and set on the table. “And familiarize yourself with appendix two of this one.” A slim black book joins the other.
Oh. More reading about it, not showing.
Of course.
She flips through the books, and I surreptitiously study her. She’ll never guess that I’m an antiques dealer, but her assumption pleases me, so I don’t correct it. Contrary to her belief, I do not come from an affluent family; I had to make something of my life with no help from anyone. I was in war zones before she knew what a journalist was, let alone decided to be one.
Seeing things destroyed around me instilled a deep reverence for their stories. They couldn’t truly be obliterated if I learned their history. People, places, objects. But history is filled with the ugly acts we do to each other; I doubt that there’s a square mile free of someone’s blood in the entire world. I’ve seen enough slaughter, rape, and hatred—sometimes all at once—to fill a history textbook with pain.
So I prefer to focus on objects. Things of beauty.
Sloane’s beautiful, but it’s her spirit that draws me in, the way she passionately cares about family as I do. If it was only her looks that appealed to me, Tessa would hold the same attraction.
“Darko?”
Did she ask me a question? Again, the urge to wrap my arms around this woman nearly overtakes me. “Yes, ljubav ?” She needs the freedom knowledge will bring her. If she realizes this and opens herself to it, the possibilities of freedom are endless.
“Do you really think I’m a natural?”
I lose the fight against my body’s demand to squeeze her tightly, to blur the lines between us, and I wrap her up in a hug. “I know it.”
Her hands snake around my waist. I’m not her lover, I am her coach, and I need to act as such. But my arms are tight from gripping her as closely as I’m trying to avoid, and hers dig into my lower back, clinging to me too. The fierce embrace ends too soon, and Sloane turns away and walks around the counter.
She’s careful not to look at me. “Why was The Underground started? Who’s the man behind the curtain, the one who started it all?”
“Reiley Gunn.”
“Does he have a God complex?”
Her whip-fast retort brings a smile to my face. “He has no God complex.”
“And yet he’s created The Games for a reason.”
I like how her mind works. “He’s searching for someone.”
“Kid with an ant farm. He’s a Dom as well?”
“He is a Dominant but doesn’t join in much.”
She leans over the counter, propping herself on her elbows. “If he’s looking for a personal submissive, and I won a membership into the club, would I be required to be with him?”
“Of course not. Members are free to be with whomever they please—and refuse anyone they’re not interested in. I don’t want you to feel obligated to do anything, or think that after all this, you, or any other member, would be expected to do things they don’t agree with. We want members who understand what we are about, who are open to the lifestyle, but honor their limits.”
“Right.”
I hand her a stack of papers. “But no one expects the members to do things they’re not comfortable with. I need you to fill these papers out.”
“And they are?”
“Standard forms. A non-disclosure agreement. An intake form so I may learn about you before we begin training. Things you’ve done, things you want to do, soft and hard limits. Be very specific. The last place either of us want a surprise is mid-scene.”
Her face reddens as she scans the page, reading questions about her sexual history, fantasies, and limits.
I bring it back to The Games as they seem to interest her. “And the winner doesn’t have to stay once they win and see the reality behind the velvet rope, so to speak. One year, we had a submissive who turned the membership down and left. Someone who won The Submission Games.” I’ve never seen Reiley so disappointed. “You don’t have to join, and if you do,
Oh. More reading about it, not showing.
Of course.
She flips through the books, and I surreptitiously study her. She’ll never guess that I’m an antiques dealer, but her assumption pleases me, so I don’t correct it. Contrary to her belief, I do not come from an affluent family; I had to make something of my life with no help from anyone. I was in war zones before she knew what a journalist was, let alone decided to be one.
Seeing things destroyed around me instilled a deep reverence for their stories. They couldn’t truly be obliterated if I learned their history. People, places, objects. But history is filled with the ugly acts we do to each other; I doubt that there’s a square mile free of someone’s blood in the entire world. I’ve seen enough slaughter, rape, and hatred—sometimes all at once—to fill a history textbook with pain.
So I prefer to focus on objects. Things of beauty.
Sloane’s beautiful, but it’s her spirit that draws me in, the way she passionately cares about family as I do. If it was only her looks that appealed to me, Tessa would hold the same attraction.
“Darko?”
Did she ask me a question? Again, the urge to wrap my arms around this woman nearly overtakes me. “Yes, ljubav ?” She needs the freedom knowledge will bring her. If she realizes this and opens herself to it, the possibilities of freedom are endless.
“Do you really think I’m a natural?”
I lose the fight against my body’s demand to squeeze her tightly, to blur the lines between us, and I wrap her up in a hug. “I know it.”
Her hands snake around my waist. I’m not her lover, I am her coach, and I need to act as such. But my arms are tight from gripping her as closely as I’m trying to avoid, and hers dig into my lower back, clinging to me too. The fierce embrace ends too soon, and Sloane turns away and walks around the counter.
She’s careful not to look at me. “Why was The Underground started? Who’s the man behind the curtain, the one who started it all?”
“Reiley Gunn.”
“Does he have a God complex?”
Her whip-fast retort brings a smile to my face. “He has no God complex.”
“And yet he’s created The Games for a reason.”
I like how her mind works. “He’s searching for someone.”
“Kid with an ant farm. He’s a Dom as well?”
“He is a Dominant but doesn’t join in much.”
She leans over the counter, propping herself on her elbows. “If he’s looking for a personal submissive, and I won a membership into the club, would I be required to be with him?”
“Of course not. Members are free to be with whomever they please—and refuse anyone they’re not interested in. I don’t want you to feel obligated to do anything, or think that after all this, you, or any other member, would be expected to do things they don’t agree with. We want members who understand what we are about, who are open to the lifestyle, but honor their limits.”
“Right.”
I hand her a stack of papers. “But no one expects the members to do things they’re not comfortable with. I need you to fill these papers out.”
“And they are?”
“Standard forms. A non-disclosure agreement. An intake form so I may learn about you before we begin training. Things you’ve done, things you want to do, soft and hard limits. Be very specific. The last place either of us want a surprise is mid-scene.”
Her face reddens as she scans the page, reading questions about her sexual history, fantasies, and limits.
I bring it back to The Games as they seem to interest her. “And the winner doesn’t have to stay once they win and see the reality behind the velvet rope, so to speak. One year, we had a submissive who turned the membership down and left. Someone who won The Submission Games.” I’ve never seen Reiley so disappointed. “You don’t have to join, and if you do,
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