The Gentleman Mentor(40)

Changing my mind on the beer, I set it down and grab my phone to dial Reece. When he answers, there are voices and low music in the background.

“Cameron Hale, good to hear from you, brother.”

“Hey, man. Anything going on tonight?” He knows me well. The tone of my voice and the fact that I’m calling at two a.m. are a good indication it’s not such a good idea for me to be alone right now.

“There’s always something going on,” he says. “Why don’t you come down?”

“Yeah, I’m thinking about it. Is Chrissy there?”

“She’s here. Should I tell her to wait for you? She’s looking to scene with somebody tonight.”

“Yeah. I need to grab a shower, and I’ll be right down.”

Knowing Chrissy is waiting for me and my release is within sight, I hurriedly shower and dress. Then I’m back in my car, roaring down I-94 toward downtown Chicago and Crave within fifteen minutes.

• • •



When I think about releasing Brielle from her contract, I decide that tonight’s performance is not how I want to end things. She came to me for a reason, and she’s going to walk away from our deal with more confidence and skills than she ever had before.

One more lesson, that’s the best I can offer. I just need to get my mind back in the right place. And there’s nothing like a willing submissive ball-gagged and secured to a table to put your mind into focus.

Chrissy is wearing the signature black vintage lingerie that she prefers—silk stockings with seams running down the backs of her legs, a garter belt secured over her high-waisted black lace briefs, a push-up bra that conceals her chest, yet hints at her ample curves. Her lips are painted blood red, and they’re currently open around a black rubber ball gag. She flinches at the blunt force of the riding crop as I lash it against the back of her thighs.

“Breathe through it,” I encourage her, but my voice sounds weak, even to my ears.

Chrissy’s eyes flash on mine. We haven’t played together in weeks, not since I started seeing Brielle, and it feels strange, as if I’m rusty somehow.

She taps her fingers against the side of the table as I unbuckle the ball gag, removing it from her mouth.

“Sir?” she asks, blinking up at me.

“Yes?”

“Am I doing something wrong? Something you don’t like? I can give you anything you allow tonight, sir.” Her words are thick with suggestive undertones.

I’ve never fucked Chrissy, although I’m pretty sure Reece has. His brand of kink is more intense than mine, and based on the stories I’ve heard, often ends in hungry, crazed sex. I’m much more controlled in a scene. Or at least, I used to be. Tonight I’m just off, and I don’t know why.

“You’re doing fine. It’s me, it’s just—”

“The new girl you’ve been keeping busy with,” she offers.

My gaze meets hers again. “Yes.”

“Do you want to talk about it? It’s almost morning. We could go get breakfast at that diner you like.”

All of the adrenaline I’ve been running on for the last hour crashes, and I’m suddenly tired. And not at all into finishing the scene we’ve started. “Not tonight.”

I release her from her binds and leave the room even more confused than when I arrived.





Chapter Seventeen


Brielle



By Sunday, I’ve recovered from my night with Hale and am headed to Kirby’s apartment. When I get there, he kisses me on the cheek and ushers me inside.

“I just need to catch the end of the game. You’re cool hanging out for a little bit, right?” His eyes stray to the television without waiting for my response.

“Of course,” I lie, even though I lined up an entire afternoon’s worth of appointments and if we’re late, it’s going to throw off the entire day.

We sink down onto the couch and Kirby squeezes my thigh. “Glad you’re here today. You’ve been busy lately.”

“Yes,” I say without expanding on what, or rather who was been keeping me occupied. I can never tell Kirby about Hale. He wouldn’t understand.

When the game goes to commercial, Kirby heads into the kitchen and rummages around in the cabinets. “You want anything to eat? A beer?” he calls.

“No, I’m good,” I call back as I take in the large apartment he shares with a roommate. It screams of bachelor pad. No personal touches, nothing to make it feel homey. I know his roommate is a lawyer at the firm where Kirby works, and that’s about it.

Kirby returns with a beer and a bag of chips, which he happily crunches into as he drops down onto the couch beside me again. I can’t help but notice the way he chews with his mouth open and wipes the crumbs from his fingers onto his pants.