sending Daralyn up to knock on the door and find out how he could get in, wasn’t much more appealing.
As he circled around and opened her door, she was staring at the place while sitting still as a mouse. Except her hands, which were tangling and untangling in her lap.
“I bet he has dust bunnies under his couch, just like everyone else.”
That surprised a little smile out of her, which made him feel more at ease, too. He gently tugged her out to stand next to him.
“Do you think Marcus and Thomas have been to this kind of party before?” she asked.
“Much as I’d prefer not to imagine that, yeah, I’m sure they have.” As they moved toward the front door, between pushes, he kept touching her hand on his shoulder. It helped him get his act together, not worry about shit that didn’t matter. If they had to go around the house, they would. She’d follow his lead, so he’d make damn sure it was a relaxed one. This was an adventure, like Disneyland.
They also didn’t have to rush inside. He could take all the time in the world and just talk to her, settle them both down. He stopped at the base of the stairs, gazing up at the door. The bronze knockers were a pair of lion heads. He squinted. Or maybe tigers.
He glanced at her. “Thomas said this would remind us of one of his fancy gallery shindigs.”
“Pretty clothes, drinking fruity wine out of sparkling long-stemmed glasses, wandering past all the pictures, saying smart things about them.” She managed another ghost of a smile. “That’s how he describes it.”
“Exactly. The people who can’t think of anything just stand there and look thoughtfully at them. Praying that no one asks them to say anything smart.”
“If they do,” a deep, cultured voice came from behind them, “you say—quite solemnly, but with a particularly jaded air—‘I’m still processing the author’s intent.’”
Still holding Daralyn’s hand, Rory turned to see a man standing on the paved walkway. He was framed by a pair of hydrangea bushes heavy with purple-blue blooms. With that background and in belted charcoal grey slacks and an open-necked black dress shirt, he exuded a mix of Southern gentleman, old money and urban sophisticate.
His dark hair was touched with silver, and his broad shoulders and fit body reminded Rory of Ben Affleck’s version of Bruce Wayne. Meeting the man’s vaguely familiar gaze, he found the amber-colored eyes steady and warm. Friendly. The man closed the distance between them and extended a hand to Rory. “Tyler Winterman, your host. We met briefly at the wedding, but I’m not sure we ever had the chance to speak.”
As Rory accepted the hand, he liked the grip. Strong, but nothing to prove. Also not too purposefully weak, like Daralyn’s professor had done.
Tyler turned his attention to Daralyn. “And you’re Daralyn,” he said. “You belong to Rory.”
Her eyes widened slightly, her lips parting. “I…yes, sir.”
When Tyler spoke to her, Rory put his hand back over hers on his shoulder. Tyler’s gaze grew even kinder, registering the cue of her nervousness. It made Rory like him more. It also prompted him to add his own two cents.
“It’s a privilege and a gift I’m working to earn,” he said.
Tyler’s expression reflected approval. “Which is part of why you’re here tonight. As a good host, my intent is to ensure you have the experience you’re seeking. Even if you’re not entirely sure what that is.”
Marcus had said he’d respect their privacy as much as possible, but Tyler would have to be told some things about them, in order for their host to vet Rory and Daralyn properly for this kind of party. While that had admittedly made Rory a little uneasy, he understood the need. Marcus had offered additional reassurance.
“He’s an arrogant dick. But Tyler’s also the best kind of Dom, through and through. He’s one of the most respected in the BDSM scene, which is a pretty close-knit community.”
Tyler gestured toward the marble stairs, taking a few steps in that direction so Rory followed and saw what one of the pillars had concealed. There was a ramp. And not one tacked in as an afterthought. It was an integrated feature of the entranceway, the strip between the ramp and the adjacent stairs a sunken planter with blue-green ornamental grass, the feathery tops bobbing in the breeze. Another reason he’d missed the ramp’s presence.
“The exit to our gardens in the back are ground level, so no