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He dropped to his haunches behind the biggest Dominant under the roof, easing forward to speak to Atticus. A short, terse discussion ensued, with Jasper looking none too happy with the outcome.
She hoped—oh, did she hope—that Master Jasper had come to his senses finally and seen her. Seen the woman she was, the submissive she tried to be for him. Because she sure as hell wasn’t submissive outside of the club.
Outside of Avalon, Anarchy Campbell lived up to her name.
She was twenty-five, single, and loved life. Every part of it, from the lowest points to the high. She rode the waves of it, ever the optimist, and found humor in whatever she could. In her opinion, it was the only way to live and not get sucked down into the depressing hell of the present-day world.
Laughter was the key.
Playing jokes, making mischief, was as much a part of her as the submissive. The first time she went to a BDSM club with her friends in Phoenix, the Dom she hooked up with called her a brat. He really hadn’t appreciated the bouncy excitement or flirtations she’d called upon to mask her nerves.
That seemed to be a running theme for the Dominants in the city.
They didn’t like who she was, but her body was good enough to tie up and exploit for a few hours. Yeah, definitely a theme there. In reality, she should have taken offense to being used that way, but being an optimist, she discarded the negativity and simply chose to view the encounters as valuable learning experiences.
The night she walked into Avalon with her friends, having been invited and sponsored by one of the club’s Dominant members, was the night she’d forever remember as a turning point in her life.
The night she met Jasper.
The night her heart rolled over beneath her breast and submitted.
The night she fell so far in love, no one existed for her but him.
Jasper wasn’t the tallest man in Avalon. He wasn’t excruciatingly handsome. At just over six feet tall, with that short crop of white hair she just knew would feel like velvet through her fingers, and those soul-devouring ice-blue eyes, he was an intimidating figure of authority.
Her ovaries executed a gymnastic routine worthy of the Olympics whenever she caught a glimpse of him—every night when she went home alone, her panties were wet with arousal.
That night, he’d appeared from the walkway with Braun like an angel of sex. The club owner had carried his exhausted submissive over to one of the booths while Jasper sauntered toward the bar. Toward Archie and her friends.
Her partners in crime had scattered, Anarchy recalled with a twitch of her lips. Taken one glance at the Master bearing down on them and herded themselves to the far end of the bar, away from his cool, amused gaze.
Her thigh muscles clenched as she remembered how he looked, dressed in a black silk shirt and leather pants, the floggers in his hand. The sexy smirk on his lips as he flicked the fronds against his thigh with sharp little snaps.
That was all it took.
For once in her life, she hadn’t flirted or joked or teased. Too afraid to let her real personality show, she dropped straight into submission and offered Jasper everything she thought he wanted from a submissive without even knowing his name.
She’d give him anything, if only he didn’t reject her like the others.
For nine months, she’d tried her hardest to be perfect. Waited for him to finally cast aside the other submissives and pick her as his canvas for the night. For all the nights he played in Avalon. To see her as more than just his little blonde shadow.
No matter what she did, he always picked someone else. Another woman to mark with his whip, another woman to accept the kiss of his cane. It was always another woman he chose to fly like a kite and cuddle on his lap.
It was never Anarchy.
Quivering in delight, already wet and aching, Archie straightened her spine another inch, lowering her head respectfully as the man in question walked over to her at last. She smelled him before he reached her, his scent wiping away every other.
Sandalwood.
Such a warm, comforting smell in contrast with his cold façade.
Anarchy knew him better than that. What his face portrayed wasn’t what was inside him. He might be a sadist, but that didn’t encompass the whole of him. Causing pain was one thing—she believed his conscience would never allow him to harm.
“Anarchy, come with me please.” Oh, that voice stroked through her as tangibly as any physical caress.
This is it. He’s finally chosen me. Delirious with anticipation, Archie bottled back her instinctive reaction to squeal and bounce on the balls of her feet. That wasn’t the Anarchy he knew, and she wasn’t going to blow her opportunity after nine long months by exposing her true, exuberant nature.
Jasper’s long pianist’s finger skimmed her arm, barely a touch, but enough to set the hairs to standing and her body into fits of rapture. As he stalked off toward the walkway, she inhaled slowly to calm herself, then trotted along at his heels. His strides were huge compared to hers.
