Page 83 of Boots, Bucket Lists & Bad Ideas
An ornate, wrought-iron frame, twisting into delicate, gothic swirls at the corners, reads:Not Your Grandma’s Shop. 18+. Adults Only.
It makes my lips quirk upward because the owner is Kiwi’s granddaughter, and Kiwi is her best customer, undoubtedly stepping straight past this warning sign.
If she can do it.
I can do it.
The weight of the velvet sinks into my hands as I step inside the dark room. It’s small, draped in deep red velvet, with dark, antique furniture tucked into every corner.
Flickering candlelight casts elongated shadows on the walls, and the scent of leather and rubber mixes with incense.
I step in deeper, my boots sinking into the plush black carpet.
The shelves are a labyrinth of adult toys: vibrators in every shape and size, leather cuffs, corsets tighter than my self-restraint, and objects I can’t even name. Things that buzz, and pulse, and inflict pain. Every wall is dripping in attitude.
I don’t touch anything.
Do I really want to do this?
Even if I collect all the items in the bucket list, who would I do them with?
Bronx Buckley?
I mean, I guess I could.
He’s proven himself to be a protective gentleman, and from his reputation, I know he wouldn’t expect anything in return. That’s ideally what I want, if I were to sleep with someone. Or have them tie me up, gag me, bring me over the edge on the top of a Ferris wheel.
But Bronx, he’s such a...Casanova.
A Casanova, I’m sure, is well-versed in things such as ropes, restraints, and gags.
Sweet Jesus, what the hell am I doing here?
Don’t drag him into it. He’ll be blushing like a nun in a lingerie shop.
My foot moves to leave, then the rush of Hart’s accusations hits me, how he thinks he decides when and who and what I do in my damn book.
Was he always so bossy?
I can do this.
I will do this.
I pick up a slim box with something pink and jeweled inside. “Playful pleasure. Perfectly Pink Butt Plug. Slides in easily, offering all-day comfort with subtle excitement.”
Nope. I’m not doing it.
I turn and slam straight into a man’s solid chest. It’s not a familiar chest. It doesn’t curl my toes, nor do all sorts of things to my middle. I just kind of bounce off it.
Then he speaks.
“You’re gonna want plenty of lube with that one.”
I jump away from Bronx so fast I nearly knock over a display.
“Shit.” My hands steady the penis-shaped stand packed with every flavored condom you can imagine.
Like cotton candy and bacon.
