Page 52 of Yours Truly

“I’m sorry for everything, Ivy. Last night was my fault, I take responsibility, and I’m sorry for putting you in a position where you weren’t safe.” His jaw twitches and his chest rises quickly, and I realize he means it.

“Thank you,” I say, my words crawling out of me a weakened whisper.

Deuce clears his throat and I drag my misty eyes to him. He blinks, making me blink, and it’s then I realize he’s buying me a moment. A second to gather myself before emotion slips and Trace sees. I take a short breath and nod, thanking him in a way he hopefully understands.

“I’m fine. I’m ready to get to my session today,” I say, shimmying my shoulders, moving the conversation forward. Deuce seems satisfied that I’m satisfied, and I am.

It’s not Deuce’s fault what happened. It’s Trace’s fault. And he knows it.

“She’s actually here,” Deuce adds, tipping his head to the small set of chairs tucked next to reception. “Your client is waiting.”

I smile tightly at Deuce, then at Trace. “Cool.”

Internally, I want to squeal with joy and take a selfie because— my first solo client! Holy shit!

But another part of me is achy between my legs, soaking my panties, leaving my thighs covered in needy goosebumps, chilled from my unsated arousal.

That part of me is going a bit wild right now, knowing the key to his freedom is on a chain around my throat, nothing more than an accessory for the day. Like a mood ring or a scrunchie. A dick cage key.

Deuce walks my client, Rochelle, back and we spend the next ten minutes slowly getting reacquainted. She’s been in twice before in preparation of today, but it’s been a few weeks. We have coffee, catch her up on my apprenticeship status, explaining to her that I’m near the end. And that she’s essentially my first client. Trace is quiet most of the time, adding a few encouraging words here and there when my client expresses her nerves for such a private thing about their lives to be made public.

He’s great with her, but tense and standoffish with me. But I deserve that.

After she’s in the chair, the stencil is printed and the design is on Rochelle, Trace decides to get chatty. My stomach clenches as I bring the needle to her skin and begin.

“So, Rochelle,” Trace starts, sipping on a cup of dark roast black coffee. God that is so him.

But so hot, too.

“Yes?” she asks, and I love Rochelle so much for knowing who Trace is, and not giving a shit. She asked me privately if I could confirm that he is that Trace Calhoun and that it isn’t a strange coincidence. Once I told her it’s him, she waved it all off. “Eh, he can prove to me he isn’t the stereotypical, self-involved, pseudo-famous hypocritical male before I swoon.” We bumped fists on that.

“I don’t understand men who don’t want control.” He nods to her upper thigh where I’m currently inking the design. Alluding to the chastity cage—the one Rochelle doesn’t know he’s currently wearing—he says, “I want control of my cock. And I want to be in control during sex.” He shakes his head before taking a sip of his coffee. “All the control.” I feel his eyes burning holes through me.

Rochelle smiles, her eyes soft and tender. “Are you single?”

My face falls. Holy shit. He’s not going to like where this is going.

“I am,” he grumbles.

“Relationship issues?” she asks, her voice still so soft that he can’t help but answer honestly. He doesn’t want to give in to this. He doesn’t want her to be right.

“Yeah, maybe.” He narrows his gaze and my pulse skips.

“So how’s that control working out for you?” Rochelle asks, tipping her chin to the side just slightly, in a position that can only be described as a satisfied power player.

But he’s silent, because he and I both know that Rochelle has a very good point.

My first session went incredibly well. We took photos of it afterward—lots of photos. With the shop camera, Connor got some on his phone, Deuce even on his, and Trace? He took photos with my phone, making sure they were perfect. He held Rochelle there an extra twenty five minutes taking photos.

I called Juniper and Dolly and told them the good news, promising that as soon as Dolly isn’t pregnant, we’d all share a bottle of champagne to celebrate. After I got off the phone, Deuce, Connor, Trace and I went across the street and had root beer floats. It was a glorious hour, and the rest of the day has been a blur.

Avoiding Trace so that we don’t have to have the serious talk just yet has been… kinda fun, if I’m being honest. His serious looks and chest-rumbling growls have me hot and bothered, but knowing there will be a time to come clean? I don’t know how he’s going to react so I don’t let myself think about it.

That’s future Ivy’s problem.

But my epic session with Rochelle this morning and my horndog haze from last night is either about to pay off or make me look like a complete creep. Weeks back, after presenting her new tattoo design to her partner, Rochelle was so happy with his reaction she came back and gave me a gift.

It’s sitting in a bag in the supply cupboard, because I didn’t exactly know what to do with it. The note attached said, “Because you’re good at cages, you may be good at other things, too. XO, Ms. R.”

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