things with him, was powerful enough to let her move past herfears. Even thinking about it made her pulse race hot in her veins—being at the club with him. The pain play. The power dynamics. The exhibitionism she loved.
She was ready for all of that. Ready enough to convince herself she would simply deal with the rest—any bottoming out, any emotional reaction—if and when it happened.
Connor was due to pick her up in less than an hour and she still hadn’t decided what to wear to the club. Should she go with classic black lace, go more bold with red silk, or wear the sexy, yet innocent white mesh set?
Not that she imagined she’d be allowed to wear her lingerie for long once they were there, but presentation was everything.
She didn’t want to admit how badly she wanted to please him.
Standing in front of the bathroom mirror, she saw how dark and hard her nipples were, the flush on her breasts, her cheeks. She stroked her fingers over her nipples, felt them stiffen even more, and sighed. He was going to touch her tonight. Do all sorts of wicked things to her. With other people watching…
Her sex gave a sharp squeeze, and she groaned. She shook her head as she gathered the pile of lingerie from the bathroom counter and went back into the bedroom. She pulled another pile of filmy lace and satin from the drawer Dylan had given her and tossed it all on the bed. It was a good thing she always traveled with such a good selection.
She held up a pair of turquoise silk bikini panties that had two wide strips of black lace on either side, found the matching bra. The color suited her blue eyes perfectly. The bra had a clasp in the front for easy access and just that small touch of padding that would give her already generous breasts a nice lift and killer cleavage.
She stepped into the two pieces and turned to the closet. The dress was an easier choice, a short sheath of black stretch lace. She decided to forgo stockings despite the cold weather—she could wear her long trench coat—and slipped into her highest pair of black stiletto-heeled peep-toe pumps. Per the instructions Connor had sent via text that morning, she wore her pale blonde hair up in a tight chignon at the back of her neck with one of her signature silk flowers in black pinned into it. She added a pair of tiny black enamel rosebud drop earrings, fixed her red lipstick and moved into the living room to wait for him.
She sat on the couch, picked up a magazine, flipped through it and put it down again a moment later. A glance at the clock told her she still had a good fifteen minutes before he was due to arrive. She got up and moved to the tall bank of windows overlooking the street below.
It was raining again, but that was Seattle for you. She felt at home there. San Francisco didn’t rain as much, but like Seattle, it was often gray and foggy. Some people hated the weather, but being so heavily tattooed it was better not to spend too much time in the sun. And the gray weather soothed her, for some reason. It made the world look softer.
She watched the cars splashing through the puddle at the corner, the people walking down the sidewalks—or rather, the tops of their umbrellas. Dylan’s apartment was in Belltown, a funky neighborhood close to the water, full of exactly the kinds of places where Mischa felt most at home: small cafes, a few galleries, tattoo shops, boutiques. She watched the colorful array of umbrellas moving down the street, a few people
sans
umbrellas running to get out of the rain. She was about to force herself to go sit down again when she saw a sleek black Hummer park in front of the building, and a large man get out.
Connor.
Her heart began to pound.
The enormous vehicle suited him. She hadn’t thought about what he might drive, but she doubted he could fit comfortably into most cars.
Moments later the downstairs buzzer rang and she went to the intercom mounted on the wall by the front door and pressed the button. His
She was ready for all of that. Ready enough to convince herself she would simply deal with the rest—any bottoming out, any emotional reaction—if and when it happened.
Connor was due to pick her up in less than an hour and she still hadn’t decided what to wear to the club. Should she go with classic black lace, go more bold with red silk, or wear the sexy, yet innocent white mesh set?
Not that she imagined she’d be allowed to wear her lingerie for long once they were there, but presentation was everything.
She didn’t want to admit how badly she wanted to please him.
Standing in front of the bathroom mirror, she saw how dark and hard her nipples were, the flush on her breasts, her cheeks. She stroked her fingers over her nipples, felt them stiffen even more, and sighed. He was going to touch her tonight. Do all sorts of wicked things to her. With other people watching…
Her sex gave a sharp squeeze, and she groaned. She shook her head as she gathered the pile of lingerie from the bathroom counter and went back into the bedroom. She pulled another pile of filmy lace and satin from the drawer Dylan had given her and tossed it all on the bed. It was a good thing she always traveled with such a good selection.
She held up a pair of turquoise silk bikini panties that had two wide strips of black lace on either side, found the matching bra. The color suited her blue eyes perfectly. The bra had a clasp in the front for easy access and just that small touch of padding that would give her already generous breasts a nice lift and killer cleavage.
She stepped into the two pieces and turned to the closet. The dress was an easier choice, a short sheath of black stretch lace. She decided to forgo stockings despite the cold weather—she could wear her long trench coat—and slipped into her highest pair of black stiletto-heeled peep-toe pumps. Per the instructions Connor had sent via text that morning, she wore her pale blonde hair up in a tight chignon at the back of her neck with one of her signature silk flowers in black pinned into it. She added a pair of tiny black enamel rosebud drop earrings, fixed her red lipstick and moved into the living room to wait for him.
She sat on the couch, picked up a magazine, flipped through it and put it down again a moment later. A glance at the clock told her she still had a good fifteen minutes before he was due to arrive. She got up and moved to the tall bank of windows overlooking the street below.
It was raining again, but that was Seattle for you. She felt at home there. San Francisco didn’t rain as much, but like Seattle, it was often gray and foggy. Some people hated the weather, but being so heavily tattooed it was better not to spend too much time in the sun. And the gray weather soothed her, for some reason. It made the world look softer.
She watched the cars splashing through the puddle at the corner, the people walking down the sidewalks—or rather, the tops of their umbrellas. Dylan’s apartment was in Belltown, a funky neighborhood close to the water, full of exactly the kinds of places where Mischa felt most at home: small cafes, a few galleries, tattoo shops, boutiques. She watched the colorful array of umbrellas moving down the street, a few people
sans
umbrellas running to get out of the rain. She was about to force herself to go sit down again when she saw a sleek black Hummer park in front of the building, and a large man get out.
Connor.
Her heart began to pound.
The enormous vehicle suited him. She hadn’t thought about what he might drive, but she doubted he could fit comfortably into most cars.
Moments later the downstairs buzzer rang and she went to the intercom mounted on the wall by the front door and pressed the button. His
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