Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 72901 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 365(@200wpm)___ 292(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72901 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 365(@200wpm)___ 292(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
Jeff’s hour was nearly up but Eric went along, having nothing else to do that night except obsess over a girl he couldn’t have. He had Katrina lie flat on a mat, and together he and Jeff wound and knotted the ropes around her body until she was completely immobilized. Absorbed in the work and in making sure Jeff didn’t do any damage, Eric managed to get out of his own head, at least for a while.
As they bound the young woman in the soft, snug ropes, her face suffused with that lovely, smudged look of a sub entering the zone. And quick as that, Eric was back at the Masters Club, the flogger in his hand. Bound to the cross, Rowan’s nipples jutted like ripe cherries, her skin sheened with perspiration. Her head had fallen back, her plump lips softly parted, the long, curly cascade of her dark hair hanging down her flogger-reddened back.
His cock throbbed as he recalled the incredibly sexy, wanton way she’d pleasured herself at his command. Closing his eyes, he could almost smell the jasmine-orange of her hair delicately blending with the intoxicating scent of her arousal.
“Is that a whip in your pocket or are you just glad to see me tied up?”
For a split second, Eric’s mind processed the voice as Rowan’s. His eyes flew open in surprise. But it was Katrina who grinned impishly up at him from the mat, her eyes on his crotch, an eyebrow arched.
“Oh, shit,” Eric blurted, glad his beard covered the blush he felt creeping over his face. He glanced from the bound woman to his client, who was grinning good-naturedly. He angled away from them. “Sorry. I was, uh, distracted.”
“Hey, I get it,” the guy said, rubbing his own crotch as he stared down at Katrina. “You have the best fucking job. You actually get paid to do this. Must be heaven on earth.”
Eric managed a laugh, his erection thankfully and rapidly receding. “It’s a sweet gig, no question,” he agreed, though internally he berated himself for his lack of professionalism.
What he needed was some kind of release, and quickly. Salome’s would be open tomorrow night. He would go there to take the edge off. Maybe he’d get lucky, and find a girl who would make him forget all about Rowan Georgiou, at least for one night.
~*~
On Friday morning, Rowan smoothed and counted the stack of singles, fives, tens and even a couple twenties that comprised her take from the tip jar from her first three nights on the job. She wouldn’t get her hourly wage packet until the end of her second week, but this was a good start—enough to buy groceries for the apartment and scope out a few more thrift stores.
Despite her promise to herself, she still hadn’t yet found the nerve to return to Scarsdale to collect her things. She told herself she was too busy, but in fact she was off until the following Tuesday, the regular bartenders naturally getting the more lucrative weekend shifts.
After John had left the gallery on Sunday, she had expected another spate of angry calls and texts. Thankfully, he’d left her alone. She hoped his silence reflected his acceptance that things were well and truly over. But a part of her couldn’t help but worry that the other shoe had yet to fall.
Still, she really, really needed possession of her canvases, as soon as possible. The show was only a week away. Marilyn, the manager of the SoHo gallery and Clarise’s boss, had told Rowan that if the pieces from the show sold, they would be willing to take some of her other pieces on consignment.
Though she hadn’t told Clarise anything about their BDSM arrangement, Rowan had shared that she and John had been living together and had recently broken up. This had satisfied Clarise’s curiosity and concern about the obvious tension she’d witnessed between them at the gallery.
Rowan had finally gotten up the nerve to text John yesterday, asking if he could bring her clothing and canvases the next time he came into the city. He commuted into Manhattan several times a week, so hopefully it wasn’t too much of an imposition. They could meet at the gallery in SoHo, she’d suggested, if it weren’t too much trouble. She didn’t dare ask for all the lovely, fabulous art supplies he’d so generously provided for her. It didn’t feel right to take them, not after the way things had ended.
John had replied instantly to her text, which had surprised her, given his radio silence since their last interaction at the gallery.
You want your stuff, you come and get it.
Okay. Not what she’d hoped for, but at least he hadn’t outright refused to return it, which she’d been afraid he might do. Nor had he slashed the canvases in a fit of rage, thank god. At least, she hoped not.