Chapter 9

Cort led her to the dining room. He got a few strange looks from people who’d seen him racing along the open hallways and paths only minutes ago. Las Palmas wasn’t as busy now as it had been a few hours ago—many people who didn’t have playrooms reserved, or whose partners weren’t there despite the mandatory attendance—had left by this point. But others had stayed to watch the scenes that were taking place in the courtyards and public rooms. Cort laid his hand over Sejal’s. She was cold, despite the strategically placed heat lamps that warmed the Southern California night.

There was an elaborate buffet laid out in the dining room. A five star restaurant in Malibu catered all the food, though no one from the restaurant was allowed inside the building. The highly paid, ultra discreet staff who cleaned and maintained the building laid everything out, and then retreated to the caretakers’ cottage. On nights when the club was open, members were expected to fend for themselves. Given the average income of the membership, being expected to bus their own plates or serve themselves drinks was almost as novel as the sexual aspects of the facility.

It was busier than Cort could ever remember seeing it. He filled plates for both himself and Sejal, asking her what she wanted and dishing it up for her. He moved a potted gardenia off a heavy decorative tray and used it to carry their plates, silverware, a bottle of wine and another of mineral water, plus glasses. She looked at his tray, which he balanced on one hand before offering her his arm.

“Perhaps you should use two hands for that,” she said.

“It’s not that heavy.” Luckily it had been a few days since arm day at the gym, otherwise his biceps would have been screaming at him.

She did a sort of half nod, half head shake thing, then looked around. “I think I see space at a table over there.”

“We’re not eating here. Come on.”

Sejal didn’t hesitate, though she looked confused. She took his arm, her fingers cool. As they started to walk, her bare breasts brushed his elbow and forearm. She was taller now that she had on the heels, but still tiny. They passed the Library, but it was still packed, and he wanted quiet so he could talk to her. They walked on, taking the covered paths that connected the buildings. There was plenty to look at—men and women engaging in darkly erotic play out in the open. Doms putting their subs on display in the courtyards, fucking them as they bent over, hands against a wall, as if they couldn’t stand to wait even one more second to sink into the warm heat of their sub’s willing body.

Cort forced himself to ignore the fucking, because he didn’t want that to lead to fantasies about the items on the checklist he hadn’t mentioned.

The Iron Court was the last of the courtyards. Beyond that was a stretch of open ground, then the large barn they called the Conclave, and another small building that housed sleeping rooms and a few suites, that didn’t boast the amenities of the playrooms, but were used by people who had booked rooms that didn’t come with beds. One of those rooms was theirs—Hachiro had booked it along with the Iron Court room. Since he was subbing to Master Khan for the weekend, the sleeping room, along with the playroom, were Cort’s. That was actually where he’d been planning to take her, assuming they didn’t find a quiet spot in any of the public rooms or courtyards. As they stepped out onto the flagstone path, Cort abruptly changed his mind. When they reached the fork, he veered right, towards the Conclave.

He released her arm when they reached the heavy doors so he could grab the large handle and slid one side open.

The main open-area of the Conclave, where they’d been for the announcement of the game, was empty. There were ten of the original stalls, remodeled and redone to meet the standards of the clubs. Each had a small bed and plenty of tie points on the walls and ceiling. There was a tack room, several bathrooms, and clusters of all-wood furniture, including straight back chairs. There were murmurs coming from one of the stalls, but that didn’t matter. Cort motioned for Sejal to precede him up the spiraling iron staircase that led to the loft that looked down over the main floor.

His left arm was aching from holding up the heavy tray, so while she wasn’t looking at him he switched hands, balancing the tray on his right hand and shaking out his left arm. Up here there were low leather couches and chairs, several bar carts, and large, soft floor pillows that looked rather like expensive dog beds.

Sejal paused to look back at him. He pointed to a set of chairs. “How about we sit there?”

Sejal nodded, walking carefully and then perching on the edge of the chair. Her bare breasts were a sight to behold in the soft, recessed lighting up here. The nipples were hard, tight, either from the cold or because she was slipping back into a submissive role. He hoped it was the latter.

He nudged a parson’s style chair over to use as a table and finally set the heavy tray down. He sat and reached for the bottle of wine.

Corkscrew. He hadn’t brought a corkscrew. He was so fucking useless.

He stared at the foil, jaw clenched tight. He could run back and get one. He could maybe try one of those tricks he sometimes saw on the Internet. There was something about getting a shoe and maybe hitting it against a wall…

Sejal stood and walked away.

Cort set the bottle on the floor between his feet, braced his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. He wasn’t going to stop her. She deserved better. Better than him.

And better than Hach too. A sub like Sejal…she deserved everything. She deserved perfection.

Something cold touched his arm and he jumped. Sejal was standing before him, a slight smile on her face, and a corkscrew in her hand.

“Here, Master Dowell.”

He took the corkscrew from her, blinking in surprise when she returned to her chair. She’d slipped off her shoes, which explained why he hadn’t heard her. He scooped up the bottle, then carefully cut the foil, applied the corkscrew, and pulled the cork free with one hard tug.

Her gaze was focused on his arms and chest as he dropped the cork and corkscrew onto the tray, picking up the first glass.

“Impressive show.” She accepted the glass.

“Show?”

“Your…muscles.”

Cort couldn’t stop the smile. Not that he tried to. “You like that?”

She sat back, waited until he’d poured his own glass, and then raised hers in a salute. “I did.”

He returned the salute, then made sure to hold her gaze as he took a sip. It was intimate, deliciously so, looking at her as the first crisp sip of dry white wine hit his tongue.

He set down his glass, then took her plate, a napkin, and some silverware, and passed them to her. She accepted them, spreading her napkin on her knees before balancing the plate on them. The pasta was almost cold, but still delicious. He’d added some charcuterie meats, while she stuck to veggies.

“Vegetarian?” he asked.

“Yes. And you’re not, I assume.”

“I was, for a while.”

“Why did you stop?”

He ate a piece of prosciutto wrapped melon before answering. “I just…kind of lost interest.”

She frowned, and then looked down at her plate. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t pry.”

“I didn’t think you were prying. That’s really why I stopped.”

“You…lost interest.”

“Yes.” He took another bite, watching her as he did. This was what he wanted, to get to know her, but the conversation wasn’t going all that well. It was clear she didn’t really believe him. If he wanted her to open up to him, he was going to have to open up to her, too.

“That’s kind of the story of my life,” he admitted. “I do stuff for a while, then quit.” That was maybe more honesty than was prudent. He took a sip of wine.

Now she was looking at him not with doubt and suspicion, but surprise, as if she realized how much truth was in his words. “Would you explain?”

She sounded particularly proper and British when she said that, and it made him smile and relax.

“I’m Cort, by the way. I mean, my name is Cortland Heskins-Dowell, but people call me Cort.” He held out his hand.

She stuck hers out in turn. “Dr. Sejal Barsar. People call me Sejal. I don’t have a nickname.”

“Doctor? Wow.”

They shook hands, and despite their precious intimacy, kept the handshake short and impersonal.

She shook her head. “No deflecting, please. I want to know more about why you say you do stuff for a while and then quit.”

“Now that I know you’re a doctor, I’m not going to admit what a screw up I am.”

Sejal gestured with her fork. “If you’re a member of this place, I very much doubt you’re a screw up.”

“I didn’t say I wasn’t rich.”

“Wealthy family?”

“Yep. And successful. Except for me.”

“What is it you do that they think isn’t successful?”

Cort had just taken a bite of steak, so he pointed at his mouth.

She picked up her glass off the arm of her chair, twirling the stem as she looked at him. “My guess was that you are a counselor or therapist. Am I correct?”

Cort almost choked. He swallowed an uncomfortably large bite of steak, then gulped some wine. Sejal quickly opened the bottle of water, poured him a glass and passed it to him. “I didn’t mean to make you aspirate food.”

He drank almost the whole glass of water before he finally felt able to speak. “Sorry about that. You just…surprised me. No, I’m not a counselor or therapist. I don’t really have a job.”

“You don’t…have a job.”

She said it like the concept was completely foreign to her. He winced and could practically feel any respect she might have for him eroding. “Like I said. I do things for a while, then give up or lose interest. I was a model for a while—my cousin was a model like twenty years ago and he hooked me up with some contacts he had. I got into cooking, and had this naked cooking channel on YouTube—I mean I wasn’t really naked I had an apron. Then I did some fitness modeling and then some fitness consulting. A couple of infomercials for fitness stuff, until my brother decided to run for state senator in Massachusetts and my parents asked me to stop so I wouldn’t embarrass him.”

“Your brother is a senator?”

“State senator. And a prick.”

Sejal’s lips quirked in a smile. “My brother is an ass, too.”

“What does he do?”

“He runs a small weavers…fabric factory.”

“Ah, so you’re the high achiever.”

She shrugged and sort of shook her head. “Maybe, yes. I’m a doctor. That’s what my parents wanted. That’s why they worked hard to send me to school in America, but I’m not married, no kids.”

“Ah, so he’s got the house and two point five kids, or however many they say you’re supposed to have in England.”

Sejal cocked her head to the side. “You think I’m English?”

“Oh, I just assumed, from your accent. Plus, British people like their bondage, at least in my experience.”

“Ah, that makes sense. No, I’m Indian.”

He realized with a start that the half nod, half head shake she’d done a few times was the same thing he’d seen when he’d traveled in India—the head wobble. If he hadn’t convinced himself she was British, he would have realized earlier.

“Where are you from?” he asked.

“Kanpur. Have you been to India?”

“A couple times. Once for a modeling thing, once just to travel, though I don’t think I went to Kanpur.”

“You wouldn’t; it’s not the sort of place foreigners usually visit.”

“So you are from a small town in India, moved to America for university, and are now a doctor. Did I get that right?”

She stared at him for a moment before answering. “Yes. Does that change your opinion of me?”

“What? No. I was going to say, and here I am—no job, living on my family money…I’m sure you don’t want to have anything to do with me. You’re smart, successful…I’m useless.” He said it with a smile and a laugh, making a joke out of it.

She didn’t return the smile, and again he was struck by this feeling that she saw more than he would want her to.

“I am surprised you are not a counselor,” she said.

“Why did you think I was?”

“You are good at knowing what people are feeling. And you care what they are feeling. You…” She set her plate onto the tray. Then she scooped up her wine glass and sat back in the chair, pulling her knees up and bracing her bare feet on the cushion. “You care more about what I want than Hach does.”

Whoa. That was a serious statement.

Cort set his plate on the tray and leaned forward. Curled up in the chair, her hair laying softly on her shoulders, her legs pulled up to her chest in a posture that was undeniably defensive, she no longer just looked petite, but small and fragile.

“And what do you want?”

“I want to submit,” she whispered.

The Dom inside him, which had been pushed aside by his own insecurities, roared to life. He wanted not only to top her, but also protect her.

“Hachiro is a switch, right?”

“He wasn’t, when we started.”

“But you’re bonded. Collared. I mean that he collared you.”

She balanced her wine on the arm of her chair and touched her throat. “Yes.”

“Sejal, if you’re willing, I’d like to…understand what your relationship is with your master.”

She exhaled sharply through her teeth, an almost hissing noise. “Is he my master? Is he? He orders me to top him. It’s not about our relationship. It’s not about what I want, or need.” Her feet hit the floor and she surged to her feet. One step had her between his knees. “I haven’t felt like a sub…haven’t had anyone care what I wanted or needed…in a long time.”

Tears puddled on her lower lashes, but she tipped her head up, looking at the sloped ceiling above them.

Cort couldn’t keep his hands off her any longer. He cupped her hips in his palms, fingertips sliding under the straps of the garter belt. “Don’t hide from me,” he commanded, his voice low and rough.

She looked down at him, surprised. “I wasn’t…”

“You were. Don’t. You’re sad. Angry. Let it out.”

“Now isn’t the proper time.”

“Now is exactly the proper time.”

He sat back, legs together, and then urged her to straddle him, her knees along his hips.

He slid his hand up over her hips, her waist, and moved north. Her breasts felt full and heavy in his hands. He cupped and kneaded them. She let her head fall back, breath escaping her on a single, long moan.

“Please,” she begged.

“Please what?”

She once more looked down at him, the haze of desire retreating briefly, to be replaced by an intense look that seemed to pierce him.

“Please dominate me. Master me. Use me. Make me forget.”

“Forget what?”

“Hach. The world outside of here.”

“There are things I want to do to you that aren’t on our list. Things we haven’t talked about.”

“Do them. Please”

Cort’s fingers tightened on her breasts as he fought the urge to do exactly what she was begging for—to ignore the game and everything they were supposed to be doing and instead use her the way he wanted.

Do things to her they hadn’t talked about, hadn’t discussed in advance.

No. She deserved better.

“Please,” she whispered.

Cort grabbed her by the hips, forced her off the chair, and scooted forward. Before she had time to do more than frown, he’d grabbed her and flipped her down over his lap. Her hips were against his right thigh, her shoulders resting on the left, and her breasts dangled between his legs.

“You need a good spanking.” He raised his hand, and brought it down on her ass in a loud, cracking smack.