Chapter Twenty-Four
Rose
By the time we reach the first floor, we've already drawn an audience. A known Domme being led around her own club on a leash raises questions, and we're being followed by a growing crowd of people who aren't even pretending they're not curious.
The main stage now holds a bed.
I've watched shows on that stage more times than I can count. I've stood at the edge of it correcting lighting, argued about sight lines, tested the sound system, approved the furniture. I have never once imagined I'd be the one walking onto it wearing a collar.
When Jackson sees the bed, he stops and turns to me. Whatever excitement was bouncing around in him upstairs settles, and his hand comes up beneath my chin.
"Color."
"Green, sir."
He gives me a soft smile and kisses me, and God, he's such a natural switch.
I saw it in him from the very start, even before either of us had language for what was happening between us.
He can command a room without trying and surrender just as completely when he chooses to.
No embarrassment about either side. No bullshit about what either one says about him.
Then I spot Lukas.
His eyes are enormous.
The second he realizes I'm wearing the collar and Jackson is holding the leash, his entire body goes rigid. Bodyguard mode. He looks one questionable move away from tackling the man I just handed control of my body to.
I give him one small nod.
I'm okay.
He settles, but he doesn't sit down and he sure as hell doesn't look away.
Poor Lukas. Nobody briefed him for this shift.
Jackson leads me onto the stage and positions me over the bed, running his hands slowly over my back. Above us hangs the boom mic I had installed because I never wanted the audience merely watching a show. I wanted them hearing it.
That decision feels significantly less clever from this side of the microphone.
The announcement starts as the lights dim.
"Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, to a very special show indeed. The same rules apply. You may watch the couple on stage, but you may not cross the yellow line, and you may not touch without invitation and permission."
Applause breaks out, followed by murmurs from the crowd gathering around the stage.
"Let the show begin."
If Jackson is nervous, he's hiding it beautifully.
I am not.
I'm shaking enough that denying it would be insulting to everyone with functioning eyesight.
Along with the bed, the stage holds a spanking bench and a chrome stand displaying enough floggers and riding crops to make an enthusiast weep. The drawers underneath hold everything else he could possibly think to use tonight.
Jackson walks over and studies the selection.
And I almost laugh.
I would bet serious money he doesn't know what half that shit is.
Doesn't matter. He's taking his time, looking everything over instead of grabbing something because he thinks the audience expects him to know what he's doing.
He's comfortable enough not to pretend, and watching him figure out what he wants while I'm standing here waiting for him is doing terrible things to my ability to remain patient.
He finally chooses an adjustable spreader bar with ankle cuffs and a set of Italian leather wrist cuffs.
Well.
Look at my good boy shopping.
He kneels in front of me and fastens the first cuff around my ankle, then adjusts the chrome bar until my stance widens before securing the other.
"Safeword?"
"Keeper."
His hands stop on the buckle, just for half a second, then his eyes lift to mine.
"Good girl."
Oh, fuck. Okay. We may have discovered a thing.
By the time he's done arranging me, my ass is in the air, my face pressed to the bed, my arms drawn down between my legs with both wrists cuffed to the bar. I am completely and utterly at his mercy, a sentence I have never once been able to think without my chest seizing.
The first slap lands across my ass, his bare palm sharp enough to pull a breath straight out of me.
Holy fuck.
"You've never looked sexier than you do like this."
Another slap lands on the opposite cheek, the crack carrying through the boom mic and out across the room.
My face burns, and not from embarrassment.
Jesus Christ, I like this.
Jackson's hand moves over the skin he just struck, and when he speaks again, his voice is closer.
"Fuck, I can't wait anymore. I need a taste."
The flat of his tongue runs from my clit to my opening, dipping, swirling, and then his hands grip my ass and whatever restraint Jackson brought onto this stage disappears.
"Your pussy is fucking perfect."
He licks and sucks and moans against me with absolutely no dignity, and God, I've missed that.
Jackson has never been quiet when he wants something.
I strain against the cuffs as my body starts trembling, my moans carrying through the club through the fucking microphone I personally paid to have installed.
Excellent planning, Rosalie.
I should be mortified.
I am so far from mortified I couldn't find it with directions.
The pleasure keeps building until my legs are shaking against the bar and every muscle in my body is pulled tight. I swear I feel him smile against me right before I lose it.
"Fuck!"
The orgasm hits hard enough to make me forget there are people watching. I fight uselessly against the restraints while Jackson keeps going, dragging it out until I'm shaking and trying to catch a breath I can't seem to hold onto.
"That's one."
I feel him move away, and then his voice lifts toward the crowd.
"How many should we give my girl?"
Oh, he's fucking loving this.
Numbers start flying from somewhere beyond the lights. Five. Ten. Somebody yells twenty, and I make a mental note to find that person later and revoke their membership.
"You hear that, pet?" Jackson's hand slides slowly over my back. "They're enjoying this as much as I am. Now give me a color."
"Green, sir."
"Hmm."
He moves toward the stand, taking his time while I lie there restrained and impatient enough to start considering crimes. When he returns, I feel his hands on me again.
"Let's get you prepped." Then he's back on the bed behind me, and his tongue passes over my ass in one languid stroke.
"Oh fuck. Oh fuck—"
I can't catch my fucking breath. His fingers run through my wet folds, rubbing over my clit, dipping just close enough to my entrance to make me think finally before the asshole pulls away again.
I'm getting close fast, and he knows it.
My hips are chasing his hand now, trying to take what he refuses to give me, and right when I'm about to come, he stops completely.
"Fuck you," I pant, grinding uselessly against his fingers.
He doesn't give me a damn thing. Instead, he drags the tip of the plug through my arousal, getting it slick before moving it lower and pressing slowly against my ass.
Oh.
I love him.
I hate him.
Mostly I need him to hurry the fuck up.
"Breathe, pet. Let me in."
I take a deep breath, and the bulb slides in and settles, leaving me so damn full in this position.
When he's satisfied, he kisses one cheek and then the other.
"There she is. My good girl. This is so fucking sexy."
Jesus.
We definitely discovered a thing.
Jackson turns his attention to the audience while he unbuckles his pants and pushes them down with his boxers. He rolls on a condom, still addressing the room with enough confidence that I almost forget this man walked into his first sex club less than an hour ago.
"Most of you must know my Domme. She's a regular here, after all."
I smile into the bed at that.
Look at him. Already claiming his title and settling into the job.
Cocky little shit.
"I've been her submissive since before I knew what the word meant. And I've made it my mission to know her body. So, when I say go, I want you all counting down from ten, because that's exactly how long it's going to take her to squirt."
"Fucking hell," I breathe, because where the hell has this Jackson been hiding? I am loving this side of him way more than is probably healthy for either of us.
"Color?"
"So fucking green I'm going to cry."
He chuckles, and then the plug hums to life inside me, and my lungs forget their one fucking job. Jackson switches on the wand and holds it up for the crowd to see.
"Now!"
He presses it against my clit, and I wail.
The entire room starts counting.
"TEN! NINE! EIGHT!"
Oh, fuck these people.
I can't stop screaming while the numbers keep coming, my whole body shaking against the restraints as Jackson holds everything exactly where he wants it.
Somewhere in the back of my mind, I'm aware that this is my club, my stage, my fucking microphone broadcasting every filthy sound coming out of me, and tomorrow I may have to fire everyone who witnessed this.
"FIVE! FOUR! THREE!"
Who suggested this shit?
Me.
I fucking built the place.
Idiot.
By two, my eyes are squeezed shut, my back is arched, and I'm so close I can't form anything resembling language. Jackson leans over me, bringing his mouth right beside my ear while the crowd roars the number.
"TWO!"
"Come, baby. Now."
And I obey.
My body lets go all at once, soaking him and the bed as the crowd fucking loses it behind us. I barely register the cheering before Jackson tosses the wand aside and drives into me in one hard thrust.
"Fuckkkkk."
The sound gets ripped out of me, long and completely undignified, and somewhere behind us the crowd gets even louder.
Fucking animals.
I love every last one of them.