He notices, though. His gaze lingers on that hand and moves up my jaw to my mouth.
“I like the idea of… letting go. No power, I guess? I wouldn’t mind being made to do things.” An embarrassed sound huffs from my mouth and lingers between us before rising up, lost to the room’s happy hubbub.
A slow nod.
“But I don’t want to be, like, actually hurt. If that makes sense? Anyway, I haven’t seen too much of that here tonight.” I can’t help but glance over to where a series of light thwacks give way to a long, ragged moan.
When I look back at the General—or as he’ll forever be known in my mind, Broody Bar Guy—he’s watching me, if possible, even more sharply than before.
“So, you’re a sub, not a masochist.”
“Exactly. You get it!” Enthusiasm has me lightly smacking his arm and… holy biceps, that thing is solid. Warm. That tiny bit of contact makes my breath come out in hot little bursts. My vision’s gone a little fuzzy at the edges. From a bicep. Clearly, it’s been a while.
“I want your hands flat on the table,” he says, low and menacing. “Both of them.”
My belly flip-flops, and before I’ve had time to consider his words, my traitorous hands obey.
“Here’s the thing about a good sub, Sunny.” He’s close enough that I can hear every word with crisp clarity despite the ambient noise. The atmosphere’s changed in the last few minutes, and I can’t tell if it’s just me—us—or the entire place that’s sunk into this deep, sensual torpor.
Is that the sound of flesh smacking naked flesh now, instead of vinyl? Are people taking off clothes? I don’t know. And no way am I bursting this bubble of ours to look.
“A good sub listens and learns.” His hands are busy, rolling those sleeves a little higher, tighter, with perfect precision, giving me even more of those pornographically sexy forearms. “But so does…” Another fold. More of that strong right arm, lightly flexing muscles, a scattering of dark hair. “A good Dom.”
I glance up at his face, which is calm, serious. His rugged features right in a way that twists up my insides and makes me want to say something a young, innocent version of me might have said.Please, please, please like me as much as I like you.
Which I don’t, obviously. I just met the man. And he said himself that he’s not in the market for a sub. He probably has one already. Lots, in fact. A sub for every day of the week. Two on weekends and holidays.
“First of all, a good Dom willaskif you want to scene. Unless it’s part of a preestablished agreement, he’ll never tell you. Got it?”
I nod, my head apparently the only functioning part of my body at this point. The rest is too busy sending hot, syrupy warmth to my nether regions.
“When playing, unless you’re gagged, or your mouth is… otherwise engaged, make sure you say everything out loud, okay?”
My insides rearrange themselves at the idea of exactly what’s got my mouth in that scenario. Then my imagination moves on to serve up a rousing game of Dom/sub charades in which, bound and gagged, I struggle to express all the sexy things using just my eyebrows and some well-placed hip thrusts.
I suppress the giggle trying to work its way out. Pretty sure a guy who calls himself the General would not appreciate it if I laughed mid–Kink 101 lesson.
But he obviously notices and, instead of getting bent out of shape, appears to take it in stride.
“Look, Sunny. We Doms need as much communication help as we can get,” he says, which I don’t believe for a second. This guy doesn’t need help. I’ll bet he can communicate his wants with a single eyebrow. The flick of a lash.
“So…” He leans in, and though I want to look at what his hands are doing, I keep all of my attention focused on his dark eyes, his mouth, and then the dimples playing hide-and-seek in his stubble. “Do you want to see what it’s like, Sunny?”
CHAPTER FOUR
Grant
“YEAH,”SHE WHISPERS. ANDagain, louder. “Yes. Yes, I’d like that.”
It’s been a while since I met someone as unabashedly enthusiastic as Sunny.
I know I should stop.
But look at her, all round and soft, plump and gorgeous. She’s pure excitement without a hint of pretense. Sitting in the glow of all this curiosity, I almost feel like my teenage self when I got off on the idea of tying June Cristano—my football coach’s college-age daughter—to my bed and making her wait and wait and wait for that orgasm. She’d be writhing by the end of the fantasy. And I’d have made myself come about five times.
I knew, even then, that my soul was a little twistier than others’.
Sunny’s eyes are all pupil, her pulse visibly racing in the hollow of her throat, her freckles almost entirely camouflaged by the beautiful bright pink flooding her cheeks.
