the level of participation is up to you.”
Sloane sets the papers down. “Do you?”
“Do I what?”
“Join in much.”
“Do you truly wish to know the answer to that question?”
She twirls a section of hair around her finger. “Wouldn’t have asked it if I didn’t.”
“Journalists often ask questions they don’t want to hear the answers to all in the name of getting to the truth, working the angles. But yes, I join in.” I can’t pin down the look on her face. Disappointed? Intrigued? “I wouldn’t be a part of The Underground if it didn’t appeal to me.”
“Why does it?” She moves next to me. Every muscle in my body tightens at her closeness. I want to make her scream my name and pass out from pleasure overload. Dimly, I remember she asked a question.
“Why does what?”
She grabs a pen from a drawer near my hip. “BDSM. You don’t seem the type to get off on beating people.”
“I’m not.” Her presumption that I am into inflicting pain offends and angers me. But what gets me off is exactly none of her business. Her training is about her, not me. Already, the thought of someone else topping her is...unpleasant.
Reclaiming my personal space, I move to the side and focus on her apartment while her pen scratches answers on the paper.
Delicate rose and mandarin permeate the room, leaving a fresh, clean scent reminding one of a sunny meadow, the same way Sloane smells. Deep blue walls, light tile floors, all the furniture and accents are a blond wood. Bookshelves take up two of the walls of the living room, the third taken up by doors to a balcony. A black leather couch faces a small flat screen television. In the corner, an overstuffed leather chair, a small table, and a lamp. Perfect for curling up and reading in.
Through a door off to the side, her bedroom. A four poster queen-sized bed made up like a hotel with too many pillows, which I hate, but with a sumptuous down duvet done up in dark blue, light blue, white, and a sandy color that matches the rest of the suite’s furniture. Images of Sloane sinking into that fluffy duvet with me on top of her flash through my mind—an inappropriate fantasy slideshow I’ll allow myself to indulge in later. For now, I move back to her side.
She sniffs and signs the non-disclosure with a flourish. “There’s a lot about toys here. Do you have a dungeon? Whips and chains? Lubes.”
I set the second bag I brought with me on the counter. Her nostrils flare a little when I open it, revealing nearly any toy one could wish for—still in their packaging—and lubes.
“Flavored, scented, some heat up, some feel cold. Which do you prefer?”
Her cheeks color and she crosses her arms. “I don’t use lube.”
Maybe she prefers natural lubricants. “You don’t, or you haven’t?”
“Same thing.”
“No. They are different.” I smooth the lashes of a purple suede flogger.
“They’re the same thing.” Her voice is husky.
“No.” So is mine. “If you haven’t tried something, you don’t know if you like it; you’re judging the idea of it. If you have done it and didn’t enjoy it, that’s completely different. It’s a choice borne of experience, of preference, not an aversion based on ignorance.”
“Some things you just know.”
“You are wrong. I will be back tonight to answer any questions you may have and go over your paperwork.” I need some time alone.
The coffee’s warmth soothes me but is unsatisfying. Slamming back a double whiskey would take the edge off the need rampaging through my system, but I will require every ounce of control at my disposal to be around Sloane. Seven hours later and I still can’t think of anything but the look in her eyes when I touched the flogger, the flush of her skin when I left her the bag full of toys and told her to use them.
The sound she made when I went through the video.
I want to make her make that sound for an hour or two...but no. Even if it means denying myself the
Sloane sets the papers down. “Do you?”
“Do I what?”
“Join in much.”
“Do you truly wish to know the answer to that question?”
She twirls a section of hair around her finger. “Wouldn’t have asked it if I didn’t.”
“Journalists often ask questions they don’t want to hear the answers to all in the name of getting to the truth, working the angles. But yes, I join in.” I can’t pin down the look on her face. Disappointed? Intrigued? “I wouldn’t be a part of The Underground if it didn’t appeal to me.”
“Why does it?” She moves next to me. Every muscle in my body tightens at her closeness. I want to make her scream my name and pass out from pleasure overload. Dimly, I remember she asked a question.
“Why does what?”
She grabs a pen from a drawer near my hip. “BDSM. You don’t seem the type to get off on beating people.”
“I’m not.” Her presumption that I am into inflicting pain offends and angers me. But what gets me off is exactly none of her business. Her training is about her, not me. Already, the thought of someone else topping her is...unpleasant.
Reclaiming my personal space, I move to the side and focus on her apartment while her pen scratches answers on the paper.
Delicate rose and mandarin permeate the room, leaving a fresh, clean scent reminding one of a sunny meadow, the same way Sloane smells. Deep blue walls, light tile floors, all the furniture and accents are a blond wood. Bookshelves take up two of the walls of the living room, the third taken up by doors to a balcony. A black leather couch faces a small flat screen television. In the corner, an overstuffed leather chair, a small table, and a lamp. Perfect for curling up and reading in.
Through a door off to the side, her bedroom. A four poster queen-sized bed made up like a hotel with too many pillows, which I hate, but with a sumptuous down duvet done up in dark blue, light blue, white, and a sandy color that matches the rest of the suite’s furniture. Images of Sloane sinking into that fluffy duvet with me on top of her flash through my mind—an inappropriate fantasy slideshow I’ll allow myself to indulge in later. For now, I move back to her side.
She sniffs and signs the non-disclosure with a flourish. “There’s a lot about toys here. Do you have a dungeon? Whips and chains? Lubes.”
I set the second bag I brought with me on the counter. Her nostrils flare a little when I open it, revealing nearly any toy one could wish for—still in their packaging—and lubes.
“Flavored, scented, some heat up, some feel cold. Which do you prefer?”
Her cheeks color and she crosses her arms. “I don’t use lube.”
Maybe she prefers natural lubricants. “You don’t, or you haven’t?”
“Same thing.”
“No. They are different.” I smooth the lashes of a purple suede flogger.
“They’re the same thing.” Her voice is husky.
“No.” So is mine. “If you haven’t tried something, you don’t know if you like it; you’re judging the idea of it. If you have done it and didn’t enjoy it, that’s completely different. It’s a choice borne of experience, of preference, not an aversion based on ignorance.”
“Some things you just know.”
“You are wrong. I will be back tonight to answer any questions you may have and go over your paperwork.” I need some time alone.
The coffee’s warmth soothes me but is unsatisfying. Slamming back a double whiskey would take the edge off the need rampaging through my system, but I will require every ounce of control at my disposal to be around Sloane. Seven hours later and I still can’t think of anything but the look in her eyes when I touched the flogger, the flush of her skin when I left her the bag full of toys and told her to use them.
The sound she made when I went through the video.
I want to make her make that sound for an hour or two...but no. Even if it means denying myself the
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