Griffin blinked at Isaac, whose expression was full of questions. “Yeah, yeah, sure. Just, uh, thought I saw someone.” He shook his head. “But I was wrong. It’s nothing.”
Without another word, he was out of the control room and making his way through the back channels to the Masters’ lounge—a private space on the second floor for the club’s twelve Master members. He needed to shower and change before his demonstration. And he needed a few minutes to get his fucking head screwed on right—because Griffin had a real live submissive to take care of in thirty minutes, which meant he didn’t have time to spend time on ghosts or wishful thinking.
Because none of those would change a goddamned thing anyway. Some regrets you just had to live with.
CHAPTER THREE
What the hell am I doing here?
That was pretty much the tenor of Kenna’s thoughts as she made her way out into the main part of the club. Five weeks had passed since she’d first questioned whether submission and bondage might help her stress and pain and general frame of mind. Five weeks of not being able to put her questioning thoughts aside no matter how hard she tried. So three weeks ago, she’d called the club to see whether it would be possible to reinstate her membership. It had only taken two days for Master Hale, whose name she’d recalled though she’d never met him, to return her inquiry and let her know that the answer was yes.
So here she was.
At Blasphemy.
She was surrounded by a subtle, driving, chanting music, the cries and groans of lovemaking and submission, and an erotic vibe that threatened to crawl under her skin exactly the way it had back in the old days. The Marines hadn’t left her with much time to worry about her sex life—between training and deployment, sleep had been at a premium, let alone sex. Still, on some level, she’d really missed this—this need to serve, to submit.
The beauty of the old church combined with the decadence of the décor to create a sensation that was heady and even a little overwhelming after all this time. Kenna felt eyes running over her black PVC wet-look body suit with its plunging neckline and zip-up front, which made her even more grateful for the suit’s awesome hood—that part had been key. She wasn’t sure whether Griffin would know about her return ahead of time, but whether he did or not, she’d felt like the cover of the hood would allow her to ease back into this place at her own pace. Back into this lifestyle. This part of her old self—whatever part of that was left, anyway. The body suit was styled like a swim suit on the bottom, leaving her legs bare, but had long sleeves that mostly hid her arm until she was ready to reveal it. The black of her right hand would likely appear like part of the costume until someone looked more closely.
Of course, if she didn’t chicken out and bail, she’d tell anyone she might play with about the arm.
Screw that. What kind of Marine thought about chickening out?
None.
Get your shit together, Private Sloane! The memory of her crazy-ass gunnery sergeant’s bark eked a smile out of her.
Right. Okay. Getting shit together right this very second.
Besides, she was more likely going to have a face the possibility of a Dominant backing off because of her arm. Back when she’d been in the scene, she couldn’t remember ever seeing someone with an amputation at a club or play party. She could imagine some Doms might be too worried about hurting her to either want to play with her or give her want she really needed. But she couldn’t possibly be the only kinky amputee in the world, could she?
Kinky amputee. She totally needed that on a T-shirt. Shaking her head, she hid a little smile under her hood.
Whatever happened, what did she have to lose? She wasn’t here for love. She wasn’t really here for sex, either, though she’d have it. She was here for submission—and the incredible freedom and release from her own mind and body it had once brought her. And might bring her again.
It was worth a try, anyway. At this point, she’d try anything to feel better, lighter, freer. Even if for only a few minutes.
There were no seats open at the bar, but Kenna managed to find a place to lean against the marble counter, a place where she could survey the scene—and the people. She told herself she was just taking in everyone and everything, but she couldn’t hide the truth from herself. She was hoping to see one person in particular.