acknowledgement before heading toward the bar.
He looked delicious. He looked debauched. He was wearing jeans, not designer, faded from actual wear, rather than some stylist's vision. His shirt was linen, pale gray worn wrinkled and open over his bare chest. Faint, red stripes decorated his chest and ribs, artfully placed and beautifully framed by his open shirt.
He sat next to her without waiting for an invitation, and she had to throttle down the urge to scold him. Harshly. His voice, when he ordered vodka, was rough, a little strained, and his accent was more evident than usual.
He smelled fresh, minty, and she knew his Mistress had bathed him, or allowed him to bathe himself, when their session had ended. His wide lips were redder than usual, faintly swollen, and dammit, there was a bite-mark on his collarbone. Not a hickey. No, actual inflamed teeth marks.
Megan glanced toward the bartender, busy at the other end of the bar, and wished he'd hurry up with her drink so she could just leave.
*
What the hell was she doing here?
Megan was not supposed to be at the club. Gregori had verified that tonight was Kendra and Sinclair's wedding rehearsal and, as one of the bridesmaids, Megan should be safely tucked away with her friends.
Instead, she was sitting at the bar next to him, saying nothing, drinking her wine, and somehow managing to heap enough guilt on his head to crush him.
It was stupid, really. She had no claim on him, had clearly shown she didn't want a claim on him, yet Gregori found himself planning his visits to the club around her schedule. He knew she wouldn't play with him—not that playing was what he wanted to do with her—but he couldn't bring himself to be with anyone else in her presence.
She seemed agitated tonight, not her usual cool and confident self. She fiddled with her wine and gazed pensively around the room, not settling her attention on anyone or anything for more than a moment.
She didn't speak when he sat down, didn't even look at him directly, but he felt her attention like a physical touch. He sipped his vodka and let the silence spin out until it became painful, until the tension between them was almost visible.
Finally, she idly murmured, "You're wasted on her."
Gregori's eyebrow rose in surprise. She'd carefully avoided this sort of personal comment for the last two years. He certainly hadn't expected her to change the dynamic between them now. Reining in his curiosity—and hope—he kept his tone bland when he replied.
"Do you think so?"
She shot a pointed glance at his erection, which had risen once again to painful proportions at the sight of her. "Clearly."
"Oh," he demurred, "Mistress S took care of that well enough. It isn't her fault he wants something more."
Finally she looked at him directly. "Like I said, sugar, you're wasted on a Mistress who can't give you everything you need."
Gregori met her eyes, an act that felt unacceptably bold for a submissive, and all the more titillating for it. He wanted to drown in the pools of her Caribbean blue eyes, to get lost and lose his breath and breathe only her. That, he knew, was the difference between simply playing and having a true Mistress. A true Mistress wasn't as necessary to her sub as breath; she was his breath. "Perhaps you could do better?"
"Oh, Gregori, sugar, I'm not the Mistress for you." He loved the way she said his name; not with its Russian pronunciation of Greg- or -ee, but not with the more American Gregory, either. No, that luscious southern accent made it a fusion, as unique as Megan herself. What he didn't love was the look in those bottomless blue eyes, as if longing, regret and denial had so intermixed they couldn't be separated ever again.
"I disagree," he argued, filled with a strange desperation. What was it about this woman that compelled him so? Yes, she was beautiful, witty and smart. But there were other women who frequented the club who fit that description. Hell, Mistress S, whom he'd
He looked delicious. He looked debauched. He was wearing jeans, not designer, faded from actual wear, rather than some stylist's vision. His shirt was linen, pale gray worn wrinkled and open over his bare chest. Faint, red stripes decorated his chest and ribs, artfully placed and beautifully framed by his open shirt.
He sat next to her without waiting for an invitation, and she had to throttle down the urge to scold him. Harshly. His voice, when he ordered vodka, was rough, a little strained, and his accent was more evident than usual.
He smelled fresh, minty, and she knew his Mistress had bathed him, or allowed him to bathe himself, when their session had ended. His wide lips were redder than usual, faintly swollen, and dammit, there was a bite-mark on his collarbone. Not a hickey. No, actual inflamed teeth marks.
Megan glanced toward the bartender, busy at the other end of the bar, and wished he'd hurry up with her drink so she could just leave.
*
What the hell was she doing here?
Megan was not supposed to be at the club. Gregori had verified that tonight was Kendra and Sinclair's wedding rehearsal and, as one of the bridesmaids, Megan should be safely tucked away with her friends.
Instead, she was sitting at the bar next to him, saying nothing, drinking her wine, and somehow managing to heap enough guilt on his head to crush him.
It was stupid, really. She had no claim on him, had clearly shown she didn't want a claim on him, yet Gregori found himself planning his visits to the club around her schedule. He knew she wouldn't play with him—not that playing was what he wanted to do with her—but he couldn't bring himself to be with anyone else in her presence.
She seemed agitated tonight, not her usual cool and confident self. She fiddled with her wine and gazed pensively around the room, not settling her attention on anyone or anything for more than a moment.
She didn't speak when he sat down, didn't even look at him directly, but he felt her attention like a physical touch. He sipped his vodka and let the silence spin out until it became painful, until the tension between them was almost visible.
Finally, she idly murmured, "You're wasted on her."
Gregori's eyebrow rose in surprise. She'd carefully avoided this sort of personal comment for the last two years. He certainly hadn't expected her to change the dynamic between them now. Reining in his curiosity—and hope—he kept his tone bland when he replied.
"Do you think so?"
She shot a pointed glance at his erection, which had risen once again to painful proportions at the sight of her. "Clearly."
"Oh," he demurred, "Mistress S took care of that well enough. It isn't her fault he wants something more."
Finally she looked at him directly. "Like I said, sugar, you're wasted on a Mistress who can't give you everything you need."
Gregori met her eyes, an act that felt unacceptably bold for a submissive, and all the more titillating for it. He wanted to drown in the pools of her Caribbean blue eyes, to get lost and lose his breath and breathe only her. That, he knew, was the difference between simply playing and having a true Mistress. A true Mistress wasn't as necessary to her sub as breath; she was his breath. "Perhaps you could do better?"
"Oh, Gregori, sugar, I'm not the Mistress for you." He loved the way she said his name; not with its Russian pronunciation of Greg- or -ee, but not with the more American Gregory, either. No, that luscious southern accent made it a fusion, as unique as Megan herself. What he didn't love was the look in those bottomless blue eyes, as if longing, regret and denial had so intermixed they couldn't be separated ever again.
"I disagree," he argued, filled with a strange desperation. What was it about this woman that compelled him so? Yes, she was beautiful, witty and smart. But there were other women who frequented the club who fit that description. Hell, Mistress S, whom he'd
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