Follow Me Darkly (Follow Me #1) - Helen Hardt Page 0,82
know. This will keep you on edge tonight. Right on edge and under my control. You aren’t to touch that chain, Skye.”
“But it’s on me. How can I not?”
“Because you won’t. If you do, I’ll know.”
“But how can you—”
“I will know. Trust me.” He pulls my dress upward. “I want you to go without your bra tonight.”
“But the clamps will show.”
“No, they won’t. Your nipples will show, which is hot. They’ll be hard all night and will jut out farther than the clamps themselves. No one will be the wiser.”
“But—”
“And I’ll be able to subtly pull on your chain whenever I want.”
I gulp. “That will…”
“Drive you wild. I know. That’s the point.” He leans down and bites the shell of my ear. “Then maybe you’ll know how completely out of control I get just thinking about you.”
My legs nearly stumble, but he steadies me.
“Go now. Fix your bloodred lips.”
I nod and walk to the bathroom. My lips haven’t run, thank goodness. Susanne lip stain is good stuff. They do need a touch-up, though, which I do, hands shaking.
When I return, Braden has put the flowers he brought me into a vase. They sit on my small table.
“Thank you,” I say, “for the flowers.”
“You’re welcome. Are you ready?”
I nod. Every time I move, the clamps and chain move. Just the slightest twitch sends a thrill through me.
Damn.
This is going to be a long night.
Chapter Fifty-Four
When we arrive at the gala, Braden and I are treated like true VIPs, which, I guess, he is. I don’t feel like a VIP, but we’re led to the best table in the room, right in the front, where a bottle of Dom Pérignon and a platter of berries sit waiting.
“They think we like this better than Wild Turkey,” Braden whispers to me.
I giggle. I’ve never had Dom Pérignon, obviously, and I’d like to try it. The server opens the bottle and pours two flutes for us, handing the first to me.
Braden takes his and clinks his glass to mine. “To control,” he says, casting his gaze down to my breasts.
To control? An odd toast, since he’s been trying to get me to give up my control since we met. Then I realize what he means.
His control, as evidenced by the clamps and chain binding me to his will. Just his gaze sends jolts through both my nipples. He hasn’t touched the chain, and already I’m bending to his desires.
“To control,” I echo and take a sip of the champagne. It’s crisp and dry and elegant, and the bubbles effervesce against my tongue and seem to explode as they crawl down my throat.
It’s wonderful.
The room is already full of guests. Braden doesn’t attempt to speak to anyone, and soon I see why. People seek him out, come to him, schmooze him. He doesn’t have to do the schmoozing.
Peter Reardon and Garrett Ramirez sit a few tables away from us. Has Braden broken the news that their firm won’t get his big contract? I have no idea. Peter catches my eye, and I smile. He looks away quickly.
Braden chivalrously introduces me to everyone who speaks to him. I’m in a haze of surreality until I realize I should be listening and taking note. If I’m going to be an influencer, I need all of Braden’s bigwig contacts.
“George,” Braden says, “meet my girlfriend, Skye Manning.”
An older man holds out his hand to me. I know nothing except that his name is George.
“A pleasure, Ms. Manning,” George says.
“Please, call me Skye.”
He nods and continues his conversation with Braden. I listen, but soon the words become a jumble in my mind. The din of conversation hangs around me, almost visible. Men in tuxes abound, and fashion for women ranges from conservative long-sleeve maxi dresses to skimpy cocktail numbers much like my own.
Is anyone else wearing nipple clamps? I find myself staring at women’s chests and wondering. I force myself to stop.
“Tell me about yourself, Skye.”
I jerk. Who’s speaking?
George is making eye contact with me. Who is George again? Braden must have mentioned who he is and what he does.
“I’m a photographer,” I say.
“Interesting. What kind of photography?”
“Mostly social media at the moment, but my dream is to photograph for National Geographic someday.”
“Interesting,” he says again. Clearly, he’s not interested at all. He returns to his conversation with Braden.
And it dawns on me.
I’m arm candy.
Arm candy wearing nipple clamps.
I take another sip of champagne and look around the room once more. Would anyone notice if I wasn’t here? A few men