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.

for—ah wait. Okay, hold on, maybe I shouldn’t have shoved these

look behind herself. Grif was on one knee, a web of silver chains spread out on

“Want some help?”

punishing from someone else, but Grif didn’t mean

word. Partners. They

hands, or knees.” She straightened to

now I’m ordering you

the slight hiss of his jeans against the concrete as he rose. He was barefoot, which meant his footsteps were silent, leaving her

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

she still feel worried? No, maybe it

gotten so used to how they normally played, what they normally did, that even a

the side so hard that 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 herself, and she knew

“Davina?”

her tank top shifted, the mesh catching on the ends of her nipple bars and tugging gently. A lance of arousal, painfully acute, like

“I’m fine,” she murmured.

lips brushed her ear. “You’re

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 touched his chest. “Oops, I’m

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 to

“Or what?”

to force a punishment?” There was

both knees back on the chair pad. She forced out a little laugh. “Just trying to speed this up. See

you, but don’t forget how we’re playing

to

in, his words brushing her ear. “I want you to be

meant the words to be comforting, but they weren’t. Instead, they fed the anxiety building within her. He’d been right, she had been trying to force a punishment, which was a classic topping from the bottom ploy. She didn’t need to do stupid

that was the source of this worry—she hadn’t

be as physical as their normal play,

he came around to her front. She made sure her position was perfect and

amused expression melted away to reveal something more intense and focused. It was the expression he got when he was checking and double-checking ropes right before

She shivered with anticipation.

A delicate silver chain was laced around his fingers.

* * *

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

those words sent a little thrill through her. There was something wonderful yet terrifying about not knowing even the simplest information about 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

Wonderful yet terrifying.

yet she would have sworn there was something different in the way he was looking at her now, something about the

to what she saw in his face, she looked down at his

It curved ever so slightly to match the contour of the neck. Strands of silver

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

“A collar,” she breathed.

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

her hair, lifting it away from her neck. She held it on the top of her head, making sure to keep her shoulders relaxed so her neck was long and ready to

of her collarbones, then draped the

her fingers. The

ends of the

he wanted her to

back of the chair, steadying herself, but his

the back of her neck, the chain pulled almost alarmingly taut as he worked the clasp. Then the chains relaxed a bit, and the next thing she knew he

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 actually

wasn’t so tight that it was choking her, but

by sliding a

Though chokers came in and out of fashion, she hadn’t

gaze was 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 for him before—a heavy all-metal collar that was very physical

him this hard? Surely it had, and

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

in the outside world—a delicate statement as to

long to be called a necklace—it would 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

“A leash,” she whispered.

voice was

to side, weight shifting from knee to knee, humming a little to herself. Seeing him that turned on, aroused her in turn.

she could feel it against her skin. Though the mesh tank top

still wearing

might be better to get her shirt off now 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

wouldn’t have hesitated to say something, or even to just strip off the shirt and throw it to the side—doing her part to make

she didn’t

the chain, they were delicate and precise. This wasn’t their

visibly relaxing when he got that massive, hard dick into a more comfortable position

hard he had to stop and adjust his

end of the chain, his knuckles grazing her left nipple. She sucked in air as that

sense of deja vu gripped her. This intensity, so seemingly out of proportion with the limited physical stimulation, was what it had felt like the first time she’d let a boy slide his