Chapter 30
NIA
B old red lip: check.
Tight, strappy dress: check.
Nerves of steel: I’m working on it.
Giving myself a nod of approval in the visor mirror of my car, I slap it shut and push open the door to head up the driveway to the front door of Brody’s house.
After seeing how Isla lives, I’m surprised by his choice in home. He has money, and his family has more money than I would ever know what to do with. He could more than likely afford a mansion, if he wanted one, but he chose something comfortable.
It tells me a lot about him, just like the Volvo sitting next to my sedan on the driveway and the dark and neutral suits he chooses to wear.
Rolling back my shoulders, I press my freshly-manicured finger to the doorbell, and I take a steadying breath.
When the door opens, Brody stands behind it dressed in a crisp white dress shirt that stretches across his strong chest, tucked into a pair of black slacks. One hand is still on the knot of his tie as if he were adjusting it on his way to the door.
“You’re—” He pauses, his hand tightening around his tie as his eyes rake over my body, a subtle movement that I can somehow feel all over my skin. Warm. Tingling. Moving his gaze to my lips and to my hair, styled into loose curls, he finally continues. “At my house.”
“Yes I am,” I nod. “I didn’t want to be driven there by a stranger.”
“I just need to grab a couple of things,” he tells me. “Come in.”
I step through the door, sauntering past him with a pair of Isla’s Louboutins clicking against the hard wood beneath them, and as the door closes, Brody mutters something under his breath.
“What was that?” I ask him.
“Nothing.”
Sweeping past me, he moves to the kitchen, where his suit jacket is thoughtfully draped over the high backing of one of the bar stools tucked into the island. While he slips his arms into the jacket, I glance around what I can see of his home.
Just like in his office, I see no photos with his parents. I recognize Edith in some of them, and a younger girl who looks very similar to her and I assume is her daughter. She isn’t in any of the pictures in his office, and I can’t help but to wonder if that’s for her safety.
My mind begs me to question if he would ever put pictures of Katie in his office.
“Alright,” he says, slipping the button of his jacket into place, “we can leave.”
“Actually, I wanted to give you this first.” Unclasping the clutch bag in my hand, I reach inside and pull out the consent papers I amended, extending a hand to offer them to him. “I made a few changes.”
He blinks back surprise as he unfolds the paper and scans over them, his jaw tensing every now again. I wish I could get inside his head, just for ten seconds, to see what he’s thinking.
A barely-audible mumble comes out of him occasionally, but I can’t make out what it is before he folds the papers together again and moves to hand them back to me.
“Keep this with you tonight,” he tells me. With an affirmative nod and the muscle of his jaw flickering, he adds, “Mixers are popular nights for pickup play.”
As we pass through the door, heading toward that safe, reliable, beige Volvo, I hesitate. For just a moment, I could almost swear that I see his hand move toward me as if he’s going to place it on my back to guide me toward the car, but the rules are in place now.
Teacher and student. No touching.
He opens my door first, allowing me to climb inside, but his hand is already reaching for my seat belt when I move to grab for it. He pulls it carefully to avoid his skin touching mine, and his eyes stay on mine as he clicks it into place before closing the door.
“So what can I expect at this mixer?” I ask as he pulls the car off of the driveway.
“Mixers are The Haven’s play parties, essentially,” he tells me. “It will be louder than you’re used to, there will be more people there than you’re used to, and some of them will likely ask if you’d like to scene with them.”
His eyes move toward my dress as he says the last part, quickly scanning over it with his hand rolling over the gearshift.
“Is my outfit an issue?” I brave asking.
“No,” he assures me with a shake of his head. “No, it’s—” he hesitates, turning to look at me as we hit an open patch of road. My eyes lock onto his and for the briefest moment, I feel my heart jump. “You look beautiful tonight, Nia.”
This time, it jumps for more than just a moment.
A glass of chardonnay slides across the bar as Brody and I approach, the man standing behind it offering me a friendly smile. I didn’t realize I’d been here enough times for him he recognize me; but I guess I do always have a glass of wine when I come in.
It’s a great environment, but it’s still somewhat intimidating to walk into.
The wine is like a soft pillow, cushioning the blow of the anxiety that swells in my chest here.
“The club rules are the same as they always are,” Brody tells me, as if he’s launched himself inside of my mind to read my thoughts. “Maybe even more heavily enforced tonight because of the crowd.”
“And our rules?” I probe.
“Only apply to us.” His eyes move from me to the people around us, filling the main room. “You are welcome to do as you please. I’m—”
“Not my Dom.”
“Right,” he nods. His right hand moves to fidget with the button of his suit jacket before sliding into the pocket of his slacks.
“Are you going to…‘pickup play’ tonight?” I ask him.
“No.”
A wave of something between anxiety and insecurity washes over me and I remind myself of my conversation with Isla.
I am not a meek little girl.
“I don’t know if I will, either,” I offer up, even though he didn’t ask. “Maybe I’ll go watch something with Isla.”
“She’s going to be out here all night,” he chuckles, pulling a sip from his glass of water. Pointing toward the large curtained wall at the far side of the room, he says, “Someone using that voyeur room will be the only entertainment that she gets tonight.”
The wall is up and the snipers are at the ready, I tell myself.
His body is tense, almost as if he’s on alert, and not in the sense of watching for rule breakers or someone in need; in the sense that he’s on alert because of me .
Despite his attempts at maintaining his usual professional and collected exterior, his eyes flick to me every few seconds. My eyes. My lips. My chest. Almost always followed immediately by glancing around the room, as if he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t be.
Maybe he shouldn’t. Maybe it’s a bad thing for him to be looking at me the way that he is, and maybe it’s a bad thing for me to like it.
Maybe it’s a worse thing that I don’t care about it being bad.
Depositing my emptied wine glass onto the table behind us, I brush my hand against Brody’s arm as I turn, making a focused effort to walk away from him.
“Nia.”
I’m stopped by a firm hand wrapping around my elbow and forcing me to pivot toward him, but he doesn’t let go of me when I do. His hand rests in place and I look at his fingers wrapped around me, scanning up his arm and toward his eyes, narrowed at me in a warning that sends heat crawling down the length of my spine.
“You’re breaking the rules, too,” I tell him, using my eyes to gesture toward his hand, which he immediately pulls away to stuff once more into the pocket of his slacks.
“You’re right,” he nods. “I apologize.”
“Brody—”
“I’m sorry, but you are gorgeous,” I hear from over my shoulder as the hand of someone new meets my arm.
Turning, I’m met with a man a few inches taller than I am. He isn’t hard on the eyes; longer hair slicked behind his ears, a strong build, and a classy black dress shirt that compliments his dark wash jeans.
“Thank you,” I smile. Brody tenses in front of me, but he keeps his mouth shut and his expression unreadable.
“I wasn’t gonna participate tonight,” he says, “but if you’re not here together…”
The incline of his head toward the long hall to our left finishes the rest of his question, and I stammer, turning toward Brody for an answer.
It isn’t that I need his permission; it isn’t even that I want it. In fact, I want the opposite. Shove this guy away. Tell him that we are here together. Wrap your hand around mine and tell him that I’m yours.
“It’s your choice,” he says instead. “If you want to go with him, go with him.”
“I— Brody…”
Fight for me, I beg him in my mind. Claim me. Admit that you want me.
“You’re in control, here,” he tells me. “It’s completely up to you.”
“Fine.” Turning my attention to the other man, I extend my hand to him. “Let’s go, then.”
I watch over my shoulder for any sign of Brody caring. Moving. Changing his mind.
But he doesn’t.
Instead of running toward me like I want him to, I watch him settle onto a stool at the bar and order another drink with his back turned to me.
What if this guy is dangerous? What if I use a safe word and he doesn’t listen? I silently plead with Brody to turn around and just look at me , but he sips on his water instead.
I’m pulled toward a hallway and around a corner, into a room lined on all sides with mirrors. The main voyeur room – the kind of room that’s meant for an audience.
It’s brighter inside this room than it is in the others, and set up more like a regular, run-of-the-mill bedroom. A chest sits at one side of the room next to the same mini fridge that the others have, and I assume that the chest is filled with toys like the others are.
I let my eyes flit only once to the mirrored wall at our side, silently begging Brody to change his mind. To put an end to this. To tell me that it isn’t just me here, stuck in this confusing pit of affection and desire.
I need to know that I matter to him as much as he does to me.
My mind is filled only with thoughts of him as I wrap an arm around the neck of the man in front of me, leaning close to him to whisper in his ear before his lips meet mine. Invited, but not wanted. Not really, anyway.