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Aretha Doyle, a New York model, was my arm candy for a year until we parted ways a few months ago. We never dated. I don’t date. She’s gorgeous and intelligent and very nice, but there wasn’t really any connection beyond that. Still, she was always up for a scene.
“Is she?” I take another sip.
“You want m
e to set it up?”
I down the rest of the bourbon in one swallow. “Sure. Bring her to my suite.” I set the glass down, rise, and walk through the door leading to various exhibition rooms. My private suite is at the end of the hallway. I slide the key card through the door and enter.
And I wait.
Fifteen minutes later, a knock on the door.
I unlock the dead bolt. Aretha Doyle stands before me clad in nothing but a thong and platform heels that make her eye to eye with me. Her dark hair falls over her broad shoulders, and her tits stick out like cereal bowls. They’re not fake, just small and perky—fashion-model tits.
Nothing like Skye’s.
But I’m not here to think about Skye. My earlier thought that I may not enjoy Black Rose without her spooked me more than a little. I’m here to immerse myself in a scene with a willing participant.
Aretha is willing.
I take her hand. “Come in.”
“I’m surprised you wanted to see me, Braden.”
“Why?”
“Well…you said we were over in no uncertain terms.”
She’s right. I did say that. She was getting too close to me, and I knew if we continued, she’d end up getting hurt. I don’t like hurting women. Not emotionally. Physically? That’s a different story, as long as the hurt ultimately leads to pleasure for both of us.
“That doesn’t mean we can’t enjoy each other’s company now and again. You’re still a member of this club.”
She nods. “What do you want tonight?”
Skye.
The word emerges in my mind seemingly by itself.
I want Skye.
Yes, I want a scene, but I want Skye more.
Damn.
I lead Aretha to the leather table. “Lie down.”
She complies, like a good submissive. I bind her arms above her head but leave her ankles free. I walk to the wall, choose a riding crop, and return to Aretha splayed out on my table, beautiful and ready and willing.
I bring the crop down hard on her tits.
Chapter Thirteen
I’m back in Boston Friday morning, still unsated.
One lash to Aretha’s tits, and I knew I couldn’t continue with the scene. I wasn’t hard. I wasn’t excited. I apologized and sent her away. As much as I craved a scene with a willing partner, I craved something else more.
Skye Manning.
