by Livia Grant
Something shimmers, hanging in the air between us. I can’t decide what it is—her appreciation, maybe, but then she puts her pouty lips together and I’m dismissed. “I can handle myself.”
“Oh, I have no doubt of that, beautiful. You have street smarts written all over you. Where are you from? New York? Philly?” I need to know more about her. I need to know everything about her.
“Brooklyn. Just visiting. My sister lives here.” She gives me another sweeping glance, this time speculative. “You?”
“What’s your guess?” I ask, because I have the sense she’s already decided things about me.
“You’re street smart, too. Jersey, maybe.”
“What gave me away?”
She turns, angling away from me, like she’s looking for her sister, but I know the drill. It’s the body language that says you’re not that important to me. You’ll have to try harder.
Challenge accepted.
“You look dangerous,” she admits after a moment.
“Is that a good thing or bad?”
She tilts her head to the side, eyes sliding over to me again, before looking back down the street. “If you wanted to date my sister? Bad.”
I can’t resist. I reach out and catch her elbow, drag her back in close, where I want her. She resists a bit for show, but I know she’d wrench out of my grasp if she wanted to. In fact, once she arrives in front of me, she leans in, like our bodies are magnetically drawn together.
“And if I wanted to date you?”
Her lids droop slightly, and I experience a surge of satisfaction. “I’m sure I could handle you,” she purrs.
Fuck, yeah. I’d let her handle me in all kinds of ways.
Starting now.
A blonde walks up, cute in the girl-next-door kind of way.
“Excuse me,” my captive says, pointedly looking at my grip on her elbow. I let go. She clicks forward in her heels to meet her sister. I see the resemblance, but she was right; they are totally different animals. She doesn’t bother to introduce me, which shouldn’t offend me as much as it does. They breeze on past, heading into the psychic shop and straight to the back, for the secret entrance to Black Light.
I give them a few moments, then trail behind, listening to the cadence of their light banter as we walk through the underground tunnel.
I never even got her name.
But I’m not worried. Before the night is through, I’ll get something from her. A scene, a phone number, a date.
I’m not leaving here without branding her with a heavy dose of everything I have to offer her.
And more.
Chapter 2
Mariana
It’s been far too long since I’ve had a date or even a hookup.
That’s the only explanation for my reaction to the extremely sexy man loitering outside when I arrived. That, and he’s my type.
And when I say my type, it’s with a groan. Because, yeah. He’s all wrong. I’m not attracted by the D.C. sort. The businessmen or politicians. Not even the military men. No, my type wears a heavy dose of street. Not knit cap and piercings street. But deadly confidence in a fine Italian suit. Mr. Wrong looks like he could be mafia or from some other dangerous and dark profession. Hence the groan.
Definitely not the kind of guy I’d ever actually do anything with.
But I do like the bad boys. Except without the boy part. And Mr. Wrong was all man.
I don’t say a word to Sara about him as we go through the check-in process. We’re required to leave all electronics in the locker room. Another reason I’m glad I came along. What if Sara had wanted to be rescued and couldn’t call me?
But she’s bouncing with excitement. She dressed in a Catholic schoolgirl outfit, which I can’t understand, seeing as how we wore them growing up, and I never want to see one again in my life. And she gave the name Goldilocks as her code name. I gave the name Brooklyn—unoriginal, I know. And my clothes are not nearly fetish enough. Just a slinky black dress and fuck me pumps.
“Come on, you look like you could use a drink.” Sara hooks a hand around my elbow and tugs me to the bar, lit with black lights so everything glows.
“You don’t look old enough to drink, little miss,” the bartender says to Sara with a wink.
“Oh, the priest told me to take communion over here,” she promises and he chuckles.
“A shot of tequila,” I order, leaning my elbows on the bar. At least a bar is one place I’m comfortable. Of course, I’d much rather be on the other side, pouring the drinks. Or managing this place like I managed the restaurant, rushing around making everyone comfortable, giving employees orders. I’ve been working so hard for so many years, I don’t even know how to sit still. I hate sitting still. Being served instead of serving.
“I’ll have the same,” Sara says.
The bartender pours two shots of tequila and delivers them with salt and lime.
I skip the accoutrement and down the shot in a gulp, letting the burn streak down my throat with a vengeance. “One more.”
Sara downs hers, shudders and stuffs the lime in her mouth.
The bartender purses his lips. “It’s a two drink maximum for the night. No one is allowed to play while they’re impaired.”
I look at him evenly and push my shot glass across the bar. “I’m ready for my second.” Especially because I can feel Mr. Dark and Dangerous approaching. I don’t even have to look to know he’s coming for me.
Unfortunately—or fortunately, depending on how I look at it—I’m kept from both the drink and the man by the couple on the stage who call for all the participants to join them.
Sara grabs my hand and tugs me forward, through the throng of scantily-dressed women and leather or suit-clad men. My response to nerves is to get pissed off, so I toss my hair and strut up to the stage like I own it. I hear a deep chuckle, and I swear it came from the direction of Mr. Wrong, but I don’t look.
Only when I turn to see him join the other doms to the left of the stage waiting for their turn to be called do I realize I’ve been holding my breath, wondering if he came as a participant or voyeur.
“You remember the safe words, right? Red means stop—”
“Yeah, yeah,” I interrupt Sara. She only explained this to me ten times last night before we went to bed. To soften my curtness, I tug one of her pigtails as we stand before the stage, waiting to get selected by our partner through a roll of a roulette ball. “Excited, Goldi?”
She bounces on her heels. “Nervous. But yeah, excited. You?”
My eyes flick to the large, broad-shouldered man in an expensive suit. The one who looks like he probably keeps a gun and knows how to use it. The one who’s making my nipples stiff just thinking about the hard body lurking under the finely tailored cloth.
Of course, he catches my look and the corners of his lips kick up a fraction. He holds my gaze steadily, like he’s commanding me. Or making a dark promise.
Tragically, he’s the only man who’s had me excited in a long time.
“Just here to earn a hundred bucks,” I say lightly, but she’s followed my gaze.
“Is that the guy who was outside when we got here?”
“Mmm hmm. You know him?”
“No, but he looks delish.”
I cock a hip even though I’m doing my damnedest not to look back at him again. Before I can answer, the guy on the mic calls all the doms up around the stage for the games to begin.
I can’t decide if I’m praying I get my guy, or I don’t.
No, I want him. The thought of doing kinky things with any other buffoon here is nauseating. He’s the only one who would make it semi-interesting.
Even though I’m trying not to watch, trying to look disinterested, I totally cop another look when Mr. Wrong pulls his number. He flicks his brows at me and a shiver runs down my spine.
This time there’s no mistaking it—definitely promise there.
He turns the stick outward and Emma reads it. “Mr.
Blackheart drew number one!”
Why am I not surprised? He’s the guy who radiates number one. Like his sheer charisma charmed the sticks into arranging themselves to suit his purpose.
The rest of the tops draw their numbers but I’m hardly paying attention. All I can think about it is what happens next. What if Mr. Wrong’s ball lands on my name? What things will he do to me?
As moisture gathers between my legs, I start to think maybe I do understand my sister’s kink. Because I’m excited thinking about being under his thumb.
He steps forward, moving with surprising grace for such a large man. Those hands could choke a person. Big fists to slam into a man’s face. I have no doubt he’s used them that way, either.
Maybe not the choking part, but definitely the fighting.
Chase spins the wheel in one direction, and he throws the ball in, somehow managing to convey both nonchalance and precision.
“And he landed on Brooklyn!”
The breath hitches in my throat. My sister turns her bright eyes on me, smiling and shoving me forward.
Fuck.
No, I’m glad it’s him.
Fuck.
I toddle forward up onto the stage as Chase reads my hard limits out to the crowd. Damn the blush that creeps up my neck. This is fucking humiliating.
Emma beckons me over to a second wheel, where I’ll throw the ball to find out what Mr. Blackheart is going to do to me.
I think I’m in shock, hardly registering the spinning roulette wheel, or the ball clutched in my hand.
“Throw it in,” Emma chants.
Suddenly, he’s at my back, pressing his large frame against mine. For some reason, I register it as protection rather than a threat. Like he’s shielding me from the audience rather than showing me who’s boss.
I have to work to open my cold fingers and throw the ball. It rolls in the opposite direction as the wheel, bouncing and hopping.
I stare at it, barely blinking, and Mr. Blackheart’s hand comes up to cage my throat.
The gesture’s so close to the image that popped in my mind just moments before that a tingling zings through my body. He doesn’t tighten his fingers, but they wrap completely around my larynx. One squeeze would crush my neck.
He pulls back so my head comes to rest on his chest. “The truth is,” he says, lips brushing my temple, voice deep and gravelly, “it doesn’t matter what you roll, you’ll do whatever the fuck I want you to do.”
My nipples tighten to stiff peaks and my dress suddenly feels too tight. The room too hot.
“Won’t you, baby?”
I search for it, but can’t seem to muster one single shred of fury over his treatment. No, my panties dampen with arousal, and I shift my ass, pushing back slightly against his legs. Apparently this—whatever it is—is my kink.
Fingers still wrapped, he strokes the column of my neck with his thumb. “Hmm?”
“Yeah,” I breathe.
The ball settles in a notch.
“Pet play!” Emma announces.
Christ. I don’t have a clue what that means, but I don’t like it.
“Brooklyn’s going to roll all three scenes now so we don’t have to come back up here.” He gives this dictate with the air of someone used to commanding forces. There’s zero doubt or question in his voice, even though he’s suggesting a change of rules to the game.
Emma looks to her co-emcee, Chase, who shrugs and nods. I throw my second ball. It jumps and settles quickly. “Wild Card! That means dom’s choice.”
Of course it does.
Mr. Blackheart makes a sound of approval. He releases my throat so I can throw the ball, but he’s still pressed against my back and now a hand slides across my belly, fingers spread wide.
I ignore the excitement running through my core and throw the ball one last time.
His fingers coast lower.
I’m already ready to say red. The instinct to protect the treasure between my legs—as was drilled into every good Catholic girl—flares to life with the intensity of a flame thrower.
I don’t know if I stiffened or made a sound, but he catches on and stops, backing his hand up to squeeze my breast instead.
“Sybian Orgasm Torture,” Emma calls out.
Shit. Sara gave me the quick and dirty of what all these terms mean, but I can’t remember what this one is. Too many orgasms? Or not enough? It all seems so ridiculous. Or at least it had when I signed up. Now it’s unnerving. What’s even more unnerving is that I discover we have to wait to begin. Mr. Blackheart leads me to stand behind Chase and Emma where we will wait, and my nerves will continue to grow, until every couple has been paired. It seems to take forever and yet only a minute before the wheel has been spun for the last time.
“Come on.” Mr. Blackheart springs into action with that swift, decisive way he moves. He steps back and picks up a duffel bag beside him, then catches my hand, and leads me off the stage.
Victor
I’m fucking exultant as I lead Brooklyn off the stage.
Kim, the bitch who ruined me for women, used to believe in that manifest your destiny shit. Aligning her beliefs with what she wanted to happen. Which obviously included cheating on me with my best friend.
When she explained it to me, I knew it was what every alpha male already knows. Your confidence makes it happen.
I knew I’d get Brooklyn because the moment I saw her, my body came alive in a way it hasn’t since the Kim incident a year ago. It was like I’d been cryogenically frozen, immune to all women until Brooklyn walked up, tossed her thick mane and ran that smart mouth.
Now I have to make sure I don’t fuck it up.
I know she’s not comfortable with any of this, and I want to make it good for her. So figuring out what makes her tick is my first priority.
I get her away from the stage and head toward the costume shop. I’m all alpha male, so as far as I’m concerned, everything tonight will be dom’s choice, but having her make selections gives me a framework to start with. Plus, she’s going to look amazing in a tight leather kitten suit.
Her hand is cold and slightly clammy in mine, which alarms me. I don’t want her scared. One sub actually fainted before the event really got going, and I don’t want my sub to be the second. I review what’s worked so far. She likes control. I’m not going to give her that.
She also likes it when I come on strong. She practically purred when I wrapped my hand around her throat. So she’s either into breathplay, or just wants to be forced.
Some women—especially the stronger personalities who thrive on control—need to have it taken away from them.
Forcibly.
It absolves them of any responsibility, helps them let go and release all inhibitions.
I test that theory, stopping to shove her up against a wall. Her back hits it with a slight thud, eyes fly wide. It takes me a half-second to pin her wrists above her head and another to cup her mons and rub it through the fabric of her miniscule dress. I stroke her clit, hard and firm, because going slow and light earlier was a total fail.
Yep. It works.
She grunts, trying to pull her arms out of my grasp, but she soaks her panties.
My baby likes it rough.
I make an approving sound in my throat.
She blinks at me, chocolate brown eyes dilated so far they read black. Her thick brown hair falls across her forehead, draping over one eye. She pants, her firm tits rising and falling in quick succession.
I reach under her skirt and slip my hand into her panties, still giving it to her firm.
She squirms, pressing her thighs together around my fingers. “Wh-what are you doing?” she pants. There’s a flare of panic in her eyes, but I can tell by the way her nipples protrude, the flush of her face, that she’s more excited than alarmed.
“Whatever the fuck I want. Remember?”
I look for signs of anger or fear, but they don’t show. Instead, she lifts her chin in challenge. “Aren’t you going
to hurt me now?”
I quirk a brow. “Is that what you want?”
She hesitates a beat, as if deciding whether admitting the truth showed any weakness. “No.”
“I didn’t think so. And hurting women who aren’t into it isn’t my thing, so I’m going to figure out where our desires intersect.”
I wouldn’t say I’m an actual sadist. This scene works for me because I like control. I also liked the anonymity and ability to play without a relationship that exists at Black Light. I say liked past tense because the idea of having Brooklyn for only one night already has me chafing.
But that doesn’t make sense, because I don’t do relationships. Not anymore.
I switch from rubbing her pussy to squeezing her breast. Her tits are perfection—apple-sized and firm. Nipples as hard as stone.
Her gaze softens when I say I’m not going to hurt her, and she studies my face in a way that makes me want to tear off my clothes and fucking preen for her. “I don’t think any of this is my thing.”
“No?” I move my hand to her hip. “Open these legs.” I tap the side of her thigh.
Even though I infused full authority into my voice, I’m surprised when she moves without hesitation.
“Wider.” My tone is hard. I yank the hem of her dress all the way up to her armpits and shove the fabric in her mouth. “Hold this.”
She obediently takes it between her teeth.
She’s wearing a pair of black satin panties with little bows at the top of each thigh. I want them off, but I also don’t want anyone else seeing her twat. I leave them in place for now. Bringing my palm up with a flick of my wrist, I slap her pussy over the fabric.
She lets out a strangled mewl.
I slap again and again. When I stop and slip my fingers in the gusset of her panties, I find her lady parts dripping. “Your pussy’s sopping wet, baby. So I know one thing.”
Unbelievably, she blushes. It inspires a surge of protectiveness in me, not that I wouldn’t already do everything in my power to ensure her ease. “What’s that?” Her voice sounds strangled, and she drops the fabric from her teeth when she speaks.
I yank the dress up again and replace it, shoving even more fabric in her mouth, like a gag. “You like it rough.”
