Page 13 of Obey
Just because she’s new in the club doesn’t mean she doesn’t know who she is and what she’s about.Not everyone has to become part of your deviant world, Jagger. The barb from an old girlfriend settles under my skin like an intruder. I need to pull myself together.
Being in a confined space with a stranger is often my idea of a good time. But not this stranger. Especially when she looks at me like one second she’s afraid I’m going to growl at her, and the next she’s judging my jeans and tattoos.
“It’s more comfortable than it looks.”
When I turn back to the Mighty Mite, her eyes are open, and she’s staring straight at me, head tilted to one side. Her hands move back and forth on the armrests like she’s appraising the furniture before deciding to buy. I can’t help smiling.
“Why is that amusing to you?” Her brows crunch, and I’ll be damned if she isn’t the most adorable disgruntled person I’ve ever seen. “Well?” She’s barely given me a breath to answer, and her impatience is like a rag to a bull.
“Just is.”
Something flares in her eyes at my dismissal. She should be damn near swallowed up by the imposing stature of the throne, but something about how she’s holding herself makes her seem tall, royal, like she belongs there. It’s a contradiction I wasn’t expecting.
“You shouldn’t make fun of people.” She folds her arms.
“You shouldn’t assume what’s going on in someone else’s mind.”
She points at me. “If you don’t tell me when I ask, assumptions are all I’ve got.”
“Sounds like a you problem.” My half shrug makes a muscle in her cheek twitch. I kind of like it.
After a long, stretched out moment of glaring at me, her shoulders soften. “Dare I ask what happens on this chair?” Her eyes search mine for a moment before she glances down at the seat, wiggling her butt. “They clean it afterwards, right?” She cringes but doesn’t stand up. I kind of like that, too.
“They do. And what happens depends on who’s sitting on it and what they want.”
She purses her lips like she’s thinking about the kinds of things people want to do on the chair. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t have to silently convince my dick to stay soft. Last thing I need is for this woman to believe I’m a predator and have her feeling unsafe and try to brave the elements outside to escape from me.
I can see the headlines now,“Local woman flees sexual predator at seedy sex club.”It’s almost laughable. Nothing about Protocol is seedy, it’s one of the best clubs I’ve ever been to. And considering I travel the length and width of the country for conventions, that’s saying a lot.
“Like what?”
I’m a good six feet away from her, not wanting to crowd or intimidate her. But the urge to hit the handle to tip her back is strong. A demonstration is often far more effective than an explanation.
I don’t move, though, jerking my chin at the legs of the chair and the leather restraints dangling from the arms. “Some people like to be tied to it.” I point to the lever at the side. “This particular chair reclines.”
Gesturing at the shelf of crowns sitting over the top of a second shelf of toys and a coat rack full of paddles and crops, I swallow down my smirk. “Some people want to feel strong, regal, they wear crowns, hold scepters, play with their partner, or are played with.”
Something flickers in her eyes as she processes my words. “You mean submissives?”
Huh. I wasn’t expecting that, but I’m also not going to shut her down. “I do, yes. Some dommes and dominants bring their subs in here to play with. There’s something about the throne that brings an air of power, status.”
She wiggles again on the seat. Is it from being aroused, or from discomfort? How does someone like her know about doms and subs? Have I misjudged her? Perhaps she’s not the vanilla, Goody Two-Shoes I thought she was.
“Can you show me?”
Blood rushes to my dick at the invitation, but I hold back. There’s no way this tiny woman is ready for me toshow her. That much I know, regardless of who she is or what she’s into.
“I’m going to need you to be more specific about that request, Half-Pint.”
She goes quiet, casting her eyes down to the straps dangling from the chair. It’s like she has no sense of self-preservation. What if I was a psychopath?
She swallows hard. “I’d like to know what it feels like to be tied to the chair, and reclined.” She holds out her hand like she expects me to pounce, but I keep my distance. “Maybe only arms, or legs.”
The implication she could still punch or kick me with half of her limbs untied hangs heavily in the air. She has no reason to believe me, or trust me and my motives, but I try to reassure her all the same.
“My name is Jagger Coleman.”
She blinks, flinching.