Claim

by Sierra Cartwright

  As his friend moved, the metal appeared to change colors.

  “Titanium,” Julien said, answering the unasked question. With his fingertip, Julien moved a blinking light from one place to another.

  Then an apparition of the sleek Svetlana appeared, the image of her stilettoes all but touching the glass.

  “Ready for takeoff, Genius,” she said.

  Julien nodded then swiped the hologram aside. “Prototype. Dozens of bugs to work out. Hundreds, really. Interacting with it is more difficult than it should be.”

  “Jesus,” Kennedy said.

  “Frustrating as hell that it won’t behave the way I want it to. I’ve got Grant working on it.”

  Nonstop, Kennedy guessed.

  Julien drained his whiskey before standing. “I’ll see you at Karyn’s opening next Friday night?”

  “Like you said, no one can resist my little sister.”

  * * * *

  From the vantage point of the second-story balcony, Kennedy cupped the railing and looked down at the vast warehouse floor. Because of his schedule, he rarely served as a Dungeon Monitor at his friend’s BDSM club but tonight was The Hub’s fifth anniversary, and Alma Heaton had planned a spectacular celebration.

  When he’d told her that he would prefer to attend as a guest, she’d told him that was impossible. Over two hundred people had RSVP’d, and she needed experienced help, especially since many attendees would be first-time visitors and tonight, not everyone would have a sponsor.

  To entice him, she’d offered him use of The Hub for a private event. He’d still refused. It wasn’t until she’d begged in her most pleading tone that he’d capitulated. More than anything, Kennedy loved hearing women beg for what they wanted.

  He would have eventually agreed. Though he’d never tell her, he’d always had a weak spot for the curvy blonde. Years ago, they’d dated and occasionally played together. Even though they’d failed as a couple, they’d remained friends.

  The Hub was housed in a massive three-story building that stood grandly in Boston’s warehouse district. More than a hundred years ago, the building had reputedly hosted bare-knuckled brawls. The concrete floor on the building’s main level had been acid-washed, giving it a swirled, garnet color, depth and style. Overhead, decaying massive beams had been replaced, and they also accommodated Alma’s structural changes. She’d left the wood exposed, and a recent magazine article had said they added architectural interest. A polished wood and wrought iron staircase that wound its way to a landing before continuing toward the second-story balcony. Brick interior walls lent an authentic, industrial feel to the space.

  For tonight’s anniversary celebration, Alma had ordered that the first floor be one big, open play space. Often she had partitions installed to allow participants a semblance of privacy but since a record crowd was expected, she’d said it would be easier to keep an eye on things if there were fewer places for people to hide. She’d even ordered all of the curtains to be opened.

  Her crew had spent days preparing the area, erecting St. Andrew’s crosses, screwing hooks into overhead beams for suspension work, carrying in spanking benches and massage tables. She’d had several stations constructed for rigging scenes and demonstrations.

  One of her carpenters had been pressed into service to make a jungle-gym type apparatus with lots of rope. She’d christened it the Knotingham. Right now, no one was using it, but he imagined that would change soon.

  The stark space reverberated from the excitement and the pounding music.

  Even though it was still early, he guessed at least a hundred people were already in attendance, and more were still filtering through the curtain that separated the main area from the check-in desk.

  He sensed, rather than heard, Alma’s approach, and he turned toward her.

  “What do you think?” she asked.

  “You look thoroughly devourable.”

  “Devourable?” She raised her perfectly sculptured eyebrows. “Is that a word?”

  “Where you’re concerned, it should be.”

  She executed a slow pirouette. In business wear, she oozed sensuality, but in a red leather corset and skintight black leather pants tucked into knee-high platform boots, she could inspire grown men to crawl through cut glass.

  The thing was, Alma was submissive in sexual play, though most would initially mistake her for a Domme.

  “I appreciate the compliment,” she said with a grin, “and I’ll savor it for at least a week, but I was asking about the event.”

  “I knew that.”

  “Well then?”

  “You’ve done a fabulous job. As always. Congratulations.”

  “I managed to bring in a couple more Dungeon Monitors tonight,” she said.

  “Coercion?”

  “Whatever works.” She batted false eyelashes at him.

  More than anything, he appreciated her honesty.

  “So, I figured you could each take an hour off, maybe more, if you wanted to play.”

  “We’ll see how it goes.”

  “How are you doing?” Then, obviously to avoid small talk, she added, “Chantelle is a bitch.”

  “That’s direct.”

  “I didn’t want you trying to guess whether I’d heard or not.” She moved to stand at the rail next to him. “I’m sorry if she hurt you.”

  “Thank you.” Though he’d made light of her public breakup, it had stung. He’d liked Chantelle, and they’d had some outrageous fun together. It was when she’d started hinting about wanting an engagement ring for her birthday that things had soured. He’d been honest with her from the start. And when he’d sent flowers rather than jewelry for her special day, she’d called the press conference.

  They’d never officially broken up. Then again, they’d never officially been together. The reality didn’t match with the image she’d been carefully constructing.

  “When you’re ready, there’s someone I want you to meet,” Alma said.

  “No need to date again anytime soon.”

  “Oh, pish.”

  “Pish?”

  “Nicer than calling you a liar. You’re better in a relationship, Kennedy. No matter what you think. You need to be settled.”

  “You could date me again.”

  “Ha. I’m a sub, not a sadist.”

  “I’m that bad?”

  “For the right woman? No. For me? A disaster.”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  She touched his cheek in the oddly impersonal way only a former lover could. “I’ll introduce you to Dar, if she shows up.”

  He started to protest, but Alma interrupted him by asking, “What do you think of Marcel and Wren?” She pointed to a rigging station where a small crowd had gathered. “They came up from New York for my party. They’re quite good together.”

  A technician was checking their microphones while Marcel readied his equipment. The middle-aged Dom—if the gray hair was anything to go by—was slender and fit. Kennedy imagined the camera loved him. Wren, his model, was Asian with long, thick hair that had been pulled back into a ponytail. She was clad in lacy black panties and a matching bra. Marcel was securing her onto a suspension ring, this one slightly different than most riggers used. It was divided into three sections. If Kennedy remembered correctly, it was called a triskelion.

  Marcel had selected an eye-catching bright blue hemp for the demo.

  A photographer asked Marcel to halt the rigging while he repositioned some lights. After looking through the lens and snapping a couple of shots he then reviewed, he signaled the pair to continue.

  “Damn, that rope hurts, Sir,” Wren said as he wrapped beneath her breasts.

  “Are you complaining?” Marcel asked. “You’ll be okay.”

  She moved around and wrinkled her nose, seeking relief.

  He adjusted the rope, then gave her a sharp slap on the ass. She squealed.

  “Deal with it next time,” he told her.

  “They
’re married,” Alma said.

  Kennedy might have guessed so. There was a harmony, an ease between them even during their verbal exchange, proving to him that marital happiness really could exist.

  Alma turned to him. “We’ll have lots of demos tonight. Marcel and Wren will be available to chat with people and give advice. I may try to get them back some other time to teach a class.”

  “Hire the photographer, too,” Kennedy advised.

  “I like the way you think. By the way, first-timers and attendees who are not sponsored by a member will be wearing fluorescent white wristbands.”

  “Anything else I need to know?”

  “All my DMs got the same message you did. Everyone, even the ladies, will be wearing black pants and long-sleeved white shirts.”

  “So we’ll be confused with the catering staff?”

  She laughed. “No one will confuse you with anyone else. I’ll guarantee you that, Master Aldrich.”

  Marcel gave a mighty tug on his rope and yanked Wren from the floor to a generous round of applause.

  “I’ll say a few words when they’re done,” Alma continued. “After that, I imagine the night will get more interesting.”

  No doubt.

  Right now, the building was still well-lit, but Alma was an expert at event management. As the evening progressed, the music would get louder and the room would get darker.

  “I’ll be back later,” she said before heading down the stairs.

  At the bottom, one of her employees moved aside the thick velvet rope that prevented guests from sneaking to the upper floors.

  With her blonde hair and stunning red corset, Kennedy knew he wouldn’t lose track of her.

  Marcel finished with Wren by giving her a good spin while the photographer snapped away and the spectators clapped.

  One of the club employees offered a headset microphone to Alma. Once satisfied, she walked, or more like sauntered, to the middle of the floor. The music was abruptly silenced and a spotlight hit Alma. “Thanks for joining us tonight to celebrate The Hub’s fifth birthday!”

  As the crowd raucously cheered, a group of four women entered the space. One carried a bag, and Kennedy noticed that two of them wore wristbands. One of the women not wearing a wristband looked vaguely familiar, but he couldn’t place her.

  He didn’t often run into people he knew here.

  Everyone who joined The Hub signed the same contract. Unless it was clear that someone wanted to acknowledge a relationship from the vanilla world, visitors pretended not to know each other. The same applied outside the club. Alma had explained that it allowed everyone to maintain their privacy and not jeopardize personal or professional relationships.

  The crowd quieted and Alma continued, “Please do not interrupt scenes. If you see something you don’t understand, ask a Dungeon Monitor. They’re wearing white shirts and black slacks, and they’re not to be confused with the catering staff!”

  A few people laughed.

  “DMs, show us where you are.”

  The spotlight operator sought out all of them, and when Kennedy’s turn came, he waved.

  “Please remain quiet while watching rigging demonstrations,” Alma continued.

  As the light swung back toward her, the beam passed over the woman he thought he recognized. Her dark brown hair had sensational red highlights, and it was almost shoulder-length, cut in touchable layers.

  He caught sight of a delicate tattoo on her right shoulder. She had on a cropped leather top that zipped up the front. Its length left her midriff invitingly bare. A miniskirt hardly kept her covered. Her outfit was daring considering Boston’s dicey weather, even if she’d had a coat on when she’d arrived.

  “Tasteful photography, and only with permission of the subject. That said, I’d like to direct your attention to my left.”

  While everyone had been watching Alma, a rigger had tied a woman into bondage. She hung upside down inside the wooden jungle gym-type structure.

  When Alma had told him about her vision for the Knotingham, he hadn’t quite known what to expect. Nets and ropes were strung everywhere, across the top, down the sides, front and back. At the top, sticking up from a pole on the far left side, a handkerchief beckoned.

  “Performance art at its best,” Alma announced. “And if you’re brave enough to give it a try, see the rigger.” She paused before adding, “Food and beverages are available in the kitchen. And keep them there. Remember, keep it safe, sane, consensual. And no exchange of body fluids on the premises.”

  A chorus of boos echoed.

  “Get a room,” someone else shouted out.

  That broke the tension.

  With a wave, Alma turned off her mic. Right then the opening notes of Love Hurts blasted out, reverberating from the brick walls. In the Knotingham, the nubile, sexy model arched and used her abdominal strength to try to pull herself up far enough to begin unfastening the rope cinched around her ankles.

  Dozens of people crowded around, apparently mesmerized by the sight of her and her struggles.

  The rigger stood off to the side, arms folded. The more she struggled, the wider his grin became until it looked purely evil. But the woman was strong and fit, adept at contorting her body in interesting ways. As she worked, a sheen of perspiration dotted her skin.

  Kennedy was as fascinated everyone else who was watching.

  It took her about five minutes to adjust her position so that she could use some of the netting for support and leverage.

  Eventually, to cheers, she was able to throw off the rope. Freed from the binding, she wove upward through the jungle gym, as if she were swimming. Her grace and athleticism were a marvel.

  Several people shouted out encouragement, and a few catcalls were laced in.

  At the top, she crawled across a wooden plank and snatched up the handkerchief.

  The crowd roared its approval. Kennedy had no doubt that this kind of performance would replace pole dancing in some places.

  Moments later, the lighting was lowered and the decibel level soared as a seventies tune pounded through the space.

  More people streamed through the curtain.

  A Dom hung an assortment of floggers and whips from a metal rack while his submissive moved toward the adjacent St. Andrew’s cross. She spread her legs and extended her arms before leaning against the structure to patiently wait.

  It had been a long damn time since he’d marked the soft, sexy skin of a willing submissive. A little playtime would alleviate some stress.

  After a half hour, one of the other DMs made his way up the stairs. “Alma said there’s someone she’d like you to meet.”

  “Thanks.” Though he generally liked to pick his own partners, he was intrigued.

  “They’re in the kitchen.”

  Kennedy nodded his thanks and headed down.

  The music vibrated through him. This time, it was something from Nine Inch Nails. Alma always mixed up the playlist. It was eclectic, but it worked.

  He said hello to a couple of people before pushing through the swinging doors leading into the kitchen. Trays of food were set up buffet style, and a separate table was filled with soft drinks and bottles of water.

  He caught sight of Alma with her guest, the woman he’d noticed when she’d first come in with a group of friends.

  Alma crooked a finger to invite him over.

  The other woman turned, and he caught sight of her.

  “Master Aldrich,” Alma said, raising her voice to be heard over the din of other people. “May I introduce Dar?”

  A scene name, he knew, to protect her identity. But it didn’t matter. He knew her regardless. Mackenzie Farrell.

  From the way her blue eyes opened wide and her mouth parted, she recognized him as well.

  “Dar,” he said.

  “It’s been a long time,” she replied.

  “Too long.”

  “You two know each other?” Alma demanded, her sculpted eyebrows drawing together. />
  They’d met a couple of years ago at a fundraiser. A mutual friend had introduced them, and he’d noticed the color drain from her face when one of his business rivals had walked through the door, a woman all but hanging from his arm.

  “My husband, Brian,” Mackenzie had explained. Then she’d smiled bravely. “At least until the divorce is final. Twenty-seven more days. Not that I’m counting.”

  Making sure her soon-to-be-ex was watching, he’d lifted her hand to his lips then invited her to dance. He’d enjoyed having her in his arms, and she’d settled her head on his shoulder when he’d told her that Brian was staring.

  At the end of the song, she’d smiled her gratitude before disappearing.

  “Come on,” Alma insisted. “Tell me how you know each other.”

  “We don’t, really,” Mackenzie replied.

  “I think it’s time we change that,” Kennedy offered.

  Mackenzie met his gaze.

  “I—”

  “I’ll leave you to it,” Alma said as someone from across the room shouted her name with an exuberant squeal. “Try not to behave.” Alma gave Mackenzie’s wrist a quick squeeze.

  After that, she was gone.

  And he was alone, inches apart from the alluring Mackenzie. He hadn’t remembered the color of her eyes being quite so startling, so riveting. He didn’t want her to look away. Her hips and chest were wrapped in supple black leather, and he knew her bare midriff would haunt—and warm—his nights. The new revelation, that she was also a submissive, walloped him, the emotion raw, insistent. And fuck if he could let her walk away.

  Chapter Two

  Mackenzie’s breath scorched her lungs.

  It had been over two years since she’d been the focus of Kennedy Aldrich’s attention. Time hadn’t diminished the impact, though. In fact, she felt it as a tingling sensation that lit up her body with a thousand tiny pinpricks.

  He looked at her as if she were the only woman in the room.

  She told herself that meant nothing. The man’s reputation was legendary. Ever since he’d been named as the country’s most eligible bachelor, the tabloids had splashed picture after picture of him on magazine covers. Rumors about his love life ignited fires on the Internet, and he was said to be with a new starlet every other month.