“Okay, Sunshine,” he said as he kissed Oliver’s jaw. “Daddy’ll get you something to drink.”
I saw Marshall look around the room for some kind of waiter and then motion to someone in the distance. Not wanting anything, I turned back to Spencer to listen as he and Foster continued to talk.
“Is there something I can get for you, sir?”
My heart stopped in my chest.
I knew that voice. I knew that tone. I knew that slight inflection he gave on the word sir.
I looked up to find Quentin standing in front of our table, taking Marshall’s order. There was some talking back and forth between Quentin and Marshall, but the sound of my blood rushing in my veins made it impossible to hear.
Reaching up, I rubbed at the sudden ache in my heart. He was beautiful.
His hands and serving tray were tucked behind his back, showing off his body and outfit. He wasn’t wearing much, just a pair of black, lace booty shorts and a matching apron around his waist. Studying his slightly muscled chest, I wondered if he used gold body glitter to give his skin those honey-kissed highlights or if they were natural.
I looked back up at him in time to see his gaze sweep around the booth. I knew the exact moment his eyes met mine, and he recognized me. The surprise and shock were almost too much for him to hide. He composed himself quite well, but I could see the fluttering pulse at his neck.
“Would anyone else like to order something?” he asked as soon as he looked away from me.
Foster and Carson ordered their usual while Spencer declined. I was too tongue-tied to say anything.
Quentin bowed and then made his escape.
“Who was that?” I asked, unable to take my eyes off him as he made his way to the bar. Once I lost him in the crowd, I turned to Spencer.
“The waiter?” he asked, looking confused. “That’s N.”
“He works here?” It made no sense. He made good money working for me that even if he lived well beyond his means, he’d still have money left over, and Quentin didn’t seem the type to spend money frivolously.
“No, he’s a member,” Foster said, sensing my obvious interest.
“Then why is he working?”
“He’s not.” Foster’s smile turned wicked, and I knew he was playing with me, but I didn’t care. I needed to know everything about him.
I closed my eyes and took a deep breath before I reached across the table and choked the man out. “Then what is he doing?”
“Serving.”
It was like pulling fucking teeth. “What does that mean?”
Thankfully, Spencer chose that moment to step in. “He’s a service submissive, and waiting on people here satisfies his need,” he explained to me before turning on Foster. “And you, stop playing with my friends.”
“Fine,” Foster huffed as he turned his attention away from me.
“What’s a service submissive?” In all the conversations I’d had with Spencer, he’d never mentioned a service submissive before.
He shrugged. “It’s complicated and very specific to each person, just like everything else in BDSM. The way it was explained to me is that even though all submissives want to serve and please their dominants to one extent or another, they do it from a place of giving up control and power. A service submissive’s need to serve comes from a desire to make their people’s lives easier, to care for them and their needs. They offer service to others because they enjoy it and serving is just a part of who they are, just like wanting to hurt people is who Foster is and wanting to nurture is who Carson is. They typically have jobs in service-oriented fields where their services would be valued like in childcare, or as a valet, or a personal assistant.”
Was that all I was to him? A means to an end? I thought back to all the little things he did for me without prompting and wondered if they’d meant more to me than they had to him. “So, they serve their bosses and customers without them knowing it?”
Spencer had started shaking his head before I’d even finished speaking. “No, that might fulfill their need to serve, but nothing for their need to submit. Their master, while not necessarily needing to praise their service, needs to acknowledge it exists and want it. Sure, a service submissive could develop feelings for someone they are serving in a work-related setting, but they wouldn’t be completely satisfied without knowing the other person consented and desired their service.”
I felt a little better, knowing it wasn’t something he could control. The serving was a part of him; I could see that now. If I acknowledged it, would that change things between us? “And bringing people drinks does that for N?” I asked, replaying every time he’d walked into my office with a cup balanced perfectly in his hands.
Foster finally decided to add something meaningful to the conversation. “Yes. In this place, when someone orders a drink from him, N knows that they are asking from a place of dominance and are acknowledging his submission. You notice he doesn’t carry around a pen and paper to write down what everyone wants? It’s a source of pride for him that he can memorize and execute the most complicated of orders. We could have wanted twenty different drinks, and he would bring each one back and hand them off to the right person. Carson and I also ordered our usual instead of naming what we wanted. It gives him an extra little kick knowing we’re testing him.”
Quentin returned with three drinks balanced perfectly on his tray: one in a yellow sippy cup and two in glasses. I had flashbacks of him entering my office with my lunch balanced on the same type of tray—fuck—for all I knew; it was the same tray.
Foster picked up his drink and took a sip. And fuck me if he wasn’t watching Foster test his drink in the same way he would watch me taste his coffee.
“That will be all, N,” Foster said, dismissing him.
Quentin bowed once again—did he want to do that with me every time I dismissed him from my office—gave me a small glance once again, and then made his retreat.
What. The. Fuck. Had. Just. Happened?
I was lost in a world of lust and tenderness. I wanted to chase after him and quiet the fear I saw lingering in his eyes. I wanted to pull him into the nearest corner and discover what was hiding under that delightful little apron. I wanted to fuck him until I couldn’t think.
So wrapped up in my imaginings, I didn’t even notice when Marshall and Oliver left the club.
Spencer stood, signaling our departure. “I’ll be right back. I’m just going to the bar to settle my tab.” He left, leaving me in the company of Carson and Foster.
“He’s single but very rarely plays with anyone here.”
I looked at Foster. “What?”
“N,” he said simply. “His type of submission is more of a mental thing than anything else. I’d look elsewhere if I were you.”
“We’ll just see about that,” I said, voicing my intentions for the first time. I’d thought Quentin wasn’t what I was looking for, but that was before I’d seen him looking so perfect. Now, I needed a plan to make him mine. Fortunately for me, I had all weekend to think, and planning was my specialty.
Chapter Three
Quentin
I rushed from Mr. Chamberlain’s table. Ducking and weaving through the crowd, I pushed my way into the locker room. It was blessedly empty. I was immensely glad no one would be around to witness my private freak out. I tossed my tray onto one of the empty chaise lounges that dotted the room.