“Umm.” She turned to her friends. “We usually stop in about an hour, when people finish their morning errands and go home for lunch.”

Chloe made a shooing gesture with her hand. “Go ahead. We’ll finish up. We’re fine here.” Mischief twinkled in her eyes.

It wasn’t hard to tell what she was thinking. Everly wasn’t sure whether to encourage her or not. She’d love to go hang out with Ambrose, but she wasn’t the type to duck out of a commitment like this.

“It’s okay,” Ambrose said. “I’m not in a rush. I’ll run home and get the stuff, then you can text me when you’re done. Send me your address too.”

“Okay.” She tried to bite back a grin. Second date with a Dom who, so far, was cool, funny, and could handle her. Not bad for Saturday plans. It beat cleaning anyway.

Shit. Panic hit. Her apartment was a mess!

After Ambrose left, she turned to Chloe. “I gotta go clean!”

Her friend laughed. “He’s hot. If you’re not calling dibs . . .”

“Dibs!”

Max put a hand on his hip. “I was about to call dibs!”

“Pretty sure he doesn’t swing that way, sweetheart.”

“One night, baby.” He winked. “I just need one night.”

Laughing, Chloe waved her away. “Go. Clean your house. Don’t forget the bedroom. Do you need condoms? They have them at the health clinic.”

“Shut up!”

Chloe fell into a fit of laughter.

“I’m a grown-up,” Everly said. “I know where to get condoms.”

She handed off the flyers so they could return them to the community center then turned to leave, ignoring their snickers.

“We want details later,” Max yelled after her.

She gave them the finger over her shoulder.

*   *   *

Her apartment was presentable by the time the doorbell rang. Wanting to impress him with neatness seemed like the wrong way to start a relationship, especially since it was a lie. Normally, random clothes and shoes were strewn around each room as if someone had run out halfway dressed in an emergency. But that was just the way she lived. Her last vanilla boyfriend had been a mama’s boy—his expectations of Everly made June Cleaver look like a slob. Needless to say, they hadn’t lasted long.

Now that she had more experience with BDSM, she’d been safewording vanillas anyway.

She swept her gaze over the room one more time before answering the door, making sure she hadn’t left a pair of underwear out—or something even more embarrassing.

When she was satisfied with the condition of the place, she opened the door. Ambrose smiled, and her heart fluttered. In his arms, he held a bundle of blankets.

“Hi.” She stepped aside so he could enter. “You can just throw those on the couch.”

“Okay.”

After unloading the pile from his arms, he pulled off his coat. Her mouth went dry. The gray T-shirt gave her a good look at his arms again. Was there such a thing as arm porn? He’d be a star.

Fuck. Was it hot in here? Tattoos were her weakness.

Forcing herself to move before she drooled on her shirt, she went to the couch to see what he’d brought. Staying busy would keep her mind off wanting to jump him. “This was really nice of you, by the way.” She sifted through the items—each one in perfect condition. They even smelled new. “These are great. You wouldn’t believe the amount of . . .”

One of the cashmere blankets still had the tag on. “Um . . . Did you want to keep this one?”

“Oh.” He actually blushed. “That was a gift. I guess I didn’t take the tags off yet. Keep it. You need it more than I do.”

She didn’t see that coming. He’d been a gentleman at the club—a bossy one but still respectful and kind. But donating all this stuff took it a step further. The fact that he cared about the shelter gave him major brownie points. She pictured him at protests with her, holding signs together, cozying up to stay warm.

She’d tried dating a fellow protester once, but that ended up being the only thing they had in common. When they’d eventually made it into bed, and she’d told him about her kinks, he’d equated it to abuse against women and walked out. But if Ambrose cared about social justice even half as much as she did and he was good in bed, she’d hit the fucking boyfriend jackpot.

She realized she was doing that stupid puppy staring thing again and cleared her throat, trying to stay focused. “Um. Can I get you a drink?”

“I’m okay. Can I sit down?”

“Oh! Of course!” Why didn’t she think of that?

He chuckled then they both sat on the couch. Smiling, he said, “It’s really cool what you do. I mean, I know people who donate money, but I’ve never met someone so . . . hands-on.”

She laughed. “That’s what people without money do when they want to help.”

“How often do you do protests and stuff?”

“I’m an active member of Community Cares. It’s a nonprofit organization that advocates for community-based services for those who need them. We also work to change local policy to help close the socioeconomic gap and make opportunities more equal for everybody.”

“Wow.” He pressed his hands together. “That’s amazing.”

She shrugged. “It’s nothing. I mean, I wish I could do more, but I gotta work, too, so I don’t end up in the shelter.” Again. But she didn’t say that. A second date was no time to get into her life story. “How’d the wedding go? Did your friend like your haircut?”

“She did. Though she was pretty googly-eyed for her Master.”

Her brows rose as her interest piqued. “It was that kind of wedding?”

“Yes. Well, it was both. She had vanilla family and friends there, so the Master/slave part was very subtle.”

“Are all your friends kinky?”

He laughed. “A lot of them are. My two best friends are both Masters.”

Jealousy speared her. What she wouldn’t give for that. “That’s awesome. I wish I had actual friends in the lifestyle. I have some vaguely kinky friends who are understanding, but no one to really talk to about this stuff. A few acquaintances from the club, but that’s it.” She gave him a sidelong look and smiled. “Maybe I can wiggle my way in and steal your friends.”

“You don’t have to steal them. I know how to share.” He winked. “I’m sure they’d like you anyway.”

“You think so?”

“What’s not to like?”

Though the sentiment was sweet, he really had no idea what he was talking about. She frowned then stared at the floor. “I’m a brat.”

“So?”

“Masters hate brats.” She knew from experience. And if his friends were Masters . . . they didn’t stand a chance together.

He placed a hand on her knee and she looked up at him. “My friends understand there are all types of subs. And they respect the girl I’m with, regardless of whether they like the kind of sub she is or not.” He sat back, withdrawing his hand, and she wished he’d put it back. “Besides, it’s none of their fucking business. I like brats, and that’s all that matters.”

She beamed at him. God, he was sexy when he swore. She liked that rough-around-the-edges thing—the attitude that they didn’t give a fuck what anyone thought of them. Yeah, Ambrose had that in spades.

Her gaze dropped to his arms again. Mmm. She’d like to see where else he had tattoos. Maybe lick them.

“What do your tattoos mean?” She eyed the Roman numerals. They made him look even more dangerous, which made him more irresistible.

His smile was wicked. “If I tell you my secret, you have to promise not to rat me out.”

“Rat you out?” She laughed and traced the figures with tentative fingers. “I can keep a secret.” Had he done time or something? Maybe he had kids from a previous relationship?

Ambrose held his arms out to her. “The story behind these probably makes me sound crazy, but since you seem trustworthy, I’ll tell you.”

He sighed dramatically, like he was weighing whether or not she could handle what he was about to say. Now she was more nervous than intrigued.