Page 52 of Dare to Love Again

Chapter 12

WITH HIS HAND ON HERlower back, Keiran guided her to the double doors at the far end of the bar. When the pathway became narrow around the tables and by the teeming dance floor, he wrapped his fingers around her wrist and led the way. It kept them from being separated in the crowd and also let him gauge her reactions, like the way she trembled with excitement, and how her pulse fluttered rapidly. She was a mix of nervousness and anticipation, but not panic. He’d seen her on the verge of it earlier and almost lost her. If her fear and uncertainties returned, he wanted to be the first to know and help her keep the tendency she had to run in check.

She’d surrendered so much in their first session, but in the days following had time to rebuild her defenses. Three days was too long for them to be apart, but with work right now, he couldn’t manage more often. Between filling in the gaps staffing their regular security contracts, the new celeb stalker case that had fallen into his lap, and providing personal protection for visiting dignitaries at the state capital, his next evening off was Saturday, four days from now.

He’d have to check in by phone and squeeze in another meeting with her outside the club, but he didn’t know when and where.

Her mood shifts between trust and panic, sweet and sassy, pushy and compliant told him she was teetering between acceptance and withdrawing again. To him, it seemed more than a prolonged grief reaction, but other than good instincts from over a decade in the lifestyle, and a talent for reading submissives, he was no expert in psychology. Eric’s recommendation of professional counseling was sound, and he hoped in time she’d trust him enough to open up about it.

Up the short flight of stairs, he steered her into the alcove outside the door.

“I’ll need my bag, Deanna,” he told the attendant, “and a bin for shoes.”

“Yes, Master K,” the attendant replied.

“Isn’t there usually a chair?” Esme asked as the young woman stepped into the aisle of row upon row of cubbyholes.

Keiran glanced at her feet and understood why she might need one. Her heels were at least four inches, probably closer to five. He imagined her teetering on one foot while trying to take them off. A sprained ankle or her toppling over and sustaining a worse injury was unacceptable. How women walked around for hours balanced on their tiptoes and razor-thin heels he’d never know, although he was glad for it.

Any red-blooded man worthy of the testosterone coursing through his veins appreciated what a pair of high heels did for a woman’s ass, how it made their hips sway more when they walked, and gave them the need to hold on to their man’s arm, hand, or shoulder to steady themselves. Even better, how they looked up in the air or beside a woman’s ears while being fucked.

If that made him a sexist pig, so be it.

“Someone borrowed the chair while I had my back turned, I’m afraid,” Deanna explained. “I’m sorry, but I haven’t had time to go hunt another.”

“I supposed I could use the steps,” Esme muttered while looking in their direction.

“I don’t think so.” With his hands easily spanning her trim waist, he lifted her and planted her ass atop the counter. She responded with a surprised squeal and curled her fingers into his shoulders. “Besides,” he added. “This will be my pleasure.”

Everything about her he found delightful. Esme was spontaneous and not the least bit affected. He enjoyed the sexy little sounds she made in her throat, how her color heightened to a rosy blush, and the way she became flustered while around him. He’d have to keep her off guard so he could watch as she struggled to control her reactions, but try as she might, she couldn’t hide her body’s responses. Like how her breathing quickened at his touch, and the way it stuttered when he lifted her leg by the ankle and rested her foot on his upraised thigh.

When the hem of her dress crept up, she pressed her legs together. Already off-balance, she had to choose between letting go of him and toppling over—which he’d never allow—or flashing her sweet spot. She opted to hang onto him.

Smart girl. Modesty was a pointless reaction when they were feet away from entering a BDSM playroom where he’d strip her, touch her, and do a host of other carnal things he had in mind.

Her bright green eyes rose to his, likely to see if he’d seen her unintentional upskirt moment. He couldn’t contain the slow grin which confirmed it. The flash of pink and the hint of red-gold curls were burned into his retinas for eternity.

He didn’t say a word, however, as he went to work on the ankle strap.

---