True North (Compass series Book 4) (11 page)

“I was talking about your crash course in rope bondage, but we can talk about Sprite instead.”

At that, I scowl and take another deep draught of the tonic. I set the glass down when I finish and tap my nails against it, deciding whether to go for it or not. Rey doesn’t say anything, just sits there waiting, like he could do this all night. He probably could. And will if I keep being a stubborn fuck, which would be embarrassing. Like a kid sitting in front of a plate of broccoli he just won’t eat.

“Do you think she’d ever play with me?”

Rey’s expression doesn’t betray anything as one of his long fingers wipes a line of condensation from his glass. “Eventually.”

But not yet. “Because she’s not ready or I’m not?”

“I think she’s willing, and if it were someone else, I might say you were ready too. But with your ex-wife? It’s not like your divorce was exactly amicable. It’s been a while, but that doesn’t change the fact that it was pretty soul-shredding. At least for her and I’m guessing for you too, though I doubt you let her in on that. I would urge you to put a great deal of thought into why your marriage ended and whether starting whatever kind of relationship this is going to be is a good idea before you try to vault that goat.”

I’m distracted by his valid-but-still-annoying advice and his odd turn of phrase. “Vault that what?”

“Goat.” He says it with the same certainty he says everything else, and for a second I’m convinced I’m the one who’s been getting that expression wrong my whole life. But no.

“You mean horse. Vault that
horse
.”

With a wave of his hand, he dismisses me. “Sports. Whatever. My point is that I’d give yourself a little more time and probably a sit-down chat with your intended. You’re not ready.”

Most of the time, Rey is a wizard at manipulation. He got me here, a place where I put all my most disconcerting inclinations on display, after all. But he’s made a serious misstep; telling me I can’t do something is almost a guarantee that I will. Instead of protesting and inviting more argument, more discussion, more of his assessment that I’m not good enough, I grit my teeth and nod. We’ll see about that.

‡

W
hen I see
Pressly at the Black House again, she’s not wearing her cherry-red, hot-as-fuck getup or her flowy angel ensemble. No, this time she’s got on a sparkly blue outfit. A corset laced with silver that feeds into this stiff-looking tutu-thing. It’s crinkled like holiday ribbon candy and winds around her waist. The bottom barely covers her ass cheeks, and I have to close my eyes because, if I look at her anymore, I’m going to get hard for sure. Maybe that’s why so many of the dudes around here wear leather pants. Harder to see a boner through. I’d feel like such a faker, though, shimmying into those things, and I bet they’d be hot as hell and kind of swampy. But mostly it’s the uncomfortable feeling of not quite belonging here. But that’s what I do best: fake it till I make it.

I open my eyes in time to see her smile at me. I’d been so busy staring at her corset I hadn’t even noticed the pigtails sprouting from the top of her head, the glitzy silver ribbons tied around them in perfect bows, emphasizing blue streaks in her hair. Those have got to be fake. I can’t imagine Senator Johnson lets his staff walk around looking like something out of
The Fifth Element
.

Cotton candy Pressly, rocking her tall silver boots with the bright blue laces pulled tight, skips up to me, and I half-expect her to pull out a lollipop and start licking it suggestively. Not that I’d mind. At all.

Her lips are bright pink and wetly slick. It’s like someone melted down sugar and coated her mouth with it. Pressly’s always been sweet, but in a diaphanous, pastel way. Now it’s like her sweetness has been distilled into liquid candy. She’s Pressly concentrate, and I want to tip my head back and chug the whole bottle no matter how sick it’s going to make me. I want to gorge myself on her.

“Come on,” she says, holding out a hand. I blink at her, barely believing this is happening. I know she said she’d like to see me here again, but this affability is beyond anything I ever expected. But fuck me if I’m not going to take every inch she’ll give. When I place my hand in hers, she smiles and the pinks and blues and blonde fucking slay me.

“Cheer up, Hale. Things can’t be that bad.”

But they can, Press. They can. They’re going to be awful.

She pats my cheek and pinches it lightly before dragging me down the hall, calling over her shoulder, “I want to introduce you to some people.”

The group she tows me over to is the kind of ragtag bunch I’ve become accustomed to. Most of them are about Pressly’s age, a few younger. I totally feel like the dad, wearing my suit in a sea of candy colors.

One…person looks me up and down,
their
? gaze critical. I honestly can’t tell if it’s a man or a woman, and for some reason that throws me. Of all the things…but I suppose it’s been one thing I could count on here, something I could still understand, and now I can’t. When their eyes finally meet mine, they cock their head in challenge. “Do you pronoun as you present?”

“Do I—what?”

There are some snickers, which send pricks of annoyance down my spine. Like this is a question people ask me every day. Do I pronoun as I present? What the hell does that even mean?

They sneer at me and raise an unimpressed eyebrow. “I’m assuming yes.”

“Kindle, don’t be a jerk. You know he does. And you!” Press elbows me in the ribs, and I mutter an “ow” before I can help myself. Girl’s got some damn sharp elbows. Always has. One hazard of sleeping with her at night. Some mornings I’d wake up with bruises on my ribs. “Stop staring. You can be a dick about a lot of things. This is not one of them. If Rey finds out you’re being an asswipe, he’s going to fly out here and slap you in the face. Not in a fun, consensual way either.”

Fun, consensual face-slapping? God I want that from her. Judging by the devious smile curling her cotton-candy mouth, she knows it. “Maybe if you’re good, I’ll show you later.”

And there goes my dick. Fuck. I let her drag me down the hall, trying not to stare at her ass the whole time, but it’s hard. At last she shows me into a room that looks a lot like the other rooms I’ve seen in here. Toys hung on the wall, a chest of drawers that no doubt contain still more toys.

There’s no bed in here, just a spanking bench and a grid of metal on one wall that offers a thousand possibilities for restraint. She twirls around and poses like a kinky Vanna White. “For your pleasure this evening, we have a wide variety of floggers and restraints.”

“But—”

“But nothing. Rey said you wanted to learn, so I’m going to teach you and then you’re going to practice.”

He said he’d find me a teacher, but I’d assumed it would be Zelda or Tangent or one of the other tops he’s introduced me to over the past two months. Not Press. Especially after what he said to me last time. Either he’d changed his mind or Pressly had
asked
. God, I hope she asked.

“On you?”

“Yes. So you’d best pay attention.”

My stomach tries to turn itself inside out. Whether because the idea of beating Press excites me beyond belief or because it scares the living shit out of me, I couldn’t say.

She must see it on my face because her manic expression gentles. “Are you worried you’re going to hurt me?”

“Yeah.” I mean, Rey’s showed me the basics and I’ve gotten a little practice in, but this isn’t something you pick up overnight. And if I make a mistake… My stomach lurches again. I can’t. There’s something else too. “You’re going to teach me?”

She purses her lips, and the pink candy push of them makes me think of how they’d look wrapped around my cock.
Dammit, Lewis, get your shit together. She’s barely agreed to play with you; there has been no discussion of sex whatsoever. Down, boy.

“Yes, I’m going to teach you. What, you don’t think I can wield a flogger?”

“I thought you were a bottom. Why would you know how?”

“First of all, I’m more of a sub than a bottom. Second of all, with the right person I can be a little switchy. Not a lot, but for the right girl?” One of her perfectly sculpted blonde eyebrows and the corner of her mouth goes up.
Girl
? Now I have to imagine Pressly topping another woman, and even though I know it wouldn’t be for me, well, goddamn would I like to be a fly on the wall for that. “You, though? You make me want to get on my knees.”

She needs to stop saying things like that. My heart is going to give out.

“But first things first.”

She shows me over to the wall where there are dozens of floggers on display. Different sizes, different colors, and though I hadn’t noticed at first, she points out the different materials.

“This one’s nice and heavy, gives good thud. If you like that kind of thing. But this one…” She reaches for one that doesn’t look as heavy, but in between the strips of hide, there’s something less natural-looking. Rubber. “It’s good for making things more sting-y. If you like
that
kind of thing.”

“And what do you like?”

“I’m more of a thud girl myself, but depending on my mood or how skillful my partner is, I can enjoy some sting.”

“Well, then, Little Miss Know-It-All, what should I use?”

She drags a manicured hand through the floggers, her perfectly painted fingertips swishing through the falls. It looks so sensual I wish it was my skin she was caressing instead of some inanimate leather that’s not going to appreciate it. She picks out one from the rack, hefting it in her hand. I can’t help wrinkling my nose because it doesn’t look particularly badass. There’s some black, but mostly the falls are silver and bright blue. It looks like it could be a prop on the set of a
Star Trek
porno.

Apparently I don’t relax my features well enough before she turns around. “Don’t be a dick. This is a good length for you, it’s well-balanced, and it would be near-impossible to really hurt me with it. Besides, it matches my outfit.”

I have to laugh. Pressly the fashion plate. Of course she’d want the goddamn flogger to match her outfit. “Fair enough.”

She holds it out to me, and I take it, the handle heavier than I would’ve thought. But she’s right. It feels good in my hand, the braided leather lending it a good grip, and if I can ignore the sparkle, she’s made a good choice. Probably better than I would’ve made for myself. I flick it through the air experimentally, and yeah, I can imagine how the impact of the falls hitting flesh will feel through my hand and up my arm.

“What do you think?”

“Good choice, Sprite.”

She preens under my praise and curtsies, and fuck if that doesn’t make me hard.

“Then let’s get started. First, you’re going to give me a demo of what Rey’s taught you.” She leads me over to a wall and gestures at it. “Show me what you got, hotshot.”

I feel a little intimidated because I haven’t done this much and she clearly has not only been with a bunch of people who know what they’re doing, but is also well-schooled in her own right. But Pressly’s not like me; she’s nice. She might correct me if I’m screwing up, but she’s not going to be a dick about it.

So I draw my arm back and then bring it forward with a flick of my wrist to let the falls hit the painted surface. There’s a satisfying thwack and she nods. “Not bad for a newbie, Hale.”

I’m proud of her compliment, but I wish she wouldn’t call me Hale. That’s for people who don’t know any better, who I don’t want to know any better.

She urges me to give a few more strokes, so I do, getting more confident as I go. Finally, she tells me to stop. “Wouldn’t want you getting worn out before we get to the good part, would we?”

All I can do is shake my head. That’s when she turns around and says, “Could you help me with this?”

Help her with what?

A slightly exasperated Pressly looks over her shoulder. “I don’t seem to remember you having any problems taking my clothes off. Are you out of practice?”

I grunt my response as I reach for her corset strings because I don’t want to admit that, yeah, I’m out of practice. Taking the strings between my fingers, I tug, and it takes a little work to get them to unfurl in my hands. Then I work at loosening the laces. They’re not done tight, but Press still takes a deep breath when I’ve undone them and then shimmies it over her head.

My wife is topless. I want to spin her around, see her, and touch her, but that is so not allowed. All I can do is watch as her hands circle behind her back and unhitch the stiff tutu, sliding it off her hips and onto the floor, leaving her in a bright blue garter belt and panties with silver spangly garters that hold up her sheer black stockings.

The woman is clearly trying to kill me. Her hotness should be considered a lethal weapon.

“Don’t look at me like that,” she scolds. “Like you haven’t seen a half-naked woman in six years.”

Damn close, Press.

She turns far enough that I can see the curve of her breast, and I nearly fall over when I trail after her, trying to get a glimpse of her nipple. I manage, through the grace of some kinky angel, to make it over to the wall with the metal grid without tripping, running into anything, or otherwise making an ass of myself.