Private Dancer (Club Volare Book 12)

by Chloe Cox

  “Take off the stripper heels,” he said.

  She tensed in his arms. Cole wasn’t going to explain his orders forever, but she needed help. He’d make sure she earned it later.

  “They make you feel powerful,” he said. “That’s why you wear them. And that’s why you go barefoot with me. Off. Now.”

  This time she didn’t hesitate. She bent down, her ass pressing into his cock, his hand automatically going to her hip. He felt her pause, felt her sharp intake of breath. Then a moment later the heels were unstrapped, cast aside, and she was four inches shorter.

  “Better,” he said, and he took a long deep breath. What was it about this sub?

  He was a Dom. He would find out.

  She was still standing in front of him, leaning into him. He let his hands move from her hips around to the soft roundness of her belly and back, finding the hem of her barely-there top, the waist of her skirt. He slipped his fingers under the waistband and felt the flutter of her belly. Christ, the way she responded to him. He had to stop himself from biting her neck, bending her over, taking her right then.

  Instead he hooked his thumbs around the waist of her thong and pulled, savoring the groan she gave him. He chuckled as she shuddered, and then without waiting for her to recover, he pushed his hand down the front of her skirt and between her legs.

  Fuck, she was wet.

  He growled, involuntarily, squeezing her against him. Something about this woman brought out the animal in him. Time to rein it in. Take control.

  “Name,” he said.

  She breathed hard against him, her hips moving slightly without her awareness. There was no way she’d heard him. She ground her mons into his hand ever so softly, as if he wouldn’t notice. He smiled to himself. She was going to be fun.

  He lowered his head, and whispered in her ear.

  “Give. Me. Your. Name.”

  And she froze. Cole frowned. He moved his hand to her belly, took his other hand, threaded it through her hair, and turned her head up to him.

  Her eyes were frightened.

  “You remember your safewords?” he said.

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Are you using them?” he said.

  She blinked. Almost like she had a tear in her eye.

  “I don’t want to,” she said.

  “What’s your name, sub?” he said, one last time, knowing what the answer would be.

  “I can’t tell you,” she said. “Please don’t make me. Please, just…please.”

  Cole was a Dom. He didn’t run from anything, let alone emotion. But the fear he saw in his little liar’s eyes…

  It made him want to find whoever was responsible for it and make sure they couldn’t make anyone else afraid, ever again.

  There was something really wrong with his sub. The fear in her big brown eyes was something he recognized. Something real, something raw. In a weird way, Cole knew what it was like for her, in that moment. Knew what it was to have to keep a part of yourself guarded. And suddenly he fucking knew what to do. It wasn’t just instinct. It was this. Whatever this connection was between them.

  Between him and his little liar.

  “Truth can’t be a hard limit forever, sub,” he said. “But I’ll give it to you for now.”

  She looked up at him with something different now. It wasn’t fear, it wasn’t even gratitude. It was recognition.

  Jesus Christ. Who was this woman?

  She’s a sub.

  Cole nodded. If she couldn’t say her name, she could say what she was. And she would say it to him.

  “Over there,” he said, pointing at the armchair. “Pull your skirt up, underwear down. Bend over with your hands on the armrests. And spread.”

  Bette was going to get whiplash. She’d only just met Spencer Cole that freaking day, and already he was the best she’d never quite had. And now he was telling her to bend over and spread?

  Not two seconds ago she’d been in a panic because she thought he was going to make her tell him her real name. Not that it mattered, not really. It probably wouldn’t make a difference. But as soon as this had gotten real, she’d been grateful for that fake ID. Because the idea of this man finding out her real name, her real life, her real job, her real, incredibly stupid blackmail situation – she couldn’t take it.

  But that wasn’t what made her weak in the knees. It was that he saw what she needed. And he gave it to her.

  Bette almost didn’t know how to react to that. In a split second, it made her realize that no man she’d ever been with had really seen her like that and then just…given her what she needed. It was always about managing them, keeping them at a distance, making sure everything stayed on an even keel.

  This was something else.

  “Sub,” he said, gravely. “If I have to give you another order a second time, your ass is going to feel it.”

  Bette snapped to attention, remembering. Right. The chair. The…

  She had already walked over there before she remembered the rest of his order. ‘Your ass is going to feel it.’ Did he mean that literally?

  “Sub.”

  Right. Ok. This was it. She had her safewords. She could always use them. She could do this.

  She took a deep breath, and started to pull her skirt up, over her ass. With each inch of exposure, the pressure built between her legs. God. What he’d done to her already. Bette didn’t know if she was losing her mind or her senses, but she was going to keep going. She finished pulling up her skirt, pulled down her thong. Her body folded, hinging at the hips, and her heavy breasts swung free as she lowered her shoulders toward the floor, until she was low enough to get her forearms flat on the low, cool seat of the chair. Down, down, until her hair obscured her face and cool air chilled her slick, wet folds.

  Until she was naked and exposed to the man she’d promised to take down.

  The low rumble of approval in his throat reverberated through her, like the sounds he made were connected directly to her clit. She heard him move toward her, and her fingers dug into the leather armrests in anticipation.

  This was really happening.

  When he smoothed his hand over the bare globe of her ass, it was unexpectedly gentle. He tugged at her thong, letting it fall to the floor at her feet.

  She stared at it, dazed and panting and just. Christ. What next?

  Would he try to fuck her?

  Would she let him?

  Good Lord she’d just met the—

  “No, sub,” he said, still smoothing his hand across her bare ass in rhythmic strokes that were driving her crazy. “We’re not going to fuck. You haven’t earned that yet. This is discipline, remember?”

  It didn’t quite sink in until he slid his other hand, the one that wasn’t on her ass, up to the back of her neck and gripped her there. One hand at her neck, holding her, the other on her ass, like he owned it.

  He was going to spank her.

  Bette blinked into the empty space in front of her, her thighs shaking slightly with the realization. She’d never been spanked before. It still felt sort of unreal? Like there was a part of her that couldn’t quite believe it was actually happening. And she couldn’t tell if that part of her thought it was too good to be true or too outrageous to be true. Or maybe it was both. And that was why it made her so soakingly wet.

  The grip on her neck tightened, and she lowered her head, her legs shaking again.

  “Is this your first time?” he said. “I’ll know if you’re lying.”

  Bette closed her eyes, reflexively nodded. Made herself speak.

  “Yes,” she said, barely audible.

  His thumb rubbed against the back of her neck in a gentle acknowledgement. And then his other hand came down on the meat of her right ass cheek with a fleshy smack.

  Her eyes opened wide at the shock of it, her breasts jiggling beneath her. It was lighter than she expected, light enough that it was like a stinging tickle that went straight to her core. And right behind that was th
e thought: this is really happening. She was being spanked, for disobedience, in the corner of a party full of people while the sounds of conversation and laughter wafted over them.

  She started to flush with embarrassment when the next blow shocked her out of her head and back into her body. Harder. Heavier. More sting. Her fingers dug into the leather of the armrests as the sting bloomed into a pleasurable heat that spread over her ass, her thighs, her lower lips. Her pussy ached with it.

  She bent her head, and this time when the blow came, the sting from the last one hadn’t faded yet.

  The next one. She jolted forward, and the sound she made turned her on even more.

  Just as she tensed herself for another blow, he caressed her burning flesh with the palm of his hand, soothing it. Another caress, another, his thumb grazing so close to her entrance. Bette arched her back and groaned in protest before she even realized what she was doing: complaining that he wasn’t touching her, wasn’t inside her.

  “No, little sub,” he said, and she could hear the smile in his voice. “Not until you tell me who you are.”

  Words wouldn’t come, but Bette shook her head, ready to look back, when the hand on her neck tightened.

  “Not your name,” he said. “What you are. What you want.”

  Another smack, this time harder, sharper. The force jiggled the flesh around her pussy. She dug her fingers into the armrests and let out a groan.

  “You have to say it, sub,” he said, and his fingers teased at her entrance again.

  Another blow. Another tease.

  “Out loud,” he said.

  Another stinging blow, this time his cupped hand directly on her pussy. Bette yelped, her body jerking forward away from it and her back arching into it at the same time.

  “Oh fuck,” she said. “I’m a submissive! Ok? I’m a submissive!”

  A pause. Then another stinging slap, her pussy hot and swollen and just fuck.

  “And?”

  “And I want you, Sir!” she said.

  There was a pause. Long enough for Bette to feel the embarrassment slowly spreading throughout her awareness, adding to the pleasure and the tension and the pure, animal need, spicing it. He slid his hand down over her stinging thighs and back up again to cup her hot, aching pussy, her wetness coming away in his hand.

  “Please,” she said, her head bowing. “Green. Green.”

  For a moment nothing moved. Maybe he was thinking about it. Deciding if she deserved it. If she’d earned it.

  And then the grip on her neck tightened as he pushed his thumb inside her, hooking it down onto her g-spot as his fingers came up to press on her clit. Bette moaned loudly, arching her back like a cat in heat, her legs shaking as he worked his hand, gripping her on both ends, sliding his thumb in and out of her while his fingers rubbed the same rhythm on her clit. It was quick, and hard, and in what felt like seconds she was beginning to shake all over.

  Cole let go of her neck and turned her head around so he could see her face as she came all over his hand. Bette was helpless to do anything else. She felt herself contract around him, felt the flush creep over her skin, as he watched her face, felt herself lose all control. When the orgasm started to fade the embarrassment started to creep in again, but before it could Cole started again, the same driving rhythm, his thumb pressing down on her g-spot while his fingers worked her clit, and the building pressure pushed out everything else. She could feel embarrassed later; right now, another orgasm demanded all of her attention.

  And then he stopped.

  He just…stopped.

  No explanation. He removed his hand, and just as she turned to protest, he manhandled her up and over and in a freaking flash she was somehow sitting in his lap while he sat in the chair.

  Cole grunted, and pulled her to him, swinging her legs over so she was cradled against him, one strong arm wrapped around her holding her close. He looked down at her like that, studying her. Then with his free hand, he pulled her top down and exposed one breast, then the other.

  “Better,” he said.

  What the fuck? Bette was still dazed, confused. But the ache between her legs wasn’t. She squirmed against him, and Cole lightly, casually, slapped her exposed nipple.

  “Please,” she begged, rolling her hips again.

  “No.”

  God, why were words so hard? She looked up at him, at those hard, merciless eyes. Now gray, now blue.

  “Why not?” she asked.

  Ruthlessly, he pinched her nipple this time. Bette let out a squeak.

  “You don’t ask, sub,” he said. “But since it’s your first time, I’ll tell you. You got the first orgasm, because you needed it and it’s special circumstances. But you don’t get to finish. This is discipline, not reward. If I wanted you rewarded, you wouldn’t be able to talk at all.”

  Bette let out a long, slow exhale at that. The aftershocks and the desperate need to come again still fought in her body, and she had no doubt at all that what he said was true.

  “Oh fuck, that’s mean,” she said.

  Cole chuckled, a warm, low sound that she could feel in his chest. It felt good and sweet and like something she wanted to feel again.

  “I’m tough,” he agreed. “But fair. Until I decide it’s my turn. Then I just take what I want.”

  Bette smiled against his chest, still sort of hoping he’d touch her again, still enjoying the easy, warm bubble of intimacy that came with being half-naked and post-orgasm.

  “That is not helping,” she said. “This is kind of torture.”

  Knowing she was playing with fire, knowing this was essentially crazy, because holy hell this was the man she was supposed to get dirt on and she was totally going to second guess herself about all of this later, and yet she was still already reduced to practically begging…she ground her ass into his lap, and felt the hard, huge length of his erect cock.

  Cole growled. A warning growl.

  “This is harder on me than it is on you,” he said. “But we can fix that.”

  Bette looked up at his stern face, half-shocked, half turned on. Then she smiled and laughed, purely, brightly. God, it was like she was drunk.

  “No,” she said. “Definitely please no. I’ll be good.”

  She looked up at him again, and this time his eyes locked with hers.

  “I promise,” she said.

  “Keep your promises to your Dom, sweetheart,” he said. “Quiet now. This is where you remember how to breathe, and think about why you’re here.”

  And then something strange happened.

  The warmth she’d felt as he held her, the heat that had built in her core, between her legs, started to spread outwards. The warm tingling calmed everything it touched as it spread up and outward, settling in her chest, radiating down her limbs. It expanded with each breath she took, deepened with every exhalation. Bette hadn’t even realized how tense she was until Spencer Cole had given her this release. Half-release. Until he’d given her…all of this.

  Good Lord. She hadn’t even really known she was a for sure sexual submissive until this moment. He’d given her that, too. He’d shown her a side of herself she’d only ever guessed was there, and now it was a part of her, and nothing would ever be the same ever again.

  It might have been the best gift anyone had ever given her. And it was from Spencer Cole, the dirty Dom cop she was supposed to take down.

  Bette didn’t know what to think. She didn’t know what to feel. She just knew, as she locked eyes with him again, that she wanted to share her gratitude, even if it was all wrapped up in complications.

  But what she said was, “I hate my name. My real name.”

  Maybe she was still half-delirious from whatever he’d done to her. No, she definitely was. Cole’s eyes heated, and he moved his free hand again, this time to her chest, where he felt her heart rate while she just kept talking.

  “I don’t like my nickname, either.”

  “What’s your nickname?” he finally
said.

  Bette exhaled, laughing a little at herself, her life. “Barbie.”

  It had stuck the second she hit puberty, basically. And now it was, in a perverse way, her stage name when stripping. Blonde, big tits, big smile. She hated it so much.

  Cole ran his hand over the curve of her hip and nodded.

  “Yeah, you’re not an airhead,” he said. “Or a doll for other people’s amusement. That one is pretty brutal.”

  Bette didn’t expect the wave of sadness that washed over her at that. Something about just hearing him acknowledge that just…released it. Let it out.

  “Your real name must be a fucking doozy if Barbie is better,” he said.

  Shrugging, she burrowed deeper and rubbed her nose in the wedge of dark hair between his pecs. God, he smelled good. “I don’t like what my parents called me.”

  Barbara. Always the full, formal name, always with this tone that conveyed all the contempt and disapproval in the world. Somehow they reminded her that she’d never be what they wanted her to be, with just the pronunciation of a name.

  Bette blinked. Why the hell was she thinking about that now? What—

  “Tell me what you call yourself,” Cole said, drawing her back to the present. “Up here.” He tapped her temple lightly.

  “Bette,” she said, automatically. Softly.

  “As in Davis?”

  She blew out a breath and nodded. “How did you know?”

  “You have her eyes,” he said. And he pinned them. Right then, right there. Pinned her eyes with his, and saw, not for the first time, right freaking through her. “Bette it is, then.”

  Bette blinked.

  Hearing her name in his mouth…on his lips.

  She wanted to hear it again. She wanted to hear it growled. She wanted to hear him shout it while he was inside her.

  And all of that—everything about this—was very much not ok.

  “Oh God,” she muttered.

  “Talk to me.”

  That was what she’d done altogether too much of already. Fuck, she was an idiot. She’d been half-drugged with orgasm bliss and half on the edge of needing another one, and she’d let herself feel, for a second, close to him.