Page 220 of Wait for Him

"Green, sir."

He gives me a soft smile and kisses me, and God, he's such a natural switch. I saw it in him from the very start, even before either of us had language for what was happening between us. He can command a room without trying and surrender just as completely when he chooses to. No embarrassment about either side. No bullshit about what either one says about him.

Then I spot Lukas.

His eyes are enormous.

The second he realizes I'm wearing the collar and Jackson is holding the leash, his entire body goes rigid. Bodyguard mode. He looks one questionable move away from tackling the man I just handed control of my body to.

I give him one small nod.

I'm okay.

He settles, but he doesn't sit down and he sure as hell doesn't look away.

Poor Lukas. Nobody briefed him for this shift.

Jackson leads me onto the stage and positions me over the bed, running his hands slowly over my back. Above us hangs the boom mic I had installed because I never wanted the audience merely watching a show. I wanted them hearing it.

That decision feels significantly less clever from this side of the microphone.

The announcement starts as the lights dim.

"Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, to a very special show indeed. The same rules apply. You may watch the couple on stage, but you may not cross the yellow line, and you may not touch without invitation and permission."

Applause breaks out, followed by murmurs from the crowd gathering around the stage.

"Let the show begin."

If Jackson is nervous, he's hiding it beautifully.

I am not.

I'm shaking enough that denying it would be insulting to everyone with functioning eyesight.

Along with the bed, the stage holds a spanking bench and a chrome stand displaying enough floggers and riding crops to make an enthusiast weep. The drawers underneath hold everything else he could possibly think to use tonight.

Jackson walks over and studies the selection.

And I almost laugh.

I would bet serious money he doesn't know what half that shit is.

Doesn't matter. He's taking his time, looking everything over instead of grabbing something because he thinks the audience expects him to know what he's doing. He's comfortable enough not to pretend, and watching him figure out what he wants while I'm standing here waiting for him is doing terrible things to my ability to remain patient.

He finally chooses an adjustable spreader bar with ankle cuffs and a set of Italian leather wrist cuffs.

Well.

Look at my good boy shopping.

He kneels in front of me and fastens the first cuff around my ankle, then adjusts the chrome bar until my stance widens before securing the other.

"Safeword?"

"Keeper."

His hands stop on the buckle, just for half a second, then his eyes lift to mine.