Page 65 of Beneath the Burn

The SUV passed through the gate of the band’s estate and parked in the garage. Jay glued himself to Charlee’s side and stumbled when she veered in the opposite direction of the interior door.

He wanted to reach out and grab her, but opted for patience. “Where are you going?”

As the guards moved inside, the click of her heels followed her to the back wall where the utility boxes and carpentry tools lined shelves and cabinets. She rooted through the drawers until she found a palm sander.

“Charlee, talk to me.”

She handed him the sander and a sheet of sandpaper and moved to the workbench.

He turned it in his hands, unease trickling through him. “What am I supposed to do with this?”

“You’ll see.” She opened a metal box. “Oh! This is perfect.”

A bundle of rubber-insulated wire flew toward him.

He caught it, surprised by the heavy weight. “Electrical cable?” Did she plan to hook his dick to a generator and fry it off?

She scanned the garage, chewing on a nail, lifting up and down on the balls of her feet. Given the horrible events of the night, she seemed a little too excited about whatever was going through that gorgeous head of hers.

Realization sucked the blood from his face. She wasn’t looking for tools to torture him with. They were for her. A sickening amount of panic gripped his gut. “You want me to hurt you.” His certainty was thick and strangled.

She yanked something from a bin of gardening tools, turned toward him, and held out a bamboo plant pole. “Yes.”

They stared at one another with that menacing pole raised between them. She didn’t tell him he owed her this. It flared from her stony unblinking eyes.

His heart pummeled against his ribs. She didn’t want to scream at him or kick his ass. She didn’t want to walk out and never see him again. She wanted him to man the fuck up and be her Dom.

Big breath. Another. He nodded. A jerky movement. “Okay.”

She lowered the pole. “Okay?”

“I’ll give you whatever you need.” He held out the sander and cable. “But electric shock, Charlee? I’ll fucking kill you.”

She let out a soft huff and shook her head slowly, lips twitching. “Percussion play. Electric shock won’t be necessary.”

“Percussion?” The image of her strapped over Rio’s drum kit inappropriately tumbled into his head.

She breezed past him in the direction of the interior door, twirling the garden pole like a baton. “Impact. Flogs. Whips. Percussion.”

Jesus. “Charlee. Wait. Just…stop a second and talk to me.”

Her hand was on the doorknob, but she didn’t turn it. Nor did she turn to face him.

“Look at me.”

Her chin moved, perched on her shoulder and she glared at him. It was a defiant glare, coloring her cheeks and brightening her eyes. And fuck him, but it looked good on her.

“This is what you want?” He raised the devices that guaranteed nightmares in his near future.

Her stubborn chin tipped up and down.

“I know how this works. Limits are set on both sides, right?”

The muscles in her cheeks flexed.

He set the sander on the nearest cabinet. “Power tools are one of my limits.” He held up the sheet of sandpaper to show her he still had it.

She looked at the sandpaper, at the sander, back at the sandpaper. “You better know how to use that.”

He nodded. He didn’t have a fucking clue.