green club dress played up her purple
eyes much better than the black she normally wore to the dungeon. The dress’s slick
fabric showed off all the right parts of her body, including the little rings
in her nipples and the dramatic tattoos down her arms. The gold high-heeled
gladiator sandals made her long legs look alluring and elegant.
Wow. Who knew?
She had to admit, she’d had her doubts when Zeke sent over his “instructions”
for tonight’s scene. The man had been in full-on “Master Z” mode when he wrote
the laundry list, which read like travel orders to Siberia at first. No
leather. No latex. No black. No panties. Okay, the last one had been easy to
oblige. But no black? Was the guy serious?
Of course he was.
Zeke wasn’t one shred comfortable about having to do this, and the “preliminary
instructions” were meant to drive in one statement on his behalf.
Tonight would be
dictated by his rules.
Luna had
grumbled but met every demand on the man’s list. No way was she messing this up.
She’d waited too long. Wanted it too bad. Wanted him too bad.
She tugged at
the dress and frowned at the weird sensation in her stomach. It felt like a
flurry of dry leaves. Ha. The last time she checked, Seattle was outside the
door. The term dry didn’t exist within fifty miles.
Nervous did. And unsure .
Which made the insides of her thighs tingle in anticipation. In greater need to
feel that man’s body between them. Damn, she couldn’t wait.
How long had it
been since she’d prepared for the command of a Master who earned the name? A
man who knew that even the clothes on her body had to feel all wrong in order
for her head to start feeling right? Who knew that the key to her
submissiveness was triple-welded to her brain and all she craved was a Dom with
balls big enough to take a blowtorch to those bonds?
Plenty of men
had applied for the job. But on one hand alone could she count the ones who’d turned
her mind to fireworks and made her dreams come true. Zeke wasn’t represented on
that hand. Not yet. Tonight, all that would change. Tonight, if her
fantasies really materialized, all those faces on those fingers would be
wiped away by the man who’d finally, finally realize that when paint
touched its perfect canvas, it was best to thank fate and let the art explode.
With Zeke, she
was going to be a Rembrandt.
The leaves in
her stomach swirled harder.
The door to the
dressing room opened, bringing a blast of the music now permeating the main
room. The mix of sensual synth and soaring opera was mixed for the club by one
of the city’s emerging DJs. Lively conversation joined the song, a marked
difference from the quiet of the club when she’d arrived forty minutes ago.
Luna savored the noise. It was Saturday night at the Bastille. A very special
Saturday night. At last.
The folds
between her thighs tickled with a fresh wash of arousal. Fortunately, the new
arrivals in the room were Penny and Noah. Her friends each took a side of the
mirror to give reactions to her makeover.
Penny normally
went for aloof Goth with the help of her ink-black pixie cut and kohl-lined
eyes, but she didn’t even try for that shit right now. Her eyes bugged as if
Luna stood there in a Mary Poppins costume. “Fuck. Me.”
Luna rolled her
eyes. “No thank you.”
Noah held up
both hands, showing off perfectly-groomed nails. “And don’t look at me.”
Luna glanced back
at Penny. “Was that a good ‘fuck me’ or a bad ‘fuck me?”
Penny tipped her
head. “Just a ‘wow’ one, I think.”
“Thanks for
nothing, then.”
“C’mon,” Penny chided,
“does my opinioneven matter? This is what Z wanted, right?”
“With one
exception.” Noah rolled the words out in a sing-song before gliding behind Luna
in a cloud of scented baby oil and a creak of leather shorts.
“Damn it.” She
smoothed a protective hand over her head. “Guess I forgot.”
Penny smirked.
“Uh-huh.”
“Shut up .”
She fidgeted
eyes much better than the black she normally wore to the dungeon. The dress’s slick
fabric showed off all the right parts of her body, including the little rings
in her nipples and the dramatic tattoos down her arms. The gold high-heeled
gladiator sandals made her long legs look alluring and elegant.
Wow. Who knew?
She had to admit, she’d had her doubts when Zeke sent over his “instructions”
for tonight’s scene. The man had been in full-on “Master Z” mode when he wrote
the laundry list, which read like travel orders to Siberia at first. No
leather. No latex. No black. No panties. Okay, the last one had been easy to
oblige. But no black? Was the guy serious?
Of course he was.
Zeke wasn’t one shred comfortable about having to do this, and the “preliminary
instructions” were meant to drive in one statement on his behalf.
Tonight would be
dictated by his rules.
Luna had
grumbled but met every demand on the man’s list. No way was she messing this up.
She’d waited too long. Wanted it too bad. Wanted him too bad.
She tugged at
the dress and frowned at the weird sensation in her stomach. It felt like a
flurry of dry leaves. Ha. The last time she checked, Seattle was outside the
door. The term dry didn’t exist within fifty miles.
Nervous did. And unsure .
Which made the insides of her thighs tingle in anticipation. In greater need to
feel that man’s body between them. Damn, she couldn’t wait.
How long had it
been since she’d prepared for the command of a Master who earned the name? A
man who knew that even the clothes on her body had to feel all wrong in order
for her head to start feeling right? Who knew that the key to her
submissiveness was triple-welded to her brain and all she craved was a Dom with
balls big enough to take a blowtorch to those bonds?
Plenty of men
had applied for the job. But on one hand alone could she count the ones who’d turned
her mind to fireworks and made her dreams come true. Zeke wasn’t represented on
that hand. Not yet. Tonight, all that would change. Tonight, if her
fantasies really materialized, all those faces on those fingers would be
wiped away by the man who’d finally, finally realize that when paint
touched its perfect canvas, it was best to thank fate and let the art explode.
With Zeke, she
was going to be a Rembrandt.
The leaves in
her stomach swirled harder.
The door to the
dressing room opened, bringing a blast of the music now permeating the main
room. The mix of sensual synth and soaring opera was mixed for the club by one
of the city’s emerging DJs. Lively conversation joined the song, a marked
difference from the quiet of the club when she’d arrived forty minutes ago.
Luna savored the noise. It was Saturday night at the Bastille. A very special
Saturday night. At last.
The folds
between her thighs tickled with a fresh wash of arousal. Fortunately, the new
arrivals in the room were Penny and Noah. Her friends each took a side of the
mirror to give reactions to her makeover.
Penny normally
went for aloof Goth with the help of her ink-black pixie cut and kohl-lined
eyes, but she didn’t even try for that shit right now. Her eyes bugged as if
Luna stood there in a Mary Poppins costume. “Fuck. Me.”
Luna rolled her
eyes. “No thank you.”
Noah held up
both hands, showing off perfectly-groomed nails. “And don’t look at me.”
Luna glanced back
at Penny. “Was that a good ‘fuck me’ or a bad ‘fuck me?”
Penny tipped her
head. “Just a ‘wow’ one, I think.”
“Thanks for
nothing, then.”
“C’mon,” Penny chided,
“does my opinioneven matter? This is what Z wanted, right?”
“With one
exception.” Noah rolled the words out in a sing-song before gliding behind Luna
in a cloud of scented baby oil and a creak of leather shorts.
“Damn it.” She
smoothed a protective hand over her head. “Guess I forgot.”
Penny smirked.
“Uh-huh.”
“Shut up .”
She fidgeted
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