Page 83 of Wicked Design
Clover made a face. “The coordinator refused. Said my work doesn’t meet their guidelines. How can you possibly stick around to help me?” She glanced at the wall clock. “Shouldn’t you be heading back? Your shift starts in a few hours.”
“I’m on vacation until your thing’s over. Lauren’s cool with that. If she hadn’t been, I would have quit. Let’s see what we have here.” He didn’t like what Clover had done with her table. “Why are your Clover Cuffs hidden in the back? They’re your most unique work.”
“Maybe for a BDSM convention. Not here. The coordinator said my banner’s too racy.”
“Let’s see.”
She unfurled the thing. “Peaches and Shell had less on at the party.”
Van Gogh didn’t want to talk about that or them ever. “You’re fully dressed.” She wore a strapless black top similar to an old-fashioned corset, her black jeans, and heels.
“Unfortunately he didn’t give me points for my outfit.” She put the banner away. “No biggie. Most people who’ve come by don’t know what the cuffs are for.”
“Let’s show them.” He lifted the man-finger ones, admiring her fantastic work. “You did an amazing job on these.”
“Thanks.”
He returned her smile, his eyes as wet as hers. For the first time in his life, Van Gogh wouldn’t have minded crying, in front of other people, no less. Being with Clover again was as sacred as a moment could get. “Put out your wrists.”
She laughed. “You’re going to cuff me?”
“Like I said, you’re fully dressed. He can’t complain about that or you advertising your stuff. That’s why you’re here. Let’s give these rubes a demonstration. Show them what people in Northwood Village do for a good time.”
Her gaze turned inward. “If I’d worn a collar and chain, you could have walked me around the room as your meek sub.”
That would happen only in her apartment or his, their intimate moments between them and no one else, if she gave him another chance. “When we get home, we can make a video. Put it on YouTube and BDSM sites that sell cuffs. Even places that are into funkier jewelry.”
“Oh my God, seriously?” She clapped. “That would be too awesome. You know how to do a vid?”
For her, he’d learn. Whatever it took to make her happy and successful. “It’ll be amazing, I promise. Think your band customers would like to donate some music?”
“How cool would that be? No harm in asking. Hold on. I need to take this down.” She grabbed her smartphone. “We could put your paintings in the background, against black walls so they’d stand out and attract attention to your work. During a particularly ominous strain in the music, the camera could swoop in on your somber stuff.”
She texted and paced. Attendees dodged her. “You could be at your easel, painting away when I come in. Then, as the Dom, you could slap the cuffs on me, your sub.”
“I’d rather be behind the camera, so to speak.”
“No. You have to be in it.” She wove around two women to get to him. “You could wear a hood to hide your face but leave your chest bare to show off your awesome muscles and ink. No one would know it was you.”
“Except for my tat.”
“It’s that unique?”
“Pretty much.”
Her mouth turned down then widened into a smile. “We could cover it with heavy-duty makeup. Hollywood does that all the time. This is going to be epic.”
“Excuse me.” An older man leaned in. “Do either of you know where table seven hundred is?”
Clover grabbed Van Gogh’s wrist and pointed in the opposite direction he had for the woman who’d asked. “That way. Keep going. You can’t miss it.”
“Thanks, miss.”
“You bet.” She released Van Gogh. “I should have worked the floor as information. Would have at least made something by now.”
“The day’s young. Put your wrists together.”
She giggled.
