“Here you go. The system flagged your check-in. Blue tonight.” She smiles as she clips a small collar with a blue token on it; tonight’s consent signal.
I love the system here. Eyes before hands. Questions before assumptions. Every collar color tells its own story—blue means submissive but taken, red means look, don’t touch, yellow is for slow hands and softer play. White marks a submissive seeking a dom, lavender is dominant already with a sub, orange is for a dominant still searching. Only yellow and red are off-limits for full scenes; everything else runs on trust, talk, and mutual want.
I slide onto a barstool, order a gin martini, and let the first sip coat my tongue with botanicals and possibility. It takes exactly three breaths for the air to shift. The hint of expensive cologne. The scrape of a chair next to me. I don’t have to look to know who it is, but I do anyway because I enjoy making eye contact with the lightning strike before it hits.
Silas leans on the bar like the room was designed around him. Sun-blond hair pushed back by impatient fingers. Sea-glasseyes that never pretend they’re not staring. A suit the color of wet stone and a stubble that suggests a man who forgot he needed to shave. He smiles without showing teeth, and the smile lands low in my stomach.
“Penelope,” he says my name like we’re already alone.
“Silas.” I swirl the martini and watch his gaze track the movement of my wrist. “You look like you came here to misbehave.”
“I came here to watch you decide if you’ll let me.” He takes the seat beside mine without asking. His knee finds the bare skin above my stocking and stays there, warm, waiting. “You smell like juniper and bad ideas.”
“I smell like yes if you ask nicely.”
He bends, mouth near my ear, breath warm. “Please.”
It’s the way he says it. Like a weapon set gently down. I finish my martini in two slow swallows and set the glass aside. “Your room or mine?”
“Mine,” he says instantly, the word a hum against my skin.
The hallway to the private suites is plush underfoot. Inside, his room is all dark paneling. A bed draped in black satin and a wall of toys displayed like art. There’s also a sink with a tray of warm towels because he’s the kind of man who thinks about the aftermath before the act begins. He closes the door, and I feel it in my bones when the lock slides into place. Anticipation is a weighted necklace, and I tip my head to let it settle.
“Color,” he says in a voice that has made me say yes before I knew I had.
“Green,” I answer. “Very green.”
“Good girl.” He brackets my hips with his hands and backs me to the bed without breaking eye contact. “Hands behind your back.”
“Bossy.”
“Correct.” His mouth curves. “And you like it.”
I do. I lace my fingers and offer my throat. He drags his knuckles over the line of my collar, and I shiver so obviously that he laughs under his breath. He touches me first like I’m priceless and like I’m his.
The first kiss is a test, slow and savoring, his tongue coaxing until I open wider just to please him. The second kiss is a claim. He pulls a sound from me I rarely let anyone else hear, a soft yes that lives somewhere behind my sternum, and his hand closes over my throat. Not pressure. Ownership. He waits there until he feels my pulse jump under his palm.
“Silas.”
“I know,” he murmurs.
He steps back and undresses me like I’m a gift. The dress slides down and pools at my feet. He groans at the sight of the bra I chose, knowing I might show it to him; sheer black with tiny ribbon bows that look innocent. His mouth closes over one nipple through the fabric, and I gasp, arching into him, heat sparking along nerves that crave his touch.
“Hands stay where I put them,” he says, and I nod because I don’t trust my voice.
He ties my wrists behind me with a silk sash that smells faintly of his cologne. The restraint is soft—perfect, and immediate. I feel my heartbeat speed up. When he pushes me back onto the bed, I land on the plush mattress with my knees still together, thighs trembling.
He kneels.
I stop breathing. He knows the power of that. His hands curve over my calves and slide higher, slow enough to feel every inch of skin he passes. When he kisses the inside of my knee, my head falls back and my mouth opens around a sound that is not polite. He’s methodical with the stockings, rolling them down with reverence, kissing the skin he frees as if worshipping every inch he reveals.
He makes me ask. I don’t want to, which is the point. My hips lift without permission. His gaze climbs to mine and holds. I break first. I always do with him.
“Touch me.”
“Where?” He smiles.
“You know where.” I shift, shameless. “Please.”
