Letting the relationship develop outside the bedroom would be dangerous. I’d be giving another woman the keys to my life and trusting her not to fuck me over.
The sex will have to be enough, whether I like it or not. Too much rides on me keeping the company together. Thousands of people have jobs because of my business. Tens of thousands benefit from the work we do throughout every branch of the company. I huff a humorless laugh. Look at me pretending my real concern is the wellbeing of everyone else. The heart of it is that I don’t want to fail. I can’t stand the fucking thought of failure. I’ve built my identity around success for so long, anything else is unacceptable.
But wouldn’t letting Emmaline slip away be a failure too?
10
Emmaline
I’m on the porch of my mom’s trailer, clutching the envelope in my hand. Six hundred dollars. Cash. It feels so thin, but I know the six bills are in there because I put them in and took them out so many times. I looked online and saw there are cruises she and Ronnie could afford for that much, even if they weren’t the nicest. I had to go to one of those scammy quick loan buildings to get the money. I already got my five thousand from the club, but it went straight to paying the most important bills and to make sure I have something to eat for the week. I think I’m paying thirty percent interest on this loan, but it’ll be worth it just to get the added stress of my mom out of my life. I raise my hand to knock on her door and pull it back, sucking in a breath.
Six hundred dollars. I’m going to get paid five grand a week if I keep up my weekends at Club Crave. I just have to keep it up. My money problems will be behind me, and I’ll just have to keep my nerve and hold down the job long enough to pay back all the money I owe. That won’t be hard, I think with a tinge of guilt. There have hardly been five minutes that have passed since last weekend where I haven’t replayed the images of my time at the club. The thrum of the sensual music. The diffused sconce lighting. The deep reds and blacks of the decor.
And him.
I feel a chill run through me. It’s strange thinking of the three sides to Logan I’ve already seen. I saw him half-naked in his towel; raw and exposed, rough around the edges and hard. I saw him for coffee; charming, polite, and kind. And then there was the Logan from the club: masked, dangerous, strict, and absolutely dominant. My core clenches around nothing just at the memory of him.
I’ve been with beautiful men before. I’ve been with kind and charming men. Some of them have made attempts at dominance, but I can see it now for what it was. False bravado. Nothing more. When I was within Logan’s power at the club, it was complete. I hung on his every word and breath, waiting to be commanded, craving his orders. Even though I had just met him, I felt completely safe in his control.
I haven’t been able to put my finger on exactly what has me so drawn to the experience, but maybe that’s it. I was able to give myself over to someone and felt complete trust in the submission. The freedom of knowing he was ready to explore my limits and boundaries. The experience was thrilling, but beneath the thrill and apprehension was a deeper sense of trust and acceptance. Maybe I’m imagining it all after the fact. I feel silly putting so much stock in a five minute encounter, but stupid or not, I can’t change the way I feel.
It could be that a lifetime of the people I care most about betraying my trust slowly poisoned me. It made me numb. But this new kind of relationship Logan has introduced me to isn’t just about pain and domination. The deep, all-encompassing kind of trust required to submit so completely is like a release for me. It’s too soon to know why or how, but I think being with Logan could be good for me. It could be exactly what I’ve been needing.
I feel sexually awake for the first time in my life. I feel ready to be taken, dominated, and used. I don’t even care how dirty that is, or how much it makes me sound like a whore. I have suffered through enough traditional relationships and enough traditional sex to earn the right to try something new.
I realize I’m still standing, hand poised to knock. I suck a breath through my teeth and get it over with, rapping my knuckles against the door two times. I wait, hearing the rattle of empty cans and plastic bags rustle from inside the small trailer.
Ronnie swings the door open. He’s tall, but not as tall as Logan, and not nearly as built. He’s lanky except for the beer belly pressing through his stained wife-beater. The smell of beer and stale sweat emanates from him, making me want to plug my nose. Like my mom, he has the look of a former high school star who peaked early and has only gone downhill since. He still has strong features, but his once powerful jaw line sags and his hair is creeping back from his forehead. He wears a dark expression until he sees its me.
“Emmaline,” he says, smiling wide “Come in.” He kicks a ripped trash bag that’s leaking liquid out of the way and gestures for me to step inside.
“Actually, I’m in a little bit of a hurry. Is my mom home?”
“Who’s that Ronnie?” asks my mom from inside.
“Get your ass out here!” Ronnie yells, voice full of sudden anger and annoyance. I hate the way he talks to her. My dad was always timid with her, and Ronnie couldn’t be any more different. He treats her like one of the trash bags littering the floor of their trailer, and she lets him. Maybe it was her misguided way of getting back at my dad for leaving. Maybe she thought the more miserable she made herself, the more guilty he would feel for leaving. She should have guessed he wouldn’t care.
My dad was indifferent to anything but his own best interests. Most men quickly learn to put themselves second when they start a family. Mom always said that part of my dad’s DNA was missing. I still remember when he stole the six dollars Mark had spent weeks saving up. Mark wanted to buy some stupid pack of cards because all his friends were into that. But dad used the money to buy beer. Or how he spent years promising me a car for my sixteenth birthday and I learned he ended up using the money to get himself a motorcycle instead, which he crashed a month later. If I had known there was a way for him to get his hands on my trust fund, I would’ve guessed he’d steal it a long time ago. I was dumb enough to let a few quick Google searches answer the question about whether he would have access.
My mom emerges, hair in disarray. She quickly ties the robe she’s wearing, even though it’s four in the afternoon. Her eyes go straight to the envelope in my hand. She lights a cigarette and clamps it between her wrinkling lips, reaching to grab the envelope from me.
It’s hard to see her now. It wasn’t that long ago when we were all together. It was never perfect. It wasn’t even close, but the years have not been kind to my mother, the former homecoming queen. Now her once smooth skin is speckled with spots and fine lines. Her fingers are almost skeletal, stained yellow between forefinger and middle finger from the cigarette that’s always jammed there. If she stopped smoking for two weeks, she could probably afford the vacation on her own. It’s an ugly thought and I push it down.
My mom doesn’t deserve any kindness from me. I know that. I don’t do it out of weakness. I’m doing it for myself, to prove I’ve risen above the path she laid out for me. If my mom gets her way and thinks she pulled one over on me, so be it. I can be above that. I can let it not matter to me. She tucks a strand of her straw-dry blonde hair behind her ear, licking her lips.
She and Ronnie both lean over it, tearing it open like kids on Christmas. My mom’s eyes light up when she sees the bills, but she pulls them out and counts through them twice, forehead creasing.
“Six hundred? That’s all?” she asks.
The show of good humor on Ronnie’s face fades as he rounds on me. “That’s all family is worth to you, Emmaline?”
I take a deep, slow breath, pushing down the first words that threaten to spill out. Ungrateful. Bitch. Bastard. I focus on the decision that led me to do this. This is for me. It doesn’t matter how they respond to it. “There’s a cruise to the Bahamas leaving in a month. If you book it this week, it’s only five hundred and seventy dollars.
With tax. You’d have some extra money there to get a few drinks on board.”
My mom’s face says it all. It’s not enough. It’s not what she wanted, and she’s disappointed. As much as my intentions were set on doing this for me, the look on her face breaks through my resolve. I feel a swell of emotion rising up. Sadness. Anger. It would be one thing if she had bent over backwards to take care of me my whole life. Instead, she and my dad both took turns screwing my brother and I over to get themselves a step ahead. I can thank her for keeping me alive, but even that feels like a stretch when it seems like her sole motivation was the hope that I’d be a lifeline she could cling to.
Something inside me snaps. All my good intentions evaporate in an instant. I reach out and grab the money from her. “Fine. If you don’t want it--”
My vision goes blinding white as something hard collides with my face. I blink through the confusion and feel a pulsing pain explode in my cheek and my head. I’m lying on the filthy carpet, sideways. Ronnie stands over me, hand still across his body from backhanding me. My mom kneels beside me protectively, glaring up at him.
“You fucking touch my daughter again and I’ll kill you!” she shouts.
“Watch. Your. Fucking. Mouth,” he says to her, finger stabbing periods between each word in the air as he advances on her.
“Mom. Come on,” I say, struggling to get back to my feet and pulling at her.
She stands, shoving me out the door and locking it behind me. It was all a blur. It couldn’t have been more than ten seconds. I’m outside, the chilly air biting at my skin. She’s in there with him. I tug on the doorknob as I hear the two of them shouting at the top of their lungs and plates breaking.
It’s not the first case of domestic abuse I’ve witnessed, not by a long shot, but it’s the first time Ronnie has actually put his hands on me. I walk to my car slowly, stunned and hurt. My whole face is throbbing painfully, and I can’t stop the tears that stream silently down my cheeks. I’m still shaking with rage when I get in my car and dial the police to let them know they need to come out to the trailer park. I wish it was the first time I had made that call. I speak in low, flat tones and hang up when the operator tells me to wait on the scene.
I know Scarlett will be at the office working on the design for a new series of milestone onesies we’re planning, so I drive straight there. It’s a short drive from the trailer park, but I spend the entire drive buried in thought, face still throbbing from where he hit me. I avoid looking in the rearview to assess the damage.
Am I so sexually fucked up because I’ve only ever watched my mom be a doormat with men? First she stood by while my dad gambled, drank, and wasted all our money. Now this. My stomach clenches when I realize how turned on the thought of Logan dominating me makes me. Why do I want something so close to the shit I see my mom getting put through? It makes me sick to see Ronnie mistreating her, and yet the thought of going back to Club Crave has had me giddy all week. It still does.
I run a hand through my hair, not letting the fresh wave of tears that threaten to come fall. I don’t know if I’m going to be able to enjoy it the same way this weekend. Knowing my fantasy may have roots in something I hate so much… It feels wrong.
And yet I don’t think Logan Steel would be so interested in me if it wasn’t for our encounter at the club. I don’t know how he’ll react if I’m not able to bring myself to submit to him again, but I have a strong feeling it won’t be good. I’m not sure whether the idea of him walking out of my life scares me more than the idea of giving in to this perverted fantasy of mine, but I’m going to have to make a decision one way or another this weekend.
11
Logan
I step inside Club Crave, barely able to contain my need. She will be here. Ever since I decided to look for a sub again, I’ve felt a sense of hunger that was steadily growing until I met Emmaline. She ignited it, and now it swirls within me like something wild and untamed, threatening to explode at any moment, to shatter my poise. An animalistic urge within me makes me want to throw her down and take her the moment I see her, to feel her lush curves and to press myself inside her until moans spill from her lips.
But that’s not how I want this to play out.
The anticipation is almost as enjoyable to me as the act itself. I also feel a sense of hesitation I’ve never experienced before. It’s not that I’m unsure, it’s that I’m not willing to do a single thing to hurt or scare Emmaline. The relationship between a dom and sub is based on trust and mutual enjoyment. Some doms like to turn their subs into girlfriends. They blur the line between sex and the heart. I always swore I wouldn’t fall into that trap. Then I let Lana in. I trusted her and I’ve been paying for it ever since.
Keeping Emmaline at arm’s length should be my goal. I’ve learned not to get attached a thousand times over, and yet here I am, teetering on the edge of crossing the line again. I’ve been trying to convince myself the power of my attraction to her is only because I’ve been away from this lifestyle for so long. I’ve been sexually starved, and she’s the first morsel I’ve laid eyes on in years.
When I saw her it was like getting hit in the chest with a sledge hammer. No other woman in the club came close to having the same effect one me. I had to have her. And getting a taste of what she had to offer only made me that much hungrier. So I decided to meet her outside the club, maybe hoping I would learn she was just some vapid, money hungry woman. Instead, I found someone driven, strong, and admirable. Even though she wouldn’t tell me the details, I could tell she has pushed through more adversity than most people do in a lifetime, and she’s still striving for more.
I crack my neck, blinking my eyes a few times to try to focus my thoughts somewhere less dangerous. I call up an image of her perfectly round ass and the way goosebumps rose across her skin. My cock hardens immediately. I remember watching the red blossom from where I paddled her. From when I punished her.
I need to find her.
I move through the lobby slowly, swiveling my head as I search her out. I see the lobby is more deserted than usual, and I notice the few couples remaining are also heading towards one of the play rooms. I follow, curious, but still intent on finding Emmaline. A pounding beat reaches my ears as I step into the hallway. Inside the playroom, the music washes over me. It’s heavy, thick, and sexual.
The room is full. Doms in masks and subs in outfits ranging from sheer dresses, leather spandex, and lingerie lounge and sprawl on the couches and seats filling the room. It’s too much to take in with one look. A sea of flesh. Bodies move together in slow concert, hands working, hips, moving slowly to the heavy beat of the music, and mouths pressed against each other. Some subs pleasure their doms while the doms look toward a stage set up at the far end of the room.
There’s a woman strapped to the ceiling by three leather straps. Two are around her thighs and one is looped behind her shoulders. Her face is toward the ceiling and her neck is thrown back luxuriously as she moans. Bright lights illuminate her and the three strong men circling her, making even the smallest blonde hairs on her body glow with light. All four people are completely naked. One of the men runs his fingers down the length of a leather whip he holds. He cracks it against the ground, testing its weight and eyeing the woman meaningfully. She flinches, gritting her teeth in anticipation.
Two of the men stop at either side of her, plunging their mouths down against her erect nipples, biting and sucking until she strains against her bonds, moans escaping through her clenched teeth. The man with the whip skillfully brings a blow down against her thigh. Her body jerks and her moans grow louder. I notice the way the man wielding the whip only hits hard enough to bring the blood to the surface of the skin and leave a temporary red line. No broken skin, no blood. No lasting harm. It makes sense that he knows what he’s doing, or the Club wouldn’t have allowed him to take part in a demonstration.
“Pretty hot, isn’t it?” asks Dean.
I turn my head slightly, realizing I�
��ve been standing in the doorway for over a minute just watching. “Not my style,” I say.
He sniffs. “Then you’re out of style, Logan. I don’t see what’s not to like.”
His sub is at his side, head bowed obediently, even though I can see in her body language that she wants to look toward the stage. He has trained her well already.
“It’s just not for me,” I say. “I like things to be more… personal.”
He shakes his head. “It doesn’t get much more personal than that.”
“You’d be surprised,” I say. I finally find Emmaline. She’s at the far end of the room, watching the display on stage with a furrowed brow and confusion written all over her features. “Excuse me,” I say, pushing past Dean and moving through the room toward her.
I make sure my mask is still properly in place once more. Many of the members know my identity, but there are often new women brought in to fill roles. As much as the club tries to guarantee anonymity if we wish it, a non-disclosure agreement is still just a piece of paper. If my involvement in this club leaked to the public, it would undo all the work I’ve put in to clean up my image. All the more reason to stay away from Emmaline now that I’ve revealed my identity to her.
I move behind her, leaning close until my lips are only inches from her ear. “You’re staring,” I say chidingly.
Bad for the Billionaires: A Bad Boy Billionaire Bundle Page 20
