Sake Bomb (18 page)

“Oh, no. You said to ask, so I’m asking.”
Kizzie circled back to the top, cleared her throat. “Your wife,
your…
sub
… She’d be cool with this? You out on a date? You
‘
playing’
with other people?”

“It’s not so uncommon in the Lifestyle.
You’re interested.”

“Nope. Doms and subs and collars…. Not my
thing, and I just don’t get it—giving someone else power over you.”
Ignoring both menu and new appendage, Kizzie looked around the
restaurant again, checking for details, anything that seemed out of
place. “So you can play, what about her?”

“What about her?” Xander asked dryly.

“Can she screw other people?”

“I don’t want to talk about her—”

“Ah,” Kizzie interrupted, focused on the
menu again, “Don’t like sharing your toys, huh?” She sighed
knowingly. “I can dig it. I’m the same about my guns...”

“—and you don’t want to talk about her,
either,” Xander finished. “You’d rather talk about you. So would
I.” His arm dragged down her back, hand came up her spine to the
nape of her neck, bringing a chill along for the ride. “Stop
running and ask.”

Tingling awareness radiated from every nerve
in her body and keeping her voice level was a struggle. “All right,
I’m your sub,” she lifted a shoulder and added, “for shits and
gigs—”

“Watch your mouth. I don’t like when
my
sub
speaks to me that way. But I do like where this is going.
Continue.”

“Can I play with other people?”

He frowned. “Who?”

Did ‘who’ really matter? Not that any of
this conversation mattered, but she had a point to make. Might as
well be a sharp one. “Phil.”

Xander angled his body more and leveled his
gaze. “You want to fuck Phil?”

Oh, but it was okay for
him
to speak
that way? She ignored the snarky response in her head. “I dunno.
What if I did? What if I’m your sub, but I want to fuuu— play with
Phil? How’s that work?”

The frown didn’t dissipate, and if anything
his already-dark gaze went opaque. “You’re not fucking Phil.”

“Language,” she teased, and then added
brightly, “I’m also not your sub, Duquesne.” Leaning forward, she
resting her arm on the table, absently registered photos of
hamburgers. “Merely a point of illustration. As Master and
commander, do you let your sub get down with somebody else?”

“We’re jumping the gun here, and you
misinterpreted what I said at the start. You’re interested.”

“Not at all, slick.”

“It wasn’t a question. And I did warn you…”
His grip firmed on the nape of her neck, so much so that he angled
her head toward him and she sucked in a startled breath. “You’re
lying to me. A cardinal sin in my world—a good sub doesn’t lie to
her Dom. Lying means you don’t trust your Master, and you have to
trust your Master. If I told you to get on this table so I could
eat you instead of the steak, you’d do it because you trust
me.”

Pain registered at the base of her skull—not
unpleasant but nearly so. A very intense squeeze. Was it getting
tighter? Kizzie fought her initial reaction and kept her hands to
herself. Blood thundered through her veins and her breathing kicked
up a notch. “I’d nev—”

“Quiet,” he commanded, and her mouth snapped
shut, albeit there was a scowl on her face. “A good sub doesn’t
speak without permission. I didn’t give you permission.” The
fingers of his free hand traced down the exposed slope of her neck,
the light touch raising goosebumps on her arms. “The thought of
being splayed on this table has appeal, doesn’t it? Pulse at your
throat’s jumping; you’re forcing yourself to sit still. I’d put you
up here, spread you open… I’ve almost forgotten how sweet you
taste.”

Her face warmed, and Kizzie inhaled a sharp
breath through her nose. The tiniest whimper sounded in her throat
and Helsinki flashed through her mind. Would he really do it? In
this booth?

“I’d start here.” Still gripping her neck,
his other hand went to her knee, heat from his palm penetrating the
denim. “Open your legs, Princess…hand on my thigh.”

She hesitated and he whispered, “Remember,
good girls get to come.” Her hand slid onto his leg without her
meaning to.

“Good girl. Don’t. Move. This has to be a
quick operation, you understand, so no messing around.” He took a
path straight up, pausing briefly at the juncture between her
thighs, before continuing north, right over the band of her jeans.
A twist of his fingers and the button popped open. Kept going,
under the edge of her shirt. Up…up…

“Which means no time to play with these
gorgeous breasts.” Fingertips edged just beneath the wire of her
bra, tracing the crease of one breast, and then up over the bell. A
firm squeeze of her lingerie-covered flesh and she gasped. “You
can’t possibly imagine how much I’ve thought about flogging your
breasts.”

His fingers scored down the orb, down her
stomach, one dipped into her navel. Her abs tightened. A few
teasing swirls and he moved south again, skin to skin. So slow.

The burgers on the menu blurred; Kizzie
tightened her grip on his leg.

This was happening; she was
letting
this happen.

Stop him, dammit! For the love of all things
yellow, he’s
married
!

The message never left her brain. Her lungs
filled and emptied, repeating the cycle faster each time. He moved
a millimeter lower, tone darkening. “Let’s see how wet my pussy is,
hm?”

His
pussy… Her belly sank to her feet
and her toes curled in her boots. ‘His pussy’ clutched.

“Better yet,” Xander exhaled, moist breath
hot against the shell of her ear, “let’s sweeten the deal.
If
my pussy’s wet, you get on the table, I get us kicked out
of here.”

Those fingers moved lower. Any second now
he’d know exactly what his words did to her. She noted absently he
hadn’t given the alternative, what would happen if she wasn’t wet.
Waste of breath.

“You in?”

Yes.
No!
Either choice would be
completely stupid. She chewed her lip to keep from saying
anything.

His lips brushed her ear when he spoke. “Say
it.”

Kizzie stared down at the table,
waiting.

Waiting was always the hardest part.

Xander shifted away a bit, but the grip on
her neck didn’t lessen, and the hand under her shirt stayed
put.

“I’m Ben,” a cheery voice said from
somewhere in the universe. Two glasses of water appeared on the
table. Ben continued, either oblivious or completely accustomed to
impromptu submission training at the restaurant. “I’ll be your
server tonight.”

“Decided what you want yet?” He didn’t mean
dinner, Kizzie knew, but he acted as though they’d been having the
most banal chat over food choices. “If you could give us a minute,
Ben. She’s not quite ready,” Xander said. His fingers shifted a
hair and he added a thick, “Or are you?”

Kizzie couldn’t speak.

“Take your time.”

“I plan to.”

Ben moved away; the hand low on Kizzie’s
belly moved too. Going down, a clear course charted for the throb
between her legs, and then stopped. Teasing her. The hand on her
neck squeezed harder, and she let out a breathy yelp.

“How many times, Princess?”

Kizzie had no idea what he was talking about
and didn’t know if asking would make this continue or end, or which
of those she wanted. She kept up her silent vigil, the zipper of
her jeans doing the screaming she seemed incapable of as he traced
little whorls over her panties.

“How many times while you were gone from me
did you touch my pussy? Once…?”

Kizzie’s breath was coming faster than a
bullet train, and she wanted to snap her legs closed. Maybe
that
would stop the admission from creeping over her
face.

“Twice..?” Xander asked, his voice soft and
coaxing. “No, I’m betting more than that. You touched my pussy and
thought about me. Did you come?”

She squeezed her eyelids shut. Hopping on
the table buck-naked would’ve been far less embarrassing than this.
“Xander…”

“Called my name, too? Well that’s a nice
stroke to the ego…”

Her fingers dug into his thigh; his froze,
the tip of one thick digit so close to spreading her open through
soaked lace. It took everything she had to finally grip his wrist.
Xander tsked. “Moved your hand… What’s the count?”

“Twenty-four.” The number flew from her
subconscious and right out her open mouth, and Kizzie hoped to hell
it was right because she really hadn’t been keeping score.

“Good girl. So do I drag you over my lap
right here and spank you? Bet my pussy would be soaked by
then…”

Hell, it was flooding now! “Xander,
please
…”

“Thought you’d be safe ‘cause we’re not in
some dark dungeon or designated club? That’s not how this works,
Princess. A sub is respectful, no matter the location. She knows
the rules, as does her Dom, and she behaves accordingly. And when
she doesn’t…”

He moved again and she held his wrist
firmer, begged, “
Xander…
”

“Is that how you ask me to stop?”

Damn him. Damn him and those hands.

And damn her body and vocal chords for not
working in unison. Body screamed ‘
Green!’
but what croaked
from Kizzie’s dry throat was a soft and totally unbelievable,
“Red.”

“Red, who?”

She swallowed hard, torn between wanting to
kick his ass for this and the desire to give in. “Sir.”

The tight clamp on her neck morphed into
gentle kneading; the hand down her pants retreated.

“Keep running, but let’s be clear. It
wouldn’t matter who I let play with you.” Xander tightened his grip
on her sore muscles. She flinched and bit her lip—useless in
trapping the mewl that escaped her throat. “Because you only come
for me, and only when I let you. Crystal?”

At her slight nod, the final connection to
him broke and cool air rushed across Kizzie’s burning neck.

Xander sighed. “Guess it’s steak,
then...”

The sound of ripped paper, and a
plunk
: a glass of water, complete with straw, came into her
line of sight. She hated needing it; blessed the mouthful she
swallowed to regain her composure. No getting around the
embarrassment from the yell of the zipper as she drew it up the
track and then buttoned her jeans.

Why did she react to him so easily? Let him
touch her in the most intimate ways—in public, no less—and then
want him to do it again?

And again…

The wait for Ben’s return seemed endless.
One arm outstretched behind her on the top of the booth, Xander’s
other forearm rested on the tabletop, fingers drumming a tattoo
against the surface.

She turned from the sight of that busy hand;
caught sight of a woman staring a short distance away. Lanky, high
cheekbones, long, reddish-brown hair. In black skinny jeans and a
white sequined tank, she wobbled in her heels. A moment later, she
retreated to the opposite side of the eatery, taking careful
steps.

Beneath the table, Kizzie lifted her foot to
pull the knife from her ankle holster. “If I’m not back in fifteen,
come after me.”

She was out of the booth and moving by the
time Xander’s muttered curse reached her. She passed Ben, who
finally deigned them again worthy of his attention, and wended
through the tables, all the while ignoring the feel of Xander’s
eyes on her and the little zing between her thighs firing with each
step.

Compartmentalize. Focus.

As Kizzie rounded the corner to a small
corridor, the woman ambled through the bathroom door.

Kizzie hesitated. Alone out here; anything
could be waiting on the other side. Going in solo was a bad move,
but a thousand ninjas in a bathroom were far less dangerous than
the Dom she’d left at the booth. Knife at the ready, she opened the
door and cautiously stepped inside.

* * * *

Oakland, CA

F
ive thousand miles
east of Tokyo, two rust colored containers were being hitched to
Mach trucks at the Port of Oakland in northern California’s Bay
Area. The drivers chatted as they worked in the predawn hours. Done
securing their loads, the two men shook hands. One went to a large
black and purple cab with a lime green lightning bolt on the side,
and the other climbed aboard an equally large black cab with bright
red and orange flames painted on the hood and doors.

They trailed each other out the port’s
security gate and all the way to the Nimitz freeway entrance; their
horns tooted brief goodbyes. The flames chugged down the ramp
headed south, where a connection with the MacArthur freeway would
eventually point it southeast. The lightning bolt covered the yards
needed to ride the ramp that would take it north a short distance
until it merged with Interstate 80, headed northeast.

Half an hour later, a black SUV sped along
the Nimitz freeway.

An hour after that, the flames were in the
driver’s sights.

Tokyo, Japan

F
our stalls in the
bathroom, open doors touching the floor and extending high enough
toward the ceiling that peeking over wasn’t an option. Opposite
these were sinks and a long mirror. A quick survey of the
reflecting glass and Kizzie determined they were alone. She gripped
her lucky knife in her pocket, thumbing the wood; shifted her
position so she was close enough to the exit to escape, but not so
close as to be ambushed. “Got a name?”

He leaned against the bank of sinks: wide
eyes, more height, slightly different build and completely
different attire. The man from the tattoo shop, plus an appendage
or two on his lanky body. If he had to cross-dress to have this
meeting—a meeting at an American restaurant miles from the shop in
Shinjuku—he had good reason to.