“Seriously. I don’t know.”
“You don’t go down on your one-offs.”
I swallow, feeling trapped on the one hand, but also… “I don’t. Not usually.”Free. “This one’s different.” How did those words pop out?
“Oh, yeah?” His perfectly-shaped right eyebrow flicks up in one of the signature moves that’s made him TV’s favorite detective. “Well, she sure smells good. Come here.” The bastard grabs my arm and leans in as if to catch another whiff of my face and I scoot back, shoving him at the same time. “Awwwwwww, hoss! Come on. Give me another hit. So, you gettin’ it on the regular? She a nice girl? Or is she a dirty little slut who wants you to share her with your best friend? You gonna let me get my face in that—”
“No.” My voice lands like a boulder between us.
Zion straightens up, losing the smile. “You’re serious.”
I want to groan, because he thinks this is an actual thing and when I tell him she wouldn’t be able to pick me out from a crowd, he’ll laugh his ass off, but here’s the thing about Zion—he’s not someone I lie to. Ever. And he doesn’t lie to me.
So, when I look him right in the eye and say, “I’m never seeing her again. Twice was a mistake,” he nods as if he believes me.
“Sure, man.” For an interminable handful of seconds, he keeps that slow nod going, his nearly black eyes peeling me apart. “Okay.” He looks around. “I went to the house first. Saw you’ve moved stuff, finally. Cleaned it, too.”
At my nod, he grabs my forgotten glass from the windowsill, lifts it in a silent toast, and slugs back the hundred dollar whisky in one swallow. “Good. Now, let’s go to the Dungeon.”
I don’t even bother arguing. There’s no point. Zed always wins.
Besides, maybe I don’t mind the idea of mingling, for once. Or that a small piece of me is in fact desperate to head back to camp tonight. For reasons.
12
Grace
I shoveopen the heavy door and let my eyes acclimate to the light here which, though dim, is still brighter than outside. Immediately, my gaze lands on a cage, where a naked, collared person strains to suck a cock that’s just outside his reach. I turn away and concentrate instead on a woman in a wheelchair, receiving what looks like the equivalent of a lap dance from another woman. They’re sort of chatting as it goes. They kiss, one pinches the other’s nipple, then giggles. Beside them, a couple is cuddling on the floor in the corner, lazily eyeing the people around them, without any apparent plan. They’re on-lookers like me.
I walk farther in, only letting my eyes settle on a scene for a few polite seconds before moving on to the next. There’s music and moaning, the sound of whips and chains, the occasional scream, and laughter. Lots of laughter.
Here’s the thing I found out about the Dungeon on my first night here: it’s just a huge playroom for adults. Some play house, some tag, others wrestle like puppies. There’s peeing in inappropriate places, acrobatics, bullying, humor.
I’m not entirely comfortable here, though that’s more about me than the people playing or watching or waiting their turn. I feel like an outsider. I am an outsider, because the kink world’s not mine. I mean, yes, I guess I’m kinky.
Inner eyeroll.
Fine. I know I’m kinky. That’s been confirmed. Not just by the fantasies, but by the carrying out of them.
By the wanting to do it again and again.
I flinch as my eyes skim over another cage—this one bigger, and filled with people getting pulled around and slapped and otherwise abused—to a padded bench, where a woman is arched back, her ass rosy from being whipped by a man in nothing but a pair of jeans.
Immediately, I focus in on his denim-covered bottom half. Holy shit. Is that my stranger?
Jealousy rips through me at the idea. When the man unzips and starts to pull his hard dick out, I turn away, so quickly I bash into a big body.
Twobig bodies.
My mumbled “Sorry” goes unnoticed by the shorter, wider man, who’s already turned his back to me, but the other—a tall, golden-skinned man in a mask that covers everything but his mouth—takes my shoulders in his steadying hands, and smiles. “No worries. You okay?”
My eyes slide from his lush mouth, over a finely-chiseled, clean shaven chest, to the blond happy trail disappearing into a pair of very expensive jeans.
I blink, automatically smiling up at him.
A quick look at the other man’s departing back shows that he’s in jeans, too. So, maybe denim’s not as uncommon as I’d imagined. Although that wide back looks about right. Maybe the hair, too… I’m the prince looking for the glass slipper.
“Yeah,” I finally tell the tall man smiling down at me. “Sorry about that.”
