by Laura Kaye
Which meant that what he needed was Blasphemy.
* * * *
Standing in the middle of her gleaming, modern gallery, the new exhibit installed and ready for Friday night’s opening, Mia Breslin couldn’t help but feel proud of herself and excited for her life to be coming together exactly the way she’d always hoped. Fantastic job in a field that was her passion—art. That she got paid good money to work at something she loved was amazing. That her work allowed her to network with prominent artists, collectors, and buyers while still working on her own projects was an incredible privilege.
All of which amplified the one area of discontent and hollowness in Mia’s life—that she had no one to share it with. More than that, finding the right someone seemed like it just might be impossible.
Why’d you have to go and have such a difficult kink? her best friend Daniella would say.
Because nothing else turned her on like being dominated. And nothing else got her off like submitting.
Problem was, finding a man who wasn’t just a Dominant but who wore that authority naturally, like a second skin, like it was the air he breathed, like it was in his blood and he knew no other way? That apparently was hard as hell. And her body seemed to know the difference—on sight—between someone playing at dominating and someone who was the real thing.
Sighing, Mia crossed the wide gallery located in a rehabbed warehouse space in an up-and-coming area of Baltimore, her heels clicking against the shining hardwoods. Sitting at her desk, she woke up her computer screen and logged into her private e-mail—the one out of which she ran all of her lifestyle communications. And then she opened the message she’d been sitting on for nearly two weeks—a coveted and rare invitation to Baltimore’s most exclusive BDSM club, Blasphemy.
Before she’d even moved to Baltimore four months before, Mia had already looked into the community in Baltimore, hoping she’d find more of one than there’d been in the smaller college towns where she’d done her graduate work and had her first job. When she’d learned about Blasphemy through message boards to which she belonged, she’d been ecstatic and immediately started the lengthy application and clearance process. But there was a difference between the idea of something and the reality. Before Baltimore, she’d only been to private play parties and one lame club that’d left a lot to be desired where cleanliness and safety were concerned.
But Blasphemy was different. That’s what everyone said.
“I need this,” she whispered to herself. She needed the incredible release of submission, and she needed someone strong enough to truly give it to her. Again and again and again.
Before she let herself overthink it, she printed out the ticket that would gain her admittance and a two-week, discounted probationary membership. And discounted was perfect, because as good as her job paid—especially for something in the art world—her student loans ate up a lot of her monthly income. And it wasn’t like she could ask her father for money to belong to a BDSM club. He’d probably have a heart attack, right after he sent in a SWAT team to close the place down.
An hour later, she was home, showered, and had gone through all the play clothes she kept in a trunk at the back of her closet. Going to her knees with a wad of latex in her lap, Mia took a deep breath and sent out an SOS in the form of a text to her best friend, Daniella, who’d recently landed a new job in DC—not as close as Mia would’ve liked but close enough to still see one another and stay in each other’s lives.
Kinda want to check out that club I told you about but I’m freaking out.
Mia’s phone rang within twenty seconds. Laughing, she answered. “Hi.”
“Stop freaking out,” Daniella said by way of greeting.
“Why, thank you for that excellent advice,” Mia said, already feeling better just hearing Dani’s voice.
“Come on, you know you messaged me to get the tough love,” Dani said, humor plain in her tone. “Why are you freaking out?”
“I can’t figure out what to wear.” Mia sorted through the pile on the floor. “And I’m afraid I won’t find anyone. And I’m also afraid I might find someone and he won’t want me.” Or, rather, he won’t want a cop’s daughter. In her experience, more than a few Doms got freaked out at the idea of tying up and spanking a police officer’s daughter. And now her dad wasn’t just any policeman, either. As of two months ago, he was the city’s new commissioner of police.
“Okay, I got this,” Dani said. “On clothes, go with the sheer white lace top over that sheer black bra you have, and wear it with that little latex skirt with the asymmetrical hem and those black ankle boots. Put your hair in a ponytail. Boom. Done.”
Mia found the pieces Dani suggested. “That is a good outfit,” she admitted. Even though it really showed off how big her boobs and hips were. Her body was the shape of an hourglass on steroids—wide on the top and bottom and narrow in the middle.
“I know, right? I’m, like, the submissive whisperer,” she said, making herself laugh. “And on the bigger, existential fears, fuck ’em. We might all die tomorrow. You gotta suck all the marrow out of life. That’s what Walt Whitman said.”
Chuckling, Mia nodded to herself. “I think that was Thoreau.”
“Same difference,” Dani said.
“We might all die tomorrow, huh?” Mia mused, her mind spinning on the Thoreau quote. She definitely didn’t want to die without really having lived. And, for her, that meant finding a long-term Dom and having a fulfilling BDSM relationship. Anything else would be resignation, and even though she was only twenty-seven, the idea of that terrified her. The last thing she wanted was to end up like her parents—divorced and full of regrets over the time they’d spent together. “That’s super cheerful, you know.”
“Heh. Exactly,” Dani said. “I excel at putting things into perspective.”
Dani’s words and snarky attitude had done exactly what Mia had hoped—they’d bolstered her resolve. She rose to her feet, the outfit Dani recommended in hand. “You also excel at being my friend.”
“I really am quite awesome.”
Mia barked out a laugh. “You are. Okay, thank you. I’m doing this.”
“Of course you are. I want a full report tomorrow,” Dani said, her voice stern.
“Duly noted.” Smiling, Mia threw the clothing on her bed. “See you Friday?”
“Wouldn’t miss your big opening for the world, my friend. Now go kick some Dominant ass.”
“Uh, it’s kind of the other way around.” Mia chuckled at her friend’s awesome ridiculousness as they hung up.
But now she almost felt like she could do just that. Or, at least, drive some Dominant ass totally crazy with lust. Thoughts of exactly what that might involve lanced heat through her whole body.
Within a half an hour, she was dressed and catching a cab across town, a long trench coat covering the indecency of her outfit until she got inside the club.
“Here we are,” the cab driver called over his shoulder as he pulled to the curb.
As she paid, Mia peered out the window. The neighborhood was heavy on old warehouses and light on actual residences. And her destination was no exception. The large brick building ran the whole length of the block. Lights illuminated a set of double doors and a sign that read, “Club Diablo.” A line formed at the dance club’s door and snaked into the dimness.
“Thank you,” she said to the cabby as she got out.
Giving her ticket another once-over, she approached the bouncer, but before she’d even gotten close enough to hand it to him, he spotted it and directed her inside the foyer and through a door off to one side. The door led her down a long hallway that must’ve run along the mainstream club, judging by the way the bass beat echoed like a heartbeat inside the narrow space, but then finally sent her back outdoors again into the well-lit courtyard of what appeared to be a huge, old church. Outside the arched doors of what had once been the church’s front stood another mountain of a man in an exquisitely cut black suit. He poi
nted her in the direction of a ramp that sloped down and around the outside of the long, rectangular nave to another set of doors and a third bouncer, again wearing a black-on-black suit.
A shiver ran over Mia’s skin because she was here, and she was really doing this. She held out her ticket, which the bouncer scanned with a device in his hand. Then he opened the door, his voice deep and inviting as he said, “Welcome to Blasphemy. Have a good night.”
Chapter 2
Kyler sat in the control room at Blasphemy, his gaze half on the monitors as he shot the shit with Isaac Marten, another of the club’s twelve Masters—experienced Dominants who possessed an ownership stake in Blasphemy and took turns running and monitoring the club. Kyler had bought his share of the business with a chunk of his own savings and the money his grandfather had left him, and now his investment paid him back in spades.
This wasn’t one of Kyler’s nights to be on, but many of them dropped in to hang out or play outside of their scheduled shifts, so no one thought anything odd about Kyler being there on a random Wednesday. Unlike on the force, here at Blasphemy Kyler wasn’t the one who was hurt or the one on medical leave or, now, the one under investigation. Here, he was just Master Kyler, and none of the other men tiptoed around him like they were starting to do in the department. Here, the only ones who did the tiptoeing around him were the subs. As it should be. The thought almost eked a smile out of him.
“You heading out onto the floor?” Isaac asked, turning dark eyes toward Kyler. In his day job, Isaac ran a security business—high-tech gadgets were his thing, a principle that extended in interesting and creative ways into his scenes.
Shrugging, Kyler scrubbed his hands through his brown hair. Longer than he usually let it get. “At some point.” While he’d fulfilled most of his duty rotations as one of the Masters here, he hadn’t done any scenes since before getting shot. Early on, that’d been because he’d been in too much pain. Later, it’d been because even as he healed, his arm was too weak and had too little control to feel confident that he could adequately wield a paddle or support a woman’s weight. Now, fucking target-shooting qualifications aside, he was feeling more his usual self, his body almost back to one hundred percent.
Next to one of the keyboards, Isaac’s cell beeped an incoming text. The man picked it up, smiled, and replied.
“How’s Willow?” Kyler asked, recognizing the happy expression on Isaac’s dark brown face.
Isaac nodded, still wearing a smile. “She’s good. She keeps saying she’s as big as a house, but there’s nothing like seeing your woman’s belly grow with your child.”
“Two more months?” Kyler asked, the reverence of the other man’s tone getting under his skin, just a little. Not because he wanted Willow for himself, but because at thirty-five, Kyler already knew he’d never have any of what Isaac and Willow had. He couldn’t. Being married hadn’t worked out well for either his father or grandfather. The force was a jealous fucking mistress. It put a shit-ton of stress on a spouse’s shoulders and therefore on the relationship itself. He’d rather forego the heartache and stick with the eventual aloneness that seemed the curse of all the Vance men.
That was why Kyler had his rules. Never get attached. Share and seek out only that personal information needed to determine a sub’s needs, interests, and limits. Stop playing with a submissive showing signs of attachment. Never play outside the club. Never take a submissive home.
“Yup. It’s gonna be interesting, adapting all this to the reality of a child,” Isaac said, waving a hand to indicate the club, the lifestyle, maybe even life itself.
“No doubt,” Kyler said. “You’ll manage, though.”
“Always do,” Isaac said, scrubbing a hand over his close-cropped black hair. Suddenly, he sat forward and zoomed one of the cameras in on the registration area. “Looks like we got a new subbie.”
Kyler’s gaze followed Isaac’s to the image of a woman sitting bolt upright on the edge of the chair in front of the registration desk, her ankles crossed, her hands folded in her lap. Long, straight, dark brown hair hung all the way down her back from a high ponytail. Master Griffin was no doubt walking her through the rules and procedures, verifying her hard and soft limits, and preparing the wrist cuffs that all the unattached submissives wore to indicate what kind of play in which they were or were not willing to engage.
Heat shot through Kyler’s blood in anticipation of seeing what color kink ribbons would adorn her cuffs, heat that surged as Griffin added more and more colors to those cuffs. Kyler also liked what he didn’t see. No white ribbon, which meant the person literally had no limits—often a sign of the sub not knowing what their limits were. No dark blue, which stood for heavy or intense sadism and masochism. Maybe it was because he’d dedicated his life to protecting and serving, but Kyler just wasn’t into hard-core S&M. Never had been. There was also no brown, which meant she wasn’t into pony or animal play. And she wore no orange ribbon, which stood for anal sex. Kyler wondered if that was a hard or soft limit. The only color she wore that gave him any pause was the purple ribbon, which indicated that the club’s newest submissive enjoyed breath play.
Kyler’s heart kicked into a sprint as his gaze latched onto that purple ribbon. Breath play was some of the riskiest edge play out there—neither safe nor sane in the hands of an inexperienced Dom. Personally, he got off on it because he loved the way it could heighten a submissive’s reaction, but he was not only an experienced Dom, but experienced in martial arts training, which taught safe choke and strangle-holds.
Text scrolled on the monitor listing the players out on Blasphemy’s floor. A new name popped up: Mia (unattached submissive). Given all of their private rooms and hidden nooks where people could play, keeping an accurate head count was a critical part of their operations.
First names were all most of the Masters got to know about the identity of their members, besides what the players decided to share or reveal about themselves. Privacy and information security were key concerns of their clientele, and Blasphemy guarded their members’ identities fiercely. Only Isaac, who’d designed their security systems, and Master Hale, a billionaire businessman who owned a majority interest in the club but rarely played anymore, had access to everyone’s complete profiles. The rest of them were on a need-to-know.
On the screen, Mia rose from her chair and shook Griffin’s hand.
As if her movement beckoned his, Kyler rose, too, his body making demands his mind hadn’t yet settled on. But then his mind fucking caught up.
Mia. Beautiful name, that was for sure, and it certainly fit the woman with all her pretty curves.
Curves his hands itched to caress, hold, grasp.
It’d been months for him, and he was ready. If she wanted to play, he’d play. He adjusted the black leather cuff around his left wrist. The cuff and its hand-stitched silver “M” marked him as one of the club’s twelve Masters. Kyler was otherwise one of the more laid-back of the club’s Doms, preferring a pair of well-worn black jeans and a partially open black button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows.
“I’m gonna head out,” he said.
Isaac smirked over his shoulder. “About damn time. Have fun.”
“We’ll see,” he said, keeping his voice even. Because whether he and this newbie were red hot together or completely ill-suited, he’d still be going home alone.
* * * *
Inside the main part of Blasphemy, Mia immediately felt overwhelmed. Overwhelmed by the beauty, elegance, and decadence of the rehabilitated church, with its massive stained-glass windows, thick marble columns holding up the vaulted ceiling, and soaring frescos on the walls. In the center of the nave sat a large circular bar made out of marble and iron, surrounded by groupings of leather couches and chairs. This was nothing like the club she’d been to before. Everything here screamed money, order, and attention to detail.
Mia was overwhelmed by the very atmosphere of the place, with its low, pulsing, chantin
g music. Overwhelmed by the moans and cries of ecstasy coming from nearby and further inside, and the idea that she could be the one making those sounds. Soon, if she was lucky. Overwhelmed by the sheer size of the place—not just the central space, all around which pieces of equipment sat with public scenes underway—but also by the rooms and halls that jutted off all along one side of the long space.
Even with all that, the place had a seriously cool vibe that the artist in her already loved.
Despite the fact that a few people had directed interested smiles her way, she wasn’t ready to jump right in. She needed a moment to gather her wits about her and get the lay of the land. Ducking her chin, she made for the bar and slipped onto a stool.
“What can I get you?” a deep voice said.
Mia looked up to find a big man with light brown hair and eyes smiling at her. And it was a stunningly sexy smile, one that appeared to be on the cusp of breaking into laughter. It drew her right in. “A glass of champagne, please,” she said, the bubbly stuff one of her biggest weaknesses.
He slid a napkin in front of her and nodded. “What’s your name?”
“Mia. It’s my first time,” she added, nerves getting the best of her.
“Yup,” he said, putting the flute in front of her. “I never forget a face. It’s my superpower.” He winked.
Mia laughed. “Is that the only one?”
His expression turned absolutely wicked as he leaned toward her. “Try me sometime and find out.” He extended a hand. “I’m Master Quinton, Mia. Nice to meet you. Welcome to Blasphemy.”
“Thank you,” she said with a grin as they shook. She looked around as she savored her first sips of the bubbly. Sweet and crisp. “This building is absolutely amazing.”
Master Quinton braced his hands on the bar top, drawing Mia’s gaze to the leather cuff he wore on his left hand. An ornate silver “M” was embroidered into it.
