Page 16 of Look, Don't Touch

The side of my shoe taps a staccato against the seat in front of me.

“Not to offend,” Astor continues, “no one wants your heart. Not straight out of the gate anyway. Hell, if you’re not looking for a connection, dating in New York is the safest place for you to practice.”

“If you were trying to sell anyone else on dating, I couldn’t give your promo even half a star.” Still, nervous energy weaves its way through my bloodstream.

She groans long and loud, knowing she’s fighting a losing battle.

The driver lowers the divider. “Everything okay back there?”

“Yep.” I force my foot to stop and offer a nod. He raises the partition without a word. “Okay, Astor, what do you suggest?”

“Go on a date.” At my grunt, she adds, “Not a full-fledged dinner, but at least out for coffee or a drink.”

The thought turns my stomach. “I’ll think about it.”

“Really?” Skepticism laces her voice.

In the vaguest sense of the word, I answer. “Yes.”

By the time I’m ushered into the playroom, my thoughts are scattered in a million different directions. Like I’m stuck in a snow globe in the hands of a toddler. The darkly limewashed walls, thick rug, and velvety bedding do nothing to soothe my nerves. Normally, the oil paintings decorating the walls center me.

I look at a black-haired woman sitting on a chair in the center of a bare room. She wears a regal ball gown. Her back is pin-straight, and her hands rest sweetly in her lap. A red blindfold covers her eyes, while a man loses his head between her spread thighs. Not even the puddle beneath her seat stirs me.

After years, the floggers, spreader bars, and even the St. Andrew’s cross inside the room have faded into the background.

It’s just the padded bondage bench, me, and a nameless, faceless man. Even the promise of those things hasn’t fully registered.

My headspace is shit.

I’m thinking of leaving when the concierge clears her throat.

My body jerks in her direction. I hadn’t realized she was still in the room. Usually, she leaves until I get undressed and need her to strap me into position.

“Yes?”

She stalls. Her pretty pink mouth kicks to one side. “He requests that you put on your blindfold?—”

“Of course.” It has been a minute since I’ve been here, but it could be a hundred years from now, and I’d still remember my blindfold.

“He also requests that you leave on all your clothes and remain standing in the center of the room.”

Every piece of artificial snow vanishes. Every emotion, every worry, every frayed nerve follows suit. My feet are on the ground, and I am instantly present in my body. “That’s…different.”

Usually, he, whoever he is for the night, comes in after I’m blindfolded and bound to the bench. After I’m completely vulnerable and, at the same time, completely safe from the possibility of connection.

“Yes, miss.” She acknowledges with a nod of her dainty head. “Do you approve this request? It is fully within your purview to decline.” Her hands remain clasped at her front. With her black hair pulled into a low sleek ponytail and her curvy frame in a prim black sheath, she is the picture of decorum.

I know the camouflage well. For I too can look the very picture of the Madonna. It takes discipline not to ask about her fetish. Then again, I have more pressing matters, like this unexpected change in protocol.

Instead of freaking me out or giving me the ick, which any major variation usually does, my interest is piqued. “Yes, of course. I approve.”

I love the anonymity. I love the freedom of my naked flesh. I love embracing the bench. I love taking what I’m given.

“Perfect.” She nods. “We’ll give you five minutes to get situated.”

“If I’m not stripping, I only need one.” I reach for the black velvet blindfold and slip it on before she’s out the door. The last thing I need is time to think.

“Very well.” The door whispers closed.

---