Private Dancer (Club Volare Book 12)

by Chloe Cox

  While the first lot of subs up for auction assembled in a line, hands behind their backs, chests pushed out and heads bowed, she cast a bewildered, uncertain look right at him.

  Right at him.

  Damn it. And damn her for this game she was playing. He actually started for the stage, meaning to haul her off of it, but then a petite brunette broke position in order to touch his girl’s hand.

  Cole’s gaze narrowed as his eyes landed on her wrist. His little liar was really going for it. She wore every color of bracelet the club provided.

  Which meant his lying sub had declared no limits. She was fair game, available for any kink the club allowed within its walls to whoever bought her in the auction. Volare’s Doms weren’t assholes but they were serious about what they wanted. And his gut told him that she had more stubbornness than self-preservation in her veins.

  So he wanted to go haul her off the stage. But one, if he did that, he wouldn’t stop there. And two, she wouldn’t learn a damn thing. Besides, no one would be that committed to a stupid lie. Eventually her self-preservation would beat her pride, and she’d get down off that stage on her own. And then Cole would have a few questions for her.

  Bidding on the first sub concluded at a respectable sum. He assumed, anyway. The woman wore a shyly proud smile as she walked off stage into the care of a Dom Cole knew by sight if not by name.

  “Next up, we have Barbara Carrington. She’s new to the club tonight, Dominants. Hold up your wrist, sub. Let our bidders know what their money is buying tonight.”

  The command sent a noticeable shudder through Cole’s girl.

  Good. Let those instincts take over and get your ass out of here.

  But if she had the instinct to flee, she locked it up tight. Instead of running, she lifted her shaking hand to show off that Christmas wish list of kink permissions, and damn near every unattached Dom in the place stood up.

  Gavin, the club’s owner and the man running the auction, gave her a long, shrewd look, but she was oblivious. Her wide eyes were fixed on the audience. Bitable lips parted, pupils dilated, breasts overflowing. Fear and desire were close cousins. Close enough that the other Doms couldn’t tell the difference at that distance. Maybe she couldn’t either. Maybe it was both.

  Cole exhaled. It was definitely both. She might not be who she said she was, but whoever she was, she was a sub.

  Gavin had barely finished stating the opening bid before the first Dom raised his paddle.

  After that, the bids came like machine gun bullets. She rocked on her heels with each rapid-fire blow.

  Cole’s girl went stark white as the bids reached stupid levels. It happened quick. She swallowed hard enough that her throat bobbed, and Cole followed her gaze to a man who’d pushed his way to the front, not looking left or right as he lifted his paddle again and again.

  “Mason.” Gavin’s voice rang out. He raised his hand and a hush fell over the crowd. “That is a significant amount of money.”

  “You’re insulting me,” Mason said, looking away long enough to address Gavin.

  While Mason and Gavin engaged in a kind of thousand-yard stare right out of the Old West, Cole studied his girl. She looked like she was going to be sick right there on stage. He’d wanted her to own up to it. To call it off. Give her the chance to get out of there on her own steam.

  But then her gaze darted away from Mason and locked, fucking locked, on Cole. Naked and raw and needful. A siren’s call that begged for something more than his help, something she probably didn’t even know how to define.

  Cole closed his eyes, exhaled roughly, and then vaulted onto the stage, bypassing the stairs. “Bidding’s over. Close it, Gavin.”

  On the floor, Mason launched into some indignant, angry speech that Cole didn’t even try to hear.

  Gavin looked back and forth between Cole, Mason and the girl. “You know the rules of Auction Night, Cole.”

  “Gavin.” Cole’s voice was calm, clear. Certain. “I’m calling in my debt.”

  When Cole had helped put away Alan Crennel, the man who’d attacked the club and Simone Delavigne the previous year, he’d done it while going all out to protect Simone. He hadn’t let the retrograde cops who didn’t understand revenge porn or blackmail or sexual assault get near her. He’d made sure she was treated like every woman in her situation ought to be treated, with respect and compassion, and he’d kept the details out of the papers. He would have done it in any case, because it was the right thing to do. But after that, Gavin had made it known that Simone wanted Cole to be rewarded. Of course, Cole wouldn’t let anyone give him anything just for doing his job the way it should be done.

  Until now.

  “Pick someone else, Mason.” Gavin leveled Cole an assessing look. “This wipes the slate, Cole. You sure you want to do this?”

  For what felt like a long time, Cole locked eyes with his little lying sub.

  “Mine,” he growled. “She. Is. Mine.”

  6

  Talk about going from the frying pan into the actual fire.

  Bette wasn’t used to being nervous on stage, but the stage at Club Volare was apparently an exception because she had definitely started to sweat. Ok, fine--she had been approaching outright panic as, uh, events unfolded, and it had become painfully clear that not only had she unknowingly put herself up for auction at a BDSM club, but that the loathsome creep Mason was intent on buying her. Bette hadn’t known how to call it off without giving herself away, and the stakes were just too high to risk completely blowing her cover on day one. So she’d basically just stood there, quietly freaking out as everything got worse and worse.

  And then Cole had arrived.

  Bette didn’t know how it was possible, but he vaulted onto the stage with his eyes locked on her and it was like the rest of the world – the host, Mason, the entire crowd – just faded away. She couldn’t look at anything but him. And under the stage lights he was somehow even sexier. The rough shadows of his rugged features more prominent, the glint of his eyes even more dangerous. And, as he stalked towards her, the raw power of his body was impossible to ignore.

  Bette wanted to blame him for this, but she knew it was her own fault. She’d been so annoyed that he’d seen through her undercover act in her first two seconds in the club that she had, let’s say, overcompensated. By putting herself up for auction. To the highest bidder. And when the guy who was hosting this shindig held her wrist up, the crowd had gotten noticeably more interested--and Bette had started to maybe figure out what the wristbands were for.

  So Spencer Cole – just Cole, she corrected herself – had been right. Bette had no idea what she was getting into.

  And now, as loathsome Mason fumed, Cole was looking right at her.

  “She’s mine,” he said again, in case the people in the cheap seats hadn’t heard him the first time.

  Or in case Bette hadn’t melted entirely.

  She had, though. Her thong was already soaked, and, to her mortification, her nipples began to harden again, right then and there as Cole watched.

  He inhaled, slowly, and then pinned her with those eyes one more time.

  “Follow me, sub,” he said. “Now.”

  He didn’t touch her. Just turned around with the full expectation that she would hurry after him. And she freaking did, half filled with relief that he’d gotten her out of that X-rated I Love Lucy-worthy mess, and half filled with…she didn’t know what. She just knew that she wanted to do what he told her to do.

  And that knowledge alone sent a weird electric chill through her body.

  Halfway down the stairs at the side of the stage, she stumbled. Cole let out this rumble of concern or impatience, she couldn’t tell which. Without missing a beat, Cole turned, grabbed her hand, and flipped her ass-up over his shoulder. With his big hand spanning her thigh, and his fingers right up against her soaked core.

  Oh, Jesus.

  Her breasts crushed against his strong back, her ass up in the air, her head
completely disoriented. He was so freaking strong. She clutched his belt and squeezed her legs together, more reflex than anything.

  It wasn’t enough.

  But it got a grunt and a curse out of him. Plus a warning squeeze that she just knew would have been a smack if he weren’t stalking through the club like some lion on a hunt. She closed her eyes, and tried to relax.

  They didn’t go far before he stopped and dumped her on a low-backed club chair. Cold leather connected with her supernova skin and she let out a gasp that turned into a squeak when Cole gripped the arms of the chair and bent over her.

  Ruggedly handsome face right up in her business, breath deep and harsh as hers was shallow and faint. He kicked her feet apart and moved right between her spread knees. The fabric of his cargoes was rough and delicious rubbing there against her inner thighs.

  She was half reclined in the chair, ass nearly hanging off the edge, but she didn’t dare move. Not because she was afraid, necessarily. But because she didn’t want to. Which was so, so much worse.

  “Thank me,” Cole growled.

  Bette blinked. Most of her awareness was focused on how Cole felt between her legs, but eventually her brain started to work again.

  “Thank you?” she whispered. God, her voice sounded weak. She licked her lips, tried to muster something a little stronger. “I think. I mean. Why did you do it?”

  Something flashed in his eyes.

  “I don’t like men who take advantage of women,” he said shortly.

  Bette found herself staring at him, her eyes held by his. She knew, deep down in her core, her bones, in a way that it shouldn’t be possible to know anything, that Spencer Cole was telling the truth.

  “Well, thanks,” Bette muttered. “I guess. For saving me from—”

  “No,” Cole said. “You could have saved yourself. All you had to do was walk your pretty little tail off stage and out the door, like I told you to do. I didn’t save you, my little liar. I bought you. Thank me for that.”

  Her breath whooshed out.

  “That’s right,” he rumbled. “You get it now, don’t you?”

  She licked her lips again. The pink gloss must have been long gone. “Pretend I don’t totally get it yet,” she said.

  A mischievous smile flashed across his face, and then was gone. If Bette hadn’t known better, she’d almost think she’d made him laugh.

  “It’s exactly what it sounds like, sweetheart. I bought you. You’re mine for the rest of the night.” Bracing his weight on one arm, he bracketed her wrist with his big hand and lifted her shaking fingers between them. His touch felt so good she had to stop herself from reaching for him, but it was the wristbands he was looking at. “And I can do whatever I want with you, apparently.”

  Heat rushed her, a combination of oh God and thank you Jesus that left her wide-eyed and frozen in place.

  He narrowed his eyes, squeezed her wrist. Not painfully, but still. Like he owned her. Which…he kind of did.

  “You have no idea what these wristbands mean.”

  “Not…all of them,” she said.

  “Yeah? Which ones do you know?”

  He’d stopped squeezing her wrist at some point. Now he was stroking it, and that was even worse. She dragged her eyes from his in order to stare blankly at the bands. There was nothing she could say so she just kept her mouth shut.

  “Lie number three.” His voice was so low. Velvet rough. It was so, so much worse than if he’d yelled at her. “You just keep digging yourself deeper, sweetheart.”

  God, what did that mean? Some part of her wanted to find out, desperately, almost wanted to push him until he had to show her. But Bette was already so far out of her depth she didn’t even know if there was a bottom anymore.

  “Okay, fine.” She let a big breath out. “Yes, I lied about my BDSM club experience.”

  “Why?” he barked.

  “Because I didn’t want to be seen as vulnerable in a place like this,” she snapped back.

  She said it, and then she got very quiet. Very aware of every passing second. Because for some freaking reason, Bette Liffey had just told Spencer Cole the hard, raw truth.

  Cole just watched her. He studied her so long she started to squirm and then. Then he said, “A place like this is the only place for people like us to be vulnerable.”

  Well. That hit her like a ton of bricks.

  She was still staring with her open-mouthed, muddled thoughts when he rose in one smooth motion of powerfully flexing legs. It was only then that she realized he’d taken her to a little out of the way corner of the main room—it was a semi-private little alcove, outfitted with not much more than the chair she was sitting in, a small table, and some very obvious hooks on the walls. It was visible from the floor where people were still buying subs off the stage, but it was definitely still private enough. Especially considering what people were getting up to right out in the open earlier.

  Cole leaned against the wall, blocking her view of the stage behind him, feet braced wide, biceps bulging as he folded his arms across his broad chest. His shoulders nearly spanned the width of the little alcove.

  “Take them off,” he said.

  Bette blanked. Oh God. The wristbands. He meant the wristbands. Swallowing, her fingers shaking, she pulled them off one by one. She looked up when she was done, like she wanted his approval. He nodded, and dammit, it felt good.

  “What now?” she said.

  Cole didn’t say anything. Just let his heavy eyes fall on her, and waited. Bette’s brain scrambled, until she finally realized she’d been giving away her inexperience all along.

  “I mean, what now, sir,” she said.

  “Good question, sub,” Cole said. “We have rules about lying. We don’t like it. Puts people at risk. So, you break a rule, there’s consequences. You will face those consequences now. That is, if you ever want to come back to Club Volare again.”

  Bette’s fingers dug into the armrests of the chair he’d put her in. Her pulse pounded in her head and between her legs, making damn near impossible to think. She was so turned on, so curious, and this was the closest she’d ever been to the world she’d fantasized about. And yet she was scared as hell. She couldn’t quite let go.

  In a heartbeat, Cole closed the distance between them. Watching her. Studying her. Like he knew.

  He reached down, put his hand on the side of her face. His hand was hot, electric. It warmed her all the way through.

  Cole gripped her chin and pulled her gaze up to his. “I didn’t bring you up here to educate you, but I’m going to give you this because I’m a Dom, not an asshole. Not some pretender who likes to play games.”

  She couldn’t resist. “Yes, Sir.”

  A small smile quirked at the corner of Cole’s mouth, but it was gone just as quickly as it had come.

  “Lesson one,” he said. “The submissive can always call it off. You know the club safewords from the paperwork you just signed. Green, yellow, red. You say red and I stop. Immediately. No questions asked. But that means you—whoever the hell you are—you have to own what you want. Who you are. Why you’re here. Understood?”

  A prickling shiver ran down Bette’s spine as his eyes bore into hers, and his words burrowed into her brain. Own who you are. What you want.

  “Understood,” she whispered.

  “Tell me your safewords.”

  “Red to stop, yellow to slow down,” she said, automatically. “Green to keep going.”

  Jesus. He knew she needed to hear that. He knew…

  She sat there in silence for what felt like forever, just losing herself in his eyes, gray then blue then gray again, letting the sensations wash over her. Her entire body was somehow coming alive under his gaze. Parts of her she’d long since forgotten about, parts of her she’d tried to ignore. Maybe up until that moment Bette could have told herself what she was feeling was just adrenaline from being undercover, or the thrill of being in a BDSM club for the first time. But it was hi
m. It was Cole.

  She’d never felt chemistry like this in her entire life. Like it was a physical thing, thick in the air between him. And the way he looked at her…

  She was sure he felt it too.

  Maybe that was why, when his thumb grazed her bottom lip, she did what she did. She took it in her mouth, and sucked.

  Head cocked, he let her do it. Watched her while she watched him. And she discovered something interesting about big, sometimes mean, definitely confusing Spencer Cole. When he found something interesting, like her tongue stroking up and down his thumb in imitation of another act, a red stain spread across his harsh cheekbones.

  When he’d said this was the only place for people like the two of them to be vulnerable, Bette’s brain had broken a little bit. The idea of Cole as vulnerable just did not compute.

  But he was human. Flesh and blood. What would that be like, to see Cole…

  “Sub,” he growled. “No more stalling. Stand up, bend over, and spread.”

  7

  Cole was losing his patience.

  Not because of his little liar. She was still sitting in the chair he’d put her in, eyes wide and watching him, shocked by the order he’d just given her. But he wouldn’t expect anything else from a newbie.

  No. He was losing patience with himself. With his cock. With whatever part of him wanted to take this woman in hand and make her forget about whatever the hell it was that was worrying her. Which was stupid. Cole had loved liars before. It wasn’t something that he intended to do again.

  “I told you to stand up, sub,” he said. But he didn’t wait. He reached down, grabbed her hand, and pulled her out of the chair. She landed against his chest with a softness that made his cock jump. She smelled like summer. He looked down at her breasts crushed against his ribcage, her lips begging to be kissed, and he was tempted. Lord he was tempted.

  Instead he spun her around, his hands on her shoulders. She stood with her back to him now, facing the chair she would get to know intimately before he was done with her.