She snorted then her hand came up to cover her mouth, as though horrified that noise had come from her. But he had to grin. That was adorable.
“Some submissives like to please. Some enjoy the loss of control. They want to hand all the decisions over to someone else and just be. They aren’t in charge. They don’t have to decide what to do.”
She stared hard at the scene in front of them. He wondered what sort of sub she’d be. What would she be like if she ever lost that reserve?
“Where are you at on the scale?”
“Oh, I think a three.”
Uh-uh he wasn’t letting her get away with that. “What did I tell you about honesty? There needs to be honesty and communication between a submissive and their Dominant. That’s really fucking important. You tell me you like something and then I do it in a scene when actually you were unsure, that sort of shit can land us in a whole heap of mess. I ask you if the ties around your wrists are too tight and you say no, then at the end of the scene, you have no blood flowing in your hands, that’s a fucking problem. See where I’m going with this?”
“Yes, I understand.”
“Where are you on the scale with this scene?”
“Four,” she replied quietly.
“Good girl.” He had to fight the urge to touch her again.
As the submissive’s cries grew louder, he found himself watching Betsy. She was biting down on her full lip; her cheeks were slightly flushed. Definitely aroused. Intrigued.
His cock pressed against his jeans.
As the sub came, he found himself imagining Betsy on the table, tied down, her ass red, her pussy wet with her juices. He wondered what she’d be like when she came. Would she make much noise? Would she cry out? How would she taste? Salty? Sweet?
> Fuck. Stop it, man.
“Come on, let’s find another scene.”
She’d need to start off with a patient Dom. Someone who could take some time with her. Which wasn’t him. He wasn’t here often enough to help her.
You could be, though.
Ahh, nope. Not happening.
2
“Let’s go look at the themed rooms,” Ink suggested to a quiet Betsy.
He led her over to a door, wondering how she could wear those stilettos. But she seemed to glide on them. Even with them, she barely reached his chin. Without the shoes, she’d probably reach the top of his shoulder.
He held open the door and she paused, looking up at him.
“What is it? You don’t think a tattooed biker can have manners?” he snapped.
“You’re a biker?”
“Ahh, yeah.” Great. Way to scare her off more. Idiot.
Not that it mattered, since he wouldn’t have anything to do with her after tonight.
“What sort of bike do you own?” she asked as they walked through the door.
“Harley Davidson Dyna.”
“My grandfather had a hog. He used to take me for rides on it. Well, when grandmama wasn’t around to stop him. I liked it. It felt like I was free. Like I had no worries.”
Yeah. He got that. Except what worries did she have as a damn kid?