Page 50 of What About Love

Angie hadn’t used a safeword and wasn’t in need of rescuing, so he followed at a discreet distance, watching the crowd for someone who might have more than a passing interest.

Unlike a traditional prayer bench or sawhorse, this one looked like an inverted T. The padded crossbar cushioned the knees, while the long one, which supported the head and chest angled downward. It presented a naughty submissive’s ass at the perfect height for punishment.

In no time, Atkins had her restrained at the wrists and knees, and, as T knew she would be, Angie was a sight to behold. Particularly, since she continued to play her part, wriggling and squirming as she declared loudly that he was abig meanieand being unfair.

Wishing he could trade places with her dom, he watched through gritted teeth as the other man effectively ended her fidgeting with an additional strap at her waist. That quickly, she was fully immobilized. She could toss her thick mane of hair, which she did, and patter kick her feet, but that was all, and neither would affect her punishment.

T followed George’s hand as it stroked down her back and over her bottom. Then, with a flip of one hand, her skirt wasn’t a barrier any longer.

“You’re new to our little club, my dear. You’ll have to learn to control that sharp tongue, or plan to spend the better part of your evenings in this position.” He patted one smooth, flawless cheek. “But I’m thinking maybe that’s what you want, mm? In any regard, you picked the wrong dom if you think I’ll countenance such abysmal behavior.”

The pat turned into a caress, but only briefly before he moved away to rummage through his master’s bag. He pulled out a 16-inch leather slapper. It had a wooden handle which made it like a paddle, and wielding it much easier, but Angie’s ass would feel the sting like it was a belt or a strap.

His fellow dom wasn’t messing around, which he admired, but it didn’t make him want to coldcock the man and whisk her away from him any less. Neither reactions would be good for the case and the four missing women.

On edge, with a mix of emotions roiling in his gut, he stepped back, taking up position at the back of the crowd that looked on. Distance, he hoped, would help him maintain his control. He steeled himself to observe quietly while acting only mildly interested.

When Atkins laid down the first crisp swat across both her cheeks, Angie yelped. The next few brought more of the same. By the time the count was ten, he had her begging him to stop. On the fifteenth, she was crying, apologizing for some insult she had given. When the twentieth arrived, T had enough and was ready to intervene, but a hand clamped on his shoulder, holding him back.

“Stand down, Minelli.” It was Eric.

“Let me go. She’s done.”

“You taught her the club safewords?”

“Of course,” he bit out.

“You’ve practiced that in her training?”

“Yes, what little she’s had.”

“Let it play out, then.”

“We talked with her about negotiating the scene in advance, Master T,” Val added from her place by Eric’s side. “I think that’s what she’s done. Think about it. If you were her dom and she threw such a tantrum, would you have left her panties in place? Yet hers haven’t budged a fraction of an inch. And all that carrying on; she doesn’t seem like the noisy crying type to me.”

Intuitive as always, Val made him see the scene from a different perspective. Angie wasn’t a drama queen, he’d never seen her pout, and he doubted if she’d ever been a brat. He forced out a deep breath.

“All right, but get me a DM badge for tomorrow night, so if I can’t stand it and have to break in, I won’t be as apt to blow her cover.”

“Excellent idea,” Eric agreed. T felt his eyes on him. “You’ve got it bad, don’t you, my friend?”

“We’re partners, nothing more.” If his growled denial didn’t convince himself, he knew for damn sure it wouldn’t fool Eric or Val.

He shook his head sadly. “Keep telling yourself that and maybe you’ll believe it.”

He and Val moved, Eric’s softly uttered, “poor bastard,” drifting back to him, but he dismissed them both, seeing George assisted a sniffling and contrite Angie from the bench. The scene was over and the risk of T charging in like a jealous lover had passed.

He’d endured harsh conditions on countless missions for nearly a decade in Afghanistan—extremes of heat and cold, bullets fired at his head, IEDs going off when he least expected it—and lived to tell about it. But this one, protecting an asset in a posh climate-controlled club with top-notch security in the middle of LA, was going to be the death of him.

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