Page 51 of Trussed In Hope
“No, I think Emberlynn has it under control.” He nodded.
“Good. Well… we just need to make sure that you understand the most important rules at Club Illusion. You’ve already signed the waiver, but I need to make sure that you understand the rules. Including no sex with any other partner inside the club since there wasn’t enough time to have you tested.”
“That’s correct.”
Quickly, Tiffany went through the rules, and Hardison agreed to them all. Then she smiled and let us through. As I passed, she gave me a fist bump and said she’d see me later.
Music thumped low in the background, and I caught glimpses of scenes already in progress as we stepped past the entry desk. A flogger cracked somewhere deeper in the room. A woman’s moan carried over it.
I should have felt at home here—I’d been coming for years. But standing next to Hardison, my body thrummed differently. This wasn’t me dipping my toes into someone else’s world anymore. This wasourstep.
“You okay?” he asked, his voice pitched low so only I could hear.
“Yes,” I whispered, then corrected myself, braver this time. “Yes, Sir.”
The look he gave me in return set my skin on fire. He adjusted the strap of the duffel, his mouth close enough to my ear that his breath warmed my neck.
“Good girl,” he said. “Let’s find ourselves a space. Valentine’s Day deserves a proper memory.”
Hardison guided me through the main room like he owned the place, his hand resting firmly at the small of my back. People glanced at us, but no one lingered long. That was the unspoken rule here—curiosity was allowed, intrusion was not. Still, I felt their eyes, and my skin prickled with awareness. I saw a few submissives that I knew, but we were all with our Tops, so we stayed focused and didn’t interrupt one another’s scenes.
The cool air of the club swept over my bare shoulders, and I knew every detail of my dress was on display. My stomach flipped, but my chin lifted toward him.
“That’s it,” he said, approval rumbling low in his chest.
He led me to an open station—a padded bench, clean restraints bolted nearby, an overhead frame that could be usedfor rope or cuffs. My breath hitched. I’d seen people in this space before, but never imagined standing in it. It didn’t mean that I hadn’t wanted to. Master Howard and Master Stevie walked by deep in conversation, and I swallowed hard. Why did I feel so vulnerable? They owned the club, and though they were both taken, it didn’t mean that I was immune to the power they wielded just by being in the room.
“Hands on the bench,” he ordered, pulling me back into the scene.
I did as I was told, my palms pressing into the leather. His presence loomed behind me, close but not touching, until I felt the brush of his fingers at the hem of my dress. He eased it up, baring the tops of my stockings and the garters clipped in place.
A soft growl slipped from him. “Christ, Ember.”
Heat rushed through me at the hunger in his voice. “Yes, Sir?” I asked, knowing damn well what I was doing to him. The g-string had my ass on display, and if he could see as much as what I could feel–cool air wafting toward my vagina–then he knew how wet I was already.
The first crack of his palm across my ass stole my breath. Not harsh, just enough to make my heart leap. Another followed, firmer this time. He didn’t relent until I squirmed, my body even more alive than it had been before. He continued on, becoming more deliciously brutal as he continued. The sound drew a few glances, but I kept my gaze down, gripping the bench tighter. Each swat burned in my core, not letting me escape the building desire.
“You wanted serious?” he murmured, leaning close so his lips brushed my ear. “Then you don’t care who’s watching.”
I trembled, both from nerves and the flood of want building inside me. He was right. I didn’t. “Yes, Sir.”
His hand trailed down my back, calming and claiming in the same stroke. Then, just as suddenly, he stepped back. He leaneddown and licked across my buttocks, teasing the sensitive skin leading to my wetness. He stood up, and I missed his mouth immediately.
That’s enough out here.” His tone was final. He reached for my hand, helping me to stand, as if he hadn’t just lit every nerve in my body on fire in front of everybody.
I glanced up at him, confused. “That’s it?”
His smile was slow, wicked. “That was the warm-up, darlin’. You don’t think I came here to stop part of the way, do you?”
My knees went weak.
He slung the duffel over his shoulder and tipped his head toward the hall. “Private room. Now.”
I followed him, pulse hammering, the murmur of the main room fading behind us. Every step made my anticipation coil tighter. When he opened the door to a private space using his card—a dimly lit room with a sturdy cross mounted on the wall, ropes neatly coiled, and a bed tucked in the corner—I knew this was where he’d take me apart and put me back together again.
The bed was made up with crisp black sheets, so ordinary and yet not. Hardison didn’t speak right away. He dropped the duffel onto the bench and leaned back against it, crossing his arms, studying me. My throat tightened under the weight of his silence.
“What?” I finally asked, though my voice came out thinner than I intended.
