Chapter 3 #2
“Logan’s. You didn’t think Emily would let me leave after only one meal, did you?”
I laugh. “Of course not. Mexican?”
“Yeah, how’d you know?”
“It’s Tuesday. Emily knows better than to screw with the time-honored tradition of Taco Tuesdays, even if she doesn’t eat tacos.”
“Mmm, do you eat tacos?”
“I eat pretty much anything that you can put hot sauce on.”
“Next date, bold girl, we’ll go to your favorite restaurant. I want to see how hot you can go.”
Next date? There’s going to be a next date? I rub my thighs together harder. Stop-stop-stop. Just a date. Just a scene. If we ever fucking get there, just sex. Doesn’t mean anything.
“My favorite restaurant’s the Trattoria at the club,” I tell him. “But the chef refuses to let me incinerate my taste buds. Really, you’d think he’s a Dom or something. Anyway, if you don’t mind slumming, I’ll take you to Miss Eve’s in Bed-Stuy. Even Bebe J approved of Miss Eve’s.”
Mac’s warm chuckle rolls over me. “Translate that for me, New York girl. Bed-Stuy? Bebe J?”
“Sorry. Bed-Stuy is Bedford-Stuyvesant in Brooklyn. Bebe J was my Jamaican grandmother.”
“Was. You lost her?”
“Yeah, a while ago. Lung cancer.”
“Sorry, bold girl. I can hear in your voice how much she meant to you. Do you have any family left?”
“Nope, just me against the world, Master Mac.”
He hums in his throat and changes the subject, which is good because my eyes are watering. From the booze, of course. Not because missing my gram-gram is a boulder sitting on my chest or anything.
“I’ve been thinking about our scene tomorrow,” he says. “Logan’s playroom has every attachment point in the world. How would you feel about suspension and flogging?”
Sign me the fuck up.
“Sure, sounds good,” I say, trying for breezy instead of desperately needy. “Still no sex, huh?”
“Still no sex,” he confirms.
Fuck, why do I have to be attracted to Doms? Any other guy would be totally down for sex tomorrow. We’ve already had a goddamn date. But nooooo. I have to go for guys who want me to freaking earn sexual privileges.
It’s official. I’m insane.
“But,” he continues, “if someone’s a very, very good girl, there might be orgasms.”
“Orgasms for me or orgasms for both of us?” I ask.
Because I would be totally down for giving him a blow job or a hand job after he’s flogged me through a couple of orgasms.
“Definitely orgasms for you. I’ll consider orgasms for both of us but putting your hand on me is also something you’d have to earn.”
Yup, totally insane, because the idea of earning giving him a hand job has me rubbing my thighs together. Again.
“Could I work on earning them now, sir? We could play two truths and a lie.”
“Not familiar with that one, bold girl. Tell me how it works.”
“We each say three things about ourselves. Two are true. One’s a lie. The other person has to guess which is the lie. If I guess right, could that earn me some sex privileges?”
A deep laugh that has me squirming against the fullness in my ass and the sweet ache between my legs. “Sure. You first.”
“Okay. My favorite color is red. I was born during Clinton’s presidency. I have nine toes.”
He doesn’t even hesitate, damn him. “Your favorite color’s not red. Did you lose a toe or were you born without?”
“Birth defect. How did you know my favorite color’s not red? Did Emily tell you?”
“The blue hair told me. My turn. For the prize of your hand on my cock for one minute, I own every Black Sabbath concert tee. I want to be buried at sea. I was married longer than I was in the Navy.”
I do quick math, remembering what Emily told me about when he got divorced. “You were in the Navy longer than you were married. Also, I’m sorry, but I can’t be seen in public with someone who owns every Black Sabbath concert T-shirt. Nothing personal, sir, but that’s a deal breaker.”
His laugh rolls over me again and I smother a sigh.
“Too bad because that was right. Guess I’ll just have to sneak in and out through the back door.” His double-entendre sends a thrill of anticipation rocketing through said, plugged back door. “Or you could wear the concert tees.”
“I’d still know you own them all. Hard limit.
” I wait until his chuckling dies down before I continue, “Okay, three about me. Since we’re doing music, I once dated the lead singer of my favorite band, Staind.
My best friend is a drag queen. Oh, and the only pet I’ve ever had is a goldfish named Marvin. ”
“Mmm, Emily mentioned your friend dances at ‘Just a Cigar,’ so I know that one’s true. Between dating Aaron Lewis and a fish named Marvin, I’m guessing Marvin’s true.”
“Winner, and you just totally redeemed yourself by knowing Staind’s line-up. I’ll forgive you your terrible taste in concert shirts.”
“Gunner in my last platoon was a Staind fan-boy. I think I can sing all their songs from memory. Unforgiveable waste of gray matter.” At my huff, he laughs. “Do you date, bold girl? Because I get the impression you don’t.”
What? Do I have an invisible sign that says, “incapable of dating” hanging over my head?
“Did I fumble lunch that badly, sir?”
“No, you were delicious at lunch. I’ve had a semi-stiffy all day.
But other than concluding the Doms at this club of yours are a bunch of fucktards, I can’t for the life of me understand why you’re not collared and branded already.
Or why they left you thinking for a single second that you weren’t able to submit anymore. ”
“Oh.” Heat rushes to my cheeks. And lower down. “I, uh, maybe I’m just not that much of a prize.”
“Yes, you are,” he rumbles, dropping his voice into that deep bass register again.
I think I have a mini orgasm. “Last go, and then we’re going to play before bed.
Prize is your hand on my cock until I come, because now I can’t get the image of your fucking sexy fingers on my dick out of my head.
Here are my three. I’m allergic to peanuts.
I can’t watch war movies. Christmas is my favorite holiday. ”
“Gimme a minute,” I mutter, because my brain got stuck on him thinking my fingers are sexy. “Um, if you have a peanut allergy then you’d be dead after that soup, so that’s the lie. What kind of SEAL can’t watch war movies, sir?”
He grunts. “I wasn’t ever a SEAL. You finished your bath?”
“Yes, sir. How’d you know I’m in a bath?”
“I can hear the water lapping.”
“That’s some damn good hearing, Master Mac.”
“Something to remember if you’re tempted to mutter curses at me, bold girl. Get out and dry off. I want you in bed for the next part.”
Dayum. “Yes, sir.”
Usain Bolt has nothing on me as I fly out of the tub, dry off, and jump into bed. I’m still a little damp in spots, mostly between my legs, as I settle under my sheet, comforter, and Bebe J’s handmade quilt. I wriggle down against the sheets and set the phone on the pillow next to me.
“Sir, if we’re going to play, could we make this a video call? I’d really like to see you.”
Mac chuckles. “Sure. Sorry, I didn’t think of that. Still in the age of rotary phones. I’ll call you back.”
“I can switch it over.”
I tap my phone and bring up FaceTime. Mac frowns into his phone for a second, then flashes me a blinding grin. “Okay, I would not have known how to do that.”
“Well, you can’t do it on a rotary phone, sir.”
He shakes his head at me. “Smartass.”
I give him my best shit-eating grin.
“Careful, beautiful girl. We can play an edging game instead of a mutual masturbation game.”
My mind stumbles again. He thinks I’m beautiful? Sexy. Sure, men have called me that. Beautiful? Not so much. And I’d be totally happy with edging instead of mutual masturbation. Denial makes me crazy hot. “Yes, sir.”
“Do you have any toys handy?”
“Yes, sir.” A whole drawer of them right beside the bed.
“Grab your favorite vibrator. A rabbit if you have one.”
I do. I pull my bright purple rabbit and a bottle of lube out of my nightstand and lie back in the pillows.
He props his phone against something so I can see his head and torso as he reclines against a pile of snowy pillows and brass rails.
I recognize that bed, since I’ve slept in it more than once: Logan and Emily’s guest bed.
Mac’s wearing a black T-shirt, which stretches over his big shoulders and chest muscles, and hot-guy gray sweatpants.
He should be too old to make that look work.
Either he’s not or gray sweatpants work no matter what a guy’s age.
He said he’s had a semi-stiffy all day, but unless the gray sweatpants are miracle-workers, he’s graduated to full bloom.
And what a pleasant-looking package it is. I feel my brain melting again.
As he smiles into the screen, he teases the edge of the T-shirt with his fingertips. His smile fills his eyes. Dayum. Plenty of guys smile with just a crinkle around the edges. Mac’s smile swells, making his eyes so intensely blue they burn.
“Will you be warm enough if you pull down the covers below your breasts?”
“Yes, sir.” I fold down the covers a few inches at a time, revealing my throat, my shoulders, the tops of my breasts, and finally my nipples. I tuck the folded material into the undercurve of my breasts and feel the heat of his stare play over my bared skin.
“I like the piercings,” he says. “What’s the blue metal?”
“Cobalt, sir.”
“Can you pinch your nipples hard with the bars in?”
“I can, but if they’re pulled too much, the piercings can tear, so I tend to take them out for scenes.”
“Thank you for telling me. Can you sleep with them out? They won’t close up?”
“They’ll be fine, sir.”
“Okay, take them out now, and any others that you’d take out before bed.”
I unscrew each one and pop them in the dish on my night table where I keep my jewelry. I already took out my earrings and took off my rings before I got in the bath, so I just take out my tongue stud before I settle back and fix the covers again.