Now, perhaps Marielle’s patience was wearing thin. “I don’t even know why you’re bothering with a law degree. You clearly have no interest in your studies, taking two classes a semester.”
“When the semester started, I was already committed to my aerial dance and trapeze classes.” She held back the little extra tidbit about being banned from them yesterday. “That’s also important to me.”
“Working on your core isn’t exactly adding to your CV.”
“What?” She snorted. “You don’t think they would take me seriously litigating in a leotard?”
“If anyone could carry it off, you could,” Marielle said in a flat tone.
Samantha was often perplexed as to whether Marielle was tossing her a compliment or flinging something else entirely.
Marielle rolled the arm of her glasses between her fingers. “I don’t know how you’re going to spend eight hours a day in an office with law briefs. You’re such an attention who—”
“Don’t you dare!” Sam squealed and tossed a pillow at her.
“Hoarder. I was going to say hoarder.” She giggled. “Anyway, I can’t see you all buttoned up every day, looking like a corporate clone.”
“Ugh, I made a promise,” Sam said on a big huff. “You have no idea how hard it is to say no to my mother. There’s a reason she’s been a US senator for eight straight terms.”
It had been such a boss move for Samantha to complete her senior year of college abroad. The newness of everything had been a rush, and like the attention whore that she truly was, being the cute American in the class had taken a while to get old. But it had, just like most things. A year later, and the thrill had rushed right out of her.
“I know about family obligations,” Marielle said. “Don’t forget that my father is CEO of Petro S.A. and won’t pay a single euro of my tuition because I choose to follow my heart.”
“You’re braver than I am, I suppose.”
Marielle smiled. “That’s kind of funny coming from the girl who loves playing with fire…literally.” She pointed to the band aid on Sam’s finger.”
“I was trying flambé!”
“The point is, I think you can be brave if you have the right motivation.” She glanced at the doodle Samantha had been lovingly refining with meticulous strokes of her pencil. “That corset is a masterpiece, by the way. Why don’t you get your MFA in fashion instead?”
Samantha reached for the invitation, wanting to put Marielle in the hot seat for a change. The warmed paper had molded to the roundness of her ass cheek. She held it up.
“Why don’t we start getting ready for this party?”
Marielle frowned. “Did you take that out of the garbage?” She reached for it, but Samantha held it out of her reach.
“That was a rhetorical question, and mine is a real question.” She stood up, unfolding herself from the oversize armchair. “I mean, I know I want to.”
“You don’t know what you want,” Marielle grumbled. “You wouldn’t believe what goes on there. It’s not a place for beginners.”
Samantha flushed hot. If Marielle thought that was the way to get her to back off, then she had no idea who she was dealing with. “What do you Parisians say? Anything can be believed in the 9th? You don’t have to worry about my imagination. It works just fine.” Samantha folded her arms across her chest and paced a tight circle. “Anyway, I have some experience with D/s play.”
“I promise you, the slap and tickle you’re probably used to does not even scratch the surface.”
Samantha was loath to admit the extent of her experience resided in a single clumsy evening with a taboo video and her college fuck buddy. He’d called her twisted, and she’d lost his number.
“Ma petit minette, even you would be in over your head.” Marielle smiled softly and closed her book. “Let’s order dinner from that Pakistani place. I’m famished.”
In truth, Samantha had indeed spent most of her life not knowing what she wanted. Maybe that’s why she was always trying new things, crazier things to figure out what was going to stick. The smart girl who lacked discipline and direction was a moniker that could be etched on her gravestone. Unlike her older brother, Kyle, who’d gone from class president, to star college athlete, to decorated Marine Corps Gunner Pilot, she didn’t enter the room with a golden ray of sunshine following her around. He’d become the hometown hero, and while Kyle got newspaper articles, Samantha and her antics got swept under the rug. For Samantha, the shadow of Kyle Hunter was her permanent residence no matter the continent on which she found herself.
She watched Marielle page through the menus on the coffee table. “Are you afraid you will see Alexander there?” Samantha asked about the boyfriend who’d vacated the apartment a month before Samantha moved in. The few times Marielle had opened up, she’d also alluded to her introduction to the world of BDSM. She hadn’t mentioned the club by name, but Samantha would bet the invitation led back to him.
Suddenly, Marielle’s slender shoulders rose up in what seemed the beginning of a shrug, but as the moment passed, Samantha thought it was more of a cringe. Then she sighed. “He’s gone to Sierra Leone to find himself. Who knows if I’ll ever see him again? It’s over anyway.” She plucked a menu and stood up. “He was never satisfied, always wanted more. Fucking mind games…” There was a warning in Marielle’s tone, but “more” was the keyword that resonated with Samantha. She wanted more too, as in a whole lot more than what she’d seen in that video. “I’m going to go tonight.”
“There are safer places in Paris for perky Americans.”
“Thanks, Mom.” Sam sneered at her. “You could come with me and make sure I stay out of trouble.”
“Mon Dieu, you’re serious.” Marielle sighed.
Samantha drew her eyebrows together and stood up tall. She pursed her lips and swallowed the giggle threatening to escape. “This is my most serious face, can’t you tell?”
A smile pricked Marielle’s lips as she pondered the idea. Then she sighed. “No, I’m staying in to study. Unlike you, I would like to graduate.”
“But your rule…” Samantha reminded. “No studying. Saturday nights are for fun.”
There was something sad in Marielle’s eyes when she spoke. “Rules are made to be broken.”
Chapter 3
The intoxicating scent of leather overtook Oleg the moment he unlocked the door to the playroom, a vault of sorts tucked beneath the extravagance that was Club Duval. Preparations were well underway for the party that night, though no heavy footsteps or clanking dishes or clinking glasses could be heard. This playroom was a vacuum of silence with padded walls adorned in black quilted leather, meant as much for keeping screams contained as for banishing any evidence of the world outside.
He picked up a digital console near the door. Paolo had mentioned they’d upgraded the light system during the time Oleg had been in London. Between Henri’s surgical residency, Ivan’s championship training and Oleg’s focus on building a financial empire of his own, only rarely had the playroom been alive with the riddles and lessons of human sexuality. With a few swipes, a red glow overtook the room, washing his naked torso in the color of blood. Oleg strode long and quick to the wall of tools segmented into five distinct sections. They didn’t need to be labeled. The implements that lived in this room belonged only to the men who owned the renovated nineteenth century townhouse that was once the dwelling of powerful, if not scandal-ridden, French aristocrats. The five thrones aligned in front of the neatly arranged arsenal were not meant to dazzle or impress. The high-backed angular chairs resting on a platform one step higher than the rest of the large square room were meant to establish a sense of clarity. There was no mistaking that although entry into this private sanctuary of sinful pleasures was granted to others, there would only ever be five rulers of this kingdom.
Oleg’s chair remained just left of the center where Alexander had once sat at the heart of their group. The last time they’d all shared a scene tog
ether had been Oleg’s going-away party. The playroom had been full of club regulars on the perimeter of their inner circle. A lot had happened in a year. With London providing a windfall of ripe startups looking for capital, Oleg had turned ten million dollars into fifty in eight months. Not bad. But Oleg knew no amount of money could repay what his uncle had done for him. Only revenge would bring satisfaction, and the fee due on that cold delight was marriage.
The fortune Oleg planned to amass would only mean something once Luka Durchenko paid for murdering his father and by proxy, his mother as well.
There was revenge, and then there was redemption. He’d give Viktor this alliance, and after their two families took the Durchenko territory, he’d make damn sure to honor his father’s dying wish. A mafia prince, he would never be. Viktor had nurtured him, protected him, educated him at the best schools. The look of pride on Viktor’s face at every graduation was etched into Oleg’s mind. He could never forget how a young orphaned boy could have been easily disregarded. But Viktor had never forgotten him, strict and stern as he may have been. Marrying Karina was the least he could do to show his gratitude. Though he didn’t need to be a criminal to leave his mark, and more importantly, he didn’t want to be one. In Oleg’s experience, money wasn’t difficult to make. If you mastered its secrets, it bent to your will like anything else.
He’d get past all of this. It wouldn’t take more than a year. If Karina wanted to come to the states with him once Durchenko had been pushed out, then fine. Oleg stretched his neck, and the sound of pent-up tension crackled and popped. He sighed. She was already starting to feel like extra baggage.
He removed his favorite bullwhip from its custom-made fastener and massaged the leather handle until it warmed in his palm and his grip settled with familiar posture. The eight-foot thong uncoiled like a serpent, stalking behind him as he cut through still air with heavy feet to the center of the room.
He drew back, his wrist curling and extending like a maestro.
Crack. Crack. Ring. Ring. He delivered the first rapid-fire targeted whippings at two of the one-hundred golden bells affixed in a grid to a floor-to-ceiling rack. The bells continued to sound one at a time as Oleg selected his next targets. It was an odd symphony, one that differed immensely from the chorus of jangles produced when a willing and supple submissive was attached to the rack with the now empty straps.
There was no way he could give this up, no reason he should have to if he was discreet. He needed release on a regular basis to keep his demons at bay. The party tonight would be full of experienced subs looking to fill a void of their own. He’d set up something regular for a few nights a week. Mutual agreements, it was all he ever really needed. His upcoming vows were no different. He’d marry Karina, hold the truce of the Balashovs and the Harakians with this sham of a marriage until satisfaction on his debt of gratitude was met. Once Durchenko was finished, he’d still love his uncle, but his mafia strings would be cut for good.
Chapter 4
Samantha anguished for more than an hour over what to wear. Nothing in her wardrobe said “aspiring kinkster, ready and willing”. Brooding on the edge of her bed and staring at the pile of designer jeans that truthfully all looked the same, she almost gave up. Her clothing was ordinary, too ordinary for an invitation-only party at an exclusive fetish club. For the first time, Samantha felt plain. Among her boarding-school crowd, she’d always been the one voted most likely to get arrested. Not literally, of course. Samantha Hunter of Hunter Railways fame and fortune didn’t do things so dubious they could land her in jail. Long bouts of detention, yes, but not jail. Now she was all grown up, expected to put her notoriously loose tongue and talent for telling it like it is to good use as an attorney. The international part had been her idea. The farther away from home, the better.
If only she were taller and curvier, she’d be able to raid Marielle’s closet for something appropriately inappropriate. She sat deflated in a simple black tank-top and bright-pink boy-shorts, when a sparkle caught her eye from the back of her closet. The long, black, finely meshed scarf with threads of silver woven throughout had been borrowed from Marielle last month and now took up residence in the abyss of Sam’s wardrobe. She peeled off her top and grabbed up the scarf to drape it around her neck. Taking the two ends, Samantha crisscrossed it over her bare breasts and again at her lower back. She brought the ends to the front once more and tugged tightly, cinching her waist with the gathered fabric and tied a knot just above her navel.
A few adjustments to her now evident cleavage and the contraption looked almost chic. Too bad the rest of her still looked like Malibu Barbie. She tipped her five-foot-three frame up on her toes, elongated her neck, pressed her shoulders back and practiced a sophisticated walk on imaginary stilettos. Channeling Marielle’s sultry vibe, Samantha parted her hair down the middle and used her flat iron to press her blond locks pin straight. She went heavy on the eyeliner and downright flagrant with the cherry-red lipstick. Looking in the mirror, Sam saw herself as another person. Only time would tell if she ended the night feeling just as new.
“You’re really doing this?” Marielle appeared in the bathroom doorway and leaned against the frame. She tilted her head, the smile on her lips betraying her stern inflection.
“You didn’t think I would? You don’t know me very well.”
“You look like a piece of candy in that outfit. Is that my scarf?”
“Yes. Doesn’t it look cute?”
“Cute isn’t the first word that comes to mind. You look like bait. I can just imagine some Dom salivating over a chance to unwrap you.”
“That sounds like fun,” she said with a quirk of her eyebrow. “But you know what I really want? I wish that I had a proper corset to wear. Where’s an all-night lingerie shop when you need one?”
“A proper corset like the one you were sketching? I’m sure I could have my seamstress whip up one to your exact specifications for the next time you’re feeling curious.”
“You have a seamstress? How French of you.”
“The very worst crimes against humanity are pollution and ill-fitting clothes.” Marielle sighed in her dramatic way. “If you plan to make a habit of playing dress-up, we’d better give her a call. I don’t have that many scarves.”
Samantha’s heart warmed for Marielle. She’d always wanted a sister. As much as she loved Kyle, pestering her perennially perfect older brother had been her consolation prize. “You are too good to me.”
Marielle rolled her eyes. “I know.”
“Oh, please come with me tonight.”
Marielle shook her head, and the dip of her eyes seemed almost out of character.
“Are you feeling a little scared of what might happen?”
“Maybe.” Marielle said, but there was a long lilt to her answer that signaled the door wasn’t completely closed on the topic. Samantha pressed her hands together under her chin. Marielle relented in defeat. Another unsuspecting victim down for the count under the power of Samantha’s famous pout. “Ah, d’accord. Enough. Fine, I’ll go. If only just to keep you from getting eaten alive.”
“Score! Now change into something as cute as this little contraption I’m wearing. You don’t want me to get all the attention, do you?”
“As if you would have it any other way.” Marielle smiled at her, though it was lopsided and looked only half-hearted. “I still don’t know if you are ready for any of this. The scene there can get very intense very quickly if you aren’t careful.”
“Unlike the trust-fund babies I usually go out with, intense is my middle name.”
“Let me remind you that you are a trust-fund baby yourself.”
Sam rolled her eyes. “I don’t act like one, and I never back down from a challenge.”
Marielle pressed her lips together and began to strip out of the nightshirt she’d put on for the evening. “Then it will be a true treat to meet the Dom who finds a way to bring you to your knees.”
*
&n
bsp; Nestled on her barstool, Samantha made sure to sip her wine slowly. On instinct, she knew that in a place like Club Duval, it was wise to keep her wits about her. The claret liquid coated her bottom lip, and she found herself swiping at the sweetness left there. All eyes seemed to be on the two young women who’d dared to show up untethered to an underground BDSM club. She scanned the scene. It was only eleven. Marielle had agreed to come along if Sam swore they’d make it an early night. As a result, they’d looked like eager little neophytes showing up just after opening time when the party was only sprinkled with arrivals. But the flow of guests had increased a little in the past fifteen minutes. Promises of debauchery ghosted around them. The vibe in the air was a slow and lazy prelude to the action certain to follow in the wee hours of the morning.
Sam stroked the stem of her glass and tried not to stare at the upturned flesh of a coppery brown-skinned young woman bent over the lap of a huge leather-clad man. Samantha needed to try harder, because she couldn’t help but look.
His fresh handprints created a frenzied pattern on the woman’s reddened ass. The royal-blue satin corset cinched her waist to an impossible circumference. Her breasts spilled from the top, and two diamond-tipped barbell piercings flashed in the stage lights from her nipples. Her mouth hung open with muted screams as he delivered more than ten finely placed blows. A seductive melody oozing from hidden speakers was her soundtrack, and the song seemed to emanate from her parted lips. There was no mistaking the un-tempered pleasure overcoming her delicate features once his hand snaked between her legs. Others watched, but Samantha was mesmerized.
Unmeasured (Unmatched Book 1) Page 3
