Page 108 of Naughty Dreams
“The BDSM version of the weighted blanket.”
“Yes.” Her pleased expression told him he’d passed the BDSM 101 test.
Understanding wasn’t experience, but fantasies and the Internet filled in a lot of blanks.
Plus having a sexual Dominant as a bodyguard.
She pointed to several glossy boxes beneath the display. “The largest one holds the full kit. The one on top is the basic system. It’s more affordable, but still top end quality and made to last.”
More affordable. She definitely didn’t know who he was. While they’d been standing here, he’d earned five figures.
His worn jeans, old boots and faded T-shirt didn’t scream discretionary spending. His jewelry was Gilda’s bracelet and a trio of cranberry-colored lava bead bracelets on one wrist, plus his ichthys. Roy’s button-down shirt, the one he’d let DJ have after the shooting, was open over the T-shirt.
But as he looked at the items, he was at a loss for what to say. When he started to step back, she put a hand on his arm.
“I apologize. I usually know when to give a customer time to breathe, not be the intrusive shopkeeper. My timing is off.”
“No,” he told her honestly. “You just took it from fantasy to reality, and that’s a whole mess of variables we haven’t…I haven’t…dealt with. It’s like buying someone a Christmas gift before you’re sure that’s what he really wants.”
Those shrewd eyes sharpened. “Yes. As a sub, buying a gift for a Dom without his guidance feels presumptuous. Like you’re trying to top from the bottom.”
His tension eased some. “You nailed it. I didn’t know how to describe why it felt wrong. You know your shit. Your stuff, sorry.”
Her fair cheeks turned pink, and she laughed at herself. “I also respond to praise. You have enough alpha to you that the sub in me auto-reacts.”
“I’m getting a crush on you, even though I’m a sub, too.”One who responds to praise as well, according to my bodyguard. And Master.
She nudged him with her hip and shifted back to smooth practicality. “Do you want me to show you anything in particular, or would you like to browse unmolested?”
“I like how you explain things, and where my head goes when you do. Do you happen to have a notepad I can borrow or buy?” The envelope crackling in his pocket wasn’t going to be enough for the notes he’d probably make.
Madison snagged a lined notepad from a stack of them on the checkout counter. The header saidMy Wishlist, Sir. Or Ma’am.Next to the words was a picture of a kneeling, naked male, tied with strategically placed rope.
“That works.” It would also give Moss a needed laugh if DJ sent him a snapshot of the list.
That was a shock, too, the thought that he should send Moss evidence he was working on something. While Moss hadn’t been totally on board about the concept DJ was in this store to research, at this point he’d likely be fine with DJ prancing around in a Gumby costume singing Sesame Street songs, if it got DJ back into a studio or on stage.
Over the next twenty minutes, Madison showed DJ what her store had to offer. She didn’t linger long on what didn’t interesthim, and answered his questions about the things that did with insights that displayed her understanding of what her wares could inspire and motivate.
They weren’t interrupted. It was early in the day for erotic shopping; in a big city, most places like this opened at noon. She’d opened at ten and was in a small town. But maybe Roy was keeping out a world that universally recognized DJ.
When they returned to her checkout counter, DJ saw pricy collars, nipple jewelry, and glittering cock rings under the glass. He imagined wearing one on stage, under his clothes. Roy would put it on him, just before the show started.
He backed away from the thoughts for now, because he’d reached his threshold. Anything that felt too good to think about also hurt. He provided the card with the name and address of Moss’s agency for the items he’d picked out. She’d said she could ship them.
The show must go on.
Who the fuck says?
But life goes on
Whether we ask it to or not.
Madison’s fingertips brushed his hand, drawing his attention to his fist resting on the counter, his knuckles white. She gave him a serious look.
“Success is a gift, Mr. James. But it’s isolating, when you’re dealing with something difficult. Everyone thinks, what doeshehave to complain about. Right?”
“I felt like I was getting away with something,” he said slowly. “That you didn’t recognize me.”
