake her head, to say no that she liked the rules, the structure, but his hold was relentless and she could barely move her head. She could have used words instead, but then she wouldn’t have felt the strength of his grip and the tightness of his control.
His free hand grabbed the zipper tab at the front of her neck, and with a quick yank, he opened it down to her waist. The stretchy material pulled to the sides, clinging to her breasts while exposing the inner curves. Oddly it was her partially bare neck that made her feel the most vulnerable.
“Fuck uniform.” He smiled. “I have a better U word.”
He released her neck, leaning back against the bar. She felt the cold imprint of his hand as flesh previously warmed by his touch, chilled.
He was silent, and she realized he was waiting for her. Waiting for her to find herself. To speak.
“What word?” Her voice was husky.
Satisfaction flashed in his eyes. “If you want to play, come back tomorrow night, and be ready the second you leave the Subs’ Garden.”
“You didn’t answer,” she pointed out. “What’s the word?”
He stared at her for a long time. Long enough she started to feel that warm, soft heat spreading from her core.
Finally he pushed away from the bar, leaning down to whisper in her ear. “Unrestrained.”