Page 45 of What About Love

“But it’s his pattern and I fit the mold. I’m tall, curvy, thirty, and unattached. Holy crap!”

She bit her bottom lip and tugged on her earlobe. The first was a clear sign of anxiety; the second was new. He didn’t like seeing either.

“That means I’d have to give a stranger a blow job.”

“No!” His tone was resolute as the vision of her lovely mouth opening for some other dom’s cock slammed into him, rocking his world. Hell no! “Eric and I will come up with another plan.”

His voice sounded rough, and he felt the same way. Needing to get out of there and cool off, he wrapped his fingers around her upper arm as he flipped a switch and engaged the platform, keeping her safe and steady as it lowered.

The crew rushed in to dismantle the large apparatus as soon as T led her off the stage, which was barely a fraction of a second after it settled back into the floor.

“Who thinks up such things?” she murmured, only half to herself.

“Deviant minds. You gotta remember we’re not in Kansas anymore, Dorothy.” He tugged her along beside him and through the doors. Once in the bar, he didn’t mince his words. “I need a fucking drink.”

***

AS DISTURBED BY THEIRride on the empty carousel as she was, T ordered a bourbon. He’d already tossed it back by the time she boosted herself onto the stool next to him.

“T, my man,” a gravelly voice boomed from the other end of the long bar. “It’s been a long time.”

The hulking, barrel-chested bartender meandered over. He had a thick head of wavy auburn hair that looked mussed from sleep, as if he’d awoken, finger combed it—or someone else had—and that was it. He reminded her of a lumberjack, if a lumberjack wore leather.

“I see you brought a little treat with you this evening,” he said, eyeing Angie like she was a pastry behind the glass case at Megan’s bakery counter. “Up for some company tonight? I’m off at ten and Tara and Julie are coming in. It would be like old times.”

There were so many scary things about what the bartender said, she didn’t know what to freak out about first.

“Fuck my life,” was muttered softly beside her, then T said more loudly, “She’s only a friend, Samson. Not mine to share.”

Angie blinked, feeling like he’d smacked her in the head with a two by four. Then she recalled their ever-changing cover. She was supposed to be unattached and couldn’t latch on to T. Crap.

She eyed the big man who was pouring T another Kentucky bourbon, clearly such a regular that he didn’t have to ask what he wanted. When it was her turn to order, he planted both hands on the bar and stared at her with keen interest. “What can I get for you, pretty little newbie?”

“Tequila shooter, please. Patron, if you’ve got it.”

Brilliant white teeth appeared as he grinned. “Ah, a serious drinker. Thank fuck. I’m tired of making frou-frou subbie drinks. They make blenders for milkshakes, not booze.” Twisting, he reached up on the top shelf behind him and grabbed a familiar silver bottle. Expertly, he ringed the rim of a shot glass with salt and poured generously, adding a wedge of lime.

“So, Patron girl, since T ain’t your man, you up for some fun with old Samson tonight?”

She opened her mouth as she tried to come up with some kind of believable untruth about why that was not happening, but a hand curling around her shoulder stopped her. Craning her head around, she saw Eric standing tall behind her.

“This little sub will be with me tonight, Sam. You’ll have to find other prey.”

When she turned back, Samson was searching the room. Having a full view of both the bar and the lounge from his vantage point, he was clearly looking for someone. “What about Val?”

“Angie is under my protection, not what you think.”

“Hell,” he grumbled, his shoulders slumping. “For a minute there, I thought you had finally taken my advice and were embarking on a threesome.”

Although taller and heavier than Eric, coming close to matching T for size and bulk, Sam took an abrupt step back. If Angie hadn’t been watching in the mirror, she would have wondered at his reaction. But as glares went, the Master Dom’s was lethal and the one he sent the burly barkeep just now could have surely melted steel.

“Cut the crap,” he stated unyieldingly. “That’s how rumors get started.”

“Sorry, bossman,” the big bartender rumbled. “Bad joke.”

T snickered into his bourbon—his second, which she was glad to see he was sipping. “Don’t give up tending bar, man, because your material needs serious work.”

Eric ignored that, and when he spoke again, the fire had gone out of his words. “Val and I will round up some prospective doms for Angie to try on for size.”

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