Chapter Twenty-One #2
My masked man strokes the side of my neck as I watch the man on stage caressing the couple.
I’m struck by the sensual way he touches them, so intimately, as if they aren’t simply volunteers but somehow a part of him.
I’m so lost in the way he touches them as he maneuvers around them that I missed the vibrant swathes of red silk drop down from the dark ceiling above.
He’s wrapped them in that bright fabric as he’s circled them, twisting and turning, working their bodies as he wraps them together with artful knots and slow, deliberate movements.
I lean forward and my masked man’s hand travels down my bare back.
I struggled with what to wear tonight, worrying myself into a near-panic over being over- or underdressed, a notion that now feels preposterous while surrounded by scantily clad people in latex, leather, lace, and, for one brave woman, nothing but a dog collar.
I’m pleased to have settled on a simple pair of jeans and a silky halter top that drapes in the front and exposes nearly all of my back.
I left my hair up in the bun I wore all day at work.
I may have fantasized about Dominus pulling out each bobby pin until my waves of hair cascaded down my back…
He strokes up my back, then squeezes the nape, massaging the muscles on either side of my spine.
I moan and lean back into his touch, closing my eyes to enjoy the way his deft fingers dig into the tightness of shoulders that spend most of their lives up around my ears.
My masked stranger moves to position himself behind me, using both hands now to work my shoulders.
I rest my head against his chest, amused by the fact that I’m so willing to allow a complete stranger to touch me—but enjoying his touch far too much to put a stop to it.
Honestly, since the moment he led me into that bathroom that Saturday night a few weeks ago, I knew I wanted to let this man touch me anywhere he damn pleases.
Curving his hands around my shoulders, his fingertips dig circles across my chest, massaging the tight muscle there and sending warmth through my veins.
Anticipation builds, my breath quickening every time he dips his fingers beneath the draped fabric of my top, teasing at the edges of my breasts.
I swallow hard and he strokes a firm hand up my throat. “Watch,” he murmurs, his face so close to my ear that if I turned, I could kiss—
A voice-disguising modulator.
I bite back a laugh and snap myself back to reality. As delicious as his hands feel on my shoulders, I don’t even know this man. How can I imagine kissing someone I don’t even know? Haven’t even seen?
I need to get a grip. I’m clearly overworked, and starting to lose my mind.
Maybe all these years of dedication have left me so starved for attention that I’m willing to kiss a man I don’t even know.
Casually dating, like Mo has suggested I do more than once, might have been a good option, now that I think about it, but hindsight is always twenty-twenty, isn’t it? And honestly, who has the time?
Focusing on the stage, I watch as the man continues wrapping red silk this way and that. The two people he’s tying up together continue to kiss in this slow, deliberate way that makes my toes want to curl inside my boots.
The man behind me continues to work out the knots and tightness across my shoulders, his big hands spreading heat and goosebumps wherever he touches, occasionally switching it up between deep digging motions and soft, teasing caresses.
By the time the couple in the stage have been lifted into the air, suspended by endless twists of red silk, and wrapped sensually in one another’s arms, I’m breathing quickly, my stomach twisted into delicious knots as desire courses through me.
My pulse is a rapid drumbeat against my ribs.
I’m so aroused by both the scene before me and the man behind me that if I pressed my thighs together hard enough, I could probably unravel from the friction of the seam of my jeans.
His hands still, then he wraps one around my throat and tugs me backward against his hard chest. I gasp, anticipating what he might do next, how he might touch me. The massage, though wonderful, isn’t nearly enough. I need his hands everywhere.
My breasts, my stomach… down between my legs—
“Have you touched yourself since we last spoke?”
I give my head a subtle shake.
“Don’t lie to me.”
I swallow hard against his palm, then give one curt nod.
He growls low in his throat. “Bad girl,” he whispers, his voice so low and growly that I barely hear the words.
I try to turn my head, but he keeps his grip firm around my throat, immobilizing me.
He swivels the chair just enough so that our backs are to the room, the performers and patrons blocked by his massive frame.
I stare into the dark corner as he places his other hand against my belly, low and firm.
I gasp as heat rushes south, pooling between my legs and adding to the pressure building in my core.
I came completely undone for this man while he held me firmly, just like this, and though I’ve tried and failed to recreate that feeling in the days that followed, he’s sent me right back to that precipice in just a few short moments.
It’s impossible that he should have such control over my body, but I can’t deny that he does.