by Sosie Frost
I ignored the staring creepers. “So who are you? A bouncer?”
“I work closely with the owner.” He tapped his cellphone. As if on cue, another message appeared. “We know the type of people who shouldn’t be here. We don’t need an incident.”
“I can’t handle it?”
“No.”
“You’ve known me for ten minutes. What makes you think I’m not into this stuff?”
Anthony’s stare was a harsh chastisement, as if I should be ashamed that I defended myself. “The women who belong here know better than to argue with me.”
He stood. The bartender appeared and Anthony directed him to call for the valet.
“Have a good night, Morgan.”
He left without another word.
What the hell just happened?
I warmed, either a result of my utter mortification, indignant rage, or a blood-boiling, tummy-twisting curiosity.
Being rejected was one thing, but Anthony’s appraisal was a real-life, left-swipe slap in my face. Who was he to tell me where I did and didn’t belong?
The women here knew better than to argue with him.
What did that even mean? What would he do if they did disobey him?
I exhaled a shaky breath. The possibilities wrapped me in an endless shiver that hit every delicate area from my head to my toes. With my legs crossed, a delicious pressure pulsed between my thighs. Somehow my decency eroded away in a single night.
This club and its services weren’t that underground, and I wasn’t so much of a prude. Anthony’s preferences were no mystery. He was a prime, muscled specimen of testosterone, authority, and kink.
And I had no doubt he was right about me.
I probably didn’t belong here. Still, that was my mistake to make, not his verdict to pass.
But the leather-bound creeper in the corner of the club wandered my way. He fiddled with the pair of handcuffs clipped to his belt, and I decided to wait for my car outside.
But a chirp from the bar stopped me. Anthony’s forgotten phone buzzed.
Done yet?
The text was sent by someone named Simone. Now that sounded like a woman who could call him away. Someone who probably gave him the same shivers that had slammed through me.
But the message didn’t make sense. He didn’t like women arguing with him, right? The social ramifications of such a demand would send every sociology major I knew through the roof. But, if it were true, why would he let a woman text him in such a demanding manner?
Oh, curiosity spanked the cat.
I eyed the stairs. I couldn’t leave a brand-new iPhone on the bar to get lost or stolen. Besides, I wasn’t above playing Good Samaritan to prove that some random stranger couldn’t measure my entire personality from a single girly drink, no matter how pink and frilly.
I made it within arm’s length of the stairs before the bouncer blocked my path.
He wore a sharp, expensive suit and stood tall—not nearly as big as Anthony, but intimidating enough with a bald head and goatee. An earpiece tucked within his ear. Tight security for a single staircase. My insides shriveled as he stared at me.
“Going somewhere, miss?”
Now or never. I sucked in a breath and showed him the phone. “I need to find Anthony.”
The bouncer looked me over. “Not many girls call him Anthony.”
He didn’t look like a Tony to me. Unless he had another name?
A title?
Oh God.
This was a stupid idea. I offered the phone to the bouncer, but he moved aside for me. “Go on up…this outta be good.”
“Thank you.”
“We’ll see.”
Fantastic. I eyed the stairs, hoping my stomach would join me on the way up.
The glistening LEDs silhouetted me, my own halo of perversion. I glanced over the bar. Yep. Lots of curious gazes on me. That sucked.
Once upon a time, I loved crowds, attention, and praise. Nowadays, I hid in my apartment and hoped to God no one recognized me on the street. After my disastrous breakdown, I’d created a new mantra for myself.
Life Goal Number One: Hide in plain sight.
It’d worked for the past year.
Well…I certainly wasn’t hiding now.
An empty hallway separated the noise of the bar from the mysteries upstairs. Fancy oil paintings hung on the walls. Most of the artwork were nudes. Was there ever any doubt? Who commissioned the work? I’d seen my share of the wide with shameful Google searches, but these paintings depicted either some seriously complicated Twister games or sexual positions beyond anything I’d ever attempted.
Which wasn’t much.
At all.
Ever.
I had taken six steps and already regretted my decision.
The hall ended before a dark, ornate door. I considered knocking, but a place like this probably had an entirely different definition for solicitation. My hands shook, but I clutched the phone and what remained of my dignity.
This was just some glorified sex club for men with too much money and not enough rules. What was the worst that could happen?
A lot of things, but I wasn’t about to imagine it.
“Here we go…”
I pushed open the door.
And I definitely wasn’t in Kansas anymore.
The VIP lounge wasn’t as cheap and tawdry as the public bar downstairs. Leather furniture and a grand fireplace partitioned this particular room into a comfortable sitting area. The cherry wood bar and walls framed an elegant, old-school smoking room.
Classy, masculine, and far more yacht club than I expected.
Then again, most yacht clubs didn’t employ a topless bartender.
Two women in lace bodysuits lazily stretched over the lap of an older, chubby man on the couch. In the corner, a masked man stood shackled, his ankle chained to a convenient hook in the wall. He stayed still, completely naked, though obviously excited about his predicament.
A party raged with excited shouts and cheery giggles beyond a second hallway, but that was further than I intended to venture.
I edged forward until a harsh crack echoed over the club—the distinct clap of leather connecting with flesh. A woman screamed. An audience applauded.
And I thought ordering a peachtini made my Friday night wild. Duchess gave Stanley Kubrick and Tom Cruise a run for their money.
The bartender cocked a condescending eyebrow, as if she weren’t the one standing in full view of everyone with her breasts completely exposed. But she was right. This was a little beyond my expertise. My second best idea all night was leaving the phone with her. The first was getting the hell out of here.
His voice caught me before I took a single step.
“You don’t follow orders very well.”
I froze, my breath escaping with an undignified ooh, as if someone wrung out my lungs like a wet dishcloth.
Anthony’s gaze burned directly through me, a practiced look of immediate disapproval.
I accidentally backed away, realizing all too late he’d pinned me against the wall with only a few words. I wore heels, but they did nothing. Anthony’s shadow cast over me, his body obscuring my view of the club.
Or did he hide me from them?
Oh, God, he was big. Tall. Fit. Every inch of him was sculpted with muscle—the kind of strength forged from a deliberate attempt to intimidate. But he didn’t need to raise a hand or flex a bicep. He possessed just as much strength in his penetrating stare, the roughness of his voice, the ripples of displeasure radiating from his annoyance.
I’d majorly fucked up.
And then the inappropriate images flitted into my mind. Those powerful arms pressed against either side of me. His body trapping me between his solid chest and the wall. My legs wrapped over him. Parts of me offered to him that I’d barely discovered on my own.
It was a good thought—a stirring, heavy thought—but one I didn’t need to have in a modern-day sex dungeon, no matter how many fi
sh tanks or leather couches were stacked against the hall.
It was also a thought I didn’t need to have about a man who had no problem chastising a perfect stranger. But his voice issued that threat with such precision it nearly drove a whimper from my lips.
The wall offered me no protection. Anthony stepped closer. Within arm’s reach. Towering over me. My mouth dried. Other parts of me did not.
What was wrong with me?
Another cry echoed from the party. More applause. He ignored it. I couldn’t.
“Well, well, well, who is your little friend?”
The feminine voice snaked behind Anthony. For a second, I breathed easy, grateful for the reprieve.
Then she emerged.
An absolute goddess tucked her arm around Anthony’s elbow only to offer me the same stern, unrelenting stare.
Christ, she was as beautiful as him.
The woman rocked skin-tight black pants and a crimson corset—an ensemble matching Anthony’s chosen colors. But she didn’t look like the other girls wandering the floor. Her four inch stilettos were more for presentation than practicality, and she must have sewed her pants over her hips. The corset framed her perfectly flat stomach and barely contained her chest.
Not a single lock of auburn hair dared to slip out of her meticulously tended French braid. Though she coiled over Anthony, pouting trouble-maker red lips, there was no way in hell anyone was leading this woman around on a leash.
Who was she?
Anthony introduced us with a darkness to his voice. “This is Morgan.”
“What a pleasure, Morgan.” The woman purred over my name. She studied me as remorselessly as Anthony. Licked her plump bottom lip.
Damn my curiosity.
“Welcome to Duchess.” She spoke pure seduction. “I’m Simone Lesley. This is my club.”
Simone.
Of course.
She was everything I’d imagined in a fetish club owner, and she fit perfectly against Anthony. I swallowed as best I could, but a response wasn’t coming. I was a violinist, not a singer. I had nothing in my vocal range that could match the sultry passion of her voice.
I held out the phone and prayed I wouldn’t spontaneously combust under the combined burden of their attention.
“You left this downstairs,” I whispered. “I…I thought you’d want it.”
He didn’t hear me. I might as well have mewed like a kitten and started to cry. Simone lowered her head onto his shoulder.
“Look, Anthony. She returned your phone.” She tapped her heel against the wooden floors. I got the point. She’d squish me in a heartbeat. “How sweet.”
Anthony deliberately waited to take his phone, forcing me to hold my arm out for longer than was necessary or polite. Was it a test? No. A judgement. He wanted to see if I would crack under the pressure.
Another slap echoed off the wall, and a girl moaned for mercy. The crowd murmured their appreciation.
Yes. Yes, I would crack. Into a billion bewilderingly aroused pieces.
Anthony exhaled, but his aggravation melted away. He took the phone, his fingers dragging over my palm.
“You didn’t need to bring this up to me,” he said.
Despite my best intentions, and everything I was taught about holding a proper conversation, I had to look away.
He liked that.
I swallowed. “I didn’t want it to get lost.”
Simone wiggled against him. “She’s so thoughtful, Anthony.”
“Apparently.”
“And brave, coming up here all alone.” Simone’s words sounded too sweet. She charmed and insulted in the same breath. Better than the alternative. She owned Duchess, and I had a feeling more than a few people were thrown out for crashing the upstairs party.
Maybe she’d just let me leave. Was it a crime to trespass up here?
I couldn’t imagine the news headline: College Dropout Jailed Overnight in Sex Club Scandal. Then the quote from my mother: ‘I don’t know where we went wrong, but I blame her father for encouraging her to go into the arts.’
“Okay.” I had nothing to do with my hands and nowhere safe to look. “I wanted to make sure you got your phone.”
“Leaving so soon?” Simone pouted. “But we’re just starting to have fun.”
I had no doubt our definition of fun varied significantly.
I made the mistake of looking into her eyes. Whoops. I bet many innocent girls got into trouble for so brazenly meeting her gaze.
Anthony was a safer target, but even he looked at me as if he had the power to see through my clothes. I gripped my dress, just to make sure I still wore it.
If I still wanted to wear it.
“Let me thank you properly for returning my phone,” Anthony said.
My stomach peeled out and raced down the stairs. Coward. A dozen scenarios played through my mind, and not one of them was suitable outside this crazy club.
Simone’s blood-red fingernails traced over Anthony’s shoulder. “A reward? Excellent. No good deed goes unpunished.”
And the panic was back. I stepped backwards, colliding again with the wall.
Oh no…did they hear the thunk?
I couldn’t take much more evaluation. Everything inside me fluttered. I didn’t like it.
But I wasn’t sure I disliked the attention.
“Let me take you out for coffee,” Anthony offered.
Coffee? Was he serious?
This was not a coffee man. And this club was not a coffee place.
The lingerie clad women slid off the couch and settled between the man’s legs. Parts of him exposed to the world for only a brief moment before one of his associates swallowed his pride. The masked man tethered to the wall groaned. His chain rattled. The bartender gave him a slap on the way to deliver a drink.
How could he talk about a coffee date when a woman in the next room squealed while someone beat the hell out of her? Sure, she loved it, but the rest of the looney bin watched like it was County Club Bridge Night.
“Coffee?” The word didn’t even sound right on my lips.
“You know. To drink.”
Simone bit her lip, her teeth a stark white against her spanking-red lipstick. “Oh, go on. He doesn’t bite on the first date.”
One step too far. The disapproving glance once aimed for me ricocheted to her.
Simone went silent. Interesting.
I took a breath. “So…where?”
Where?
That was the question I picked?
Not what the hell is this place or do you prefer Master or My Liege or are you and Simone some sort of weird fetish couple tag-team?
“There’s a cafe not far from here.” Anthony ignored the pleasurable screams echoing from beyond our hall. “On the corner of Fifth and Washington. Do you know it?”
I sighed. Yeah, I knew it. I’d almost worked there. I’d managed to get a job at the one on Eleventh instead, six blocks closer to my apartment.
“Tomorrow,” he said. “I’ll be there at seven.”
He was firm, but it wasn’t a question. It also wasn’t a demand.
I bit my lip and offered him a nervous smile. Simone’s hand tickled along his bicep. A pang of jealousy ripped through me.
“Okay,” I said.
I didn’t confirm his invitation, but it was a sufficiently diplomatic response. It worked. They both stood expectantly, and I had the distinct impression our conversation was over.
Dismissed then ignored.
Not exactly polite, but, then again, society checked its morals with its coat when it entered a place like this. I turned, though Anthony called to me before I could escape.
“And Morgan?” His smile bound me in place. “I despise tardiness. You will be on time.”
“What if I’m not?” Curious, not defiant. It made no difference to him.
“I think you’re a good girl, Morgan. You’ll be there…and you’ll be on your best behavior.”
2
L
ife Goal Number Two: Don’t mistake the mace for perfume.
While planning to meet a handsome, potentially demented stranger for coffee, I decided to play it safe and pack my purse appropriately. The pepper spray helped, though my true security came through Rose. She knew where I was going—and, by extension, an entire motorcycle club was appraised of my date night.
My dress was appropriate. The location well-lit and public. And my nerves only moderately rustled.
Still, Rose warned I’d either get killed or skinned or sold on the black market. And I did agree with her. Saturday nights were made for normal activities. Dance clubs, for instance. Movie nights, a much safer alternative. Even staying in to knit sweaters for cats was saner than a woman wearing a dog’s collar.
I fully expected this coffee date to end on the eleven o’clock news, then the gory details appearing two weeks later on Law and Order – SVU.
And yet…I didn’t expect Anthony to be dangerous.
Still, I felt a little guilty for shaving.
And a lot guiltier for shaving well above where my skirt would rest.
Sure, I used my razor to shiv away my shame, but I defied fate for a shared latte to end in a night of lusty, animalistic passion. Coffee wasn’t that much of a sensual delight anymore, not after working with it for six bitter, milk foamy months.
But Anthony?
A man like that could make anything sexual. His voice, his body, even his gaze—both the amused glance and the chastising glare—had kept me awake all night. His warning never left my mind.
The women here know better than to argue with me.
That memory needed to stop giving me such a thrill. Every one of my shivers probably set women back sixty years. I’d manage the shame for maintaining a trim bikini area, but I couldn’t handle the guilt of accidentally repealing women’s suffrage with a flick of a razor and a mocha Frappuccino.
I checked the time. A little after six. I’d laid out my clothes, finished my hair and makeup, and even had time to sort through the mounting pile of mail on the table.
I didn’t get very far, but I never did. The mail was self-induced stress—and my stomach practically percolated itself trying to count the few coffee beans left in my bank account. I opened the electric bill only halfway before the stress wore me down.
