True North (Compass series Book 4) (28 page)

It’s funny that this is something to work so hard at, like any other hobby or skill, but I don’t think it’s an inclination so many people have. Really, though, we’re all a bunch of dorks, geeking out over our particular kinks and thrilled beyond belief to find other people to geek out with too. It’s like grown-up band camp or chess camp or wherever that first place was you felt like you finally got to be your real self and have people like you for it.

When Zelda looks over her shoulder, I wave. She smiles before leaning down to her sub’s ear and whispering something to him. I’d bet money she’s telling him that I’ve been watching. And who knows what else because the man shivers from head to toe. Masterful, indeed, to extract that visceral reaction with only a few words. I should spend more time with her.

I observe for a few more minutes, but then move on because I’m hoping there’s more to see. And, as luck would have it, there is.

The last door on the left is open, but it’s quiet. No shouts or groans and I cross my fingers. Because maybe I’ve earned a little treat tonight.

When I prop myself on the side of the doorframe, I’m indeed rewarded. Spider in his blacks has got a pretty serious suspension rig set up. And bound and twisted in his intricate ropes is Press. She’s got on a chin-to-toe, skin-tight body suit that leaves very little to the imagination. But I don’t have to imagine. I know what she looks like naked.

Fuck, Slade, keep it in your pants. Enjoy the show.

Spider’s using some fluorescent ropes that must delight Pressly, and he’s rigged her into looking like a ballerina on pointe. One leg straight, toe pointed at the ground, the other bent toward the sky, her foot arched toward the top of her head, arms circled above her. Even her hair is anchored to the support lines.

She’s damn pretty like that, and I can admire the careful way Spider’s cradled her in the ropes to make sure she doesn’t fall, that the strain is evenly distributed and he’s not cutting off any circulation. Despite the strenuous position, she doesn’t look stressed. She looks happy, relaxed. It doesn’t surprise me that Press loves to fly, as she put it.

And though he’s handling her in ways that I’d definitely call intimate, it doesn’t look particularly sexual. Could easily turn that way with a different grip of a hand or some whispered words, but Spider’s more of a rope dork than a D/s player and this—the tying, the sculpting, the putting on display—this is what I think he enjoys. Not so much having Press at his mercy, though she is. Come to think of it, I’ve never seen Spider look romantically or sexually involved with anyone here.

He turns around, sees me lurking, and smiles.

“Want a closer look, Hale?”

I feel somehow like I’ve been caught—though this is what the door was open for, right? For people to watch? Besides, Spider loves to hold court, to have an audience, and here I am to give him one.

There are some giant cushions littering the floor, so I accept his invitation and lower myself onto one, sinking into it immediately. It’s completely undignified, and I struggle for a moment, which results in me looking even more like a turtle on its back, so I give up. Unlike the antiques I’ve got at home, there’s no decorous way to sit on a goddamn beanbag. Once I give in, I feel better. It’s actually pretty comfortable down here.

I like it even better when Press sneaks a look at me through the corner of her eye. I can’t tell if the surreptitious nature of her glance is because she’s trying to be stealthy so I won’t think she cares that I’m here or if she can’t move. I think it might be the latter because she’s strung up taut. Stretched tight and oh-so-beautiful. I could stare at her for hours. So I do.

Okay, not hours. But I watch as Spider puts her through her paces. Changes the bend of one leg, extends the other. Makes her dance in the air according to his whim, according to the pulls and release of his ropes. Rey was right about him. Not that I know a whole lot of other riggers, but I can’t imagine he’s not one of the best.

It seems as though she’s been pirouetting in his bonds forever when she finally says something softly and he immediately rubs her shoulder and responds. There’s a minute’s worth of conversation, maybe some final negotiating, and then he’s letting her loose, untying his ropes and carefully letting her out of his bondage.

Rope’s not a thing for me like it is for Spider. Or Press, for that matter. It can be striking certainly, and I appreciate its utility, but it doesn’t send lust surging through my veins, doesn’t get me hard. I don’t mind watching her fly under someone else’s tutelage and guidance. I can appreciate it. And I watch Spider because it’s like a master class in rope, no matter what he does. How he holds it away from her skin so it doesn’t burn as he unties his knots. How he undoes the ties in a specific order so there’s not too much pressure on any of her joints. A work of art, both the tying and the untying.

When she’s finally down, Spider helps her sit on the floor. I itch to go to her but no one’s indicated that’s in any way welcome so I sit in my goddamn beanbag, useless and wanting her. He sets himself down, hands her a bottle of water, and drapes an arm across her shoulders, pulling her against him. They talk quietly, and when he releases her, I’m hoping she’ll head straight over here. But she’s got a job to do. He hands her some skeins of rope, and she helps him bundle up the tools of his trade, folding the neon lengths oh-so-precisely and tying them off. These rope guys—they’re very…particular. And I can tell that Press has spent quite a bit of time with Spider because she knows how he likes to store his ropes. The things you learn by hanging around a club like this for long enough.

When they’re done wrapping and stowing the bundles, he helps her up and gives her a lingering hug. They look comfortable, close, and I envy their easy affection. Not that that’s what I want from Press, but I’m glad she has it. She’s always liked to be held.

He lets her go with a kiss on her forehead and turns to grab his phone out of his bag while Press saunters over to me. She’s not walking quite straight, and it makes me smile. My rope-drunk wife—there’s something I’d never thought I’d say.

It surprises me when she drapes herself over my lap and lays her head on my shoulder. The warm weight of her is nothing short of delightful. This woman, that’s what she does—delights me.

So I put my arm around her and pull her even closer.

“You cold?”

She shakes her head, effectively rubbing her cheek into my chest, and there’s something about that sweetly trusting movement that makes me melt. “No. It’s nice and toasty in here.”

It’s true it’s warm, but it’s also true she’s likely a little flushed and tingly from her floating ballet. I’ll ask her again in a little bit when she’s come down some.

“You have fun?”

“Oh, yes.” Her voice is kitten-sleepy, and it reminds me of when she used to drift off when we’d watch a movie on the couch. Always, always she’d fall asleep, and half the time I’d manage to shut off whatever we were watching and get her upstairs with her barely waking. But god help me if I tried to shut off
The Princess Bride
. No matter how dead to the world she was, if I shut that off, she’d protest.

I sit with her for a while and, without noticing I’d started doing it, find myself stroking her arm through the Spandex catsuit she’s got on and smelling her hair. It’s then someone else comes into the room, another woman, but I barely pay attention as she and Spider start talking. Maybe his next scene, maybe an admirer of his work who wants to talk. Who knows and who cares when I’ve got a sleep-soft Pressly resting on me.

I’m almost loath to break the moment because I might not get it back, but I told myself I’d do this. That if I had any shot in hell of getting her back, then I’d need to do this. I give myself a few more minutes to revel in the feeling of being weighed down by her, but then I work up my nerve.

“Press?” I get a sharp elbow to my ribs for my trouble. After coughing my surprise, I laugh. “All right, all right. Sprite?”

“Yes, Hale?”

My eyebrows crunch together in consternation because I don’t like it when she calls me that. Makes it feel like her being my wife is far away. Like it’s not getting any closer.

“I was wondering…” I fake clearing my throat, not because there’s anything there but because there’s a knot in my stomach and I need for her…
No, Lewis. Get your shit together. It’s not the end of the world if she says no. Man up.
You don’t need her to do it—you’d like for her to and you’re going to ask for it like a gentleman.
“If, maybe, sometime, you’d like to…go out to dinner with me.”

And didn’t that feel like the first time I’d called her and asked her on a date? My palms aren’t sweating this time and I’m sitting under her instead of wiping my slick hands on my department store khakis because she’s on the other end of a phone line and can’t see exactly how profusely she had me perspiring, but it feels like that. How nervous I’d been. I think I might want her worse now than I did then because I know so much more about her.

Like how she sings pop songs in the shower and picks the yellow jellybeans out of the package because those are the very best ones.

She stiffens in my lap, but doesn’t say no.

“Could I borrow your coat?”

That wasn’t exactly the response I was expecting, but it’ll more than do. I shift with her in my lap. We’re a mass of clumsy limbs and body heat, and the stumbling makes me laugh. Eventually I get my jacket peeled off and draped over her, and she settles back against me, tucked under it.

And then I wait. Is she going to answer me? Or is she hoping her wardrobe request would distract me and I’d forget?
I’ve got news for you, Press, I’m not going to forget.

“Dinner, huh?”

She sounds reluctant, and I have to swallow my backpedaling. This is something I want and I’m allowed to ask for it. Nicely.

“Yes. If you want. Or a drink. But I’d like to see you…not here.”

“Hmm.”

The noncommittal noise makes my brain swirl in my skull. She’s going to say no. I shouldn’t have asked. And then something occurs to me.

“Or you could give me your number and I could call you. Ask you properly.”

“Mmm.”

My brain is sloshing against the bone, battering my eye sockets, trying to get out. She’s driving me crazy, toying with me. I let my frustration get the best of me, and it comes spilling out before I can stop it.

“Dammit, Pressly—”

And then she’s giggling, shuddering in my arms in her hysteria. She looks up at me from where she’s still tucked against me.

“Sorry, Slade. I’m teasing. We could go out sometime if you want.”

Oh, Press, I want
.

“But yes, I think it would be better for you to call me. Do it on the up and up, you know.”

Oh, I know. Just like how I’d never park outside her house and honk for her, I should get on the telephone and call her instead of asking her when she’s half-high and snuggled against me. Not fair.

“Yes, ma’am.” She nuzzles back down, burrowing into my shoulder and, if I’m not imagining such a thing, taking a deep inhale of my shirt. Makes me glad I changed it before I left home. And while she softens against me, maybe headed toward sleep, I start to make my plans.

‡

M
y stomach is
full of salmon, artichokes, and caviar, and I’m sipping on my third tumbler of whiskey, neat. Craft whiskey of all things, because people out here can’t seem to make things any other way. Sometimes that pisses me off. I mean, for fuck’s sake, can’t you eat a damn thing without hearing its entire history and feeling like you’re consuming someone’s child? Sometimes I just want a goddamn cheeseburger. But tonight, I’m enjoying it. A lot.

I’m really fucking happy, and that’s not something I say lightly. It actually makes me a little nervous because it’s unfamiliar, something I’m not used to, this foreign thing that might be a dream.

The fantastical man sitting across from me isn’t doing anything to kill that feeling, either. Rey Walter is unreal. We’ve been talking business since we sat down, which looks a lot like me talking because Rey doesn’t have much to say. No surprise there since his business relies on him keeping his mouth shut, which I very much appreciate.

So he’s been hearing about the bill I’m trying to get pushed through and some of the other projects I’ve got going on, and we’re comparing travel schedules. I thought mine was bad, but he zigzags around the country as much as I do, maybe more. It’s nice to talk to someone who doesn’t make faces when I talk about how much I travel. This is just how we live.

I finish telling him about the neighborhood tour I took today and take another sip of my whiskey, trying to ignore the penetrating gaze he’s studying me with. Fail.

“So how’re things at the Black House? Haven’t been back since your initiation.”

I try to ignore the prick of affront.
I hope not. He didn’t even call.
Jesus, what’s wrong with me?

“What do you actually want to know?”

He shrugs, bringing his own drink to his lips. “Whatever you’d be inclined to share.”