Page 11 of Healing the Heart

“Of course,” he replied with a hint of a smile. “We all draw the line somewhere.”

She considered him for a moment then shook her head. “No, thank you.”

His eyes widened, and he blinked in genuine disbelief. “You’re declining, preferring to sit in subspace waiting for another dom to come along. What if he doesn’t?”

With a dismissive shrug, she showed indifference she really didn’t feel. Another lie. “It won’t be the first time. But you shouldn’t worry about me, sir. I enjoy just being here, soaking up the atmosphere and watching the play.”

He grunted. “I’m not used to being rejected, little one.”

She kept her composure, not even a flicker of movement crossing her face. The word “little” seemed to hover in the air between them. The polar opposite to fat; was he mocking her again?

Even if he wasn’t the one who’d uttered the foul insults, the callous laughter proved how he felt. He was the one who rejected her first, the big hypocrite.

Abruptly, she rose to her feet. “If you’ll excuse me, sir. I feel the need to freshen up.”

When she walked away on wobbly, Jell-O legs, she could feel his gaze boring into her back. She had to force herself to moveat an unhurried pace, when she wanted to sprint to escape. The other subs in waiting, close enough to overhear, stared at her like she’d lost her mind.

He didn’t attempt to stop her from leaving, thank goodness, and she made it to the ladies’ locker room without collapsing or puking. How had she told all the whoppers she had? And where in her terminally bashful body had she gathered the nerve to say no to such a powerful dom?

She hadn’t called him names or used foul language, so it wasn’t like for like, but it felt good to give him a taste of his own medicine—rejection. That made the score one for him and somewhere in the hundreds for her.

REAPPLYING HER MAKEUPand touching up her hair didn’t require an hour, but that was how much time passed while she hid out in the locker room, waiting for Doc to become interested in someone else. When she returned to the benches, only one other sub remained. She was stick thin with bad skin beneath her heavily applied makeup. Fiona smiled at her kindly—one of two lonely wallflowers.

But while Fiona waited for someone to notice her, a goatee-sporting dom in black leather pants and a flowing white shirt, who, add an eye patch would look like a pirate, claimed the other girl and steered her toward the activities on the main floor.

Bad skin trumped fat, evidently.

So ready to end the self-imposed torture, she stood. She’d retrieve her shoes and sneak out unfulfilled like so many other nights before thus ending the BDSM chapter in her life. The crack of leather on bare skin followed by the strident cry of pleasure drew her attention to the spinning St. Catherine’s wheel at the back of the room.

A row of bigger stations to accommodate the whip enthusiasts, who required a lot of space to work, and the larger pieces of equipment stretched along the wall. More specifically, the wailing wall. The reason for the nickname became obvious when the red-leather-clad domme flailed her muscular submissive once more and his hoarse cry rose above the din in the room. The crowd surrounding the station watched in rapt voyeuristic awe. All except one man who was looking her way—Jordan.

She averted her gaze, hoping he would stay where he was—far across the room. Watching a nearby wax play scene, she tried to play it nonchalant. When she stole a quick glance to see if he’d taken her hint, she felt sick. He had his gaze fixed on her as he made a beeline in her direction.

Fiona glanced at the doors. Did she make a run for it again, like a coward? While still weighing her decision, she heard footsteps on the platform. Soon, he stopped in front of her, much too close and blocking her exit.

She sat to put distance between them.

“Fiona, isn’t it?”

Wasn’t it Fat Fiona? Like he didn’t know.

“Sir,” she replied, managing not to cringe when he sat next to her.

What was going on? All she needed was the third dom to appear, and she’d have a trifecta of humiliation.

“I wanted to speak to you about the other night—in the bar. I regret that you overheard what you did and felt the need to bolt early.”

Huh. His apology was for her overhearing, but not for either calling her fat, the C-word, or laughing about it. So...sorry, not sorry. Way to own up to his bad behavior; what a jerk.

“I’m fine,” she assured him. “The incident hasn’t crossed my mind since.”

“What a relief.” He covered her hands with one of his own. “There’s no barrier to the two of us playing tonight, then.”

Her gaze shifted from their joined hands to his face. “You want to scene with me?” she asked, rather incredulous because after rejecting him once and other than the bar that night, he had never spared her a second glance.

“Yes. You’re beautiful, and I’ve had my eye on you for a while. Do you have a limit list I may peruse?”

Totally taken aback, she pulled a laminated card from between her breasts without thinking.

---