Well then …
Wonderful.
No strings.
Fun and done.
Anything beyond that.
No go.
Still, she wished she wasn’t so excited. She wished the hunger she used to so enjoy hadn’t set upon her. But there it was gnawing pleasantly at her insides in anticipation of goodness to come, starting the instant she walked out of Aryas’s office with that NDA folded and tucked in her purse.
She wished she could take it or leave it.
It stunk that she couldn’t.
But the fact was, she couldn’t.
And now she was where she was.
So onward.
She drove into the Honey, seeing the parking lot empty except for Aryas’s black Cayenne and a black GMC SUV, feeling that hunger grow.
Right.
Fine.
Fun and done.
All good.
She grabbed the handles of her small bag before she opened the door and threw her leg out.
As instructed (by Aryas), she parked close to and approached the back door to the club.
As expected, it was open.
She moved through the halls, keeping centered and focused so as not to have any kind of freakout that the last time she was there, she’d been carried out by Aryas, beaten to hell and not giving a damn.
Because she might have been beaten to hell.
But the worst of it was, her heart had been broken.
She walked directly to Aryas’s playroom, known as the red room since it was decorated in reds, and the opaque shades that could be drawn down over the wall of windows to black out what was inside were the only shades in any of the rooms that weren’t black, they were red.
As she approached, she saw the red shades were drawn down.
She kept her gait steady.
It had been a year and the last scene she’d had was a bad one. She’d been assaulted at the same time she’d had a relationship end very, very badly with a man she’d thought she’d loved and was considering spending the rest of her life with.
That happened.
A year ago.
This was now.
It was just a look-over anyway. It might be she wouldn’t like what she saw. Or he wouldn’t. And then giving any headspace to worrying what came after that was just a waste.
She was a Domme.
She’d trained under Mistress Sixx and Mistress Amélie, the two finest Dommes Evangeline had ever had the honor to see at play.
And before Kevin, even if she’d only been in her late twenties, she was one of the most sought-after Dommes at the Honey.
Now she was just thirty years old and she made good money. She took care of herself. She was successful. Educated. She wasn’t hard to look at. She had her own style in looks, clothes (and play) that she was honing to perfection.
She could do this.
She totally could do this.
She opened the door, stepped in and saw him.
Oh my.
She was so totally going to do this.
She closed the door behind her, dropped her bag and stood right where she was.
Aryas’s red room, known as his because this was mostly where he took his slaves, looked more like an opulent boudoir. Plush. Sumptuous. Heavy, carved furniture. Big, posted bed dressed in red and topped at headboard and ceiling with mirrors. Candelabrums everywhere.
No candles had been lit right then. The scene was not set, only red-shaded table lamps here and there were illuminating the space.
It still gave it a feel.
And that feel was good.
But more, the man before her was amazing.
Tall, not insanely so, still, she could be wearing six-inch platforms and she’d be able to force him to bend to her.
Black hair, a thick shock of it. It was groomed, but still somewhat long. It was clear he did not pay for expensive haircuts and he got them only when such a menial chore eventually caught his attention. Something that should have happened perhaps a month ago but didn’t so it was brushing the collar of his untucked, long-sleeved, burgundy shirt.
And that shirt was a cargo shirt, sturdy, hard-wearing, this to go with his khaki cargo pants with all their pockets.
Boots on his feet.
Skin tanned.
The long body underneath was obviously lean and fit. Covered completely with loose-fitting clothing, she still sensed the power he packed and knew he likely kept it cut, but not because he liked to maintain a pleasing physique. Because it was part of whatever made him make her sign that ironclad NDA.
She especially liked his broad shoulders.
And his beefy thighs.
Not to mention hands she wanted to order him right then to use to do a variety of exceptionally delicious things.
But his face.
As unimaginative as the word was, it still worked: chiseled. His features were chiseled to the point they were downright harsh.
He’d lived. He’d seen a lot in his life. Things she didn’t want to know, which was good, because they weren’t hers to have.
Lord, but Evangeline could look at that face for hours, watch it flush with need, that strong, dark-stubbled jaw turn hard at the effort it took not to come or to bite back the pain, the utter blank he was treating her to right then as he stared back at her growing intense through an orgasm and then lax through the aftershocks.
However, the bottom line was the eyes.
Those eyes were what it was all about for her.
Everything.
What she needed through blood and bones and soul right down to her pussy.
Surrounded by long, curling lashes, they were a glacial blue that took aloof to the highest of heights.
He wasn’t remote.
He wasn’t icy.
He was marble.
Aryas was right.
This man was unbreakable.
She might be able to give him an orgasm, but that was simply biology. Enough stimulation, it was going to happen.
She’d never break behind those eyes.
She’d never get inside.
And Evangeline felt the wet gather between her legs at the hunger now clawing inside her just to get one … single … shot at attempting to do just that.
Breaking this magnificent specimen of a man.
“Undress,” she demanded.
It was risky, making the demand. No cue from her, and definitely not him, had been given that they were moving on.
But he needed a firm hand.
She knew it to her soul.
And Evangeline had one.
She’d been taught by the best.
Still, she had to hide the fact that she was holding her breath the five seconds (she counted) it took him to lift his hands to the buttons of his shirt even as he shifted his feet to flip off his boots.
Relief and want both sluiced through her, drenching her panties, making her nipples tighten.
Heck, she actually felt her palms start to itch.
Even so, in acquiescing to her command, he gave her nothing. Not a flash of desire. Not a hint of humor. Not a nuance of need.
Nothing.
His expression didn’t change at all.
But within minutes, it happened.
He was standing naked before her and she’d been right. He was cut. Sinewy, solid muscle that was in no way bulky, but also it was not in question the power behind it.
And his cock.
God, his cock.
A good length, but a fabulous thickness, formed so well, it was only semi-hard in that moment, but it was a thing of beauty.
And the high, tight ball sac behind it?
Sublime.
However, she’d had training and practice. The naked human form in its many varieties she’d seen hundreds of times and she’d come into intimate contact with a number of them.
So she knew what she was seeing.
And what she saw didn’t come from the life. Subs could go to great lengths to get what they needed. Marking was not unusual, even commonplace in the temporary reddening of a paddle or striping of a whip, strap, switch or other.
But it could go deeper.
Fire. Branding. Tattooing. Cutting.
Blood play happened even at the Honey (and incidentally, Damian was a master at that too).
But Evangeline knew, without saying a single word, the man called Branch was now sharing with her the things she didn’t want to know about the life he’d led.
Two scars, both nasty and looking like they hadn’t healed quite right, both at his left shoulder, about three inches apart. She had no idea what they were but if she had to guess, she felt she’d win a bet for accuracy they were bullet wounds.
A scar slashing across his abdominals from right to left, long and nasty, clearly stitched together in a way that, if the doctor who did it was an actual doctor, and a Western one, this man called Branch should be living in a mansion due to winning the malpractice suit.