Private Dancer (Club Volare Book 12)

by Chloe Cox

“No,” she said out loud, her voice soft. But she damn well meant it. She wasn’t going home.

  She heard the Dom inhale slowly, and felt his fingers brush against her chin as he lifted her face to his.

  And when he spoke, his voice had softened, like honey-covered gravel.

  “Look at me when I’m talking to you, little sub.”

  Oh sweet Lord.

  What choice did she have?

  She met his eyes, and almost melted on the spot.

  He studied her like it was his job, like it was his right. Searching her eyes for so long they started to burn with the effort not to blink, and then her cheeks, her chin, the shape of her nose. Her lips with their slick wash of sparkly gloss, something that felt like armor when she was on stage, but suddenly felt about as insubstantial as tissue paper. She never licked her lips after she had her stage face in place, but she found herself giving her bottom lip a nervous swipe, and then his nostrils flared and dear God.

  He bent his head and she would swear he was smelling her the same way she’d sucked in the scent of him, and mortification burned her cheeks beneath the layers of foundation, concealer and powder because now her best thong was absolutely soaked.

  And suddenly, she was mad. This big self-important—and sexy, damn him—giant of a Mystery Dom was up in her space, touching her face like he owned her, smelling her pussy like he owned that too, staring into her eyes like he had the right to pull her soul straight out of her body, all while telling her to go home? Screw him.

  She was not going to let anyone get in the way of saving her family. And to save her family, she needed to get Spencer Cole. Everything else was just a distraction. Even this walking sex god.

  She jerked her head to the side, half surprised he let her do it, and shoved one hand between them as she stepped backward.

  “I don’t know who you think you are,” she said, carefully, “but you are way too close, buddy.”

  “I’m a Dom,” he said. “And you’re a stranger here. Safety is my responsibility. Even yours. And I’m calling bullshit.”

  “I wouldn’t be a stranger if you’d get out of my way so I can get on with…whatever needs to happen.” She said.

  “This is the first time you’ve been to a BDSM club.” He said it with such confidence and ringing authority that even if he’d been wrong, she probably would have believed him.

  Get it together. Lizzie is counting on you.

  “It’s the first time I’ve been to this club, if that’s what you’re asking,” Bette said as she folded her arms beneath her breasts, which—mistake. His all-seeing eyes dragged right down to her assets, all but her nipples exposed by her demi-bra and deeply plunging neckline of the skin tight, cut-out top she’d thought was appropriate.

  His mouth flattened out into a thin, hard line and his gaze raked back up to hers.

  “You’re a newbie and a liar. The fear is plain on your face. You have no idea what you’re doing. You’re not even dressed like a sub.”

  Her belly clenched, not in a good way. Because she’d thought the same thing when Simone had opened the door. Against all better judgment, she found herself asking, “Then what am I dressed like?”

  A small smile twitched at his lips. When he spoke, he wasn’t mean about it. He was just telling the truth. And that made it worse.

  “A stripper,” he clipped.

  She let out a quick breath. That had literally knocked the wind out of her.

  Bette refused to be ashamed of what she currently did for a living, at least not anymore. But she knew other people thought she should be. And she ignored them, because she’d made the best choices she knew how given the circumstances she’d been handed, and damn it, it was a job. A job that paid for the roof over her head and the legal case that had turned her world upside down, and the education that would one day provide for Lizzie, and…

  No.

  Bette wasn’t going to do this. She didn’t care if this Dom had seen right through her. She didn’t care if just being close to him made her wet. She didn’t even care that she wanted to know what else he saw in her—wanted to know, was scared to know, whatever. She wasn’t going to let anyone make her feel small. Not without her consent. Not ever again.

  “Once again, I don’t know who you think you are,” she said, as levelly as she could, “but unless you have the authority to kick me out, kindly get the hell out of my way so Simone can do her job and I can get on with my night.”

  The big Dom’s eyes darkened, but he didn’t say anything as Bette stepped around him to get the paperwork from Simone, who’d silently watched the entire thing. She couldn’t tell if he was pissed, intrigued, or amused.

  But he didn’t stop her.

  And as her eyes skimmed over the house rules and release forms, Bette could have sworn she could feel his eyes on her. Could have sworn she could feel his voice still echoing around inside her head. His warnings about what kind of night this would be. It was some kind of special event, but her eyes just glazed over the fine print—she couldn’t focus on anything but him. It was maddening. Especially because Mystery Dom was right: Bette had no freaking idea what she was doing.

  What the hell was she walking into?

  She turned around, intent on asking him. But he was gone.

  Bette wished she wasn’t disappointed.

  She wished even more that she didn’t want to ask him for help, for some insane reason, because that was just downright stupid.

  It didn’t matter. He didn’t matter, whoever he was. The only thing that mattered was getting dirt on Spencer Cole, serving that dirt up to Bob Faulkner, and getting the recommendation she needed to get Lizzie back from foster care.

  “Put on your big girl panties, Bette,” she whispered to herself.

  And, trying not to think about what her Mystery Dom would have to say about those panties—and whether he would let her keep them, given half a chance—Bette Liffey walked through the doors of Club Volare.

  2

  Spencer Cole kept a brooding eye on the doors to the main playroom at Club Volare, strangely unmoved by anything else he saw. There was a parade of subs on the floor tonight, but he was waiting for just one.

  He’d messed up.

  He didn’t do it often, but when he did, he made it right. Point of pride. So he would find that lying newbie sub with the fake name and the lips that made him want to discover new ways to make a woman come, and he would fix it.

  Cole looked around the main floor one more time. Thing was, he’d been right when he told the lying newbie that she was dressed like a stripper. There was plenty of submissive skin on display in the Club Volare playroom, a cavernous space in an old mansion that had something for every kinky taste imaginable, but experienced submissives didn’t show skin just to show skin. They dressed for Doms, but they dressed for themselves, too. There was style, purpose. It was subtle, but an experienced Dom could pick up on it, and Cole was that.

  Take Simone Delavigne, working the front door. In some form fitting black thing that she knew her Dom, Holt, would want to peel off of her. It was part of their game.

  The newbie sub with the lips — with the eyes, the tits, the ass, if he was honest—was different. No expression. Nothing personal. Just skin, meant to appeal to the lowest common denominator while revealing nothing of value. It took real skill to wear that little clothing and still be guarded. Just like a stripper.

  But sometimes Cole forgot that not everyone was made of hard edges. He’d gone ahead and scared a newbie sub who was already out of her depth. A sub who was lying about who she was—no way in hell her name was “Barbara Carrington” like it said on that fake ID she was carrying. A sub who tempted the hell out of him.

  So he would find her. He would figure out who she was, and why she was here. And he would fix it.

  “What the hell is wrong with you tonight?”

  Cole turned at the familiar voice to find Holt Manning smirking at him. Holt was an old friend, and it was Holt who had vouch
ed for Club Volare when Cole was looking for some place new to settle down, after everything had gone to hell back in Chicago. Holt had been working as an investigator for the DA’s office then, but he seemed happier, now, owning his own security firm.

  “Long day of chasing leads that led nowhere,” Cole said. That was true, technically. He’d wasted the whole day chasing down information about Mark Duvall, the shady moneyman who’d been behind a rival BDSM club that had caused trouble for Club Volare last year. Holt and Cole had handled that together, the FBI working with the prosecutor’s office, but in the meantime Duvall had been buying up every piece of property he could get his hands on in the adult entertainment sector. Adult toy stores, massage parlors, strip clubs—a whole string of them had switched hands in the year and change since Cole had left Chicago for NOLA and found a haven at Club Volare.

  They’d put the boot to the rival club, and taken out the blackmailing P.O.S. named Alan Crennel who had been the front man, and by all rights that should have been the end of it. Except Cole had made a career out of ferreting out the truth. If he weren’t so good at it, he would have been drilled out of the agency a long time ago. And rule number one? Follow the money. Duvall had been the money behind that operation, but he’d made sure nothing stuck to him, so he’d walked away free. And Cole had a feeling that Duvall, lording it over NOLA like some triple x King Midas, wasn’t snatching up law-abiding businesses out of the goodness of his heart. Something shady was going on.

  Plus, Cole had a special place in his heart for men who exploited women. A special place full of ass-kicking and utterly devoid of mercy. And Duvall qualified for both.

  So he’d spent his whole day going down dead-end roads, trying to find something solid on Duvall, but the man had his security locked down like he was the love child of Fort Knox and the CIA. Everybody Cole talked to had nothing to say. He couldn’t even find anything in public records, which was more than a little suspicious. Even bluffing that it was an official FBI investigation got him nowhere. And he was getting tired of it. Especially since it meant Duvall was burrowed in at all levels of government, and probably this close to hitting back at Cole. Hard.

  It was annoying.

  And that was why he’d been so hard with “Barbara Carrington.” After chasing a monster all day, he’d forgotten to put the kid gloves back on.

  No, that wasn’t the only reason. It was because he’d seen she was lying about who she was, and that…

  Silently, Cole cursed. It had reminded him of his ex-wife, and he’d reacted. But that was Cole’s cross to bear, not this little lying sub’s. People lied about who they were all the time, and most of them weren’t malicious, like his ex-wife. Most of them were just scared. Like the little sub who was taking her time filling out the requisite paperwork.

  Damn, he couldn’t get those lips out of his mind.

  “You know that case is technically closed, right?” Holt was saying. “You maybe need something else to occupy you? Plenty of subs here tonight.”

  Cole glared. Holt knew that Cole had rules about how he engaged with subs ever since his divorce. Point of fact, he didn’t do relationships anymore. Tonight should have been the perfect opportunity—everyone was here for the same reason. Special event.

  Too bad none of these subs interested him. There was a pretty red head eyeing him from across the room, a curvy blonde over by the bar—he didn’t care. He checked the door again, still waiting for “Barbara.” Because whatever else she was, she was a sexual submissive. You couldn’t fake a response like that. Flushed skin, dilated pupils, shallow breath. He’d felt it. And now she was a sub in need of reassurance, and a Dom didn’t walk away from that.

  It had nothing to do with the fact that he wanted her.

  But damn, did he want her.

  “Stop thinking about the case,” Holt interrupted, “and start thinking about finding a sub.”

  Cole smiled. If his friend only knew.

  “I’ll handle my own subs, Manning.”

  “Just see that you do,” Holt said, finishing the rest of his beer. “Simone likes you for some mysterious reason.”

  “Thanks, buddy.”

  “She sees the good in everyone,” Holt said, grinning. “And now she’s after me to see you happy and settled down. So don’t let your ex mess you up for too long, or I’m going to have an unhappy sub of my own.”

  Cole grunted. He loved this club, but man did people get in each other’s business. Looking out for each other and all that was fine, but Cole liked being a lone wolf. It was a big improvement over being married to the wrong person. And he was about to remind Holt of that fact when the big red door opened.

  And she walked in.

  Cole’s wasn’t the only head that turned. Every male head in the place swiveled as if by instinct, and some of the female heads too. At the sight of those heavy brown eyes, those long, strong legs wrapped up in fishnets, those beautiful breasts stuffed into a top with so much material cut out of it that it was defying the laws of physics just to keep her in, every single Dominant in the place was suddenly on alert. The pheromones in the room surged and Doms began to twitch, like lions around the watering hole on a National Geographic special.

  His lip curled, a possessive snarl caught in his throat. He didn’t like it. But still he held back. You always learned more by watching, and Cole had the iron control of a Dom.

  So he watched.

  And he saw.

  The sub who called herself Barbara Carrington—for now, at least—was hiding more than just her name. There was something in the way she held herself, the way she pushed the hair back from her eyes: put herself forward, and held herself back, at the same time. The usual reasons to lie about your experience in a BDSM club were embarrassment or dumb pride, but Cole didn’t see that. He saw…

  Watch it. Don’t get sucked in. You don’t need another lying sub in your life.

  He straightened up, let his gaze fall on her evenly. And just as quickly he exhaled in frustration. She was curious, and turned on, and scared — and determined.

  He watched her take a deep breath, across the room, just inside the door, and for a second her fear and her need flashed across her face. She let her vulnerability show. And then she decided to be brave, and put on her game face.

  That was what did it. She might be a lying sub, but she faced her fear with courage. And that was his kryptonite.

  He fucking wanted her.

  He wanted to see her come for him. Wanted to see her obey perfectly, wanted to see her face when he told her she was a good girl as he drove his cock into her wet, hot heat. So Cole was going to find out who she was if it was the last thing he did.

  But first, he wanted to see how she would handle herself when she clearly had no clue what she was doing. He wanted to see who she was underneath all that armor.

  And he was about to get his wish.

  Because she had walked in just as Auction Night was getting started.

  3

  Coming to Club Volare had been, in the words of Julia Roberts, a big mistake. Big. Huge.

  Bette had hoped her stripper background would give her some sort of edge in a kink club, and she’d be able to find Spencer Cole without much trouble. After that? She had no idea what she was going to do, but first steps first. But as she wandered through the big, softly lit room that made up the public space of the club, taking in the elegant fixtures and quiet-ish atmosphere, she got her first real inkling of how many worlds of difference existed between Club Volare and the strip joints she’d worked.

  For one thing, there was actually sex taking place here. Or something really, really close to it. At first she tried not to look too hard as she walked past couples—and in one or two cases, trios—doing…things. In front of her two men were having a conversation over a mostly naked woman, the men dressed from head to toe in what seemed to be a version of a club uniform—black leather, black silk, black black black. One in an expensive looking leather vest, another in a bicep-
bearing tee like that unbelievable Mystery Dom back in the reception area.

  Suddenly Bette shook her head, as though she could shake free the feeling that her Mystery Dom had left her with. That weird combination of fear, need, and a desire to please him, which was just…what even was that? Whatever it was, there was no way she was going to be able to do the job she needed to do if she was distracted by that walking sex drug in muscly Dom form.

  Pay attention, Liffey. Is one of those guys Spencer Cole?

  She turned a critical eye on the trio in front of her. Then she blushed, head to toe.

  Between the two men? A woman on her hands and knees, rear end and everything bare to the room, a drink tray balanced on her back. The weirdest part of that? When Bette looked—because come on, how could she not look?—the woman was wet. Like, glistening.

  And Bette felt a throb between her legs. She sucked in a deep breath and hurried past, not slowing again until she reached a normalish section that seemed more like a polite social area. Here there were women—some men, too—with their heads bowed, hands clasped in front while they stood patiently beside their companions, the Doms and Dommes, those people with such an air of ownership and authority about them that they couldn’t be mistaken for anything else, even by a total newbie like Bette.

  Hot, overwhelmed, she turned away again. And spotted a couple in a swanky leather club chair, a man and a woman. The woman was curled up on the man’s lap, her head tucked beneath his chin, completely lax and secure in his tender embrace.

  Was that aftercare?

  Bette snorted softly. Listen to her, thinking in BDSM terms like she knew what she was talking about. Her experience with kink was limited to the novels she read late at night. And her fantasies, which were…not as limited, but still firmly in the realm of fantasy.

  People thought strippers had a lot of sex, but the truth was that most people met their significant others at work, and strip clubs didn’t usually pull in the best prospects. Certainly not the kind of men she’d trust to tie her up or spread her out on a bar and torment her with ice cubes.