Goal Line (The Dartmouth Cobras Book 7) (14 page)

“Tell me what you’re thinking, Sahara.” Pischlar had shifted over to sit on the table in front of her, and she hadn’t even noticed. But his hands wrapping around hers steadied her. “Do you still trust me?”

“Yes.” She didn’t even have to consider her answer. This man was her friend. Playful or not, he’d been her only Dom for over a year. The only one who’d taken the chance on introducing her to a lifestyle she was clueless about. Sure, it had been BDSM-lite, but it had been enough to leave her wanting more. “I guess…I just wonder if it’s always going to be like this. Just playing for a little bit, then nothing for weeks. I guess I want it to be real.”

Lips twitching at the edges, Pischlar nodded. “I think you’ll find that soon enough. But you know it’s more than I can give you.”

“I know.”

“Do you think tonight will tide you over for a little bit? We have a couple of days after the next game before we head to New York. I can bring you to the club in a week or so for a more intense scene if that’s what you’re looking for.”

“I’d like that.” She let herself fall into his seize-the-moment mentality. And glanced over at White, who looked like he thought he shouldn’t be here. Maybe she could accomplish a little more than subspace during the scene. “White, you should stay. But the rules for you won’t be the same as the ones for Pischlar.”

White’s throat worked as he swallowed. “What do you mean?”

Even Pischlar had cocked his head, looking curious to know what she was up to.

She batted her eyelashes sweetly at White. “We’ve never done anything together. I’d feel much more comfortable if we shared some limits.”

“That sounds fair.” White’s brow furrowed. “What limits?”

Smiling, Sahara pointed to the center of her chest. “Anything you do to me, you should be able to do to him, or let him do to you. Naturally, I’ll let the two of you decide which.”

Letting out a rough laugh, Pischlar stood and pulled her to her feet. “You’re topping from the bottom, pet.”

“Not at all, Sir. I’m not submitting to White.”

“Or to me, by the sounds of it.” Pischlar slid his hand into her hair, tugging to tip her head back. “The only thing you get to decide is whether or not I can fuck you tonight. If White wants to play, he and I will discuss his limits.”

White rose to stand beside Pischlar. “I’ll do it.”

Perfectly still, Pischlar released his hold on her hair and stared at White. His eyes were guarded, but there was a hunger within them that told Sahara she’d been right to manipulate the scene in his favor, even if it wasn’t very good submissive behavior.

“You wanna repeat that? You are aware of what she’s asking?”

Folding his arms over his chest, White scowled at Pischlar. “I heard her. And I’m not stupid.”

“I never said you were.”

“No, but you and everyone else treat me like I am. You pointed out that I should know more about the lifestyle.” White took a deep breath. “I don’t know as much as I should, but I know a lot of Doms train with other Doms. So train me.”

With a shake of his head, Pischlar moved away from her. He walked over to the window, gazing out to the street, lost in his own thoughts.

Sahara bit her lip. All right, maybe this
hadn’t
been such a good idea after all.

The silence stretched out. White made an aggravated sound and took a few steps toward Pischlar. “If you don’t want me—”

“Clear off the table, White.” Pischlar’s tone had changed. It had an edge of command to it—the solid, unwavering one that made goose bumps rise all over Sahara’s flesh. He didn’t turn around until White began to clear the table. “No sex tonight. And that only includes actual penetration.” His gaze leveled with hers, cool and calculating. “I will touch you and taste you, Sahara. White may as well, if he’s game for what that entails.”

His words reached White, who promptly walked into the doorframe and let out a shocked grunt.

Pischlar’s lips slid into an evil smile. “She’s tempting, isn’t she, Bruiser?”

Wetting his lips with his tongue, White didn’t move a muscle. Or speak. He didn’t seem sure of the appropriate response.

A throaty chuckle and Pischlar slipped to her side. Circled her, brushing her hair over one shoulder. Kissing her throat. “Don’t be shy, Ian. She’s not.” He undid the first few buttons of her blouse. “Come here.”

Shivering, not because of the cold, but because the adrenaline was giving her a heady rush, Sahara watched White close the distance between them. He kept his hands fisted by his sides, like he was afraid he couldn’t resist touching her if he relaxed even a little. His eyes were hooded with lust, and he inhaled roughly as though he’d forgotten to breathe.

Such a big man, so strong, but while she felt the slight pull of attraction to him, nothing compared to the commanding presence of Pischlar. He wasn’t the type of Dom most women thought of when exploring BDSM, but from her experiences at the club, she knew he was one of the most respected in their community. His easygoing nature was a sheer veil, concealing a man who exuded control as effortlessly as he glided on blades across the ice.

He brought his hand up to the back of White’s neck. “The pretty skirt and blouse don’t hide much, but they’re in our way. Take them from her.”

Leaning toward her, White brushed his cheek against hers, his fingers on the buttons of her blouse as he whispered, “Are you okay with this?”

With the scene? Yes. But she hated being asked once the negotiations had been done. She couldn’t be too irritated with White though. Not with Pischlar’s lips twitching slightly like he’d heard and was waiting for her to rethink the situation she’d put herself in.

“I’m fine, White. I promise, I’ll safeword if I need to.” She nibbled on her bottom lip, considering. “Will you kiss me?”

White froze with her buttons half undone. He shifted so his lips were close to hers. And shook his head. “No. I’m sorry, but that’s kinda personal and this is a one-time thing, right? Friends fooling around?”

Pischlar didn’t give her a chance to answer. He let out a laugh that was so cool it made her shiver. “That’s right, White. Nothing serious. I’ve never found kissing alone to be an issue, but we can follow the
Pretty Woman
regimen if you’d like.”

“Don’t be an asshole, Easy.” White traced the tips of his fingers over the exposed flesh of her ribs, as though trying to soothe her. Or himself. “You’ve got your ‘Don’t try to keep me’ lecture. She has limits. This is my thing.”

“Fair enough.” Pischlar stroked the side of White’s neck with his thumb, his tone softening as White’s eyes drifted shut with a quiet sound of pleasure. “I apologize.”

“No need. Just keep doing that.” White finished with the buttons without opening his eyes. “Fuck, a bit more pressure and I’ll do anything. I should have added a massage to my demands.”

Pischlar chuckled as he worked the muscles of White’s neck with his hand. “What demands?”

Eyes open now, White grinned at Sahara, then slid her shirt off her shoulders. He bent a little to reach the zipper at the back of her skirt. “Guess I really didn’t need to make any, did I?”

Heat spread over Sahara’s cheeks, and she couldn’t help combing her fingers through the soft, messy brown hair that almost reached White’s shoulders. These two men might not be the forever kind, but they made her feel beautiful and desirable. Special and cared for.

“You’re gonna be a handful, Bruiser. If it takes you this long to get her undressed, the poor girl is going to get bored.” Pischlar circled them, coming up behind Sahara and deftly unfastening her bra strap while White peeled down her skirt and helped her step out of it. “I’ve seen you get a girl out of her clothes much faster.”

Once he’d straightened, White cupped Sahara’s cheeks in his hands and caressed her bottom lip with his thumb. “They didn’t mean nothin’.”

Hand up, Pischlar made a dismissive gesture. “Enough with the sappiness. Damn, no wonder you’re single.” Pischlar removed Sahara’s bra, tossed it aside, and then swooped her up into his arms. “Save the sweet talk for the ladies you’re taking out to dinner. This one’s on loan.” As he lowered her to the table, he gave her a playful wink. “I’ve actually read some fun books about Doms lending their subs to others. My favorite involved a cage, but with such short notice—”

Sahara rolled her eyes and giggled. “I’m not on loan.”

By her side, White released a low growl. “You’re not putting her in a fucking cage.”

That made Sahara laugh. And Pischlar was soon chuckling and trying to calm the protective male. He also seemed to be using every possible opportunity to touch White, and so far, White didn’t appear to mind.

Progress!
Her inner cheerleader did a little dance.

Laid out on the table, she settled in for a playful scene, maybe a bit like the one she’d done with Pischlar and Ford. She’d never given Akira any details because it was hard to even meet Ford’s eyes without remembering everything he’d done with his hands and mouth and tongue. He was pretty intense, but she hadn’t felt a strong connection with him. And she’d always known Pischlar was in charge.

And yet, she’d never had trouble interacting with Pischlar in public. He was the type of man who could see you at your worst, drunk out of your mind, or embarrassing yourself on a Murphy’s Law kinda day, and he’d treat you no differently once you’d pulled yourself together. Almost like it had never happened.

Which was probably why it was so easy for her, and several of his teammates, to fool around with him. The next day, nothing changed. There was no jealousy—none that she’d ever seen anyway. He gave nothing his lovers could hang on to besides the memories.

“Are you with us, Sahara?” Pischlar tipped her chin up with a finger, smiling down at her when she nodded. “Good girl. Now give White your wrists. He will hold you while I toy with you. Are you still good with the club safeword?”

“Yes, but I doubt I’ll need it.” She lifted her wrists over her head, bending her knees slightly, relieved that she’d been left with her panties. For the moment anyway. Being topless was all right, but she needed to get used to White’s presence before she was completely exposed.

As White clamped his big hands around her wrists, Pischlar strolled out of the room like he’d forgotten about both of them. Sahara wasn’t worried; she trusted White and she wasn’t in the headspace where she’d need the presence of the Dom she’d submitted to. That probably wouldn’t happen at all tonight.

However, White looked irritated. He knelt at the end of the table. “What the fuck is he doing?”

Sahara shrugged. “I don’t know, but you sure do swear a lot.”

He cringed and muttered an apology.

“No big deal. Just try to relax and enjoy the scene.” She licked her lips, then widened her eyes in mock fear. “Unless he’s getting his really nasty toys. Floggers and butt plugs and canes—”

A creak of the floorboards was the only thing that warned them of Pischlar’s presence. He dropped his toy bag on the floor with a loud thump and smirked. “Oh my.”

Jaw clenched, White moved to stand. He practically snarled when Pischlar put a hand on his shoulder to still him. “Listen, pal. I’m not watching while you hurt her. She said she don’t like pain.”

Pischlar’s brow twitched up. “Do you?”

“Huh?”

“Do you enjoy pain, Ian? It’s a very simple question—one I suggest you consider before you continue speaking. You asked me to train you, which means you will be as respectfully submissive as our lovely Sahara.” His gaze drifted over to her. “Who will not tease those who are unaware that she’s joking.”

Uh-oh.
Sahara pressed her lips together, wondering if she could warn White not to push without getting herself in more trouble.

White released her wrists and stood. “This isn’t her fault. You’re gonna fucking tell us what you’re planning to do. And who the fuck likes pain?”

“Would you like a list?”

“You’re being an asshole again.”

“Am I?” Pischlar’s head tilted to one side. “How serious are you about training with me, Ian?”

Blinking and taking a step back as though his brain had just caught up, White hooked his thumbs to the top of the towel still wrapped around his waist. “I’m serious. I’ve just never… This whole scenario is kinda freaking me out.”

“Play doesn’t bother you at the club.” Pischlar’s tone was gentler, as though he had been prepared for the reaction, but was waiting for White to face it himself.

“I’m not part of the scenes. It’s none of my business, and they’re all together, you know? She’s not mine. Or yours. And cages and whips and…that’s too much.”

“Very well, but from this point on, you’ll find a better way to voice your objections. I don’t appreciate being sworn at during a scene. Or given orders by my trainee.” Pischlar folded his arms over his chest, no less intimidating in his faded jeans and white muscle shirt than any Dom in black leather. “If you understand and take your punishment, we can continue.”

Sahara bit her lip hard, waiting as White stared at his feet. Not that she was an expert or anything, but he didn’t seem submissive enough to accept a punishment. His pride might push him to hang in a bit longer. Pischlar wouldn’t accept a half-assed attempt though.