Page 219 of Wait for Him

"Rose."

"Let me finish."

I shut my mouth.

She brings the collar to her own neck and fastens it. My heart starts pounding as I watch her buckle the same piece of leather around her throat that I was wearing thirty seconds ago.

Then she takes the leash and puts it into my hand.

Her fingers are trembling.

"I'm yours to command, sir."

It takes a hell of a lot longer than I'd like to admit for my brain to catch up to what's happening. But the beast in me catches on a hell of a lot faster, rattling the cage the second that leash lands in my palm.

Rose is standing in front of me wearing a collar. Her collar. Her fingers are trembling as she hands me control of a part of herself she's never handed to anyone, and every dominant instinct she's spent years pulling out of me wants to take what she's offering.

But she taught me better than that.

I cup her jaw and lift her face until she's looking directly at me.

"Give me a color, Rosalie."

Her eyes immediately fill with tears, and mine start burning right along with them. Neither of us needs to explain why. This is a huge fucking moment. For both of us.

"Green," she whispers.

I wait. Not because I don't believe her, but because I'm going to give her every fucking second she needs to change her mind. But then, her mouth curves.

"So fucking green."

There she is.

I wrap the leash once around my fist and give it a firm tug. Her breath catches, and the nerves in her face disappear so fast I almost smile.

"Then tell the first floor there's about to be a show."

For half a second, Rose just stares at me. Then her whole face changes.

Oh, she likes that. A lot.

"Yes, sir."

She reaches for the intercom.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Rose

By the time we reach the first floor, we've already drawn an audience. A known Domme being led around her own club on a leash raises questions, and we're being followed by a growing crowd of people who aren't even pretending they're not curious.

The main stage now holds a bed.

I've watched shows on that stage more times than I can count. I've stood at the edge of it correcting lighting, argued about sight lines, tested the sound system, approved the furniture. I have never once imagined I'd be the one walking onto it wearing a collar.

When Jackson sees the bed, he stops and turns to me. Whatever excitement was bouncing around in him upstairs settles, and his hand comes up beneath my chin.

"Color."