Page 65 of At Her Pleasure

There were things that could steal her breath even faster than being knocked flat on her back. As she tried to reinflate her lungs, her mind scrambled to do damage control, react like any normal human being would to an entirely reasonable request. She didn’t have panic attacks. She wouldn’t allow it.

She rallied enough to give him a brittle laugh. “I’m so not a kid person. How about that thousand? I know you always give your winnings to charity, so I’ll send it wherever you want. But Vera or Skye would love to do the babysitting thing, and either one of them can solo it with no problem. Or Skye will bring Tiger. Angelica would probably love sitting on his motorcycle with him. Like a big iron horse. Kids love animals. Didn’t I hear you took her to the Audubon zoo not long ago?”

Shut the fuck up. You’re babbling. If she could hear her desperation, so could Matt.

A frown flitted across his brow. She didn’t want him to say another word. No matter what he said next, she might vomit up information she didn’t want to give.

Baby formula, hidden under her sweatshirt. A policewoman’s grip on her arm, yanking it back to cuff her. The formula falling onto the pavement, rolling away.

Oh God…

“Email me where you want the money to be sent. I’ve got to go. See you at Progeny. Or here.”

When she bolted for her truck, she half expected Matt to try to stop her, because he was that assertive, an overly protective kind of male, and only an idiot would miss how freaked out she was.

He didn’t, though. He respected her space, which she appreciated, because by the time she reached her truck in the alley parking space, she was weighed down by feelings so heavy she could barely pull herself into the seat. She slammed the door and turned over the engine. Before she put it in drive, she raised her gaze to the mirror, locked it on the braided whip in her gun rack. A reminder of who she was.

You proved your value. Damn straight she had.

To the people who matter. Not so much.

Her phone buzzed and she glanced down at the screen. Mick had answered her on the CNC thing.

Glad to hear it. I’m yours, Mistress. See you then.

The snarled mess of her feelings met the tangle of how she felt about him. She really was going to throw up.

She shoved open the door, leaned out and left her breakfast in the gutter. She was close enough to Bourbon Street no one would be surprised to find it. Still, she used a bottle of water to wash it mostly into the drain.

See, she’d grown. Become more civilized. She swished some water in her mouth and spat into the gutter, then closed the door, leaned back in the seat and took a breath.

Yes. All right. It would all be okay. She needed to cut Mick out of the past and paste him firmly in the present.

Ladies-in-Charge would be the perfect way to do that.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Much like Roughnecks, Progeny always offered Cyn the chance to spill off energy that could push to an unhelpful pressure point in her daily life. An event night was something even more special. And a night dedicated to Dommes? That was like a carnival’s promises, delivered to all senses. Inhaling cotton candy, kettle corn, the cool freshness of ice cream and snow cones. Hearing a soft rush of voices, seeing lights sparkling in the darkness. Feeling heat touching the skin, excitement prickling the insides.

When she lived in Jersey, she’d picked up extra cash working the shooting gallery booth at a traveling carnival. The troupe had set up in an abandoned strip mall parking lot for several weekends one fall.

She’d shadowed the intriguingly polite carnival mechanic, a skinny twenty-two year old with soulful eyes and a shy heart. He'd taught her how to repair the rides. He tested them all after closing every night to see if they needed tweaking. She rode the Ferris wheel with him, the wind blowing in her face, the stars much different when seen high in the sky. His shoulder had pressed against hers, and he’d smelled like popcorn, cigarettes and peppermint.

He’d asked to kiss her. She said no. Then kissed him.

At Progeny, the olfactory input might be different, but it was no less engaging. The aroma was musky cologne, fragrant perfumes. That first glow of perspiration, a dew that spoke of sex and need. Leather, wood, fire, oil. Candles with exotic scents like bergamot, sandalwood and cinnamon.

Mick’s army of volunteers had been male and female submissives who knew what pleased their Mistresses. He’d also pulled in key insights from select Dommes. Still, no one except he and a few of the submissives had known what the final outcome would look like, which made seeing it for the first time worth a long look.

In Cyn’s case, that included an absurd spurt of pride.

My man did this.

Blackmore’s raucous Renaissance Faire pub song, “All For One” was blasting in the foyer. We’ll drink together, not alone… Studded leather straps curtained the club archway. Two of them were wrapped around the lifted wrists of a blindfolded male sub, feet planted shoulder width apart. He had dark hair, shaved at the sides and nape, tousled on top, giving him a boyish look.

A gold and black brocade corset defined his lean and muscular upper torso, the contours from wider chest and shoulders to straight, slim hips, the shallow dip of the back. The loops of the shoestring style lacings rested on his buttocks, the rise and shape of them also made more prominent by the snug hold of the corset.

His black slacks had a loving hold on that ass, the cuffs brushing perfectly polished brogues. The calligraphy sign over him was an invitation.

---