Fighting Attraction

by Sarah Castille

  “Maybe. But that’s what I’m trying to figure out. That’s why I came here. And if you have a problem with Damien helping me out, then why don’t you take over?”

  Jack’s heart thunders in his chest, beating so hard I can feel it beneath his ribs. His arms tighten around me, and the world fades away until I feel only his warm hands on my back, his strong arms around me, his powerful body pressed against mine.

  “No.” His head dips down. I think—no, I hope—maybe he’ll kiss me, but instead he rests his forehead against mine and closes his eyes, as if he is fighting for the same calm that has eluded me since he barged into the room.

  “Please,” I whisper. “I want to try it. Just once. And I want it to be with you. I feel safe with you.”

  “You are safer away from me.” His voice is strained. “People come to me because they want me to hurt them. They don’t come to learn, except about how much they can take.” Lines of pain fan out from his eyes, and his voice becomes bitter, laced with the same self-hatred I feel when I drag the razor blade over my thighs, and yet curiously softened by the drawn-out vowels. “I don’t want to enjoy hurting you. I can’t.”

  His words are meant to push me away, and yet his arms are still tight around me, tighter than before.

  “I’m not afraid of you, Jack. It’s my choice. I choose you.”

  6

  I didn’t come here for sex

  RAMPAGE

  What the fuck am I doing?

  I strip off my jeans in the Club Sin changing room and try to clear my head for the scene with Penny, but my body won’t relax, and my stomach is tied in knots. How can I give her what she wants when it is the one thing that has kept me away from her since we met? Especially now when I’m on edge and barely in control.

  Damien will never forgive me for intruding on his scene and threatening him in front of Penny. Even though I’m a silent partner in the business, providing the financing without bearing any of the legal or managerial responsibility for running the club, he is well within his rights to kick me out. He should have kicked me out instead of so graciously relinquishing control of the scene to me. Why the fuck did he do that? And the damned smirk on his face as he led Penny to my private playroom…

  Despite his reputation, Penny is safe with him. Safer than with me. Once she sees me as I really am, she’ll see her trust was misplaced, as was her friendship.

  But, damn, friendship was the last thing I was thinking when she pressed herself up against me, her soft body curving into mine, the light, floral scent of her perfume filling my head, a year of fantasies coalescing into a burning need that completely overwhelmed me.

  I tug on my leather pants and pull a black cotton T-shirt over my head—a uniform of sorts that allows me to compartmentalize what happens here from the rest of my life. Except right now the rest of my life is waiting in room six for the bite of my whip.

  My cock hardens, solid as steel, pulsing with need. All I have to do is walk out that door to live out my deepest, darkest fantasy and my greatest fear. Craving takes hold of me, and I pull off my family ring and slam the locker door. I will have her. And then I will lose her and suffer a lifetime of regret.

  My boots thud on the marble floor as I make my way down the hallway. Damien spared no expense when he set up Club Sin in a bid to make it unlike any other BDSM club on the West Coast. From the marble tiles to the wooden furnishings and from the exotic lighting to the high-end equipment, he has created an environment that is decadent and sensual, intimidating and yet welcoming.

  “Master Jack!” Sylvia makes her way toward me, her blue eyes warm and bright. A masochist and my sometime play partner, Sylvia struggled to accept that I wasn’t interested in having a relationship despite the night we spent together. Still, I’m partly to blame. I had never fucked any of the women I played with at the club, and after I broke my rule for her, she jumped to the wrong conclusion. Even after I explained that I didn’t get involved with anyone—in or out of the club—she didn’t give up, and I had to end our play sessions for good because I didn’t want to lead her on. Since then she’s never missed an opportunity to let me know she’d like to go back to how things used to be—sometime play partners, casual friends.

  “Sylvia.” I frown, reminding her that shouting at a Dom in the corridor is an invitation to punishment. Which is probably why she did it.

  “Room three is free tonight.” She bows her head, and her thick, blond hair falls in waves over her cheeks. Slim and pretty, Sylvia has high, small breasts and an athletic build. Although she has more stamina than many of the other masochists in the club and is always in demand, physically she doesn’t do anything for me. I’m a big man, and I like a woman with curves. Full breasts, softly rounded hips, and an ass that I can hold on to are what I look for in a woman—or what I would look for if I were a normal man who could have a normal relationship.

  “I thought I made it clear that we weren’t playing together anymore.”

  She nibbles her bottom lip, and her shoulders drop. “I just thought…you’ve seemed really tense the last few days. I just wanted to help.”

  “You can help by finding someone else to play with so you’re not always looking to me.” I’m being harsh, but right now, all I want is Penny, and every minute I delay is another minute she might change her mind. “Master Damien is free,” I offer. “He had a rare cancellation. Tell him I sent you to see him.”

  Her face brightens. Damien isn’t a sadist, but he is a Master Dom and highly sought after in the club. “Thank you, sir.”

  “Have a good night.” I wait until she’s gone and push open the door to room six, forcing my gaze away from the couch where Penny sits, to make sure everything is in order. Damien and I created a playroom that looks like an upscale hotel. Modern and austere and decorated in black and white with red accents, with polished concrete floors and a beamed wooden ceiling, the room contains a small wet bar, a four-poster bed, and a bathroom with a shower. A padded table affixed to a cage sits on a thick red carpet, dominating the center of the room, and beside it is a black wooden St. Andrew’s Cross. Suspension equipment, pulleys, and ropes adorn the ceiling, and red accent lights highlight photographs of BDSM play around the walls.

  There is no comfort in this room. There is no peace. There is pain, and there is pleasure. Mutual gratification and nothing more.

  Except for the initial design, I’ve never thought much about the room, but when my gaze drops to Penny, wearing a pink blouse, her flowery skirt spread over her knees, a faint blush on her creamy skin, I am struck with the incongruity of the scene. She is a rose among thorns, a flower in the desert, beauty with the beast. If I could take her to another room, I would.

  “Stand up.”

  She stands. Right away, she stands. Without hesitation and despite the abruptness of my tone. She stands, and the Dominant in me growls with approval.

  Fuck, she’s beautiful. Curved where a woman should be curved, toned from all the workouts she does at the gym, sweetly self-conscious. And, if she was honest in the paperwork I reviewed while she waited, hiding a secret that I want to uncover.

  “Look at me.” She meets my gaze, her posture almost defiant, as if she knows I still want to send her away. Her courage and the curious vulnerability that shows in her eyes intrigue me. She needs something, but it shames her. She wants something badly enough to come to the club and yet she can’t voice what it is.

  Maybe it is that hidden contradiction that first drew me to her at the gym. Still, I never encouraged a relationship, never treated her as anything more than a friend, simply because I have nothing to offer a woman besides what I can give them in this room.

  Pain.

  Pain of every kind—whether it is the lash of my whip, the sting of my paddle, the burn of fire or wax, the stab of a violet wand, or simply the smack of my palm on bare flesh. I take my pleasure through their pain.
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  “What are you looking for?”

  “I want to be hurt.” She twists the ring around her neck. Fuck. I hate that ring and her attachment to it. If she’s in this room, I want her to think only of me and not the man who gave it to her—a man who touched her and wasn’t me.

  “What kind of hurt?” I reach around her neck and undo the clasp of the chain that holds the ring.

  After a brief, tense pause, she says, “Physical pain.”

  “There are all kinds of physical pain.” I place the chain and ring on a table beside the couch and watch her gaze linger on it. Wanting her full attention, I twist my hand in her hair, forcing her head back, bringing her gaze to mine. Her eyes widen, and she sucks in a sharp breath. I feel her fear as a throb in my groin, a delicious burn in my chest.

  “There can be as much pain in withholding an orgasm as there is in whipping. Withdrawal of sensory stimulation can hurt as much as the sting of a cane. I can hurt you in every way you can imagine and then many you’ve never even considered. What are you looking for exactly?” I step in closer, invading her space, but with her hair firmly wrapped around my fist, she cannot retreat.

  Her breathing hitches, and her cheeks flush with arousal. She may not be naturally submissive, but submission arouses her.

  “I don’t know.” She shrugs. “I knew this kind of club existed, but I never thought about it in relation to me. I thought it was all about kinky sex. But when I saw you in that alcove the night I came to serve the documents…it wasn’t about sex. There was more. She was getting pleasure from the pain. You gave her…”

  “Release.”

  “Yes.” She lets out a breath. “That’s what I want.”

  Christ. She’s almost too good to be true. Can she really need what I have to give?

  “Do you need pain to get off?”

  She struggles against my grip, trying to look away, and then she bites her lip so hard blood beads on the surface. Arousal surges though me, so fierce my body shakes. That blood is my blood. Her pain is mine to give.

  “I don’t know. I’ve never been with anyone who didn’t… I mean, sex and pain have always gone together for me. But that’s not why I came here. I wasn’t thinking I fancied a shag and this was the place to get it.”

  “I understand, Pen.” I don’t come to Club Sin for sex either, preferring to wait until my partners have gone home before I seek my release. The risks of mixing sex with BDSM play became abundantly clear after my one night with Sylvia, and I will not make that mistake again.

  “Master Damien said you’ve only got one night here,” I continue. “We need to discuss what we’re going to do.”

  She sucks in a sharp breath. “What are we going to do?”

  “I want your clothes off. Everything except your bra and panties. I can restrain you, spank you, and use a soft flogger. I don’t think you’re ready for anything else.” I lift her chin up with my finger, directing her gaze to me. “You do what I say, when I say it, without question. You trust me to look after you and make sure you aren’t pushed past your limits.”

  She trembles, cheeks flushing. “Everything you said is okay, but I want to leave my skirt on. I’ll do my best to follow your directions, but you’ll have to forgive me if I slip up because, to be honest, I’m not good with being bossed around.”

  Don’t I know it. Which is why this will be so much fun. “No skirt. I need full access, and your clothes will get in the way.”

  Penny’s mouth opens and closes again, and she fists the edge of her skirt. Clearly, there is more to her reluctance than just being shy or insecure about her body, but aside from the practical issues, clothing serves to hide the things we need to expose to embrace the core of our being.

  Hands trembling, she slowly undoes the buttons on her blouse. Unable to look away, I follow her fingers as the fabric parts to reveal soft, creamy breasts nestled in a froth of pink lace.

  Christ. I can’t remember the last time I was with a woman who wore pink. Usually, the women who grace my playroom are of a type—hard-core submissives covered in tats who wear black latex or leather, red or black bras and thongs, and black stilettos or boots. Penny’s skin is pale and unmarked. Soft.

  I suppress a shudder of desire, and my mouth waters in anticipation of leaving my mark on that perfect skin.

  Penny toes off her shoes and tosses her blouse on the couch. Her hands drop to her skirt, and she fumbles with the waistband. “I don’t think I can do it,” she whispers. “And it’s not that I’m trying to be difficult. I just…can’t.”

  “I’ll help you.” With my hand on her lower back, I guide her to the center of the room where a pair of cuffs dangles from a beam across the ceiling. I make a quick adjustment for her height and glide my hands up her body, bringing her arms over her head. I’ve never touched Penny in anything other than a friendly way, although I’ve imagined how she might feel countless times. Usually only pain arouses me, but her soft curves and the slight tremble of her body send my thoughts in a direction I’m not prepared for them to go.

  “You have your safe words. Use them if you need to.” I wrap a leather cuff around her slender wrist and buckle it tight. I give her a moment to adjust before I attach the second cuff. When she is secure, I pull on the chain, drawing her hands up just enough to stretch her past the point of comfort.

  She swallows hard, and I gently stroke her cheek. “Anything too tight?”

  “I’m okay.”

  I come up behind her, cup her breasts in my hands. Her nipples are hard and peaked beneath her lacy bra. Although I’m tempted to stroke her pussy, test her wetness, my main goal is to lower her inhibitions enough to remove her skirt without having her retreat.

  “This excites you.” I gently pinch her nipples through her bra, and she bites back a moan.

  “No. It’s about the pain. Not sex.”

  “There’s a profound connection between sex and pain.” I smooth my hands down her rib cage and over her stomach. She is warm, despite the slight chill in the room, her skin so soft I want to touch her all over. When she dips her head to watch my hands, her hair drops over her shoulders, leaving her neck exposed, vulnerable, and I struggle with an inexplicable urge to kiss her nape. “Sex and pain stimulate the release of similar chemicals and hormones in the body,” I continue. “The endorphins that are released in stressful situations or painful experiences are often perceived as pleasurable because they give a form of release.”

  She freezes, her body stiffening, and I wonder for a moment if I’ve scared her. “A release?”

  “Yes.” I undo the button on the back of her skirt and pull down the zipper. She’s wearing pink lace panties that match her bra, and my arousal kicks up another notch. “But it can be achieved in many ways. Some people just come here for the sensual experience and then go home and relieve the sexual tension with a partner or on their own.” With slow, gentle movements, I ease her skirt down over her hips. Penny’s breaths come in short pants, and her teeth chatter.

  “I can’t do this.”

  “You don’t have to. I’m doing it for you.” I release the skirt, and it hits the floor with a soft thud.

  She shakes so violently the chains rattle overhead. I wrap my arms around her, pull her back into my chest.

  “Relax.” I brush my lips over her ear, inhale the light scent of her perfume. “What happens here stays here.”

  She relaxes slightly into my body, her ass a warm weight against my cock. I glide my hand over the curve of her hip, trail my fingers down her thigh.

  Soft skin gives way to raised ridges, slick and smooth.

  I steel myself not to react, but my voice catches in my throat. “Ah, Pen. That’s how you let the pain out, isn’t it?” I draw my finger along what feels to be the worst of the scars. “You do it yourself.”

  7

  Maybe I’m too close

 
PENNY

  Oh God. He knows. Or if he doesn’t know, he will as soon as he stands in front of me. In some ways it was actually easier with Master Damien. I didn’t know him that well. There was little chance I would be bumping into him at the gym or partying with him on the weekends. I wouldn’t have to see him working out or talking with my friends. And even if he saw the scars on my legs, there would be no risk of him telling anyone I knew.

  Over the years, I’ve become adept at hiding my scars: avoiding pools and beaches, or swimming in wet suits, sex with the lights out, no showers or baths with my boyfriends, and pleading modesty whenever people expected me to bare what I couldn’t stand for anyone else to see.

  Jack walks around and crouches in front of me. My body flushes with embarrassment, not just because he can see my scars but because I have been pulled out of the fantasy, of the arousal he made me feel, of the momentary illusion of safety I had in his arms. Now, I’m hanging from the ceiling in a cold, impersonal room, with Jack, my friend from the gym, in front of me, his face level with my pussy, his eyes on the scars no one except my ex-boyfriend, Adam, has ever seen before. Adam who thought I was broken. Adam who shattered my heart.

  “How long?” He traces a thick finger over one of the long silvery lines on my thigh.

  “Since I was thirteen.” My throat tightens. Will he end this? Tell me I can’t have what I want because I’m too badly damaged for anyone to touch?

  He gently turns me side to side, inspecting every inch of my scarred skin.

  “When was the last time?”

  I press my lips together and look away.

  “Answer me or we’re done. And I want the truth.”

  Emotion wells up in my chest, and I swallow past the lump in my throat. “Last week.”

  “Here.” He presses hard on the most recent welt, and I wince.

  “Yes.”

  “Have you seen a therapist?” He stands in front of me, arms folded over his massive chest, studying me intently.