Fearless (15 page)

“Alright, Angel, you win.” Beckett says softly. “But a true compromise means both parties give up something. What are you willing to give up?” Without waiting for an answer, he turns to Gavin and says abruptly, “She will give you her address.”

I write down my address and hand it to Gavin. “You are either exceedingly daring or exceedingly stupid,” he whispers confidentially. “But I'm going to wonder all night what you end up compromising on.”

I laugh. “Thanks for everything, Gavin,” I say, hugging him again.

“No problem,” he says, grinning. “Maybe I'll see you at the club sometime.”

Beckett and I are both starving after we leave the costume shop, so we stop for lunch at a nearby deli. As we eat, I casually say, “Gavin said something about seeing me at a club. What club?”

Beckett sighs. “Gavin also works at a BDSM club owned by a friend of mine.”

Oh. Pandora's Box has officially been opened.

“So, do you go there a lot?” I ask, nervously twirling my straw. Obviously he must since Gavin knows him, but I realize I don't like the thought of him doing the things he did to me with other women, especially random women in a club. Of course, that's ridiculous. It's who he is, and I certainly can't judge him for it.

He lays his hand over mine, waiting patiently until I look at him.

“I've gone a few times over the years because my friend asked me to, but I found I don't particularly like hooking up with someone just for the night. Call me old-fashioned,” he adds drily. “But I like a relationship with the women I tie up.”

The relief washes over me like a welcome rain. “I don't think I would ever call you old-fashioned,” I say. “Have you ever taken a girlfriend there?”

“Actually, no. I never have. Why? Would you like to go?”

His question catches me off guard, and I feel the telltale heat in my cheeks. Would I? “I don't know,” I say honestly. “I'm so new to all of this. Maybe someday, but I have trouble just being naked around you.”

“Fair enough,” he says, rubbing his thumb across my knuckles in a way that both comforts and arouses me. “I'm not sure how I feel about it myself. We have a lot to explore on our own. I don't know if I want to share what we have with anyone else.”

My breath catches at the implications. Eager to divert the conversation and curious about his relationship with Gavin I add, “Gavin seemed to know you pretty well.”

“Not that well,” he says. “I have rented costumes from him on several occasions, and as I said he works at the club owned by my friend Dominic, who happens to be a colleague of mine at the hospital.”

I look at him in surprise. “Really? The secret world of doctors! Who knew?”

“I assure you that most doctors are quite vanilla and boring. And doctorly,” he adds with a twinkle in his eye. I smile back at him. “Are you ready to go? We have one more stop.”

Beckett doesn't say any more about where we're going and I don't ask. Instead, we talk about the gala and Beckett's dad and his memoir until we pull up in front of an unassuming small storefront in Montrose, an eclectic neighborhood near downtown.

As Beckett holds open the door for me, my curiosity finally gets the best of me. “What are we doing here?”

“Just picking up one last thing for you to wear tonight,” he replies mysteriously.

Stepping inside I look around, taking in the assortment of lingerie, restraints, lotions, and sex toys of all kinds. We're in an adult store. An upscale and discreet one from the looks of it, but an adult store nonetheless.

“Here?” I ask, confused.

“Yes, here,” he answers, amused. He places his hand on the small of my back and pushes me all the way into the store. I have no idea what he could possibly want me to wear out in public from here.

“What if I don't want to?” I ask a little desperately. “I have a say in it, right?”

“No, you don't,” he says softly. “Compromise, remember?”

I swallow. This is clearly where I am supposed to concede in exchange for refusing to get ready for the gala at his place.

Taking my hand, Beckett says, “I also want to see what you're curious about. Come on.”

Hand in hand, we wander around the store, stopping at a display case that holds an assortment of what appears to be jewelry of some kind.

“What are those?” I ask, intrigued. “They look like the pins my grandmother used to wear on her coat lapels.”

Beckett laughs. “I doubt your grandmother ever wore anything like that. Those are nipple rings for pierced nipples.”

I cringe and cover my breasts instinctively. That is one part of my body I know without a doubt I will never pierce.

“By your reaction I'm guessing you would like these more,” he says with amusement, pointing to an assortment of what looks like earrings. “Those are nipple jewelry for non-pierced nipples.”

I take a closer look. While they definitely resemble dangly earrings, there's a loop on them where the post would be on earrings. Some have jewels hanging from them, and others look like chandelier drops. I pick up a particularly pretty silver pair that has tiny silver bells hanging from them.

“The loop fits over the nipple and then you tighten the loop so it stays on,” he explains softly. “It also keeps your nipple erect.” He points to a simple looking circular pair. “These nipple rings fit around the nipple. You can adjust them for a tighter fit. And these,” he adds, picking up a silver pair that are flat and resemble a flower, “fit around the nipple and lay flat. You can attach chains to almost all of these.”

I can feel my face flush and my nipples tighten at his matter-of-fact explanation.

Smiling slightly, he says, “I think these have definite potential.”

“Here's another type,” he says, drawing me down the display counter with him. He picks up what looks like two small tweezers with rubber tips. “Are you familiar with nipple clamps?”

I shake my head mutely.

“They clamp around the nipple like this,” he says, securing the rubber tipped end of one around my pinky finger to demonstrate. He slides a small ring up toward the tipped end, causing the two halves to close tighter so that the clamp squeezes my finger. He gently swirls his tongue around the clamped tip of my finger and my mouth goes dry as I grasp the implication of the clamp. I wonder what it would feel like. It's unnerving to think about, but my sex clenches at the thought anyway.

“You can add some pretty jeweled weights to these to increase the pressure or a chain to connect the two,” he adds, expertly releasing my finger.

He casually pulls me to the other side of the glass display case, which houses the most extensive selection of vibrators I have ever seen. Granted, my experience is limited to one giggle filled trip to a novelty store before Lainey's bachelorette party, but I can't imagine why anyone would need this many different kinds.

“Maybe we should pick out one of these for you,” Beckett suggests. “But,” he warns, “everything from this shopping trip is going to my place.”

I give him a puzzled look. I'm pretty sure a vibrator is for when I'm not with him, not when I am. Why would I want to keep a vibrator at his place?

“I doubt that's necessary,” I say sarcastically. “You seem more than capable of, um, taking care of me on your own.”

Beckett's eyes darken. “Sometimes I forget how innocent you are,” he murmurs, rubbing his knuckles across my cheek. “There's a lot of…” he pauses, searching for the right word, “fun we could have together with this.”

“Oh,” I say, flushing as my mind immediately conjures up a picture of me, him, and a vibrator.

To my embarrassment, he motions the saleswoman over who has been discreetly reading something behind the counter and asks to see several. He inspects each one carefully before handing them back to her. “We'll take this one,” he says, pointing to a wand looking thing.

“Excellent,” the saleswoman said, discreetly placing the boxes back in the case. “I'll be right back with one for you. I'll keep it up here at the counter for you until you're ready to check out if you'd like to look around some more.”

I have already started wandering down another aisle, intrigued by a metal bar with cuffs attached to either end, and Beckett follows me.

“That's a spreader bar,” he says. “Want to see how it works?”

My eyes dart nervously around the deserted store.

“Don't worry,” Beckett says reassuringly. “She went into the back. It's just us.”

He bends down and secures one leather cuff around my ankle, which is bare since I'm wearing sandals.

“The cuffs attach to each ankle like this,” he explains. He gently nudges my feet until they are shoulder distance apart, the same width as the bar, and fastens the second cuff to my other ankle. “As the name suggests, a spreader bar keeps your legs spread and open.”

He trails a finger up my inner thigh and under my skirt to my panties. He places his palm firmly over my mound. My panties are undeniably wet.

“Interesting,” he says softly, rubbing the wet fabric over my sex. I squirm. “It looks like that is a definite yes.”

He uncuffs my ankles and puts the spreader bar back on the shelf. I take a deep breath, trying to slow my heartbeat. Taking my hand in his, he pulls me over to a wall that holds an assortment of paddles, whips, and sticks of some kind.

“What are these for?” I ask, horrified. “Don't they hurt?”

“Some do,” Beckett concedes. “Others add just enough pain to increase the pleasure. It really depends on the person. Different people have different appetites for pain.”

He nonchalantly picks up a leather paddle. “This, for instance, delivers a thud that can be quite erotic when used correctly.” He's watching me closely, gauging my reaction. He arches an eyebrow as I squirm slightly.

“Hmmm, maybe we'll have to try that,” he says.

My eyes fly to his and he smiles, the corners of his eyes crinkling, and once again the thought crosses my mind that I'd do just about anything to see that smile.

He sets the paddle down and picks up a whip, snapping it through the air with a practiced flick of his wrist. With a loud crack, it lands on a wooden bench.

“How much a whip hurts depends on the skill of the person wielding it,” he tells me. “A few well-placed strokes with a whip can be quite erotic. Same thing with a leather belt.”

“And you are accomplished at this no doubt?” I say sardonically.

He grins. “Or course!”

He picks up a long, thin cane next and brings it down hard on the bench. I flinch.

“A definite no, I'd say,” he observes, putting it back. “I don't care for them much myself.”

“What about that?” I ask, nodding toward what looks like a small whip with a dozen leather strips.

“Ah, that's a flogger,” he says, picking it up and running the leather strands through his fingers. “This is built for pleasure.”

I must look unconvinced because he says, “I'll show you. Hold out your hand.”

I tentatively hold out my hand. He gently turns it so my palm is up. With one deft motion, he flicks it over my palm.

“Did that hurt?” he asks.

“No,” I admit. “It felt more like a thud than a sting.”

“Imagine that over your breasts and your stomach,” he says sensually. “Imagine it across your bottom, caressing your sex.”

I close my eyes against the onslaught of desire that courses through my body at his seductive words. I can't imagine why the thought of him whipping me with this foreign implement arouses me, but there's no doubt that it does.

Uncomfortable with my thoughts, I turn to a display of edible underwear. “Maybe I should get a pair of these,” I suggest.

Beckett doesn't smile back. “I don't think so,” he says seriously. “I like the taste of you.”

Flustered, I turn away only to find myself face to face with a collection of anal toys. Beckett's arms wrap around me from behind and I lean back into him. This store is literally making me weak in the knees. With his mouth near my ear, Beckett says in a low voice, “Those are anal plugs.”

I shudder, although I'm not sure if it's from arousal or fear. I'm starting to see how the two go together. “I think I've hit sensory overload,” I say.

Beckett smiles. “Alright, Angel.” Letting go of me he says, “I'll go pay and we'll leave.”

While he pays, I continue to look around. Like a moth to a flame, I'm inexplicably drawn to the fire. When he joins me, a discreet brown shopping bag in his hand, I'm looking at an assortment of leather collars of various colors and widths, some with spikes and others with metal rings attached. “Do people actually wear these?” I ask.

Beckett selects a simple black leather one that is about an inch thick. “Lift your hair,” he commands softly. As I pull my hair into a ponytail with my hand, he fastens the soft leather collar around my neck tightly enough so that there's just enough space for him to slip his finger in between the collar and my neck. He hooks a finger through the d-ring on the front of the collar and tugs gently, pulling me in front of a mirror.

I almost don't recognize myself with the collar around my throat, my eyes glazed with need.

Beckett's breath catches. “You look beautiful,” he murmurs. “A sub wears a collar as a symbol of belonging, heart and soul, to the man she gives herself to.”

I can't make sense of the dichotomy of emotions that are warring inside of me. There's an uncomfortable ball of need forming deep in my core, but my mind is having trouble keeping up with the desires of my body. I shouldn't be wondering what it would feel like to be restrained and at his mercy, to have him invade and stretch that most private of entries or feel the sting of a paddle against my buttocks. And I certainly shouldn't be aroused by wearing a collar or being owned, even figuratively, by a man. It goes against everything I stand for, and is counter intuitive to every shred of independence and self-reliance I have fought for, during my marriage and after it ended. Suddenly, I can't breathe.