Page 20 of Rebellion

On anyone else the dark brown leather chaps over jeans and open western style shirt would have been ridiculous. On Tate, they had him looking like he’d walked off the pages of Playgirl: Cowboy edition.

He leaned against a white Cadillac with the requisite longhorn rack on the front. If it played the Dukes of Hazzard theme when he honked the horn, I’d laugh and then make fun of him for being the biggest cliché this side of the Rio Grande, which was in Texas, I was sure of it. Another white caddy sat a bit behind and to the right of the Boss-mobile and a driver waited beside it.

Seeing Tate’s big Texas-sized grin, his comfort in being exactly who he was, cliché or not, and the relief in the set of his shoulders that I had gotten off the jet soaked into my battered psyche. He wanted me here, which was more than I could say for anyone back home in the city.

Time to get out of my head and into the fun and games. “Yes well, get used it, honey. I like to have people wait on me, hand and foot, and other fun bits.”

Yeah. Gray or no, I was here to ply my hand at being a Dominatrix. Starting right now.

“Ha.” That snort of derision came from inside Tate’s car and was too unladylike to be any sub of mine or Tate’s.

“Care to elaborate?” I said, finding my confidence somewhere between the burn in my cheeks and the car.

One leg, a bit too lean to be curvy and then another stepped out of the dark interior of the car, clad in fuck-me heels, a g-sting, a cropped corset, and nothing else.

“Lilly,” Tate growled, “behave or I’ll have you over my knee again.”

“I’ll behave when this stupid fatty does. What kind of punishment does she get for making us sit out here in the hot sun for almost two hours?”

One, ouch. I’d come a million miles in learning to love my curves, but that name calling still hurt. Two, I’d remember that sneer for years to come. Lilly was the sub who’d tried to kill me with her death glare while sitting at Foster Bennett’s feet at The Asylum. If Lilly was here, was Foster?

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