Chapter Nine
Macey
I’m standing in the bathroom, arranging my toiletries on the little shelf above the sink, when my phone rings for the third time.
“Uh. Fine, I’m coming,” I say to no one in particular, stomping across my new apartment to hunt for my cell phone. I find it underneath a pizza box that has sustained me for the last two days. I’m tired and irritable, considering all I’ve done over the past forty-eight hours is unpack boxes¸ scrub floors, wash windows, and stew over the memory of my awkward session with Reece.
When I strutted into his club on New Year’s Eve looking for a good time, I never envisioned what could have happened. The Reece I remembered was a diligent, kind, and thoughtful lover. Not the kind of man to just walk away when it was over, leaving me to unbuckle the ankle restraints he placed me in, feeling confused and alone.
My phone displays a number I don’t recognize.
“This better be important,” I say.
“It is.”
Reece’s deep growl of a voice slams through me, and I have to brace myself with one hand against the counter. “Reece? Where are you calling from?”
“My office phone. You didn’t answer when I called from my cell phone.”
“I’m just in the middle of something. What’s going on?”
“I’m calling about our next lesson.”
He sounds so formal, as if we’re scheduling a dentist appointment together or something. I want to give him a piece of my mind, and I will. But now isn’t the time. I want to be face-to-face with him when I demand an explanation for the way he acted. He owes me that much.
“Okay. What about it?” My cool, detached tone matches his. Two can play at this game.
“Tomorrow. Eight o’clock. We’ll meet in the lounge for a drink first.”
“Fine. See you then.”
I hang up, determined to show him once and for all that I might be submitting, but I’m no pushover. Deciding that I’m done with the unpacking and organizing, I text Brielle.
Hey . . . How about that margarita?
Thirty minutes later, we’re sitting at a little place called the Lettuce Leaf, munching on organic chips and salsa, and sipping peach margaritas.
“I’m glad you texted,” she says, taking another long sip of her icy drink. “Aren’t these heaven?”
“They’re delicious. I think I’m almost ready for another.” I’m drinking embarrassingly fast, but dude, these are amazing. Like orgasms in a cup.
She watches me like she’s looking for clues. “Is something bothering you? You know, other than being cooped up in your new place?”
I shake my head. I don’t know how much to tell her about Reece and me, though she did seem pretty intuitive the last time. Maybe it’s the generous pour of tequila in my drink, but I’m looking across the table at Brielle, with her bright, inquisitive eyes and easygoing dressed-down style that includes a messy ponytail, and decide why the hell not open up to her?
“Reece and I had a session a couple of days ago.”
Her brows rise up on her forehead. “A session?”
“Don’t act so innocent. I know my brother’s a member at Crave, so surely that must mean you’ve been well acquainted with the kink that goes on there.”
She blushes and looks off in the distance. “I always wondered what Reece was into . . .”
“He was intense, unyielding, and when it was over, boy was it over. He just left me in his private playroom and told me to get cleaned up.”
Brielle frowns. “What about aftercare?”
“After what?”
She shakes her head. “Maybe that’s just a Hale thing. Never mind. Continue.”
“I just wanted to have a little fun, you know, blow off some steam, but now I’m questioning if I want to do that again. Sure, it was exciting. My heart was pounding a million miles an hour not knowing what was going to happen in that room, under his skillful hands, I just didn’t expect to feel so . . . unsatisfied at the end.”
Brielle chews on the end of her straw, looking thoughtful. “That’s strange that he was so abrupt about it. You know, Hale says that Reece has never settled down, has never taken on a submissive, almost like he’d had his heart broken and swore off anything serious. Which doesn’t make sense to Hale, because he says Reece never had anything serious enough to end badly. Although he did take his parents’ divorce pretty rough.”
Well, isn’t she just a font of information. It’s interesting about Reece’s supposed lockdown of his heart. I get the sense he’s closed off too. But why? It couldn’t have been my relationship with him. He’s the one who ended things. He could have had me any way he wanted me—geez, I delivered myself on a silver platter, but no dice. Besides, that was a lifetime ago. I’m sure he moved on. Many times.
“I’m not sure,” I say, taking another long sip of my drink while I gesture to the bartender for another. Fuck it; I’ll be taking a cab home anyway.
Brielle clears her throat, her expression thoughtful. “Reece turned to BDSM several years ago, and then opened his club a few years later. I don’t know much of his past beyond what Hale’s mentioned. Sorry I don’t have any juicy gossip. I suck at girl talk.”
I smile at her. “Well, I know something juicy.”
“What’s that?”
The bartender sets down two fresh peach margaritas, and I trade my empty glass for a full one. “He’s hung like a damn horse.”
Brielle chokes on her drink and coughs. “Seriously?”
I nod, a grin twitching on my mouth. “Seriously. That is one gargantuan slab of male virility. It’s like a huge fucking cock.”
“Oh my God.” Brielle is chuckling behind her hand. “He’s what . . . . six foot six?”
“Six four,” I correct. But yeah, he’s a giant. Built, muscular, handsome. And sweet, yet with a dark and troubled side I want to figure out. “And trust me, his cock is proportionate. It’s intimating. I mean, what do I do with that?” Remembering back to the way I made him come so quickly with my mouth, a twinge of pride ripples through me.
“Good luck with that,” she says, still flushed and grinning at me.
• • •
With my shoulders back and my breasts thrust forward, I walk like I’m strutting down the runway at a major fashion show. Confidence exudes from every part of me, and I feel powerful and alive. Now that I know what to expect, I enter the club with more self-assuredness than before. My heels click across the floor as I head straight for the bar.
Spotting Reece at the bar with a Scotch in his hand, I can’t help but remember the lesson he gave me on how to enjoy his favorite drink. He looks handsome but troubled with his broad shoulders pulled forward as he leans over the bar.
I stop beside him and lift myself onto the bar stool.
“What are you craving, sweetheart?” the bartender asks, stopping in front of me.
“One of those, please,” I say, glancing at Reece’s glass of Scotch.
Reece nods in approval as the bartender strolls away and grabs a bottle of Macallan, an expensive aged Scotch.
“Clever line. Is that your doing?” I ask, nodding after the bartender.
“The line? No, I paid a publicity company twenty thousand dollars to come up with that.”
When it’s placed before me, I take a small sip of the drink, letting the burn fade on my tongue before I swallow just like Reece showed me. We sip our drinks quietly, a strange energy burning between us. It’s sexually charged, but there’s something else too—something I don’t quite understand yet, but want to.
“What did you do today?” he asks.
“Nothing much. Ran errands, then I got a manicure.” I wasn’t thrilled about the expense since I’m not working yet, but unpacking chipped my nails all to hell.
He lifts my hand to inspect my nails. “Still black,” he says grimly, as if the dark color is a reflection on my mood.