Checklist J, K, L

Davina rocked up on her toes and then back on her heels. She didn’t like standing still—didn’t like being still—so she’d developed a habit of doing small, simple exercises like calf lifts whenever she was forced to wait.

Outside of Las Palmas, no one made her wait.

If she’d thought Grif was doing it on purpose, she’d be beyond annoyed, but she knew him, and this wasn’t some stupid waiting game. This was him trying to find the toys—well, jewelry—they’d need for this challenge.

Usually they planned scenes together, taking inspiration from others at the club or images they’d come across. Theirs was the perfect BDSM relationship, built on a foundation of friendship. She liked that she’d met him when she’d been more into topping than subbing, because it meant he saw her as an equal.

If she’d said that aloud, she was sure Grif, and most of the other male Doms, Masters, and Owners at the club would say they viewed, and treated, their subs as equal. But the relationship she and Grif had—more collaborative, physical, and intense than so many others, reinforced her secretly held belief that meeting on equal footing had been the foundation for what they now had.

Restless, she switched from calf lifts to pacing. She was in the barn, which was properly called the “Conclave” for reasons that were unclear to her. It was obviously a barn—even now that there weren’t animals housed here, there were horse stalls along one of the long walls. These stalls were for D/s play and had cots, plenty of tie points, and clean, smooth floors.

The roof of the stalls was the floor of the loft, which had a lounge-like viewing area where she and Grif had listened to the announcement about the game. The barn also had a tack room with a wonderful array of crops, whips, and various tie-off equipment. There was even some pony play gear, though she’d never seen anyone use it.

She smirked as she realized that would change because of the game. Whoever had the letter “P” was certainly in for an interesting weekend.

She and Grif preferred the barn for their play, because there was plenty of floor space on the side opposite the stalls, and because there were custom-built wood and metal grids, almost like the rigging used in theater lighting, that could be lowered at the push of a button, making it easy to tie a bound or harnessed submissive securely to the framework. Another touch of a button and the frame would be lifted, the motor powerful enough to raise and suspend a restrained sub.

In preparation for their play, Davina had spread out several large floor mats and double checked that the controls for their preferred five-by-five metal lattice suspension rig were working.

When she got tired of pacing, she dropped onto the mats and started working through Ashtanga yoga poses, holding each for five quick breaths and then transitioning to the next.

She was doing a headstand when Grif walked in. She smiled from her upside down position. Her tank top was tight enough that while the hem slid, it hadn’t fallen down around her neck, but caught on her breasts, leaving her midsection bare from the top of her hip-hugging skirt to chest.

He paused for a moment—a flattering hitch in his step—before he kept coming, his gaze intent on her. “I could watch that all day.”

Davina bent at the hips, bringing both legs forward until they were parallel with the floor and then rolled gracefully out of the pose. She primly pulled down the hem of her tank top, which made Grif smile.

Damn, he was handsome. And funny, kind, sexy, and unapologetically rough in all the right ways.

His hair was just stylish enough to make her occasionally wonder who he was in the outside world. Medium brown, short on the sides with a tight fade up to the longer top, which he brushed straight back from his forehead. His eyebrows were a shade or two lighter than his hair, but he had long, dark lashes that framed his brown eyes. He had hundreds of light brown freckles on the tops of his muscled shoulders—an unexpectedly boyish touch on a man who was otherwise intensely masculine.

Whatever he did, he kept in shape. And spent just enough time shirtless in the sun—not hard to do in Southern California—to freckle, but not tan.

And that was more wondering about him than she should have been doing.

“Did you find anything?” she asked. He was empty-handed.

Grif patted his pockets. “I did. Lots of stuff.”

“Lots…” She raised a brow. There were tiny bulges in his pockets now that he’d pointed it out.

“It’s jewelry. It’s not supposed to be big.”

“That depends on what kind of jewelry.”

He gave her an odd look, head tipped to the side, then relaxed into a smile. “Well, first we need some chairs.”

“Chairs?”

“Yep.” He looked around. “I’ll go find them if you put away the mats.”

“No mats?” Now it was her turn to frown.

“No mats,” he confirmed. “If you thrash around, you’re going to break this stuff.” Grif pointed to his pocket. “No thrashing, which means no mats.”

When he walked away, Davina started folding up the mats, dragging them to the storage area. Grif returned carrying two ladder-backed wooden chairs. He set them down and looked at her, mouth open as if he were about to speak, but then he stopped, brows coming together, before saying “Davina, are you okay?”

“Of course, why?”

“You’re frowning.”

“Oh.” She forced her face to relax. It was only when he’d pointed it out that she realized she was…worried.

That didn’t make any sense. There was nothing to be worried about. It was just Grif and some jewelry. Not a bullwhip.

He peered at her for a moment longer, then took a square cushion from under his arm and put it on the seat of one of the chairs.

“For you,” he gestured gallantly.

Davina walked over, making sure her hips swayed as she did, and started to sit.

“Ah ah ah, kneel,” Grif said.

“Mmm, promising.” Davina knelt on the cushion. The back of the chair stopped just under the level of her breasts. It was too tall for her to bend forward to a good ninety degree angle, but kneeling like this would give Grif better access to her ass and pussy than if she’d been sitting.

“Hands on the back of the chair.” He spoke with the relaxed confidence he always had during a scene.

The upper rung of the chair back was smooth and cool under her fingers—real wood, sanded and polished, not varnished.

shouldn’t have shoved these all in

knee, a web of silver chains spread out on the seat of

“Want some help?”

in your position.” The words might have been punishing from someone else,

Partners.

my hands, or knees.” She straightened to

I’m ordering

he rose. He was barefoot, which meant his footsteps were silent, leaving

plenty of scenes with her blindfolded or otherwise unable to move her head enough to look around. At this

still feel worried? No,

normally did, that even a slight

she lost her balance and had to put one foot on the floor. Grif’s arms came around her waist at the same time she caught

“Davina?”

breasts, and when he’d grabbed her, the fabric of her tank top shifted, the mesh catching on the ends of her nipple bars and tugging gently. A lance of arousal, painfully acute, like a

“I’m fine,” she murmured.

lips brushed her ear.

innocuous touch faded. She arched back, much like she had at the bar, arms stretched out and holding the chair, shoulders falling back. She tipped her head back, until it

waist and ran a finger down the front of her neck from the underside of her chin all the way down to the notch in her collarbones. “I’ll give you one minute

“Or what?”

trying to force a punishment?” There was

back on the chair pad. She forced out a little

to show you, but don’t forget

how to sub,”

rather than saw him lean in, his words brushing her ear. “I want you to be yourself, not pretend

a punishment, which was a classic topping from the bottom ploy. She didn’t need to do stupid things like that, because she and Grif talked about what they wanted and needed each time

source of this worry—she

worried because he’d made it clear this wouldn’t be as physical as their normal play, and she was so very

relief, he came around to her front. She made sure her position was perfect and smiled at him. “I’ll

intense

She shivered with anticipation.

held up his hand. A delicate silver chain was laced around his fingers. “Here’s your

* * *

across his palm then held his hand out, so she could see the intricate details of the piece he selected

what would take place in the scene. If she didn’t plan the scene with him, she usually knew what equipment they’d be using, based on the space

Wonderful yet terrifying.

yet she would have

to what she saw in his face,

the contour of the neck. Strands of silver chain with links so small and precise they

a small O ring bolted to it, about the diameter of the tip

“A collar,” she breathed.

was slow and full of promise and darkness. “Grab your braid. Hold it out of my

held it on the top of her head, making sure to keep

collarbones, then draped the chains over her shoulder.

keeping it in place as he slipped around behind her. She couldn’t help but explore it with her fingers. The ring in the front was functional, attached in such a

the ends of the necklace.

made her shiver, because it was clear he wanted her to let go of

herself, but

the back of her neck, the chain pulled almost alarmingly

necklace, and she’d expected it to fit like a necklace, but it didn’t. It fit like a choker—snug against her neck rather than draped around her neck but

so tight that it was choking her, but every time she swallowed she felt

checking the fit by sliding a finger

she hadn’t worn one like this before—made of metal rather than

hot, and the front of his jeans was bulging from his erection. Her blood heated knowing that collaring her made him hard. She’d worn a collar

this hard? Surely it had, and she just

so delicate and beautiful that if the O ring were removed, it could be worn as a piece

it as jewelry in the outside world—a delicate statement as to who, and

have fallen to her hips. It consisted of short four inch runs of the same thread-like chain as in the collar and thumbnail size silver rings. He took one end and threaded the delicate lobster clasp through the O ring of the collar, which was just big enough for

“A leash,” she whispered.

quite.” Grif’s voice was

side, weight shifting from knee to knee, humming a little to herself. Seeing him that turned on, aroused her in turn. Her sex was wet. As she shifted she

tail of the long chain dangle down her front for a moment. She wished she were naked so she could feel it against her skin. Though the mesh tank top revealed more than

was still

rather than having to unfasten the chain from the collar, remove the shirt, and then refasten it. That was the kind of detail Grif sometimes didn’t think through. More than once he’d ended up cutting off clothes that he’d neglected to remove before getting

something, or even to just strip off the shirt and throw it to the side—doing her part to

yet she

they were delicate and precise. This wasn’t

that massive, hard dick into a more comfortable position inside his

so hard he had

knuckles grazing her left nipple. She sucked in air as that accidental

had felt like the first time she’d let a boy slide his hand up under her shirt—thrilling, terrifying, wonderful, and foreign