The sounds she made were genuine—a high, breathy whimper that should have sent heat straight through me.
All I heard was a different pitch. A different timbre. Someone who would sound rough and desperate when they begged, not soft. Someone who would fight their submission even as they surrendered to it, making every moan I extracted feel like a victory.
“Tell me what you need.” I winced when my words sounded mechanical.
“Please, sir,” Imelda begged. “I need his mouth. Please let him?—”
The plea was too polished, the desperation too rehearsed.
“Stop,”I said, pausing the scene.
None of this was right. Colin froze with his hands on his wife’s breasts.
“Sir?” Imelda cut through my thoughts.
I blinked. They studied me with worry. How long had I been standing there, silent?
The shift in energy was swift. Imelda’s demeanor changed at the same time Colin switched from sub to protective husband.
“Neither of you has done anything wrong,” I said before either could ask. “This is on me.”
I knelt to release Imelda’s ankle cuffs, using the rote motions to ground myself. The spreader bar came loose, and I set it aside.
“Are you okay?” Colin asked, already untying his wife’s wrists.
“I’m not in the right headspace tonight. It’s not fair to either of you to continue.”
While Colin found the release points in the rope, they exchanged one of those married glances where an entire conversation took place wordlessly. I read understanding and concern in their faces, a shared decision to give me space.
I worked through the aftercare on autopilot, getting them water and the blankets kept in the suite’s warmer. I asked the required questions, making sure they were stable before I let them leave.
“Do you want to talk about it?” Colin offered as they walked toward the door.
I shook my head and muttered my thanks.
“We’re here if you need us,” Imelda added. “As friends.”
After they left,I stared at the crimson rope in my hands.
I didn’t want Colin and Imelda.
My desire was for twodifferentpeople, and it had grown to the point of obsession.
“Fuck,” I muttered into the empty room as I straightened my clothes and walked out.
The club pulsed around me, but I passed through it without seeing, barely registering the fantasies displayed on the main floor.
The Thorned Thistle was busy tonight. The massive converted distillery space, with its exposed brick walls, industrial metal beams crossing the ceiling, and strategic lighting that created pockets of shadow and revelation, thrummed with music and energy. Around the perimeter, various scenes played out—a submissive kneeling beside his mistress, a flogging in one corner, where leather cracked on skin.
At the bar, I ordered a whiskey. The bartender set it in front of me.
“Everything all right, Master Kiernan?”
“Fine.” The lie was automatic. For the first time in many years, the pleasure I’d always found here wasn’t enough. The authority I’d always craved seemed hollow without the specific people I ached to command.
I finished the drink in one swallow and was halfway to the exit when I saw Callen Cavendish, the Marquessof Dunravin, heir to the Duke of Strathallan, code name Renegade, member of Unit 23, and the closest thing I had to a best friend. The two of us had founded the Thorned Thistle five years ago, along with three other partners. I’d needed something to build after everything fell apart. A place where I could be in control when the rest of my life had spiraled beyond my grasp.
He stood near the observation area, studying a wax-play scene with the critical eye of someone who knew the technique better than the person demonstrating it. He caught my approach in his peripheral vision and pivoted to greet me.
