Trent went through a list, piece by piece. The longer they talked, the more relaxed she became, the less she seemed to notice the rest of the club and the less the questions seemed to bother her. They teased her as they asked each question, stroking over her bared skin.
Yes to bondage, no to suspension, yes to gags, yes to giving and receiving oral, no to watersports, yes to swallowing, a big no to humiliation, a maybe to exhibition.
Shewasstretched out in view of others, but the darkened seating areas offered a bit of privacy. They weren’t entirely on display, not doing a scene where others could watch.
Not that Garrison was all that into having an audience. He liked to focus on his partner, but if his partner liked it, he usually gave in. He didn’t mind others seeing what was his, enjoyed when they saw how beautiful a sub was, but he didn’t care for sex in public.
Trent released a hook on the front of her corset, then another. He worked down the front until he reached halfway. It kept it closed enough to hide her nipples but parted to show the delicious skin between her breasts.
And despite Sunny seeming zoned out, she noticedthat.
She rubbed her thighs together, her skirt having ridden up so it barely hid anything.
“How are you feeling, my little Fox?” Trent asked as if having a normal conversation.
And she gave him a look that said he was an idiot.
He traced the inside curve of her breast with his thumb. “Just checking in. Have to know how you’re feeling.”
“I’m fine,” she said, a quick answer that made Garrison suspect she was used to giving it no matter the truth.
“Do better.” Garrison ran his fingers along the waist of her skirt, then slipped them to the inside to repeat the motion. “It’s an important question. If you can’t tell your top how you feel, how do you think they’re going to know? Believe it or not, we aren’t mind readers.”
She arched up at the touch, like an offer, but Garrison kept the stroke innocent.
Well, as innocent as it could be, given she was bound across their laps and no doubt drenched.
“Come on, use your words,” Trent said.
Her lips parted, but no words came out. She tried, but frowned.
“You’re not used to talking about how you feel, are you?”
“It never mattered before,” she snapped. Had the lust inside her helped her to voice her frustration?
“It’s always mattered, even if some asshole ignored it, and it sure as hell matters to us. Can’t possibly expect us to do this right if you won’t tell us what you like and what you don’t like, what bothers you and what doesn’t. So the rule for tonight? When we ask, you give us a number. One to ten. One means you hate it—it means stop it now or that you’re afraid. Ten means you love it. Ten is the equivalent of getting on your pretty knees and begging us for more.”
Another shiver ran through her, her body so responsive even if she wasn’t entirely sure, even if she was nervous. So, it seemed she liked the idea of being on her knees.
So do I.
“So, that first night—give me a number on the cuffs.”
She licked her lip. “Eight.”
“Good girl. What about the clamps?”
“Nine.”
Garrison undid the bottom clasps of her corset until only one tiny hook held it closed. “My tongue on you?”
“Ten.” The number came out breathless, strained.
And boy, did it help Garrison’s ego. Trent might like a bit of pain, and Connor was all about restraint, but Garrison never got off to anything as much as having a woman mindless over what he did to her. His perfect night was wringing orgasm after orgasm out of a pretty body, watching her succumb to all that pleasure.
“This?” Connor slipped his fingers up the seam where her legs were pressed together, a clear request to part them.
“Ten,” she whispered again, her body quaking, probably unable to regulate itself anymore.