by Nikki Sloane
I’d gone three long years without romance, and as I stood on my front doormat, I was suddenly painfully and achingly aware. It made my voice falter. “And thank you for saying yes to—”
“Have dinner with me tomorrow night.”
The submissive in me responded with all she had, eager. “Yes, sir.”
A confused, slightly embarrassed smile flicked across lips as he propped the cello against the wall. “Sorry, I didn’t mean for that to sound like an order.” He raked his fingers through his dark hair, and when he finished, he leaned in, setting his palm flat against my door, right beside my head. Even though his thick arm trapped me in place, his dominating body language wasn’t threatening.
It was fucking inviting.
His tone softened until it was buttery smooth. “Can I take you out after the performance tomorrow?”
Would that be leading him on? I’d love for this thing between us to go somewhere, but what were the chances he’d allow that when he found out what I did every Friday and Saturday night?
What I wanted and what I knew I was supposed to do were in conflict, tearing me up.
“I need to tell you something,” I said, hesitating. “I’m seeing someone else, but we’re not exclusive.”
“What does that mean?” It was like someone pressed pause on him. “You date other people?”
“I can, if I want to.”
He considered it for an agonizingly long moment, before his expression firmed up. “Then, have dinner with me.”
Breath halted in my lungs. His response was unexpected and exciting. “I already said yes,” I whispered.
He licked his lips as his eyes went heavy, and he moved in for the kill.
I’d expected the soft, tame kiss of the musician, but got the power and intensity of the rugby player instead. His mouth crushed onto mine, and the force pressed me back into the door, where my bare skin kissed the cold wood. The palm from his other hand was warm on my hip, and he brushed his thumb across the line of skin above the top edge of my shorts.
The sensation sizzled. It forced me to swallow a breath.
Grant’s lips moved against mine, his tongue asking for access, and I gave it willingly to him. My heart was beating just as fast as it had been the last time he’d had his hands on me, only now it wasn’t from adrenaline.
It was from desire.
He shifted his stance, dragging his hand down the door with a quiet squeal, and put his weight into me, letting me feel the powerful length of his body against mine. I sighed into his open mouth, slipping further down into my submission. The more he took, the more I was eager to give.
His tongue caressed mine with a slow, lush slide. It was sensual and passionate, and heated the marrow of my bones. I fucking wanted him. I wanted him so badly, the ache flared from head to toe, strongest between my thighs.
We were secluded under the stairs, and the hallway was silent, so it must have made him bold. Or maybe he was like me and didn’t mind if someone came in and became an audience. As his kiss grew more consuming, his palm eased up the length of my stomach until he settled on my chest.
I had on a sports bra, flattening my breasts to my body, but still—I felt every stroke of his fingers as he kneaded and sought out the hard tip of my nipple beneath the layers of fabric. I moaned when he found it and teased with a gentle pinch.
His kiss went off center, brushing against my cheek as he whispered, “Should I send the taxi away?”
Yes.
But, wait, no.
I had an appointment with Mr. Gold tonight, and if I missed it, there would be consequences. He was the wealthiest client at the club and could always take up with a new girl, though I doubted it. He’d been my regular for more than a year and was rather attached. He’d made several offers to both Julius and me to buy my exclusivity, but I’d had to remind the billionaire not everything was for sale. Definitely not my will.
Also, variety was the spice of life, and all that shit.
The consequences I feared were the ones that came from the hard side of a paddle, the sharp bite of a cane. I’d had to cancel on him once when I’d gotten sick, and he’d made me regret it. It was the only time I’d ever reached the limit of what I could take. That night, I’d questioned if his money was worth it.
Every night I got on the table, it was my choice. The moment it stopped being enjoyable, I knew I was done. I honestly hadn’t expected to last as long as I had.
I wasn’t ready to risk everything for one night of fun with Grant, no matter how good he looked, or felt pressed against me, or how his kiss tasted. Tomorrow I’d tell him everything and see where we stood.
“I can’t,” I said softly.
“Okay.” He dropped a final kiss on my lips, lingering there. “Maybe tomorrow.”
“Maybe,” I echoed back. It all depended on how he handled the situation.
I arrived early to the club, hoping to talk to Regan, but when I entered the lounge, she wasn’t there.
Julius must have noticed I was looking for her. “Regan called in. She’s got a migraine.”
“Oh, no,” I said. She’d been doing so well and hadn’t had one in months.
“Yeah,” he said. “But I got Nina to cover for her tonight.”
I kept my face plain, disguising my jealousy. It wasn’t that I disliked Nina. She was nice, and beautiful, and everyone loved her. It was just that I was a girl, and it was simply impossible for a group of women not to have some bullshit drama. At least having Julius in charge kept the cattiness in check.
Nina and I were the unelected queens of this place, battling for the crown. We never talked about it outright, but the competition between us simmered below the surface. Who was better looking. Who brought in more money. Who had the most repeat customers. I was beating her in at least two categories—I had Mr. Gold. But she was beating me in the category of life, because Nina had a boyfriend. A legit one, who didn’t mind what she did for living. Of course, he probably didn’t take issue with it because Scott Westwood was a porn star and fucked other people for money too.
Nina had found an attractive guy, who loved and supported her, and had been blessed with an eight-inch cock. Man, sometimes life was totally unfair.
I nodded hello to Nina as I strode across the girls’ lounge and set my purse on a makeup table, digging out my phone. The rest of the women were chatting with each other, some of them already in their robes, ready to see clients.
If Regan had a migraine, it meant Silas would be around, taking care of her. I fired off a text message.
Tara: Julius said she has a migraine. How is she?
Silas: Better now. I shot her full of Imitrex two hours ago and she’s sleeping it off.
Tara: Oh, good.
As their submissive, I was supposed to communicate everything. I didn’t need their permission, but I didn’t keep secrets.
Tara: I have a date tomorrow. Just letting you guys know.
Silas: With who?
Tara: Someone I just met.
Silas: Girl or guy?
Tara: Guy.
He didn’t respond immediately, so I set the phone down and surveyed the room. I always liked this place. The lounge was elegant, reminding me of an upscale hotel lobby. The furniture was nice, and the lighting subdued. It was comfortable, but also a little sexy.
It had been designed by Joseph, the creator and original owner of the club, and when he’d sold it, Julius didn’t make many changes. Nothing was broken, so why try to fix it?
Taylor sashayed into the room on a pair of four-inch stilettos and a dress that probably restricted her breathing, but I had to give it to her. The girl was a knockout, with or without clothes.
My phone buzzed on the counter.
Silas: Are you working tonight?
Tara: Yes.
Silas: Text me when you’re done. Regan might be up and we’d like to talk.
I pressed my lips together. What did
that mean? If they told me they had a problem with me dating, then our whole arrangement was going to change. It’d probably come to an end. That was something I didn’t want. I loved what we had.
I glanced at the clock on my screen. I’d have to get going because Mr. Gold was probably already in the building, drinking scotch in his private room, and my ass didn’t want to keep him waiting.
Tara: OK, will do.
-12-
Tara
My frustration with Mr. Gold was reaching critical mass. He used to rush through negotiations, eager to get his pants around his ankles and shove his cock in my face. His wife didn’t give blow jobs, he’d told me on numerous occasions.
But tonight, it had seemed as if negotiating with the sales assistant was his favorite part. Like it was some fun game for him to haggle with Nina, and I was simply a product he could take or leave. He’d forgotten I was the one with final say on the purchase price, so when his offer came in too low, I reminded him with a firm, “No.”
He scoffed, downright offended. I couldn’t see beneath the blindfold, but I pictured his sour face and his hands on his hips, pouting like a spoiled brat, even though he was sixty. That was, assuming he was the man I believed him to be.
Henry Katzenberg. The second richest man Chicago. He’d inherited his father’s enormous wealth, terrible looks, and even worse personality. He needed constant validation on the way he fucked me, the size of his mediocre dick, and how often he got me off. It demanded all my performance skills to sell those fake orgasms.
He talked constantly during sex. I endured stories about his private jet, his dozens of vacation homes spread across the globe, and the celebrities he had dinner parties with. He cared so damn much about what other people thought of him, fuck, it had to be exhausting. And it was ironic. He cared what I thought, but that didn’t mean I mattered to him.
Sure, he wanted me to see him exclusively, but it wasn’t because he enjoyed my company. He thought I was the best-looking girl at the club, and I was owed to him. And he didn’t want to share his toy with any of the other boys.
I listened to his footsteps as he stomp-paced the room and I tried not to smile when he tossed out a new, higher offer. He was probably going to make me pay for forcing up the price, but he was an idiot. All those nights of him throwing his wealth in my face meant I knew what he could afford. Plus, I wasn’t going to put up with his shit for the same price I could get from some other guy on the waitlist, who probably was less of an asshole.
“I accept,” I said.
Nina hadn’t made it out of the room before I heard his belt buckle jingling.
As expected, Mr. Gold was pissed and took it out on me, using his favorite weapon of all—his words. Humiliating me made this small man feel big. It was the ultimate power trip, but the joke was on him. He could call me every dirty, foul thing he dreamed up, and I still wouldn’t care. He meant nothing to me, and neither did his words.
My skin was so thick, it was damn-near bulletproof.
He settled in on bitching about the condom he was forced to wear. “Why do I pay all this money and still not get to fuck you how I want, huh? It’s bullshit.”
It wasn’t bullshit. Lord only knew where else he’d stuck his dick, and I didn’t want whatever venereal disease he might have. Rather than tell him that, my tone was flat and firm. “Club rules.”
He got himself so worked up, he came a lot faster than he meant to.
As he threw out the condom and did up his pants, I lay on the table, staring into the black satin of my blindfold, ready for him to be gone. In fact, I was ready for him to be gone for good. No amount of money made my time with him acceptable anymore.
“We’re done here,” I said.
He sounded annoyed. “I’ll leave when I’m ready.”
“Don’t schedule any more appointments with me.”
All noise stopped. “What?”
I choked the lie out in a syrupy-sweet voice. “I’ve enjoyed our time together, but I think it’d be better if you found someone new.”
“I don’t want someone new.” His footsteps brought him closer, and I instinctively moved away from the sound, as much as my restrained hands would let me. Gone was his smug, arrogant tone, replaced by an apologetic one. “I was a little mean tonight, and perhaps I went too far, but you know I didn’t mean it. I’m not even thinking when half the stuff comes out of my mouth.”
He was a goddamn liar, but he was too big of a client to say anything. Besides, maybe one of the other girls would want his money. I didn’t believe for one second he hadn’t meant what he’d said. The way a man talked to you on the table, when he knew there’d be no consequences, when he thought he owned you . . . it was his truest, most unfiltered self.
“I understand,” I said. “But, I’m sorry, I’m not interested in doing this again.” I left off closing it with ‘sir’ because that was a level of respect he couldn’t earn, no matter how much money he had.
“I can tone it down.” There was an edge of desperation.
“Thank you for the evening.” I opened and closed my hands rapidly, sending out the club distress signal. Upstairs in his office, Julius and the sales assistants monitored each room on closed-circuit cameras, and now that I’d sounded the alarm, it would only take ten seconds before someone came to my rescue. “Goodbye, Mr. Gold.”
I stood under the awning outside Regan’s apartment door, staring at the panel of buttons on the side of the building, and tried not to feel nervous. After Mr. Gold had been escorted to the payment room, I cleaned up, got dressed, and discovered a text message on my phone.
Silas: She’s awake. Come over when you’re done.
The feeling of dread chased me the whole ride over to her place and worsened as I hesitated by the building intercom. If they were going to forbid me from dating, our arrangement would be over.
I stabbed the button with a finger, and a few seconds later, the main door buzzed.
Silas was waiting for me in the open doorway to her apartment, but I couldn’t read his expression. His icy blue eyes were a puzzle I couldn’t solve. He stepped back, allowing me to come inside, and shut the door behind me.
The lights were off in the room, and a few candles cast their flickering glow up onto the walls. If I hadn’t known better, I would have thought this was romantic, but it was likely for Regan’s benefit. The scentless candles provided just enough light for Silas without aggravating her migraine.
She sat on the couch, wearing a sweatshirt, flannel pants, and her hair twisted back into a ponytail, in stark contrast to my silk shirt and sequined skirt. There were dark circles under her eyes and her makeup-free skin was pale, but she still looked beautiful.
I kept my voice soft. “How are you feeling?”
“Better,” she said.
My gaze flicked to Silas for confirmation. Regan was tough. She didn’t like being vulnerable or perceived as weak. But he nodded, wordlessly telling me it was the truth. “You want something to drink?” he said casually.
“No, thank you.” All I really wanted was to know why they’d asked me over. I’d worked tonight, and she wasn’t feeling well, so doing a scene didn’t seem to be on the menu.
“Silas said you have a date tomorrow,” she said. “Does the guy know where you were tonight?”
Fuck. She went straight for the jugular. I shifted my weight on my feet, uncomfortable in my guilt. “No, I haven’t told him yet. I was going to tomorrow.”
“What’d you tell him about our arrangement?”
I stared at the carpet. “I, uh, haven’t done that either. I told him I was seeing someone, but it wasn’t exclusive.” I frowned. “I just met him today.”
Her tone was measured. “How?”
“At rehearsal for the ChiComm thing. He plays the cello.”
I wasn’t going to give her much information, because Regan could be ruthless. She could read people in an instant and knew everything about
everyone. Her accountant personality made her obsessed with data, and she dug into people’s backgrounds, including mine.
Regan gave the word ‘thorough’ a whole new meaning. It was great at the club—not so great in my personal life.
I wanted Grant to remain the man I hoped he was, just for a little while. If he had unpaid parking tickets or a kid from a previous marriage, I wanted to give him a chance to tell me.
She leaned back against the couch, and there was a crack in her façade. She looked nervous. “We like what we have with you, Tara.”
My breath caught in my throat.
She bit down on her bottom lip, her confidence crumbling faster now. “Is there something you need that we can give you?”
Her question punched the air clean from my lungs. They’d called me over tonight, not to demand my submission, but because they were worried they were losing me.
I went to her, kneeling beside the couch at her feet. “No,” I said quickly. “What we have is great.” I swallowed hard, needing to be honest. “What you guys have with each other . . . it’s just, sometimes I want that for myself.”
I probably should have said I needed it, rather than wanted.
There were four positions in the hierarchy of a dominant/submissive relationship. As the sub, my wants were at the bottom, but my needs? Those were at the top, more important than anything else.
My first dominant’s voice echoed through my mind. Joseph had drilled the phrase into me. Live the hierarchy.
“I need this.” I gave her a soft smile. “But don’t worry. I expect him to bail as soon as he knows everything.”
She considered my statement. “Let’s say you tell him, and he’s okay with it. Would you let us meet him?”
I sat up straighter. As much as I wanted Grant to accept all of me, I lived in reality. “He won’t.”
“But if he did, could—”
