Page 105 of Inked in Bloom
“You said this isn’t a d?—”
“And I stand by that,” I say, and lift my chin. “This isn’t a date. It’s research.”
“Research.” He repeats the word slowly, the disbelief palpable in his tone.
“Yeah.” I keep my posture relaxed, despite the nerves playing ping-pong in my chest. “Public sex. Entertainment. Doesn’t sound too far off from the claiming ceremony.”
Be brave but keep it reasonable. Logical.
“Think of it as a twist on exposure therapy.”
“What?” His nostrils flare.
“Exposure therapy,” I reiterate, this time a bit slower. “It’s used when patients are trying to overcome anxiety, phobias, or trauma of some sort. By gradual repeated exposure in a safe environment, the patient becomes more desensitized to the stimuli.”
“You want to stay to be desensitized?” He frowns. “To sex?”
I almost snort because desensitization to sex is the furthestthing from what will come from this. Sugar wafts between us, and I inhale, not shying away from what it is.Lust.I want him. He wants me. But until I’m certain of myself, I can’t promise him more. Not yet. I’m already giving him so much—more than I’ve ever been willing to offer someone else.
“No. But if I’m organizing this ceremony, I can’t be blushing or hiding in a corner during it. These are the types of…occurrences I need to get acclimated to.”
His brow furrows and I can’t tell whether he’s thinking over my request or coming up with a reason why it’s a terrible idea. It honestly might be.
“And you think open mic night is the safe environment you need for this?”
“Definitely. Next to painting, this is basically my comfort zone. I’m surrounded by books.” I hover a hand over his chest. “And you’ll be here.”
I’m safe with you.
Warmth traces the lines of the mate mark. His eyes soften, drinking in the words without needing them poured from my lips.
“Didn’t you say my needs, my wants, my pleasure are yours to sate? I need to do this and I want to stay.” A shiver works its way down to my toes thinking of the wordpleasure, and it takes me a moment to realize my palm is resting on the top button of his shirt. Retracting my hand, not wanting to overstep, I clasp it with my other in front of me. “Is that okay with you?”
“Of course. If you want to stay, there’s nowhere else I’d rather be than beside you.” He swallows thickly, attention swinging where harbingers are filing into the shop. “Better get some seats, then.”
His reassurance awakens the butterflies in my belly,nerves fluttering with every step toward the semicircle of chairs facing the book-made stage. A lone stool and mic stand are set slightly off center, level with the audience.
I take the seat farthest to the right at the end of the second row. It’s close enough to view everything but not right out in front. Briar sets the tote of books on the chair next to it, saving himself a spot, then heads over to Ray who hands him a book that’s been marked with a tab.
The lights are lowered, aside from the one spotlighting the stage. A couple of harbingers stand offstage, whispering as Ray grabs the mic and welcomes everyone. He reminds the guests they are free to leave at any time and warns there will be explicit acts by the performers. “You may feel the urge to enjoy yourself from the audience. It’s encouraged so long as everyone involved consents.”
A few folks clap; others nod in acknowledgment. For a moment, I wonder if I’ve overestimated myself. But it’s not like Briar and I are the ones volunteering to perform. I’m tucked away, in partial darkness. I can leave at any time, and he wouldn’t let anything happen to me. If I can’t handle myself in this small bookshop, how can I expect to get through the claiming ceremony?
Thump, thump, thump.
The heel of my boot thuds against the floor. It takes a bit to separate, but I realize the nerves flitting through me aren’t exclusively mine. I clasp my hands in my lap, fiddling with the gold buttons of my corduroy skirt.
“Welcome back one of your favorite readers, Radix Briar Bloom,” Ray says, setting the mic into its stand. He walks off the stage and goes behind the register with Derek.
There are a series of hoots and cheers amid the backdrop of thumping feet, the rabid fan base leaning forward the moment Briar emerges. Maybe I should be jealous, butit intrigues me more than anything. An extra button has been undone on his emerald shirt, and when he sits on the stool, the opening shows a glimpse of foxgloves climbing over his chest. His mate mark.
A few of his fans murmur among themselves.
“Someone’s proud to be flaunting his mark…”
“…Wonder who the lucky Bloom is.”
“All the good readers get mated…”
