True North (Compass series Book 4) (12 page)

“Do you want to restrain me?”

Fuck yes, I do. But what comes out of my mouth would make Rey Walter so proud. I almost hope he’s watching to see what a good boy I am. “Whatever would make you feel safest.”

She nods and steps up to the grid, gripping a bar at shoulder height. I can’t deny there’s a twinge of disappointment that she doesn’t trust me enough to tie her. But maybe this is a habit—not letting some effective stranger tie her up during a first play session. If that’s what this is, I’m glad.

She turns her head and levels me with an
I’m serious
stare. “If I say daffodil, you stop, no questions asked. And if I say marigold, you’ll know I’m getting close to my limit. If you don’t respect my safewords, I never let you touch me again. In any capacity. Capisce?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

There’s my saucy-fresh Pressly. And flowers, of course, like a kinky goddamn garden party. I used to love seeing her go into her event-planner mode. Bossy and in control and not letting anyone fuck with her. She and India have that in common, although Press is more likely to kill you with sweetness whereas India’s more likely to flat-out kill you with whatever’s handy. Like a paperweight or your own tie.

I take the chance to stand close behind my scantily clad wife, aching to press my hips into her, let her feel how hard she’s gotten me, but I don’t get the impression that’s part of our study session. Instead, I strip out of my coat because I’m getting warm and my movements are restricted by the thing. I toss it over a spanking bench, yank off my tie, and fling it in the same direction, not caring that it slips off the silk lining of my jacket. And then I roll up my sleeves. Time to get down to business.

I touch her lower back, not able to help the stroke of my fingers over her silky skin. I hope I’m not imagining her sigh of pleasure when I do. “Ready?”

“Yes.”

Reluctantly, I force my feet backward until I’m standing a good distance away. And then I lift my arm and let one fly. Not hard, because I know well enough that I need to warm her up before laying into her. When the strands hit her and lift away, she laughs.
Laughs
.

“Is this funny?” I punctuate my question with another thwap of the flogger, and she laughs again.

“I should’ve warned you. I giggle when I get flogged. It’s not you, it’s—”

I hit her again and same thing. It’s as if the falls are driving the laughter right out of her lungs.

“You laugh when you get flogged?” I’ve been warned about a lot of things—like how some people carry on and make enough noise to wake the dead because it’s fun or how it’s not unusual for subs to cry and in some cases that’s a signal that you’ve done something very right. But never did Rey warn me about someone
laughing
.

“Yeah, it’s a—” Another blow, another gale of laughter erupts from her lips. “—partly a nervous thing? But also, it’s—fun.”

I’m trying to concentrate, make sure I’m distributing the hits evenly over her back and that the blows are actually falling where I mean them to. I need to stay away from her neck and her kidneys and try not to hit her spine directly, but otherwise I’ve got a whole canvas of Pressly to paint with the flogger as my oversize brush.

I keep hitting her and she keeps laughing, but when I increase the strength of the blows, I get a few gasps too. That’s the sound I want ringing in my ears. That’s the sound I remember from when I’d make love to her. And if I could get her to make those cute little moans and say my name again…well, I could probably die happy.

Before I can get carried away, I remember to do as I’ve been taught. I finish this round and step into her, pressing my front against her back, not worrying if she feels what she’s done to me, how hard I am. She won’t be surprised. I wrap an arm around the front of her shoulders and draw her back so I can feel her breathing. Faster and shallower than it would be if she were totally relaxed, but she’s been laughing her fool head off. It’s not the hyperventilation of someone who’s panicking or had too much. And the way she leans her head back against my shoulder says she’s feeling comfortable with me.

“How are you doing?”

“Good. You’re doing a good job.”

I don’t want to admit how good it feels to have her praise me. But it does. When we were together, I’d thirst for her words of approval. Not that she withheld them, but it wasn’t something she gave away lightly. In a weird way, the scarcity made me believe them more. It wasn’t some empty, ass-kissing praise.
“I’m so proud of you.” “I’m so glad I’m yours.” “You’re a good man, Slade.”

“I’m not hurting you?”

She shakes her head, the corner of her sweet mouth curling up. “No. Not even a little bit.”

It’s my turn to laugh. “Is that a challenge?”

“Maybe. Are you up for a challenge?”

“When you put it like that…”

I give her a quick kiss behind her ear and then curse my impulse. She’s not going to agree to play with me again if she knows I want her back. Have always wanted her back. Never wanted to let her go in the first place, but shoved her away for her own good. Luckily, aside from a slight stiffening, she doesn’t seem to notice. I pull away quickly before I can do any more damage and take aim again.

Less cautious, I find my rhythm and put more force behind the blows. My vision shrinks down to the plane of her back, how it’s turning a sweet shade of pink under the strokes. The cadence of falls against skin and the sound of giggles interspersed with gasps is relaxing, so much so that I sink into a trance and manage to let go a little.

But I shouldn’t, because on the next strike, my wrist twists in a way I wasn’t intending and the tips bite into her neck. She squeals, this strangled, surprised sound, and it pulls me out of wherever I’d drifted off to.

I drop the flogger and it clatters to the floor as I step over it to get to her. I rest a hand on her neck where it probably stings, and I hope it won’t leave a mark because she has to work tomorrow and, Jesus, what if it bruises and it’s all my fault? I hurt her.

Suddenly, the shaky scaffolding of
This is okay
that I’ve built with Rey’s help comes crashing down and I’m standing in the midst of rubble.
This is not okay. What’s wrong with me? Why do I like this? Why do I want to do this to her?
Fuck.

“Hale?”

Her soft voice makes a gap in some of the debris, and I try to follow it out. But it’s too heavy, it’s just too heavy, and her calling me that makes it even less okay. Hale. Sprite. Why do we have to be these people? I want to pull the electric blue extensions from her hair, wipe the gaudy makeup off her face, strip her out of what’s left of her clothes, and carry her home. To where she belongs. With me. Can’t we rewind? I could lock everything in a box, throw away the key, and bury it deep. We could go back to how things were.

I’m so busy freaking out that I only notice she’s turned around when she talks again. “Hey. Slade. Say something, you’re scaring me.”

She’s looking at me with those big blue eyes, and her breasts are pressed against my chest, her hands stroking my biceps through the fabric of my shirt.

“I don’t—I don’t think I can do this.”

“Okay.”

“I—I have to go.”

“Oh.” Her hands still, and the concern on her face has shifted into something like apprehension. “Did I do something wrong?”

“No. I’m the one who hurt you. I’m the one who wants to hurt you. And I can’t—”

I shouldn’t have done this. I wasn’t ready. I thought I was because I’m a pompous arrogant bag of hot air. I should’ve listened to Rey, but instead I’m going to have to call him from the comfort of my own house when I’ve made it back in a cab and I’ve hopefully started breathing again and then he’s going to say “
I told you so
.”

“Slade.”

I can’t even get my breath long enough to answer her, to apologize. All I can do is stumble over to my coat and tie, take them up, and lurch out the door.

On my way through the club, I realize I’ve broken one of Rey’s cardinal rules: aftercare. But I can’t stomach going back there, and even if I could, I wouldn’t be any good for her anyway. Lucky for me, I practically trip over Scooter, who’s trailing Tangent on his leash.

Scooter smiles, and Tangent offers me a hand to shake that I wave off. “Hey, Hale. Where you headed? You don’t look so good.”

“I have to go, but could you—Press is in the last room on the right and she needs—I didn’t—”

Tangent and Scooter both glance down the hall, and Tangent’s eyes narrow. “Aftercare?”

“Yes.” Thank god his head is screwed onto his shoulders because mine’s clearly gone MIA.

And though I think I see a hint of disapproval in his expression, he agrees. “Don’t worry, man, we’ll take care of her. Won’t we, Scooter?”

Scooter nods in agreement. I don’t want Tangent to think badly of me, but if I had any psychic energy left, I’d use it on Press, not to convince him I’m not a total douchebag. I mutter my thanks before I flee, practically running out of the club. When I get outside, it’s still hot and swampy and I feel like I’m swimming to the nearest corner. Luckily it doesn’t take long for me to flag down a cab and collapse in the back, Pressly’s pleading blue eyes haunting me.

*

I’m sitting in
the hallway of Georgia Senator Sue Ellen McClane’s home office. I was in Atlanta for a photo op at a ribbon-cutting for a mixed-income housing development this morning, and now my ass is parked in an uncomfortable chair, waiting.

Waiting is bullshit, but I’ll be on my best behavior because I need her. Annoyingly, she knows it, which is why I’m sitting in her hallway, trying to deal with emails on my phone while I wait. And wait. And wait.

I raise an eyebrow at her receptionist again, and she shakes her head, a flush rising in her cheeks because she’s probably expecting me to be nasty. I’d like to be insulted, but I can’t be. A few weeks ago, it would’ve taken less than twenty minutes of sitting in a hallway to make me lose my cool and raise my voice. As it is, my hard-fought patience is being stretched and I feel the anger creeping up. Just then, my cell chimes, and when I click into my email, I have a message from my assistant:

Van Dyke’s office called. We got him.

This is not quite a miracle—Van Dyke’s been a solid yellow—but it’s still welcome progress. It makes me feel like this entire endeavor isn’t utterly hopeless. And it’s after what I’m hoping is a subtle fist-pump on my part that McClane’s receptionist tells me she’s ready for me. Hopefully I’ll be able to do my part and put another senator in the green column.

Senator McClane’s office is much like her: pretty, classy, and put together within an inch of its life. I’ve always liked her and it occurs to me why—she reminds me of Pressly. Or, actually, the kind of woman Pressly will be in thirty years. She looks so picture-perfect behind her big wooden desk with her salt-and-pepper hair in a flawless chignon and a…yes, I’m ninety-eight percent certain her powder-blue suit is Chanel. Very nice.

I reach out a hand and do my best to turn on the charm that has people thinking I bang anything within a five-mile radius.

“Senator McClane, thank you so much for meeting with me. I appreciate you taking the time.”

Her eyes widen as she takes my hand in a strong grip. I like her even better for it.

“Secretary Lewis. Sorry to keep you waiting.”

“It’s no trouble, I’ve got plenty to keep me busy, and I know your schedule when you’re with your constituents is packed. This is an urgent matter, otherwise I would’ve waited until you were back in DC.”

A wrinkle deepens between her brows, and I have to keep from clenching my teeth.
I can be pleasant, dammit. I can be charming as fuck.

“I’m glad this worked out, then. Please have a seat.”

I ease into the upholstered chair across from her and admire the floral print. Another thing she and Press have in common: being brazenly feminine at the same time they’re unapologetically badass. Like they’re sending a message.
Yes, I like pink and flowers and I can still wipe the floor with you. Deal with it.

Even if this doesn’t go my way, I hope I walk out of this meeting with Senator McClane having a better opinion of me and without her rolling her eyes the next time I need something from her.

The seat’s a bit lower than is totally comfortable, so I spread my thighs and lean forward, clasping my hands and resting my elbows on my knees. “I’m here, Senator, because I need your help. And over the next fifteen minutes, I’m going to convince you to give it to me.”

“I like the sound of that, Secretary.” She leans back in her own chair and takes up a gold-tipped fountain pen. “Do your best.”

Thirty minutes later, I’m walking out of McClane’s office—or rather, Sue Ellen as she’s asked I call her since we’re apparently old friends now—with a smile on my face and another yes in my pocket. She’s a reasonable woman and smart as hell. I know, though, if I can’t get some of her other compatriots to join her, she won’t hesitate to withdraw her vote, so it’s back on a plane and back to work.

I throw the receptionist a wink and a wave on my way out because I’m too damn excited not to, and the first thought that enters my head as I step out the door is that I can’t wait to tell Press.