Esme closed her eyes again, trying to quell her surging need and the pervasive longing. She could block out the intimate images, but not the sensual sounds or the smells surrounding her. The rich, earthy scent of leather, the lemon oil they used to polish the wooden equipment and bring a shine to the thousands of square feet of gleaming hardwood floor, and beneath it, the pungent, yet heady smell of sweat and sex. Rather than unpleasant, the mix was intoxicating and stirred the long-suppressed cravings inside her.
Most would consider coming here, week after week, watching but never playing, an exercise in self-torture. At least three full months had passed since her first tentative visit with Pax. In the beginning, she hadn’t wandered far from his side, but after a few return trips, he’d deliberately distanced himself so that others would approach her. As he predicted, both men and women bombarded her with offers, including a few male submissives who mistook her for an aloof Domme. This had shaken her a little, but she didn’t correct them. One Mistress who had plans to tie her face up over a wooden barrel and use a braided quirt on her breasts and pussy then lick every inch of her to ease the pain had been very insistent, blatantly graphic—obviously—and scared the bejeezus out of her. Esme had politely declined, then run like hell. Topping a man or submitting to a woman wasn’t her kink. Surrendering to a dominant man was and always had been, but she turned them down too, not yet ready to do more than watch.
By coming here, submerged in the lifestyle, she could live vicariously through others and fill a small fraction of the emptiness inside her, which was enough for now.
At least she had thought so until she came across this scene with Flynn and Cassie. Many of the players had the kink down pat but lacked the emotional connection, and when Esme encountered it, like now, which wasn’t that often, it sparked bittersweet memories, intense envy, and it hurt.
The Dom’s deep voice counting out the twenty-fourth stroke penetrated Esme’s thoughts. She opened her eyes to see he’d dropped the paddle and moved to the end of the bench. His fly was open and his hard cock in hand—impressive in both length and girth. Master Flynn didn’t waste time with further foreplay; the entire spanking scene had been leading up to this moment after all. He bent over the woman strapped to the bench, his upper body draped the length of her much smaller frame, covering and enveloping her. Now, when he spoke in her ear, his words were solely for her. The observers leaned in to catch the thread of their conversation, a few outwardly frustrated when they couldn’t.
While they shared this intimate moment, his hand slipped between his hips and her rosy red bottom. From her vantage point, which was to the side of the bench, she had a direct view of what he was doing. Compelled to look away from the intimacy of the moment, she reminded herself they’d chosen a station in the vast public playroom for a reason, which by its very existence invited onlookers. Still, it seemed intrusive, and she wanted to look away, but his command of both his reaction and his submissive mesmerized her. She couldn’t look away not even when he stroked the head of his cock through the seam of her pussy, teasing but not entering just yet.
Esme picked up the cadence in his voice, how it rose in pitch toward the end, as if in question, but not the words.
“Oh, yes, Master, please,” Cassie pleaded softly to his unknown query.
“That’s my good girl,” he murmured, then his masculine hum of pleasure joined hers as his hips thrust forward and he entered her at last.
This wasn’t enough for him, evidently, because his hand curved beneath her jaw and he turned her mouth to his and went in for a smoldering kiss. Esme’s heart ached at the tender yet passionate scene playing out before her eyes.
This dominant and submissive had something special. Where one found joy in control and guided with a firm yet caring hand, cultivating the pleasure found in surrender, the other experienced bliss in yielding and in doing so, giving pleasure in return.
She’d had that with Andrew, as well as trust, respect, and love. Missing him and knowing she may never again experience a moment like the one being played out before her eyes, made her heart ache painfully. She wanted to look away, to run and hide, but also to punch, kick, and throw a childish tantrum, screaming why at the top of her lungs, asking the unanswered question as she had so many times before.
Unable to watch anymore, Esme turned, winding her way through the throng of onlookers, eager to move on to the next station, rather than stay for the big finish. This scene was too close to home and much too painful. As she broke through the crowd standing four and five deep, she felt a shiver of awareness shoot up her spine.
Twisting back, she scanned the faces, sensing something. They were all facing front, mesmerized by the scene—except one. On the far side of the station, on the outer fringe of people, a man stood with his arms crossed over his chest, body angled in her direction, ice-blue eyes intently focused on her, not the spanking happening on the bench nearby.
She’d met him when she’d joined, an interview required with the Master Dom for all potential members before being granted membership. Eric Dupree was intimidating and not just because he was huge. Most of the club Masters were; they seemed to grow them bigger here than back East.
After that first meeting, she’d avoided him like the plague. Wanting to keep a low profile and go unnoticed. Today, for some reason, she’d caught his attention.
What to do?
Deciding not hanging around to find out why was the best bet, she dipped her head politely—snubbing any dominant, let alone the one in charge was never a good idea—then got lost in the crowd, not glancing back to assess his reaction, either.
On a Saturday night, most of the membership turned out to play. Esme used that to her advantage, working her way to the back of the room. To further avoid the Master Dom’s potential pursuit, she squeezed into an especially large group gathered at a station. She pretended to watch the scene with the others, but instead, kept her sidelong gaze fixed on the people making the circuit around the stations. She’d hide out here for a few minutes then make her way up front and call it a night.
But a sound reminiscent of the prize wheel at the church bizarre as a kid, made her turn her head and look. She’d have to be blind to miss the man strapped to the eight-foot upright wheel as his Domme spun him slowly upside down and sideways. He was naked except for the steel cage enclosing his tender bits. Esme didn’t have the anatomy, but even she winced on his behalf. Though it wasn’t something she’d ordinarily watch—hell, it wasn’t something she’d ever seen—she couldn’t avoid it while wedged deep in the crowd.
It also meant she couldn’t escape easily when the scene took a turn, and the sadistic Mistress halted the wheel, hung weights from the poor man’s balls, then sent him spinning slowly again. From the groans emanating from the sub each time she flicked her crop on the weights, or in an upward slap directly between his spread legs making him squeal and sweat, he was enjoying his torment.
To each his own. And while she accepted that motto, it didn’t keep her face from flushing hot with squeamish embarrassment and a good deal of sympathy. She didn’t doubt it glowed like a beacon, rivaling Rudolph’s bright nose that foggy Christmas Eve. If not for the spinning wheel of torture, which even six feet plus Master Eric wouldn’t be able to see over, her face would have led the Master Dom to her location like a beacon.
By the time she collected her shoes, keys, and phone from the women’s locker room it was past midnight, and she’d convinced herself she’d imagined it. If Master Eric wanted something from her, he had a dozen dungeon monitors to help find her, as well as a slew of other dominants and over two hundred submissives who would narc on her in an instant.
Eschewing the lounge, the live music, and the free drinks—two per night came with the membership dues. That was the limit, or the dungeon was off limits. Esme wasn’t getting her money’s worth because she never partook. Instead, she skirted past the dance floor and bar and headed to the lobby. As usual, she didn’t make eye contact wit
h either the receptionist or the security guard on duty up front.
This past month since Pax had gone on assignment, she came and went alone. She’d been lucky his job hadn’t demanded him before now. As unobtrusively as possible, she watched, absorbed what she could, but didn’t play. Then she made her sad trek to her modest Northridge home—the price of which would have bought three times the house back in Baltimore—and continued her dismal solitary existence.
Chapter 2
Keiran barely contained a sigh of exasperation as the phone rang. It had been non-stop all day. Here it was afterhours, he was alone in the office, and still, it didn’t stop.
Reaching out, he hit the button for the speaker.
“Finnegan, here.”
“It’s Tony.”
He glanced at the clock. Nine o’clock. San Antonio was an hour ahead. “You’re working late.”
“Since your office closed hours ago, I can say the same about you.”
“Yeah, but I don’t have twins, a new baby girl, and a wife waiting for me at home.”
“Megan is upstairs putting them down for the night. At least I’m home, my friend.”
He’d known Cap Rossi for years. Skilled, tough as nails, and highly respected, when the CEO and founder of Rossi Security, Inc. recruited him after he’d left the service, Keiran hadn’t hesitated. He’d worked for him in San Antonio for a few years, and when they expanded to LA and offered him a percentage buy-in, he’d jumped on it. Now, along with being partners in the Rossi branch here they co-owned the bondage club across the street. Keiran also considered Cap a good friend.
“Home for me isn’t as sweet as what you have waiting for you, Cap.”
“Yeah, you need to do something about that.”
Keiran had been thinking along those lines more often of late. Only when did he have the time? LA was bigger than San Antonio; he expected the new location to grow fast, but not at warp speed.
The clients here were very different, most in the entertainment industry and in need of security systems for their multi-million-dollar mansions. Some were looking for personal protection and they’d already investigated several stalker cases the overworked police departments didn’t have time for. They also did venue security when they needed beefed-up protection for special events. Then there were the high-profile stars wanting their cheating spouses caught in the act to activate the non-payout infidelity clauses on their prenups. Clients with deep pockets paid big bucks to ensure their safety and mitigate the financial risk from their infidelities. According to Eric, who doubled as the agency’s CEO, in addition to taking on investigations and running the club, their profits were through the roof.
But these types of cases took manpower, something they couldn’t seem to get enough of. Turnover wasn’t the problem; they couldn’t hire and train them fast enough to keep up with the influx of cases. Working cases seven days a week left him little time to himself, let alone to enjoy the perks of owning a sex club and finding a submissive woman to settle down with as Cap had.
“Talk to our CFO who’s sitting on employee requisitions,” Keiran muttered.
“Do what I do, don’t ask permission. Bring on the men you need and let your staff work out the details afterward.”
“Easy for you to say when Eric’s thirteen hundred miles away. His office is across the hall from mine, and I have to listen to him bitch.”
“Yeah, there is that,” Cap said in sympathy. He’d had Dupree to deal with when they’d both been working in San Antonio. They shouldn’t complain, the man knew his way around investments and expense reports which had made them all wealthy men, but he could also pinch a penny tighter than Ebenezer Scrooge.
“But you didn’t call to commiserate with me over the skinflint ways of Eric Dupree.”
“No, I wanted to thank you for locking down Cassell so quickly. I still can’t believe we were providing security service to a drug trafficker and indirectly made it possible for him to move hundreds of pounds of narcotics between here and LA.”
“As soon as you learned of his involvement, you took measures to shut it down, Cap. His corruption does not reflect on you.”
“That we took so long to discover it doesn’t look good; and that it went on right under my nose makes me sick.”
Silence fell on Tony’s end of the line. They’d shut down a major drug cartel operating in south Texas, only to have this fall in their laps not long after. Keiran knew he took this personally; he’d heard the fury in his voice when he’d called.
Roger Cassell, a local furniture manufacturer, had contracted with Rossi to upgrade their warehouse security after a series of break-ins. What they were really after was protection for their drug distribution center—alarm systems, perimeter alerts, and video surveillance.
Tony hadn’t thought it unusual; they’d been in operation for decades and made quality furniture. What he didn’t know about was their side line—cocaine, heroin, and meth—which they shipped inside their legitimate products to retail stores across the country.
It turned out three were in LA, owned by Cassell, and managed by an underling who got greedy and was also implicated in the two-city sting, his cousin, Martin Lopez.
Working with the San Antonio and local police departments jointly, they’d netted thirty-four illegal firearms, over five million in cash, along with ten kilos of heroin, and twenty-five kilos each of cocaine and methamphetamine. But their drug pipeline had been operating for years, and the impact on the families of San Antonio in terms of abuse, addiction, and lost lives was unmeasurable. It’s what Tony Rossi, family man, father of three and native San Antonian found the hardest to bear.
“You need not thank me, Cap. Your team was as integral to the arrests. Let’s chalk this up to another win for the good guys.”
“Yeah,” the man agreed, though to Keiran, he didn’t sound convinced. “Want me to talk to Eric about your staffing?”
“No. I’ll handle it. He can be a pain in the ass, but he’s reasonable. And, even though he’s an inch taller, I outweigh him by twenty pounds, and since he has seven years on me, I can kick his ass if need be.”
“Don’t hurt him too bad, or you’ll find yourself running the club while he heals.”
Echoing Cap’s earlier words, Keiran stated, “There is that.”
This got him a chuckle before Tony said goodnight.
He’d no sooner logged back into his computer which had gone to sleep while they’d spoken when the phone rang again.
With a long-suffering groan, he answered, “Finnegan here.”
“I know you’re there. The question is why?”
Speak of the devil. Keiran would have recognized the wry comment if not the voice.
“Paperwork ain’t gonna do itself, Dupree.”
“Neither are submissives going to restrain, spank, and fuck themselves, my friend.”
He dropped his pen and pressed his thumb and forefinger to the bridge of his nose. “Another night.”
“That’s what you said last week, and the week before, and the week before.”
“Are you keeping tabs on me? That’s intrusive even for you.”
He heard Eric’s grunt before he replied, “We keep attendance logs, which you’d remember if you dropped by the club every once in a while.”
“I’d like to get home and in bed before midnight. Is there a point to your call?”
“You owe me about six months’ worth of DM duty. I’ve got three club Masters out of town. It’s time to pay up, bud.”
His sigh was audible. “I should wrap up my current case on Friday. I’ll come by that evening.”
“And Saturday,” Eric insisted.
“I had planned to get some sleep.”
Another grunt came through the speaker, one of disgust. “You’re too young to spend your weekends in bed alone.”
Keiran silently groaned; he’d heard this from his friend before. “I might squeeze in more DM time if you’d approve the staff requisitions I sent
you two weeks ago. We’re flooded with new cases.”
Eric sighed. “When are we not? As soon as we train a new group, we need more.”
“Which keeps our bank accounts healthy.”
There were nine owners between the two business lines, Rossi Security, Inc., and Club Decadence, but the founding six, all retired military, were back in San Antonio. He had a team of trained professionals working for him, but Eric only had a few paid staff and relied mostly on volunteers from the membership. Some of the submissives offset their membership fees, which were significant, by working in the lounge and as receptionists, and Eric relied on some of the experienced Doms, whom they called club Masters, to help monitor the club, Keiran included.
“I assumed being in LA among the rich and famous, our caseload would be mostly celebrity security,” Eric commented, sounded a might tired and overextended himself.
“You’re not the only one. After the mess in San Antonio, I was hoping for a few boring investigations where I didn’t have to don a flak jacket.”
“The Lopez case got messy,” his friend stated quietly.
“I expected illegal drugs and gun running being this close to the border, but not by way of Texas. Who knew they’d have roots way out here? And despite the eighty-plus arrests the LAPD made earlier this year, it was barely a minor blip in the scope of their operation.”
“You’d have thought his arrest would have had more of an impact.”
“Yeah,” Keiran agreed tiredly, “but it did nothing to affect the legal ports of entry, where the vast majority of the shit is entering in the first place. Besides, I don’t think he was the top man.”
“Shit is right. I thought we’d get away from some of it with the move.” He laughed humorlessly. “What was I thinking? But that case is closed and it’s back to protecting divas and providing security to the stars.”
“But Rossi’s reputation is a double-edged sword. Everyone from divas to detectives is knocking on our door. At least you drew the long straw and got the club.” Keiran looked at the stacks of files and asked, “Want to trade?”
Dare to Love Again Page 2
