Yes.
Whisky.
She’d been mistaken in her taste in toys.
It was not champagne she was looking for.
It was that coveted, priceless, smooth, deep, incomparable burn of the finest scotch whisky.
Bryan might be sipping that.
But Bryan was not that.
In all her years playing, Amélie had not encountered that.
And to her increasing distress, it occurred to her that, even as it was with the actual liquid, there might be one bottle existing in the entire world, owned by another and never to be on offer.
Not even for a sip.
“Jesus, Amélie, are you on Mars?”
Startled, Amélie’s eyes moved up to Mirabelle.
Mistress Mirabelle, a Domme at the club, her tenure there a little more than three years, her prevailing penchant exhibitionism, her indisputable talent restraint, her most important role being one of Amélie’s closest friends and her co-conspirator in starting their Domme-exclusive book club.
“Chérie, you’re right. I was in another world,” Amélie murmured in reply.
She lifted her chin for Mirabelle to touch her, even in Phoenix, doing this European—cheek to cheek and the switch to do the same to the other cheek, as Amélie’s mother had taught her to expect, to teach those around her that she did and anything else was intolerable.
Mirabelle moved out of the way and Amélie was startled again, this time she hid it, when she saw Trey coasting behind her friend.
This was a surprise.
Amélie hadn’t been to the club for more than a month.
The first two weeks this was at her choice, the beginnings of unease about what was on offer, the hope that when she returned, there would be something fresh to play with.
The second two weeks she’d been traveling, the first week to France, a duty visit for a cousin’s wedding, the second on business.
She’d been home for several days and put off going to the club, hoping her long absence would bear fruit.
From what she’d seen, this had not occurred.
What she witnessed now, as Mirabelle slid into the curve of the booth opposite her, was that she’d left with her friend breaking in Trey, a tall (ish, a man had to be tall for Amélie to consider him tall) lean man who was very pretty. When he’d made his debut over a year ago, they’d both clocked him, seeing as he was an alpha-sub. However, they both were drawn to more rugged types.
Mirabelle experimented more in a variety of ways so she’d given him a try.
By the time Amélie had left for France, Mirabelle had had three sessions with him. She’d also declared she was besotted.
Mirabelle could get besotted. Then her attention would wander.
It hadn’t wandered.
It wasn’t as if Mirabelle wouldn’t return repeatedly to a certain specimen. But it appeared she’d actually arrived with him or at the very least ordered his arrival time to coincide with hers so she could strut into the hunting ground with him at her heels.
A communication of ownership.
Mirabelle settled in and Amélie looked to Trey as he moved to stand at his Mistress’s side in the booth.
Unlike many clubs, the bar/social area just inside the front doors of the Honey, known affectionately by all the members as the “hunting ground,” was circumspect.
Another of Aryas’s rules.
There was a generous variety of choices of places to play beyond the hunting ground, privately, publicly, on display, and socially.
But in the hunting ground, members came dressed well. They behaved well. There were things you could do, things that were done, more than likely nightly, that were not flaunted. But Aryas had a definitive feel he wished to nurture in his establishments. You couldn’t even see any of the back playrooms from the hunting ground. There were no suggestive paintings or sculptures. And no one was wearing traditional BDSM or role-playing attire.
The walls were paneled in gleaming wood with beautifully designed light fixtures dripping with unpretentious crystals that sat over the booths and hung from the ceilings. At the back wall, there was a showstopper of a bar with beveled mirrors. And lining the other walls, semicircle booths upholstered in the deepest burgundy velvet.
It was an opulent but nevertheless relaxed and comfortable atmosphere where Doms could scrutinize and select which specimen suited their fancy.
Now, behind the doors leading off the hunting ground, the experience Aryas wished to provide (and succeeded in doing so) was a different story entirely.
Therefore, Trey was in a nice pair of dark slacks and a tailored shirt in light blue. His shock of thick ginger-blond hair was tamed. Amélie couldn’t see his shoes, but they were no doubt polished to perfection … and not by Trey.
He looked, as did Mirabelle and Amélie, as if they were out on the town at a fashionable watering hole having a cocktail before they were going to go out and drop five hundred dollars on a meal.
Regardless if the rules of circumspection in the hunting ground where adhered to, even there the rules of play were never to be ignored.
In this vein, when Trey felt Amélie’s attention, he did not lift his eyes to hers as he said, “Good evening, Mistress Amélie.”
“Trey,” she murmured, her gaze moving to her friend.
“Mistress Mirabelle, it would be my pleasure to get you a drink,” she heard Trey say.
“Vodka, rocks, my lovely,” Mirabelle replied, her eyes on Amélie. She tipped her head to the side. “Would you like Trey to get you a fresh drink?”