Page 11 of Obey
Though the idea of those kinds ofthingscoming to life off the pages makes my soul burn. The books I read weren’t born from ignorance. I mean, Iwasclueless for the longest while. All it took was a bestie with a penchant for Mafia romance novels, curiosity, and an eReader, and I got lost down the rabbit hole.
A piece of my brain knew people did a lot of the things in my books in real life, but I guess I’d never really put the two together until now, when I’m standing in front of a kinky man who looks like he might want to eat me. Whole.
Dad has told me many times I never know when to back down, and it seems this grumpy, deviant butt-face brings out the worst in me. Planting my hands on my hips, I flare my nostrils. “I’m aware. Though for a place of this size I’d have expected...” I give him a one-shouldered shrug. “More.”
His brow twitches, but the eye roll suggests he doesn’t believe me. I don’t blame him, I don’t belong in a place like this. I stick out like a sore thumb. I’m an anomaly. Nothing about this space makes me comfortable. Not the colors, the furniture, not the fact we’re here alone—and I bet I’d feel even worse if there were more people here.
It’s one thing reading it between the covers of a book on my eReader where I can dip my toes into the dirty underbelly of sexythings without jumping in with both feet. But standing in a real-life club like this reaffirms this space is absolutely not my jam.
“Sure. I bet you go to places like this all the time.” He pauses, rolling his lips between his teeth like he might laugh, but schools his face just in time. He doesn’t crack a smile. “For research.” There’s a challenge in his voice.
I’m being baited again, toyed with, teased, and while part of me wants to shrink away from the conversation, another, much smaller and unhinged piece of me wants to whip off my shirt, or go lie on one of the benches to show him I know exactly what to do with the equipment I’m surrounded by.
Except I don’t. I’d most definitely do it wrong.
And if I were to take my shirt off he’d get a Birdseye view of my plain, white cotton bra. Guys like him don’t do plain Jane underwear. It’s not wild enough, or lacy enough, or adventurous enough, or full enough for that matter.
A shiver rolls through my bones, it has little to do with the cooler temperature down here and all to do with the way his stare bores through my clothing. This man is dangerous. Not in the I-gave-a-psychopath-a-ride kind of way, but from the heat blazing in his eyes, the tattoos curling up his neck and peeking out from the cuffs of his sleeves, and the way he carries himself as he walks and speaks, this man screams danger.
Which would be fine if I could hear my parent’s warnings in my head right now. All I can hear is a voice whispering to move toward the fire, to reach out and touch the glow, despite knowing I’d undoubtedly get scorched.
His pull is strong, like planets caught in the sun’s orbit. But unlike earth as she circles the sun, I’m not sure I can hold my line and stay at a safe distance.
I need to get back outside into the snow. That’ll send the arctic chill to my core and put out the fire raging in my loins, right? It’ll wake me up from this caught-in-a-snowstorm-with-a-beautiful-stranger moment, and remind me of the danger being in a sex dungeon with someone I don’t know could bring.
I’m a smart woman. I have a business degree—no intention of using the darn thing mind you. My ex is setting up the practice we talked about Mr—and—Mrs—ing once we graduated. But my heart’s not in it now that I know he’s not prone to using his superpowers for good.
Part of me also knows I’m drawn to the grumpy stranger because he’s the exact opposite of everything Harry is. Or rather, what I thought he was. Tall, dark, bad boy vibes ooze from him as he regards me. Is he assessing me? Do I get points for different things? Where do I fall on his scale?
Tiny, munchkin sized woman.
Perfectly average in every aspect.
Green around the gills with zero experience.
My face heats. Why am I even thinking about him thinking about me? He’s probably staring at me wondering how his favorite sports team will do over the weekend. Who knows?
He hooks a thumb over his shoulder. “Are you going to be okay here for a sec while I go turn the heat on?” He shivers. “It’s chilly.”
Nodding slowly, I take in my surroundings all over again. “Sure. Go ahead.” I wave him off like it’s no big deal. Like the wrought iron fixtures, dark velvet drapes, low lighting and plush leather sofas people have done who knows what on don’t intimidate me.
There’s not a single surface in this place I want to sit down on. Even though he says he cleans up after himself. As I trip over my feet, catching myself on an unlit standalone sconce, my mind wanders. What has he done down here? And with whom?
Is he one of the dominants I read about? Or would he surprise me and be a submissive?
A laugh catches at the back of my throat. His presence is too imposing, too intense, too bossy and protective for him to be submissive, right?
I can’t come right out and ask him, but the question burns my tongue. The urge to investigate is too strong to ignore. I need to look around, and since no one’s here to stop me, I do. The corridor I’ve chosen has rooms branching off on each side, they’ve got numbers on the doors, and despite knowing no one’s inside, I still knock.
My giggle echoes around the hall as I twist the handle and push the door. As soon as I take a step into the room, my lungs expel every ounce of breath in a microsecond. I feel like I’m in an old castle. There’s a commanding, ornate, dark wood with gold accent throne sitting in the room on the far side of a giant window. The floor is bare wood, dark, with a plush cream rug sitting underneath the throne.
On a plush blue velvet cushion lies an equally lavish crown. There’s no way it can be authentic, but it also doesn’t look fake. It looks like if it rested on my head I’d feel it’s presence in all of my muscles.
Money drips from every piece of the space. Even the walls and the various toys and implements hanging from hooks scream opulence. This isn’t a seedy establishment. I might not know much about much, but I know that. The mix of textures, the furry rug, the smooth satin, the intricate golden work on the chair makes me want to enter the room and trail my fingers over all of it, just to see how it all feels on my skin.
The window suggests whatever happens on the throne is destined to be viewed by whoever stands over there. I’m guessing it’s some kind of voyeur room. I’m not sure if the idea horrifies me, or intrigues.
The walls look like castle walls, giant concrete blocks exposed, but perhaps if I were to touch over them I’d discoverit was extravagant wallpaper. It couldn’t possibly be real brick, could it?