Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 87284 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 436(@200wpm)___ 349(@250wpm)___ 291(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87284 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 436(@200wpm)___ 349(@250wpm)___ 291(@300wpm)
Since there were nine of us in Ty’s house and he had seven Adirondack chairs around the fire, rather than grabbing two extra chairs from inside, Colt and Reese sent their boys to sit on the floor.
I would’ve happily shared my chair with Macklin, but we didn’t fit once Ty showed us the “tables.” He’d manufactured them himself, these nifty tray tables that rested atop the armrests.
Despite that there were types of submission I could never relate to or understand fully, I saw the appeal and appreciated all the differences. Shay and Kit, for instance. Kit was a Little, through and through; he couldn’t sit still. Lucas cut the boy’s food into smaller pieces. Kit used too much ketchup and was thoroughly distracted by a game on his phone while he munched on fries, sausage, and a slider. Sometimes humming happily to himself.
Shay was put on speech restrictions by River, who I deduced was the Master-type of the two Doms, whereas I’d already heard Shay refer to Reese as Daddy. And Shay was…at peace. He leaned against River’s leg and ate in silence, occasionally reacting to the conversation flowing around him with soft grins and smirks.
I couldn’t imagine that lifestyle for myself—to that degree—but I loved watching it. Dominance and submission—that dynamic, period, was beautiful.
One day, I wanted a sliver of that. I wanted moments of worshipping and serving the man who enforced the structure I needed.
One day.
I cut another piece of my steak and got a quick look of approval from Macklin. He had taught me to order medium-rare, and the man was right. This was the way to go. It helped that the grill masters here were, well, masters. Christ, it was so good. Food prepared over an open fire, there was nothing more delicious.
“Corey, maybe,” someone said, catching my attention. It was River.
“I don’t know,” Lucas mused. “Cam certainly proved himself at the holiday party.”
“Slaves and Masters, I’m tellin’ ya,” Colt agreed. “I don’t foresee Lucian puttin’ Cam through extensive pain sessions—as far as I know, that’s not their thing—but that don’t mean Cam wouldn’t. He’d suffer for Lucian.”
I guessed they were discussing pain, maybe pain thresholds.
Reese nodded before he gestured his fork at me. “What about you, Lane? Are you a masochist?”
Macklin snorted, his first sign of humor since finding out Walker was walking back into his life.
I smirked at him, then faced Reese. “I’m not great with labels because I feel like I tick a lot of boxes, if only slightly. Suffering is one of them. Whether it’s physical pain or mental.”
“Sounds like Mr. No Labels over there.” Colt nodded at Ty. “I think it’s interestin’ that the people who aren’t into labels are the ones bringin’ ’em up all the time.”
Ty’s mouth twitched with mirth, but he was fucking awesome at hiding what he really thought sometimes. Or maybe that was all the reaction he thought the remark deserved, I didn’t know.
Reese laughed. “The don’t-put-me-in-a-box squad.”
“Right?” Colt laughed too.
I shook my head in amusement. “I don’t mind boxes. I just don’t think there is one—or several—where I belong completely.”
“Because you let the box dictate the definition,” River said quietly.
I tilted my head, curious. “Huh?”
It was Reese who took it from there. He often answered for his brother, and not in an asshole way; it seemed to be their dynamic.
“We’ll use Colt and me as an example,” he said. “We’re both Daddy Doms and Sadists. We both enjoy primal play and head games. In short, we belong in the same boxes. But we’re not the same people.”
“I’m sweeter,” Colt told me.
Not everyone agreed, judging by their laughter and Kit’s spluttering sound. Or Lucas’s raised eyebrow.
“He’s also delusional,” Reese drawled. “Either way, how we define sadism and all our kinks—we leave that up to the relationship. And ourselves, obviously. Kit’s a Little, and Shay is a Middle. That changes things in how we utilize pain because our partners are on different levels of vulnerability.”
Lucas nodded and chimed in. “You won’t see Colt hauling out a spiked paddle when Kit’s in his Little space, which is most of the time.”
“Thank the laaawd.” Kit threw up his hands in a hallelujah that made everyone chuckle.
“Not just because he wouldn’t like it, but because I ain’t interested in pain when he’s so vulnerable,” Colt added.
I shifted my gaze to Reese. “But you are?”
He grinned. “Absofuckinglutely.”
Because Shay didn’t get as vulnerable. Understood. And because that was their kink. Their thing.
“We can throw in Greer as an extra comparison,” Reese continued. “In addition to Daddy Dom-mentality and behavior, he’s a high-protocol Master. Or KC—I don’t think you’ve met him yet—primal player, mental Sadist, and Daddy. Or this one.” He jerked his chin at his twin brother. “Top, Sadist, just recently explorin’ his inner Master. And at the same time, we share a lot of boxes.”