The five fingers of Him burned into my arm, the twist of his body to look at Brett causing a rug-burn effect, but I stayed in place, my back to him. I couldn’t turn, couldn’t look into Brett’s eyes because if I did... God, if I saw his face my barely controlled emotions would flood. I would sob his name, throw my arms out and fly into his chest. I would grip his shirt, smell his cologne and never let go - they’d have to cut out our chests and separate the beating of our hearts.
“No problem. Just a little negotiation over price. The slave stepped out of place.” He jerked with his hand on my arm and I stumbled around, into my keeper, my eyes glued to the floor, the wet brim of tears threatening to fall as I did everything to stop myself from looking up.
Brett’s shoes. Black dress shoes, the laces tight and neat. If I pulled up his dress pants, I’d see dark silk socks.
He watched me, a playful gleam in his eyes as he pulled his shoes, then his socks off, stretching the black fabric between his hands and standing. Walking to the foot of the bed, he grabbed my ankles and pulled me to the edge, winking at me before he pinned them together and secured them with the silk. “What are you going to do?” I breathed, testing the bind, his weight settling on the bed as he moved against me and propped my bound legs against his shoulder.
“Just wait,” he ordered, his hands busy unbuckling his belt.
“The negotiation is over.” Brett’s voice was quiet yet carried, and I counted the shoes around him. Three other pairs, all pointed this way. I wondered about the men attached to them, if they were ones I’d met before. Wondered how much of his life that I had misunderstood had revolved around this.
“Actually,” the fat man beside me spoke, stepped forward a bit. “It’s not. But you’re welcome to enter the deal. I might be persuaded to sell my option.”
In the silence that followed, I pictured Brett’s face, the way his jaw clenched when he held back anger, the way his eyes blazed with authority. When his words finally came, I heard the pent-up bite in their tones.
“Do you know who I am?”
It was an odd response and I stopped counting shoes and remembering and holding back tears, stopped everything to listen. My keeper spoke. “I’d guess, from the room’s sudden silence, that you’re Buyer 43.”
He was right, the room was quiet. The hum of masculinity, the laughs and murmurs and feminine chimes - all had stopped. There was nothing more interesting in this space than us. Buyer 43. I tried to remember what had been said.
“...I suggest you make Buyer 43’s acquaintance. He’s always looking for American girls to purchase, though he typically breaks them himself.”
“He’s here? I’ve heard his name before.”
“He rarely misses a sale.”
I shifted. Returned my gaze to Brett’s shoes. Waited for his response. Always looking for American girls... he has been looking for me.
“That is correct. This one... she’s American?”
“Yes, and well-trained.” My keeper practically chirped the response. I stared at my own feet, the cheap heels on them. The type of heels I wore when I met Brett. Not the kind he deserved. I am well-trained.
“What price are you thinking?” The fat man put a hand on my shoulder, his fingers spreading and squeezing the skin, leaving a moist print I would probably never fully scrub off. He almost bought me.
“I’m thinking that you get your hand off of her and step afuckingway before I cut off that hand myself.”
The hand left, so did the man. I could almost feel the brush of air as he found his common sense and left.
My Master’s words practically jump out, a rush of run-on syllables that melded together into a string of pathetic. “I’m a big fan of yours. Heard about you for years. I’m glad we got the chance to meet, it was really more than I expected, you being here tonight—”
“What is it that you respect?” Brett said coolly. “My purchasing habits? My stable?”
“Everything. I’d love to see your facility. Watch you train. I heard you take all types.”
“My hobby is not a theme park. You can’t come and wander around, eat fucking popcorn and watch me work the girls.”
He straightens, shifts in response, and I feel the cold possessive slide of his hand, down the back of my arm and around my waist. “It was nice to meet you. A big honor.” He pulled on my waist, moving me a step towards him, the hurt kid taking his toys and going home.
“The band on your arm indicates you’re here to buy.” Brett’s voice interrupts our exit.
“I am.”
“You know I have hundreds. Tell me what you are interested in. Or, since you have such an interest in my dealings, come and pick one out.”
A slight release, the turn of Him back to Brett. “And what about her?” He tips his head toward me. “You like American girls. Do you want to do a trade?”
“I’ll give you twenty for the girl now. You can use it to rebuy tonight, or save it for your trip to my ranch.”
I was so close to freedom. I wish I could pin my eyes in place, the danger of them lifting so strong. Brett sounded so calm, so smooth. Was playing the game better than I ever would have been able to.
“Twenty-five?” I may faint if this negotiation lasts much longer.
“No.” Brett’s voice was cold. “Take the deal or get the fuck out of my sight.”
The man beside me laughed, high and awkwardly, his step passing in front of my line of vision, my gaze lifting slightly to see their hands shake. “We have a deal. Enjoy her.”
I feel the push of my keeper’s *ex-keeper’s* hand and step forward. I can’t lift my eyes or I will break, am stepping over the edge to freedom, cannot lose this now.
“Come here.” It is not Brett who speaks, it’s the man on his left, who holds out his hand, and I step towards him, my hands clasped, daring to raise my head and I meet his gaze. It is strong and steady, a hard jaw, kind eyes — I know this man. Met him at Brett’s house, the full introduction made in the outdoor kitchen, him setting down tongs long enough to shake my hand and give me his name. I can’t remember it, but know that he had two kids, one who played soccer.
He smiled at me but I was too scared to respond. Wanted to be out of this party as soon as possible. Wanted to scrub my skin until I removed every layer of him. Wanted to be alone with Brett and burrow into his chest. Look into his face and rediscover every detail I’d struggled to memorize. Never let go of him.
I heard the slap of a handshake behind me, money exchanged, a string of subservient words pouring at Brett from the man who had demanded obedience from me. Heard, or imagined, the click of his shoe as he stepped away. Felt the close of a hand, Brett’s hand, around my arm as he gently pushed me forward, steering me toward the door, his voice low and urgent when he turned to the others. “Make sure we get to the car safely, then stay here and deal with the other girls. I’ll meet you back at the house.”
It took a thousand steps to reach the street, his hand firmly wrapped around my bare bicep, every bit of my skin obsessed with the warm grip of him. A thousand steps where, at one moment, turning a corner, he leaned down and pressed a kiss on the top of my shoulder. Inhaled a deep breath and smelled me. Moved the thumb of his hand gently and caressed the underside of my arm for one moment before we rounded the edge and he was, again, pure business.
When we stepped past Polished Shoes, I took in a shuddering breath. When a hand pushed on the door and it opened, a burst of free air greeting us, the night outside quiet, an SUV ahead of us waiting, the back door opened by a faceless man, I exhaled. Stepped up, into the warm vehicle, the driver turned in his seat, his face flinching in surprise when our eyes connected, recognition hitting us both at the same time. Another meeting. Another time. Another friend.
The door shut behind Brett, the truck accelerated away from the house, and I felt the crush of his arms around me.
He gripped me as if he was drowning, his arms wrapping around me, his head in my neck, breath gasping as if he was broken, a quivering sob of wracking inhalations, the action paused only by his kisses, quick and soft against my shoulder, collarbone, neck. He moved a shaky hand to either side of my face and held it, still, his lips pressing to mine before he pulled away and I looked fully into his face for the first time in the rest of my life. Saw heartbreak there that rivaled my own. Need and stress, a man aged in my time away, his fingers trembling as he ran the pads of digits across my lips.
“I thought…” he shuddered out a breath. “I thought you were gone. Oh my god…” he sobbed, a wet shaky inhale, his hands sliding into my curls and gripping them, pulling me closer.
I dug my hands into his hair and pulled him toward me, our lips meeting and knew in that moment that nothing between us - not with the time, or the separation, or my servitude - had changed. He didn’t see me as ruined or used, he gripped me like I was priceless, kissed me like he’d never let go. He was still mine. We were still us.