I frown—maybe it’s a pout—but he gives my cheek a warning tap with the palm of his hand. I school my features to hide my disappointment.
“Is Callum off tonight?”
“His best friends are getting married.”
I make an agreeable noise.
“Do you want to stay here or come with me?” he asks.
“What would I do there?” I scrunch my nose.
My sibling is half-owner of the club Raf works at. It’s a place called Rapture, and it’s aptly named. A BDSM club built in the bones of an abandoned church. It’s a gorgeous place with big stained glass windows that reflect the light in the day time and the gel lights and disco ball in the evening. It’s maybe a little blasphemous that the private upstairs play space is in the old choir loft, but I haven’t had a good relationship with God in years.
“I’m sure I could find something for you to do if you wanted to come.”Raf smiles at me again. It’s a small smirk that hints he already knows exactly what he wants me to do if I agree to go in with him. I chew my lower lip in thought, even though we both already know the answer.
“I’d like to come,” I tell him.
He raises his hand to my throat again and draws a long, curved line around my neck with his pointer finger.
“Go get your collar then and come back.”
I slip out from between him and the counter, walking quickly toward the bedroom. My collar is a burdensome thing, heavy chain link with a key lock. I’d wear it all the time if he wanted me to, but we’re not there yet. He tells me he’s not sure I’m ready, since it’s all still so new to me, but I am. It doesn’t really matter, though. Our relationship is the same whether I’m wearing it or not, it’s just…stricter when the collar is on. More formal, maybe.
I grab my collar off the nightstand, the key still lodged in the lock, and return to the kitchen. Raf is where I left him. I drop to my knees and raise my hands, the collar bundled in my palms. He picks it up and holds it open and I lower my neck into the cradle he’s holding out for me.
“How may I serve you?” I ask, my eyes downcast.
He latches the lock and twists the collar so it rests in the dip of my throat. I don’t move because he hasn’t told me I can.
“You can go get in the shower and clean yourself, then present yourself on the bed.”
“Your Grace,” I murmur.
He holds his hand in my field of vision and I slip my palm against his. He’s sweaty like he gets sometimes whenweget like this, and I like that he’s maybe nervous. Like this is as important to him as it is to me and neither of us want to fuck it up.
“Go on,” he says.
I reply with a silent tip of my chin then return to the bedroom to do what I’ve been told.
