There was the green.
Daddy and Mommy play was not frowned upon. Amélie didn’t get off on it but she’d seen daddies do wondrous things with their babies, and the same with mommies, and she knew it had absolutely nothing to do with a psychological complex a vanilla needed to use to shove that square peg into their desperately round hole.
It was not okay in any sense to cast aspersions on any type of play.
Express surprise someone did something, went somewhere with a sub, coaxed something out, went to a place that was unexpected, most definitely.
Pronouncing it as “skeevy,” no.
It was a novice mistake and Amélie knew either she, or Mirabelle, would be having a word with Talia about it in the future.
Aryas would be livid.
Therefore, he could not know.
Now, though, Trey was there and you didn’t speak to a Mistress that way in front of a sub.
“Best go top that,” Talia murmured and looked down to them, doing this looking through Trey and finishing on Mirabelle. “Enjoy your night.” She turned to Amélie. “Happy hunting, honey.”
“Have fun,” Amélie replied.
Talia moved away.
Amélie watched her, wondering if her slim neck or her round ass was the key to Aryas’s infatuation with the rookie Domme.
She’d never know and understanding that, she lost interest and was about to turn away when Talia switched directions, heading to the booth where Stellan sat.
Stellan was a Master who had been a member of the club nearly as long as Amélie.
And in some ways, Stellan was Amélie’s Talia.
Not that she’d trained him.
That she’d always wanted him.
Physically her type, perhaps a little shorter than she’d like (but not much), a little leaner, but nevertheless powerfully built with dark hair and strong features so excruciatingly handsome, in weaker moments, she had to quell the desire to look away.
He’d slipped in without her seeing him and hadn’t come to offer her a greeting.
This would normally have annoyed Amélie.
At that moment, for the first time in years, she was paying no attention to Stellan.
This was because Talia’s tall frame shifting out of the way offered an unhindered view of something else that had slipped in without her notice.
And gazing at him, Amélie went still.
As did her breath.
And her heartbeat.
Leaning a shoulder against the wall beyond the edge of the bar, six or seven feet from the door to the playrooms, he was surveying the scene as if he wasn’t part of it.
Or as if it was he who was on the prowl.
But although a Dominant could mingle freely in the open space, this would be done with some intent.
If they were on the hunt, they’d be at a booth.
Subs were not allowed to sit in a booth unless the invitation was extended. They populated the floor, on display, it was requisite.
In the mesh of bodies, a sub could be identified in a variety of ways. The cast of their gaze. Their bearing. Jewelry that declared their status.
And their position in the hunting ground.
No Dominant would linger there like he was, partially for that reason. Clear communication and transparent messages were key in their world. No Dom would give the impression of being a sub.
This was explained at length during membership orientation.
That magnificent beast was a sub.
An alpha-sub, assuredly.
It came from his sheer size, like a cloak stitched to his skin he had no hope of shrugging off (not that he’d wish to).
He had to be six five, perhaps taller. His dark suit and monochromatic shirt necessarily tailored for his physique for there were very few men on this earth that had it. His shoulders as wide as a log. His chest a veritable wall. The muscles Amélie had no doubt were hidden under his clothing apparent in the exposed line of his throat. It wasn’t that he had no neck. But that lethal shank of corded, sinewy muscle could not be established and maintained if the rest of him didn’t match precisely.
She knew he was alpha beyond that. His stance at the wall, casual and self-assured, it was openly cocky. He knew his allure. He knew his beauty. He knew even if he wasn’t exactly your type, every being would understand with base instinct his attraction.
He also knew how to use this. All of it. It was his art as sure as reading it on him was Amélie’s.
From what she could tell, his hair was dark blond, the thickness of it, how it was longer at the top, clipped short at neck and ears was so appealing, she was willing to make that single allowance for she preferred her toys to have dark hair.
She made that allowance, but if she had her way, and she often did, he’d grow it longer so there’d be more of it to fist her fingers into as a means to use to make him serve her will.
His facial features only heightened his appeal that already, with the rest of him, defied belief.
A strong brow over eyes she couldn’t see the color of from her distance. Hollowed cheeks under high cheekbones and over a firm, cut, clean-shaven jaw. And a large nose that was openly pugilistic, the dent at the top of the bridge not created by God but by a break that he didn’t deem important enough to have set properly.
Staring at him, utterly incapable of not doing it openly, she felt the insides of her thighs tingle. And her nipples were hard buds, the restriction of the lace of her bra suddenly excruciating.
That …
Now that was whisky.
“Oh my, Leigh, are you seeing what I’m seeing?” Mirabelle asked. And before she could answer, her friend went on, “It’s like he was made for you.”