It had been three weeks of hearing her voice across conference tables. Three weeks of catching her scent in the corridor, citrus threaded with something darker, slipping under his defenses before he could brace for it. Three weeks of watching her concentrate, argue, push back against him, bending without breaking. Three weeks of not touching her.
He’d come to the club tonight because he needed distance and distraction. He wasn’t here to play, even though his body ached with a restless, tightly leashed need he hadn’t felt in years.
Instead, he monitored, a discreet presence moving through the playroom with purpose. He steered well clear of the playground, the waterfall, and the swing, places where memory lingered and still felt raw.
For her, it had all been an act.
She hadn’t come to him open or seeking. She’d come watching, listening, investigating. The lies had been justified. Undercover work demanded that. But knowing the reason didn’t soften the impact. They were lies all the same.
For a man who had built his reputation on insight, the blind spot stung. Because, with Gaby, he’d let himself imagine more.
That was a mistake. He didn’t domore.
Because some wounds didn’t heal. They waited to be torn open again.
Rhys stopped in the center of the playroom and deliberately set thoughts of Gaby aside, refocusing on the assignment he’d accepted for the evening.
To his left, a suspension scene unfolded. Knotted hemp encased silken curves and pale skin. Long blonde hair brushed the floor. The sub’s breathing was fast but controlled. Fingers pink, a positive sign of good circulation. The dom’s solid stance and clear commands showed he was in full control. No intervention required.
To his right, impact play on the padded A-frame had drawn a sizeable crowd. Rhys moved closer, evaluating as he always did, quiet, methodical, detached.
The domme used a rubber flogger. Her movements were practiced and even. Still intense, still packing a bite. The sub’s cries rang out, his body moving toward each stroke, not away. Experience told Rhys this was release, not distress.
After a few more resoundingthwacks,the domme checked in. Her sub answered with a raspy, breathless “Green, mistress,” followed by a desperate “more.” Rhys’s certainty solidified. He hadn’t lost his instincts.
He resumed his slow circuit of the room, scanning constantly. Couples filled the space tonight. They exudedconnection, continuity, and choice. He’d once believed in permanence. Now, he no longer afforded himself that luxury.
A discordant note rose from the back of the room. He recognized the sound instantly. Not pleasure or the cadence of darker needs being met. A call to action.
He moved instantly, already assessing as he closed the distance. The bottom’s fingers had blanched white, signaling too-tight restraints and impeded circulation. The dom held a slapper paddle in midair, ready to carry on. Confident but inexperienced, he had missed the signs.
Rhys stepped up to the ropes, voice quiet but firm. “Hold. Restraint check.”
The dom stiffened, focus realigning. Then he dropped the paddle and quickly adjusted the restraints, speaking to her in calming tones. In seconds, color returned to her fingers, and she relaxed. Crisis averted. When the man glanced his way, Rhys inclined his head and stepped back, letting the scene resume.
There was no cause to stop it. No argument or resistance to his correction. There never was with him.
The club still answered his need for control and authority. It simply didn’t answer his desire.
Not long after, another problem broke out. This time it was panic—sharp and unmistakable. The new dom was chasing a reaction rather than reading his sub. Her eyes were glassy. She wasn’t lost in subspace; her breathing was too fast. Her body locked, not in fight or flight but frozen.
With a single command, Rhys ended it.
“It’s over, Jordan.”
The twenty-something glanced his way. His pupils were nearly as wide as his bottom’s, soaring in top space. But he accepted a DM’s judgment, took a deep breath, and backed off.
Rhys freed her himself, lifting her when her knees buckled.
“Get a blanket,” he ordered, his voice pitched to cut through the younger man’s confusion.
Jordan moved, slower than Rhys preferred, but was back in seconds since aftercare stations were everywhere.
Wrapped up and warm, she curled against Rhys as he carried her from the playroom to the indoor lounge, finding a vacant couch in a dark, quiet corner. He held her, speaking low and steady, until her trembling eased. By then, Jordan looked more aware, still shaken, but teachable
Aftercare was neither optional nor performative. It was an essential duty.
He handed her over to the young dom.
