Bow to Your Partner Page 4

  Callan stroked her arm. "Mason, remember those letter S, S and C? The third one is consensual. Anything we do will be just that. Consensual."

  She nodded. "Yeah, but oh my, what a turn around. Seriously, I'm the sort of person it takes three weeks to decide if they should buy grape juice or apple juice for a change. I'm slow, methodological, and hate change. Now here I am after a few hours and—" She stopped and flushed red, the color he hoped to make her ass.

  “And?" He prompted her when she didn't continue.

  "And wet, wanting, and scared stiff I'm going to make a fool of myself. Shit." She shook her head and laughed. "Oh, are you really sure you want to take a chance on me?"

  The car drew to a halt before he had the opportunity to answer. Callan decided maybe the best thing was just to show her. He opened the car door, helped her out and watched Mason look around with an interested expression. There wasn't much to look at. A blank wall, with a couple of door in it, and above one of the doors a tiny sign unlit and discrete, that simply said The Dance Studio please telephone or email for information. Below it was a web address.

  "Not into advertising then?" she asked as the car drove away and they walked toward the doors. He steered her to the one with the sign above it.

  If she noticed the other two were unidentified, Mason didn't say, and Callan wasn't going to mention it—not yet. First, he needed to see what she thought of the foyer he wanted painting. Then perhaps he'd have the opportunity to show her other things as well. If she'd been in the lifestyle, he was amazed she didn't know about the club. It probably only opened around the time her husband died, so it was no wonder she didn't.

  Body tense, Callan made an effort to relax. If it all went well, that would be perfect, if not, then he'd take little steps towards his goal. He fought to remind himself they had no deadline, no limit, and the end result would, he hoped, be worth it.

  "Hello? Earth to Callan, anyone in?" Mason touched his arm. With a jolt, Callan realized he hadn't answered her question. He held his hands out to take her jacket, and helped her slip it off her arms before he replied.

  "Sorry," he said. "I was thinking about a problem I might have. That was rude. Ah, advertising? They don't need to. Anyone interested in the lessons here, knows about it. The Studio is very much private, and word of mouth recommended. They're very selective who's taught or teaches here."

  Whether it was his tone of voice or his phrasing, Callan didn't know, but Mason jerked her head around and looked at him thorough narrowed eyes.

  "Why do I wonder what sort of dancing is taught?" she asked. "Are you going to enlighten me?"

  Chapter Six

  If she could bottle his grin, Mason reckoned she'd make a fortune. It was wicked, sexy, and darn right dominant all rolled into one. That single smile made her body pulse with arousal, and little stings and tingles danced over her skin. Her clit clenched so hard and fast, it was a wonder she didn't come there and then. Or be a heap of drool on the tarmac. Altogether too much in one man. She hadn't experienced a reaction to anyone like this since Michael. In fact, as Callan continued to look at her, she realized she'd never encountered such an instantaneous reaction to anyone like that full stop. It didn't scare her, as she thought it might. Instead she felt like punching the air, shouting hallelujah and then jumping him.

  "What do you think?" Callan asked her as he folded her jacket over one arm then keyed in a set of numbers on the pad by the door. "Come on, let me show you. Careful, the lights aren't on high at the moment. Do you need me to adjust them?"

  "It's fine," she said in a low voice. Somehow the subtle lighting demanded it. A shiver of anticipation rippled over her body. Why was she so excited? Mason would never have called herself anything other than prosaic. She definitely wasn't given to flights of fancy. So why on earth did she feel something momentous was about to happen? Something that might well shape the rest of her life? She followed Callan inside and stared. Talk about a letdown. Her heart plummeted, and she tasted the nasty bile flavor of disappointment.

  Boring, bland, and totally uninformative. The entrance hall had cream walls, a parquet floor and wooden stairs with a functional banister.

  "Dancing in your sleep, I reckon, if this is anything to go by. My goodness, it's not very inspiring, is it?" Mason said without thinking. She felt her cheeks heat. "Oh lordy, that was rude, but really. I hope this is what you need painting."

  Callan laughed. "It's not meant to be welcoming. It's just the way in. We go upstairs, then you'll see one of the areas that needs painting." He put his hand at the small of her back and ushered her toward the staircase.

  The heat from his palm had her clit doing the tap dance. The silly expression popped into her mind, and set a train of thought going. Mason couldn't get her head around it. Surely she was wrong? But those three words together, clit, tap and dance teased her memory about something Michael said before he died. About the fact that there was dancing, and then there was dancing. He'd intended to show her, he said, just how he could make her body dance as well as sing. Surely this couldn't be what he meant?

  Everything began to fall into place. Callan's dominant attitude, which, she accepted, intrigued her. Marco's reticence about what the potential job was. The bland building, and the lack of publicity. Somewhere someone mentioned a new very private club was due to open in the city. One where you could do your own dance. Was this it? Mason cheerfully admitted she hadn't been interested in anything BDSM since her husband died in a car crash, but she listened to the local gossip. She'd mourned Michael long and hard, but life did go on, and now after all those long lonely months, she was ready to move forward.

  Her friends had been determined to keep her busy and active, and up to date with what was happening, and now she was glad. And oh so interested to see what was behind the next door.

  The room that needed decorating.

  All the while she'd been thinking about her revelations, they'd climbed the stairs and walked into the foyer. This room was like chalk and cheese compared to the one downstairs. Okay, it still had bland unadorned walls, but the rest of it called to her on so many levels. To one side was a beautiful mahogany desk, with a comfortable chair behind it and two in front. Along one wall, were a sofa, coffee table, and some magazines. A tall urn was filled with foliage and a mass of roses that perfumed with their sweet scent. At right angles to them, facing the entrance were three doors. It had the potential to be a beautiful room.

  "Basic, I know," Callan said. His fingers brushed her neck, and her heart missed more than one beat. She swallowed. Was she going to be brave and tell him what she thought? What if she was wrong, he'd think she really was loopy.

  "I think this needs to be warmer," he said as his fingers traced soft whorls over her nape. Mason wanted to sink into the exquisite sensations they were creating.

  "Er?" Mason blinked, and gave herself a mental shake.

  "Colors. What do you think?"

  She was sure her mouth dropped open. "Ah, er yes, I can do that no bother. I'll sort out some color schemes to show you. But all this building for one day a week? Surely you're open on other nights as well?" Now why did she suddenly think she'd asked a leading question? One with potential repercussions?

  Mason felt like an insect under a microscope. Not a pleasant feeing. Her skin seemed too tight, and she'd swear her hair follicles itched. Callan didn't speak as he looked her in the eyes. Those sexy shots of amber in his irises flared as he stood immobile. She'd never understood the meaning of 'even the air was silent' before that moment. Now she definitely was under scrutiny, and she desperately hoped she wasn't judged and found lacking. The smell of lavender furniture polish vied with the heady scent of the roses in the tall vase nearby. Under normal circumstances their perfume would delight her, but in her heightened state, their cloying scent gave her a headache.

  "We have other types of dancing in the rest of the building. But not on a Tuesday. Are you interested?" Again the room was silent. A faint pulse beat in Ca
llan's neck, and Mason watched him wriggle his fingers. Was he as nervous as she? It seemed like it.

  Go for it, if I'm wrong, well I'll just have to laugh it off. If I'm right though … am I really ready to jump back into the lifestyle? What if I can't without Michael, what if— Ahh, bugger what ifs, just do it already. However telling oneself to do something, and then doing it were two different things. Mason took a deep breath and smelled the faint citrus of his cologne. The fresh scent dispelled her headache, and her body responded with devastating awareness. It sent a spiral of need from her nipples to her channel.

  Go on, say it, show what you want.

  "I can see your thoughts going at fifty to the dozen, love. Are you going to share them?" Callan slipped her jacket off his arm and hung it over the back of the chair. He didn't take his eyes of her.

  She made her mind up.

  "Show me the rest. Or can't you? If it's private and all, then can I go in without being a member?" Still she didn't say what was uppermost in her mind. She could tell he waited for more. Mason decided to go for gold. She took a deep breath and swallowed twice. Goose bumps covered her skin, and she was sure a sheen of sweat did as well. She was scared, but not frightened. If that's not a contradiction in terms, I don’t know what is.

  "Sir?"

  His eyes widened for such a brief second, she wasn't sure she'd really seen the relief that flashed over them.

  "Yes, love?"

  Surely he doesn't mean that as love? It's just a word, like honey or babe … surely?

  "Um, well I was once told, there's dancing and there's dancing. That making love is a dance, and so is BDSM." She spoke so fast, Mason was sure her words tumbled over each other. She bit her lip and took a deep breath. "Am I right in thinking this is a set up? That you and Marco are moving me on faster than I'd started? And why not just tell me? Because I might want to try, but I'm not sure if I can and even though we've only just met, why am I thinking this could be important, and what if you—"

  "Whoa, slow down." Callan stopped her speaking by putting his finger over her lips. Mason clamped down on her urge to pull it inside her mouth and suck.

  Like I want to do to his cock. She nearly fell over. Where on earth did that thought come from? It was one thing she'd never really enjoyed. Michael understood, and so it hadn't much been in their life. Now, all she could think of was how good Callan should taste. She was certainly moving fast. Mason gulped and bit her lip. She couldn't say that on such a short acquaintance. Yes, Marco vouched for Callan, but really, how did he know? He only saw one side of him, being a sub was something else totally.

  "Mason, talk to me," Callan said in a no messing, dominant tone. "Vocalize, not internalize. To be honest, I think we've both been set up, but this for me is a bonus. I've been jaded and showing little or no interest in my true self and desires, and Marco knows it. I was chatting to him one evening, and I mentioned that and the fact this foyer needs painting to him. He suggested you, and said you needed to get out and live again, so he sussed us both out, eh? I for one am not sorry."

  Neither was she. Mason realized he still waited for her to answer. Now she was going to be honest. "Er, and I think, nor am I but maybe I need to go slowly you know? Remember how to walk before I run—or dance?" She cocked her head to one side to look at him. His expression was thoughtful.

  "Maybe. You're correct in your surmise. This area is for people who want to dance. As in rumba, waltz or jive. I don't know if you noticed, the other doors when we came in? One of those is for the club. If you're serious about looking round, I can take you through my office and into the general play area." He held his hand in the air as if he thought she was about to speak. "One minute. Remember, it's a play night, and you'll have to sign up and join. Are you ready for it? If you are and we go in, there's no messing. I'll be there with you as your Dom, and I'll expect the obedience and deferment that I'd get from my sub. No half measures even if we do only observe and not play. We go by the rules of the club, and the rules we negotiate now."

  She bit her lip. "Which are?"

  "Which, if you agree, we'll talk about," Callan said in an even tone. "Because if you don't, there's no need."

  Now or never. Mason squashed the tap dancing spiders inside her tummy, and ignored the salsa-wriggling warnings on her skin. Go on S, S, and C. I won't know until I try it.

  "If I do," she said, and could have kicked herself for sounding so defensive. "Then won't I have to wait until you've done all the checks on me?" Damn it, now I sound disappointed and needy.

  "It seems you applied to join when we opened."

  His smile reminded her of the old saying 'walk into my parlor said the spider to the fly'—damn him.

  "Everything was okay, and you signed up, but never visited."

  "I did? And I didn't? How on earth could that happen then? I don't remem— Michael. He got me to sign some insurance forms, or so he said. Underhand, conniving … oh, bless him."

  She recalled the occasion. It had been a few days before the accident. A secret grin had flickered over Michael’s face, and he’d distracted her by playing with her nipples as she scribbled her name.

  "He told me it was boring stuff that we needed to sign, and if I was a good girl he had a nice surprise for me coming up. I was somewhat preoccupied at the time, and just scrawled my name. I know," she said before Callan interrupted. "Stupid or what? But he was my husband, and I trusted him. I think I'm rather glad I did. He knew it was something we both wanted to do." A surge of sadness filled her. For what might have been, and for a good man and Master, taken before his time. Then she heard his voice as clearly as if he'd been standing next to her. Forward not back, embrace life not push it away.

  "I am glad," she said in a clear voice. A shadow lifted from her, and she realized she hadn't been so happy since Michael died. The dark cloud hovering over her head disappeared, and she wanted to shout and dance. She hadn't even known how she felt until the sensations vanished.

  "I'm free," she said. "Sir, I'm free, and I didn't even know I wasn't." The salutation felt right, and natural. Callan gave her a long, considered look, and slowly smiled. As his lips stretched, Mason was aware of her juices coating her cunt and the way her finger ends tingled.

  "I'm pleased. Do you want to go in?"

  The formation of dancing ants covering her skin no longer felt threatening. This time, tingles of anticipation bombarded her instead.

  She wanted to see inside the club, wonder what Callan liked, and whether they both had similar interests.

  "Yes, please."

  Callan unlocked the left hand of the three doors and stood back to let her precede him. She walked into his office and looked around with open interest. They said your surrounding reflected your personality. She was glad the outer room didn't reflect Callan.

  He stood just inside the door, and Mason became conscious of his gaze on her as she wandered around. The classy room, with deep rosewood furniture, sleek cabinets and an abstract painting of blues and orange which reminded her of a summer sunset over the Western Isles suited him. A tall coat stand with long hooks on it made her start, and she gave him a quick look. He leaned back on the door, arms folded and legs crossed at the ankles. The stance tightened his trousers over his body, and Mason couldn't help but notice how it stretched over his thick cock.

  "Yes, it would make a superb cradle for me to tie you to, wouldn't it?" he said in a conversational tone. "The perfect height and shape. Maybe another time?"

  There was no way her skimpy thong could contain her gush of arousal, and Mason forced herself not to cross her legs and rub her thighs together. Of course he noticed, and grinned.

  "Is that thought making you all hot and wet, Mason? Of me tying you up and spanking you? Or using a nice stingy or thuddy flogger on you? I'm looking forward to finding out your likes and dislikes, and pushing you even further than you thought possible. What do you think?" He put his finger under her chin and forced her to look upward. "Tell me the truth. If I
lift your skirt and put my hand inside you what will I find? I bet you're so wet I'd need no other lubrication to fuck you long and hard, would I? Even to take you over the desk. We don't have to go into the club, I could make you come so loud and long, your cries would drown out any other noise. So." He took his hand from her chin, and slipped two fingers under the collar of her dress. “Do we?"

  Mason gulped. He stroked the slope of her breast, creating beautiful tingles that ran through her. Dare she submit?

  Do it cara, it's what you are. The voice was inside her mind again. Time to move on.

  Callan's hand moved once more and he crossed his arms. The reaction to the loss of his touch surprised her. She felt lost and alone. That plus the almost forlorn look on his face made her mind up. Mason slipped to her knees in front of him. Before she lowered her head, his cock was at eye level, and pushing hard against the cloth of his trousers. She imagined the way it would feel in her hand or mouth. Hot, hard, and if she tasted him, all male musk and saltiness. Mason shook with the need to experience both of those things, before he came inside her, filled her, and fucked her until they were both spent. It was up to her to show him she was eager and ready for whatever he desired to show and ask of her.

  "Please, Sir." Her voice was husky and she cleared her throat. "I'm ready, and would like to try and see if we work as Sir and sub."

  He stayed silent for so long, Mason was desperate to look up, to gauge his mood or intention. Somehow she managed not to, sure it was a test. Eventually, just as she was ready to scream, she felt his hand on the zipper of her dress.

  "Then show me." He slipped the dress over her arms, and lifted her to her feet so it pooled around her on the floor. "Step out."

  She obeyed without looking up. Once more he tilted her face toward him. "Good girl. Safe words red, yellow green?"

  She nodded. "Yes, sir."

  "Now?" he asked as he stroked his finger under her thong and scraped the entrance to her channel with his nail.