Punished

by Penelope Bloom

  Logan notices the look on my face. “Don’t worry. I’ll pay my sister for whatever we take. I’m serious, treat yourself. Take as much as you like for later. We can drop it by your place tonight.”

  I finally decide on an outfit that costs just over a hundred and fifty dollars including the shoes. Whether he said not to worry, I couldn’t bring myself to get anything too expensive. “Is there a changing room?” I ask.

  He steps toward me, stripping his suit jacket without breaking eye contact. I take an involuntary step back, a blush rising to my cheeks instantly. “What?” he asks, reaching for the buttons of his shirt. “You won’t change in front of me?”

  I try to calm my breathing. I feel silly trying to explain it. Even in my head, it sounds dumb. All I can do is shake my head and look down, searching for the right words.

  “Hey,” he says, moving in close. He hooks his index finger under my chin and forces my face up so I’m looking at him. “What’s going on in here?” he taps the side of my head softly, letting his finger linger and push a lock of hair behind my ear.

  I flinch away from his touch, hating the hurt look that springs up on his face. “It’s just.” I groan in frustration, searching the ceiling for the words I’m trying to find. “I’m still getting used to the thing we have going on at Club Crave. I never knew how much I wanted or needed something like what we’ve… started. At the club,” I add meaningfully.

  He frowns. “I see. And you may not need something like that outside the club?”

  I open my mouth to deny it, but I can’t. I shake my head, looking down again. “I’m sorry. Here, I’ll just leave these things and call for an Uber or something.”

  He steps close again and I’m painfully aware that his dress shirt is completely open, revealing smooth slabs of muscle. “Whatever you want,” he says softly. “If you want to keep it in the club, we can do that. I need it, too. What we have there. And if it has to stay there, then so be it.”

  His eyes search mine. I close my eyes for a long moment, trying to organize my thoughts, but failing. “Thank you. I think… I still want to kick your ass on the court though. Maybe after tonight we can try to simplify things. Keep it at the club.”

  He bites his lip. “My sister owns a tennis academy and you think you’ll beat me?”

  I test the strings on the racquet he let me pick out from the store demos. They are a little tighter than I prefer, but a stiffer string bed is always helpful when hitting against men. It makes blocking heavy serves easier, but somehow I can’t picture a man like Logan actually being a challenging match. Tennis is a game of finesse that takes years and years of practice. Athleticism can only take you so far. He will probably hit every other ball as hard as he can and send it sailing.

  Logan manages to make the simple black shirt and shorts he wears look ridiculously good. His broad chest presses against the thin fabric and the raised points of his nipples are just barely visible. If I was less competitive, I would be tempted to throw aside my reservations about our relationship outside the club and jump over the net right now to get my hands on him. Stepping on the court has all my old instincts firing. It’s for the best, because I’m still sorting through the mess that has become my life.

  Why couldn’t I just go along with it for tonight? What’s so hard about changing in front of him? I know the answer though, even if I don’t want to admit it. I was afraid he would want to have sex. Regular, vanilla sex. And I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to get off for him. What would he think of me then?

  I suck in a frustrated breath and refocus on the game. Hitting some tennis balls as hard as I can may be exactly the thing I need to clear my mind.

  The academy is divided into four sub-buildings, each made up of four indoor courts separated by tall nets. There are viewing booths jutting from the high walls. It’s an amazing facility, and must be worth a lot of money, but it doesn’t really surprise me that Logan’s sister would be successful too.

  “Want to warm up?” asks Logan.

  “I’m good now,” I say.

  He laughs. “Have it your way. You want to serve?”

  “You can start,” I say. The fastest way to judge his level of play is to see his serve. It’s the stroke that takes longest to master, and nine times out of ten, I could always tell how tough my opponent was going to be overall from their serve alone.

  He pockets a ball and bounces another, shifting his feet into the proper stance. I take an aggressive position two steps inside the baseline on the assumption that his serve won’t be too impressive. He taps the ball against the court twice with his racquet and starts his motion. Arms down together, up together, perfect trophy pose, and…

  Crack!

  The ball explodes off his racquet from the peak of his toss, streaking toward me almost too fast to track. From how close I’m standing, I barely have time to get my racquet up in time to deflect the ball defensively. It bounces off my racquet and lands nowhere near the lines.

  Holy shit.

  I don’t give him the satisfaction of complementing the serve, even though I have to imagine it was at least a hundred and twenty or a hundred and thirty miles per hour. It was easily the fastest serve I’ve ever returned, and I didn’t even let him warm up. I move to the ad side of the court and this time line up four long steps behind the baseline.

  “That’s game,” he says ten minutes later. “My win.”

  I’m dripping in sweat and my legs already feel weak. I haven’t played that hard in a long time. I have to imagine his tennis game is a lot like the way he handles his business. He goes big on every shot. The serves are big, his groundstrokes are big, and he never once hit a slice or a drop shot. Everything was full power, punishing, and fast. I was only able to claw my way to deuce by changing the dynamic. I played as defensive as possible, forcing him to keep taking high-risk shots and letting him beat himself.

  Logan sinks down dejectedly beside me. He’s sweating a little, but I notice with embarrassment that he’s not sweating nearly as much as I am.

  “You play just like my sister, but it took her a lot longer to figure out she could try to beat me like that.”

  I grab a towel and wipe the sweat from my face. “Did you play in college?” I ask.

  “I didn’t go to college,” he says.

  “Really?” I ask.

  He shrugs. “Yeah. Money was tight and I figured I could get more out of the little I had by investing it in my business.”

  I look down thoughtfully. Damn. I wish I had the guts Logan does. I’ve risked a lot for my business, but he just plows forward toward what he wants and never even thinks about looking back. I envy that. When I take risks, I dwell on them and worry constantly.

  “So it’s zero to one,” I say, “for now.”

  He smirks. “Yeah, you’re right. It’ll be two to one, then three to one…”

  I slap his arm, turning so he doesn’t seem my grin as I walk to my side of the court. The longer we play, the less small talk there is. It seems Logan is just as competitive as I am. Soon we’re both just giving the game all we have, grunting as we pound groundstroke after groundstroke over the net, running down shots that should be impossible. Our only words are to call balls out or state the score before serving. We stop even taking breaks, choosing instead to keep grinding out point after point.

  There’s something about giving everything I have against him that feels therapeutic. It’s silly to think, but somehow struggling against him on the court feels like more than just trying to win a game. It’s like I’m trying to prove something, even if I don’t know what I’m trying to prove. Maybe in some convoluted way I’m trying to make this tennis match about he and I. Maybe I’m trying to prove I’m worthy to be with him as more than his submissive in some dark sex club. Whatever it is, my mind is focused and I don’t give much more thought to why. All I want to do is win.

  The set comes down to a break point. If I can win this last game while he’s serving, I’ll win the set. But his
serves have only been getting harder as the set has dragged on. His hair is plastered to his head with sweat, and the black dry-fit shirt is hugging every curve and line of his muscles. He looks sinfully good, but I can’t focus on that. His eyes are hard, and for whatever his reasons are, he wants to win just as badly as I do. I briefly think about how silly this is. Two adults locked in a tennis match in a deserted tennis facility after hours, taking the game as seriously as if it was the Wimbledon cup.

  He serves an absolute thunderbolt at me. I only have time to block the shot, bracing the racquet with both hands to keep it from flying out of my grip. I manage to put the smallest amount of backspin on the ball. The backspin makes my return shot drag through the air slowly, quickly losing height and sinking like a rock. It just barely skids over the net and Logan has to sprint forward to get it. To my surprise, he lunges forward, laying himself out completely, arm outstretched toward the ball. The rim of his racquet catches it, popping the ball back over the net with almost no power. I’m forced to sprint to the net too, but his shot bounces high enough to give me time to set up.

  Logan gets his feet, planting his feet wide and at the ready to block my shot. I set up for a big forehand only a few steps from the net. Logan is right on the net, and I know the easiest shot for me is to aim for his hip, so without thinking, I do. I whip my arm through the ball, crushing it toward him. He moves his hand to block, but we’re so close there’s no time for him to react. The ball thuds into his upper thigh and bounces to the ground.

  “I win,” I whisper, all the intensity and focus draining from me in an instant when I see the look on his face.

  He drops his racquet, looking slowly down at where I hit him with the ball. When he raises his face back to mine, his features are full of fury. He stalks around the net, coming toward me with purpose. I swallow hard, taking a step back.

  “Logan, I’m sorry. I got carried away.”

  “Sir,” he says, voice deadly calm.

  I realize what he wants. Even though my body craves his punishment and his discipline, I’m acutely aware of where we are. It’s one thing to surrender my trust to him in Club Crave, where I know there are bodyguards within earshot if I ever need help. Trusting him in a place like this would be… reckless. One look at the barely contained rage in his eyes tells me all I need to know. I can’t do this. Not here.

  “Logan, I…”

  He advances on me and his jaw flexes as he grabs me by the upper arm, tight.

  “You’re hurting me, please--”

  Something in my voice gets through to him and he lets go like he was burned. The rage in his face drains and is replaced by disgust. He looks down at his hand and shakes his head. “Fuck.” He strips the tennis ball from his pocket and throws it as hard as he can in anger and then walks toward the exit. He kicks over a water cooler on his way out, threading both his hands through the back of his hair.

  I’m left standing there sweating and holding my racquet, not knowing what to do. After a few minutes, I tentatively follow after him to the main entrance of the building. I find him at the front counter, hands planted wide as he leans, head hanging. He looks up when I step in.

  “Here,” says Logan, tossing me car keys. “You can take my car home and I’ll have someone pick it up later this week. I’ll have a driver come get me.”

  I catch the keys, looking down at them. “You don’t have to do that. I can still ride with you.”

  “No,” he says coldly. “This was a mistake. You’re right. It would be best if we ended things before it gets more complicated.”

  I look at the keys like they will have the right words, like they will know how to fix this when it feels like it’s already crashing and burning. “Everything happened so fast,” I say. “Emmaline, you don’t need to explain. This was my fault.”

  I lick my lips slowly, failing to put my feelings into words. Before I have a chance, his driver honks two times from outside.

  “I’ve got to go,” he says. “Take the car. Get home safe. And good luck with everything.”

  “Will I ever see you again?” I ask when the door is about to close behind him.

  He stops the door with the back of his hand, pausing, but not turning to face me. “Probably not,” he answers honestly.

  And just like that, the door closes on Logan Steele and his involvement in my life.

  “At least you got to keep the clothes and racquet,” says Scarlett.

  I laugh bitterly. “Quite the consolation prize.”

  She pushes her lips to the side thoughtfully. I just finished updating her on pretty much everything that happened between Logan and I over the past two weeks. It felt good to get it out, but I feel drained even from retelling it all. Being with him was like touching a star. It was blindingly hot, overwhelming, and so intense that there was no way I could have ever made it last.

  “Any word on the loans?” Scarlett leans against the single box of onesies in our cramped office. With all the debt piling up, I’ve completely run out of capital to invest in more supplies. The business is looking like it’s going in the same direction Logan and I went, the same direction things are going between my mom and Ronnie, and the same direction as everything else in my life has gone: a promising start followed by a devastating crash.

  “Well, the money from Club Crave has helped, but I don’t know if I can show my face there again. Not after what happened with Logan. I can’t help feeling like I was a cock tease. I let him seduce me, played along, and then when he got attached I ran.”

  Scarlett glares at me. “Hey. Don’t talk like that, girl. For someone who didn’t even know anything about the BDSM scene, he moved you way too fast. He’s the one with experience. He should have taken it slower and let you ease yourself into it. It’s way too much for someone to handle all at once. Besides, you never agreed to make the relationship anything more than sex. It’s his fault if he assumed.”

  “I don’t know if that’s fair,” I say slowly. “I played just as much a part as he did. I had doubts, but I ignored them because it felt so good. I even signed all the papers he sent over. I barely even read it. He tried to make everything as perfect as it could be and I just rushed in too fast.”

  “Fuck if it’s fair or not. He’s an adult and he can get over it.”

  I laugh a little sadly. “Is it bad that I don’t want him to get over it? I pushed him away, but I didn’t want him to leave. I just wanted him to slow down.”

  She squeezes my hand sympathetically. “You bet your ass he’s not over you. Look, if I was you, I’d get back on the horse. Go to Club Crave, do what you have to to get the paycheck and start tackling this debt. If he comes sniffing around again, you do whatever feels right.”

  I sigh. Of all the emotions I’m feeling right now, the guilt is hitting me hardest. No matter how I look at it, I feel like I unintentionally strung Logan along and set him up to be hurt. I never wanted to deceive him. Things between he and I just happened so fast I didn’t have time to really figure out what I even wanted. So much of what I felt was new and exciting that I blindly pushed forward, ignoring everything else. Did I want what was between us to remain purely sexual and at the club? Or did I want it to evolve into something more? I didn’t know, but I felt like we were rapidly heading toward something very complicated and very real.

  I was afraid to give myself up to someone again. I trusted my dad and he took advantage. I trusted my mom and Ronnie and they took advantage. Everyone I’ve ever trusted has made me regret it, and I was afraid to trust Logan. My instincts were telling me it was okay to trust him, but how can I trust the same instincts that led me to misplace my trust so many times before?

  15

  Logan

  It has been nearly a week since Emmaline and I played tennis. I swore I would leave her alone after that. I swore to stay away from Club Crave and to lose her number. I’ve done neither. I somehow convinced myself I couldn’t disappear because I had to keep in touch in case her mom’s boyfriend star
ted trouble again, even though I could easily keep that matter under control without being involved personally.

  Olivia sits across from my desk, studying me. I haven’t told her much, but I can already see she’s using her sisterly intuition to read me like a book.

  “How long has it been?” she asks.

  “Since?” I ask.

  “Don’t bullshit me. Since you and that girl you were into split. You bought a woman’s tennis outfit last week and you’ve been depressed ever since. You’ve never played tennis with one of your girls before. You must have really liked her. Did she break up with you because you don’t know how to take it easy? Did you pelt her with a tennis ball?”

  I laugh at the memory. “Actually, she’s the one who hit me. I still have a bruise.”

  Olivia throws her head back and laughs. The sound of her laughter makes me grin. “Damn. And you let her get away?”

  “When a woman makes it clear she doesn’t want to be in a relationship, it’s not really letting her go.”

  Olivia shrugs. “I guess you have a point. Still. I’m sorry it didn’t work out, Logan.”

  “Yeah, me too.”

  “But you’re planning on seeing her again, aren’t you?”

  “No,” I say.

  “Liar.”

  “It can be really annoying talking to someone who practically reads your mind, you know,” I say.

  “You do the same shit to me, so don’t even complain.”

  I smirk. “Yeah, good point. I was going to ask about the way you’re practically glowing. Did you finally get laid?”

  She shifts in her seat, glaring at me. “Just because I stick my nose in your business, it doesn’t mean you have permission to stick your nose in mine.”