As soon as she gave the word, he would address that deficit of understanding. Every day she came closer to telling Logan yes, she wanted another session. As a result, that coil of anxiety in her lower belly about it was becoming ever more intense. Anticipation and anxiety mixed together, like most things that involved Logan.
Despite all her attempts to stay rational, detached, she was all too aware Logan hadn't mentioned going to his preferred BDSM club since that night at her house. He also found a reason to check in on her every day. No, that described her, not him. She never went next door without a justifiable, somewhat business-related reason to explain her visit. Whereas he didn't present a reason at all when he came over to her store, beyond simply wanting to see her.
This morning he'd brought her a cup of his coffee and asked her how she'd slept last night, engaging in warm chitchat. Then he'd slid behind her counter, gathered her up to him and put his mouth on hers, leaving her with a kiss that was like a straight shot of caffeine, waking her up head to toe.
He was treating her like a love interest. A lover. He wanted to be around her, wanted to see her. It was always nice to be wanted--for however long it lasted.
Did she always have to add those depressing caveats? This time the disapproving librarian face she made really was at herself, not an imaginary late-book offender. She wanted to see him right now, for no other reason than that. It had been too long since that morning kiss.
She waffled over it. She should be as brave and open about it as he was, but she wasn't there. She had to protect herself, no matter how flimsy the shield. Picking up a stack of the new coupons she'd printed up last night on colored paper, as well as the small shopping bag she'd packed up a little while ago with treats for the two men, she put her clock sign out, indicating she'd be back in ten minutes, and locked the door. She was proud that she moved with a brisk, casual stride toward the front of his store, rather than skipping like an infatuated schoolgirl.
Logan was discussing a floor nailer with a customer, the two of them analyzing the different possibilities. She leaned against his counter, watching him and listening to the rise and fall of his voice. If she wasn't careful, she'd just close her eyes and ride that timbre like a boat on a smooth current. To avoid embarrassing herself that way, she focused on what they were discussing. His sales approach wasn't much different from her own. His primary concern was ensuring the customer got the right tool for the job, even if it was only available at Home Depot.
Remarkably, she'd found such an approach still fulfilled her bottom line. From the account history, it was clear Alice had succeeded more because of repeat business and referrals than impulse buys.
Troy emerged from the center aisle. He'd been unloading a truck: he was sweaty, his shirt clinging to his upper body. When he saw her, he headed her way, wiping his neck and face with a bandanna. "Hey, Madison. Wow. I like the outfit. Librarian?"
She peered over her glasses at him with a stern look. "That's Miss Fine to you. Didn't I tell you what would happen if you brought your books back late again, Troy?"
In his flash of surprise at her teasing, she caught an unguarded reaction, a short but very sweet taste of what it must be like to be his Mistress, to have those blue eyes look at her with aroused yearning, an eager desire to please her with every inch of his muscular young body. It made for a nice, quick fantasy.
He recovered in a blink, gave her his slow smile. She was amused when he changed the subject. "We're having a sale on lawn art today. Can I interest you in a concrete frog? You'll be saving a life, because Logan swears he's going to take them all out for target practice if he doesn't get them out from underfoot."
He ducked into the appropriate aisle and retrieved one. The impossibly cute small concrete frog fit into the palm of his hand. She decided it would look lovely sitting on her counter, right next to the basket of hopping genitalia.
"I'll be happy to take one. How much will it set me back?"
"Three dollars. I'd slip it to you for free, but you know how he is." He winked at her. "Just as cost conscious as you are."
"That's how it is when you're the one who pays the bills," she said reprovingly. Then she cocked her head. "You're in a good mood, for a man who just unloaded a truckful of heavy things."
"It just means he isn't working hard enough," Logan said, joining them. His thorough perusal made her blush.
"Stop it. You saw me a couple hours ago."
"Doesn't mean I don't enjoy the hell out of the experience every time. Or can only Troy stammer and blush around you?"
"You haven't stammered or blushed since you were born."
At Troy's emphatic nod of agreement, Logan turned his eye on him. "Don't think I won't tell Shale about that blushing."
"Hey, I was just moving the merchandise. Madison agreed to buy a frog."
"If you want to impress me, tell me she agreed to buy a dozen."
"I was intending to give a touch of whimsy to my cash register, not start a plague in Egypt," she retorted. She lifted the coupons. "We're having a sale. Buy two panties or two bras, get one for free. If you'd put these on your counter or throw one in the bags, that would be great. The first ten men who come over to buy something for their wives will get a free piece of lemon cake."
Troy brightened. "You brought cake today? Like Alice's cake?"
"Yes. It was our mother's recipe." Reaching into the bag she had on her arm, she withdrew the two containers. "I brought some for you two before it's all gone."
"A bribe for sharing your coupons," Logan observed.
"Compensation," she said primly. "Which puts me one up on you, because I've been putting your sales fliers in my customers' bags for no compensation at all." So to speak. That kiss went through her mind, his knowing gaze making her suppress a smile. "I've also spoken very highly of your charms, such as they are. Fair's fair."
Troy was eying the cake like a hungry dog, but when she began to hand him one of the containers, Logan laid a casual hand on her wrist, stopping her. "Madison, do you offer a pet a treat without checking with his owner first?"
In deference to their surroundings, he spoke low, but in his usual way, just that tone and look could command her attention. He was asking her to respect Troy's training, but beyond that, he was requiring a certain behavior from her. Bemused, she noticed she and Troy had the same reaction to him, both of them getting still and entirely focused on what he wanted, what he'd require.
"You're right, I'm sorry. May Troy have a piece of cake?"
Logan's mouth quirked. "He'll be salivating all over the shop floor if I don't say yes." He glanced at Troy. "Put it in the back. You can have it on your break."
"Yes, sir. Thanks, Madison. Miss Fine." Troy corrected himself with a twinkle in his eyes. After another mischievous leer at her outfit, he disappeared down the main aisle. Madison heard him stop to answer a question about pliers.
Logan lifted a brow. "What did you say to him to make him blush?"
"I was just warning him to return his books on time. He's pretty easy to play with. Should I not tease him like that?" No matter how her instincts gravitated toward submission, she realized there were a lot of rules she didn't know.
"It's not a problem. You're doing it with affection and fun, not to jerk his chain." He glanced down at the coupons. "You reserve that behavior for me, because you want to know what will happen if you jerk hard enough."
Now it was her turn to swallow and change the subject. "Why is he in such a good mood? Not that he isn't normally, but he seems particularly effusive."
"His training will be completed by the end of the week, which means I deliver him back to Shale. He'll get to show her all he's learned. And she'll get the project she commissioned," he added.
Madison had a quick, provocative vision of the beautifully crafted wooden chest that actually converted to a cage, in a size to accommodate a lean, tall Troy. Logan had showed it to Madison the first night they met, and while a part of her had been taken aback, anot
her part of her had wondered what it would be like, to trust a Master enough to submit to the confinement.
"He hasn't seen her all these weeks?" She brought herself back to the topic at hand. As devoted as Troy seemed to be to his Mistress, she couldn't imagine a prolonged separation had been easy.
"That's part of the deal." Logan shrugged. "It amps up the motivation, not that he ever really needed it. He's not a brat or a bottom topper. He's like a fierce golden retriever, worth his weight in gold to a Dom."
"So you don't care much for a brat?"
She won an amused look from him. "It depends," he responded. "There's bratting, and there's being a brat. In a very cute, sexy, begging-for-punishment kind of way." He put his hand over hers on the counter, where she'd put the coupons. "Time for you to go away. You're making me think of closing the store early, something I never do."
"What would you do, if you closed early?" She blinked, all innocence, which just made him narrow those brown eyes.
"Bully you into that session you're almost ready to agree to do. The sooner the better. That's three dollars for the frog. Unless you want to slip it down your shirt and let me catch you shoplifting."
She snorted at that, mainly to cover the nervous quiver his first comment had elicited. Reaching into the open neck of the white shirt, she removed several folded bills from where they'd been tucked into her lacy bra. "I'd intended to buy another coffee, but I'll buy a frog instead and cut down on my caffeine."
She started to put the money on the counter, but instead he put his hand out, taking it from her, caressing her fingers before closing his own over the bills warm from sitting against her breast. With his eyes trained on her, it was clear where his mind was. She ducked her head, slipping the frog into the bag she'd used to bring them cake. "When and if I decide . . . to do that session, where would we do it?"
She should be making chatty conversation, but it was the only topic in her head, especially with him giving her that look that sent anxiety and arousal coursing through her.
"In my back room."
"Would I wear anything special?"
"Whatever you think might bribe me to punish you less. It won't work, but I'll enjoy the attempt."
"Pig."
He winked at her. "Go grab yourself a cup of coffee from behind the counter. I'll take it out in trade."
At that provocative statement, he turned, responding to the call of a customer. Truth, thinking about it, having him talk point blank about it, anxiety took the lead on anticipation. It was clear Troy wouldn't be there. Or would he? She wasn't sure if she felt safer with Troy present, or if she preferred to evolve the intense cycle of emotions that seemed to happen when it was just her and Logan together. But this time it wouldn't be in her home. It would be in that room with the unfinished concrete floor, naked lights and a wall full of floggers, switches and metal things she couldn't identify.
She'd gone on the Internet to refresh her memory about how this all worked and shut it down just as hastily, horrified by pictures of women tied up like pretzels, tearstained expressions of seeming anguish on their faces while large, fierce men stood behind them with raised whips or cattle prods. Jesus. She knew how the Internet could be. He'd been in her home, and it hadn't been like that. Far from it. But then . . . there was an undercurrent when Logan was in full-on Dom mode, something unpredictable and dangerous, and there was some of that in those pictures.
She didn't have to do any of it. The choice was hers. She could take her time, talk to Logan about it. He was as much a teacher as a practitioner when it came to BDSM. Yet he'd warned her more than once that overthinking it wouldn't really help. It might make her more apprehensive than when she was just following her feelings, and those feelings said she longed to be around him, wanted him to take control again.
Just tell him you'll do it, Madison. What are you waiting for?
Returning to her store, she put the frog out on the counter. Surely a man who sold cute, whimsical frogs wouldn't do something too terrible to her.
Fortunately, she was distracted by her post-lunch customer surge. She had a steady flow until late afternoon, including some of the men next door, buying for their wives and seeking cake. Just when she thought she had a lull to go check the Dungeon Room and see if the cake was all gone, a woman slipped in the door, barely opening it enough to trigger the music that played whenever a customer entered or exited.
Prior to taking ownership of Naughty Bits, Madison had held a variety of sales positions, and that experience had given her a radar for hustlers. When she sold cars, shabbily dressed people pretended to be homeless, wandering onto the car lot to hit up browsing clientele for handouts. When she worked in the appliance section of a department store, other undesirables tried to scratch the merchandise unseen to secure a discounted price, or worked scams with the generous return policy.
While her newest customer didn't give her the hustler vibe, the shift of her dull eyes, the nervous movements of her hands, put Madison on alert for shoplifting, perhaps to fuel a drug addiction. She was too thin, which made her look younger than Madison suspected she was. Her hair was pulled back from her face, enhancing her strained countenance.
Then Madison noted her only jewelry. The girl wore a steel collar with a small padlock threaded through the screw holes, and the heavy metal had abraded her skin.
She'd met collared subs who had a decorative collar, something that passed as jewelry in public. It gave them the personal pleasure of wearing a subtle statement of their Dom's ownership. This one was overstated, a la Planet of the Apes, to look exactly like what it was. If worn by someone in Goth or punk garb, it might have blended better, but the woman wore plain jeans and a red knit shirt that hung on her sparse frame.
She could be here to steal, but since she was the only customer in the store, she had Madison's full attention. If she was a shoplifter, she wasn't a very sensible one.
Madison came out from behind the counter with her usual warm smile, though she suspected her gaze was sharper than usual. "Hi, I'm Madison. Can I help you?"
"Um . . . yeah. Yes." The customer fingered one of the peignoirs. "This is so beautiful."
"Yes, it is." If the girl had more meat on her bones, it would look wonderful on her. Her eyes were focused, so she wasn't using. At least not right now. "What's your name?"
"Veronica."
"Veronica, would you like some lemon cake? I baked it this morning." She hoped she had some left. If not, she'd find her a pack of crackers.
"Uh, no. But thank you." However, the girl's eyes latched on to the direction Madison had pointed. Then they stayed there, studying the archway of the Dungeon Room. "I thought you were just a lingerie store." Relief crossed her face, and her attention came back to Madison. "I'm not allowed to eat unless my Master says I can."
So her trepidation might be about going into a store unaccepting of the BDSM lifestyle. It didn't seem to abate, however. Though Veronica kept her gaze on Madison, it was as if she was being forced to look at her. She swallowed noisily.
"He sent me in here to . . . he told me to tell you . . . to ask . . . what's the best outfit you sell for whores, because that's what I am."
Humiliation could be part of BDSM, if that was what a sub enjoyed, though the Dom or sub that pulled a third party into it without permission or forewarning was showing poor manners, at the least. Beyond that, Madison thought of how Troy had responded to her stern teasing this morning, with a blush and a bright, healthy light in his eyes. He was demonstrably eager to be back with his Mistress, even to try out the cage she'd had built for him. Compared to this poor thing in front of her, the difference was black and white.
"Let's get you some cake," Madison said firmly. "It will be a good way to talk about what you really want."
She took her arm, but Veronica flinched. As she pulled away, the sleeve of her knit shirt shifted, giving Madison a glimpse of healing cuts, as well as bruising around the wrists. Perhaps from steel manacles that matched th
e uncomfortable weight and cut of the collar?
In the next blink, a red haze had covered Madison's eyes. Though they'd had their differences on many things, on one thing she and Alice had never disagreed. They had no tolerance for abuse. As teenagers, they'd joined forces to kidnap more than one neglected dog from a terrible life on a short chain in a backyard. When they'd stumbled on two boys behind the school beating up a kid with Down Syndrome, Madison had hesitated, not sure whether they should go get help or do something to stop it. Then Alice jumped in and she joined her, the two of them beating the ever-loving crap out of the bullies.
Madison remembered later that same day of the time she'd put peroxide on an abrasion on her sister's arm. The scrape had come from rolling around in the gravel, grappling with one of the boys. Alice would stand for Veronica without thought, making sure she was protected in whatever way necessary. Madison led with that feeling.
"Where is your Master?" She headed for the door, but this time it was Veronica who reached out, held her back.
"Please don't," she said plaintively. "If you get mad at him, he'll get mad at me."
"He's abusing you."
"No." She shook her head. "I'm bad. I'm really bad. He has to punish me and make me do these things to remind me how bad I am."
"No, he . . ."
"What's taking so long?"
Alice's spirit must have been influencing the music selection, because it was the first time Madison had heard "Ride of the Valkyries" fill the store when the door opened. It took over for the poignant "Somewhere in Time" Veronica's arrival had set off.
This had to be Veronica's Master. Wearing khakis and golf shirt, he was tall and husky, with the cocky look the football coach at her high school had possessed. Not always a bad trait in that profession, but arrogance could pave the road to indifferent cruelty. He was about twenty years older than Veronica. At his pointed tone, the girl cringed and tried to scurry toward him, but Madison snagged her arm, taking a firmer hold this time while trying not to aggravate the bruises beneath her grip.