by M. S. Parker
"Bedroom," L agreed with a laugh.
He was still struggling with his pants when I pushed him back onto the bed.
"Time's up," I said as I reached up behind my neck and untied the strap holding my top. "I'm in charge."
His eyebrows went up as his gaze dropped to my bare breasts. "Babe, you can be in charge of me any day."
“I fixed him with a mock glare. "Shh. No talking. Just fucking."
He pretended to lock his mouth and throw away the key. Then he watched as I climbed onto the bed, my eyes on the prize. Silly or not, I knew what I wanted, and tonight, I was going to get it.
About damn time too.
Two
Jace
It was too damn hot to be here, but we met at the Gilded Cage on the last Friday of every month, and after Erik's call last night, I knew I couldn't beg off. Now, sitting here at the table, I could see why. All around us, people were laughing and drinking and flirting, but the four of us looked like we were at a funeral.
Well, not all four of us.
The sandy-haired man sitting across from me was listening to a tale of woe, but Erik Sanders couldn't stop himself from smiling. Not because anything Alix Wexler was saying was funny or anything like that, I knew. Erik was thinking about Tanya Lacey, his girlfriend. Which was ironic, considering Alix was currently fucked up over a girl. His assistant, apparently. They'd had a thing, and then she just vanished. Sent him a text yesterday saying they were done. No explanation, nothing.
He should have known better. Erik might be claiming to have found his soulmate or whatever, but the rest of us knew that wasn't how things worked. After all, Reb and I both had personal experience telling us that the best we could hope for was a woman who wouldn't sell out our secrets to the media. While the perception of the BDSM lifestyle may have changed a little over the years, and those of us in any sort of artistic profession usually got a pass when it came to sexual proclivities, none of us wanted our names and faces splashed across the tabloids with stories about whips and leather.
Not that leather was my thing. Whips, on the other hand...
I looked up as a hand brushed my shoulder. A tall red-head gave me a look out of the corner of her eye, and I recognized the gleam. It wasn't like she was being subtle about it. Too many of the women who came here claiming to be subs thought they knew what they wanted because they'd read some book about alpha males and Dominants without really trying to understand the true meaning underneath it all. They thought they'd find some rich playboy who liked kinky sex and just needed the love of a good woman.
"Jace!"
I jerked my head around to find Reb giving me an impatient look that said he'd been trying to get my attention for a while.
"What?" I took a drink of my beer and wondered if I should get something stronger.
His eyebrow shot up, a wicked look on his face. "You up for being my wingman?"
All of us got our fair share of admiration, but rock star Reb Union definitely attracted the most attention. He had that sort of charisma that drew people to him, but he never lorded it over others. It was thanks to him I'd come to be part of this group since I'd been the odd man out. Erik and Alix were cousins. And Erik and Reb had been roommates during the short time Reb was in college. I was the oldest out of the four of us, and I'd already been going to Gilded Cage for a couple years when they started coming, but I'd never made a point to talk to anyone, to make friends. I came for sex, and that had been it.
I'd been sitting by the bar when Reb sat down next to me and started complaining about the song that was playing at the time. The two of us started talking classic rock, and the rest was history.
I looked around the room. It was a Friday night in late June, so the place was packed. The dance floor was full of writhing bodies, some dressed simply like me, in jeans and a short-sleeved shirt, some in the more extreme costumes of the S&M crowd. Gilded Cage was a bit more exclusive than other BDSM clubs in that not just anyone could walk in off the street, but it still managed to be full to capacity with some of the most beautiful and sexy people in the city.
"How do you want to play this?" I asked, looking around at our options. "I'm not really in the mood for seduction tonight."
He shook his head, his eyes darkened to almost purple. "Me either. I don't want someone who wants any of that romantic shit. Just sex and for one night only."
"That makes two of us," I muttered as I stood.
I found myself scanning the crowd almost as a second thought, then caught myself. I didn't need to do that anymore. She hadn't been here in a long time. It was just times like tonight, when things got to me and everything else was going to shit, I found myself pulled to the past, even when I didn't want to be.
I needed to get my head out of my life for a while. Stop thinking so much about every damn thing. I knew that was why I hadn't been able to paint anything half decent in my studio in months. I'd start something and lose it halfway through. I had more than a dozen half-finished canvases in my studio, and absolutely no desire to work on any of them.
Reb tapped my arm and jerked his chin toward two blondes a few tables over. They looked enough alike for me to guess they were sisters. Pretty. Both wearing similar slinky dresses that clung to their curves enough for me to see that, even from where I stood, they both had pierced nipples.
The two of us fell into step together, and the crowd parted for us, the subs automatically dipping their heads, the Doms giving us nods of acknowledgement. We weren't the oldest or most prominent members, or even the wealthiest – which was saying something – but we'd made a name for ourselves among the BDSM crowd.
That was something.
And it was enough to get one of the blondes – she gave her name as Lillian – to come back with me to one of the VIP rooms.
Less than fifteen minutes later, she was bent over a padded bench, her arms stretched out on either side, soft leather cuffs around her wrists to hold her in place. Her breasts hung over the front as well, and I'd fastened a pair of weights to both of the silver rings in each nipple, stretching them. She made the most delicious sounds as I followed through on what I promised to do to her.
Her ankles were attached to a spreader bar, forcing her legs far apart enough to let me see how wet her pussy was. Not that I needed to see it when I could feel it with the three fingers I was currently working in and out of her. Her muscles tensed and bunched as she tried to push back against my hand, but I'd secured her tightly enough that she couldn't move.
"Are you close?" I asked as I rubbed my thumb against her clit.
"Yes," she breathed, the word coming out between harsh pants. "I need more."
I waited a few more seconds, then removed my hand. She made a noise of protest but didn't say anything as I stood. We'd taken a couple minutes to set limits before we got started, so I knew I could push her, and that was exactly what I was craving at the moment. The rush that came with the absolute control over a person's pain and pleasure. I didn't need to wait for inspiration to strike, or worry about losing focus half-way through. This was something I could do, and I did it well.
I knew the options the club presented for its members, so I'd already been choosing my preferred...instruments even as we walked back to the room. I crossed to the far wall and picked up a thin riding crop. Lillian had been open about her masochistic tendencies, so I knew this was a better choice than the softer flogger or cat o'nine tails I would have used on a less experienced sub. I could see the appeal of taking a blank slate, but there were definitely benefits of being with someone who knew her desires were in line with mine.
As I moved back to stand behind her again, I had a moment where it hit me with sudden clarity that all of this was utterly pointless. That the search for control, for pain and pleasure, for dominance and submission, all of it, didn't mean a thing without the deep connection Erik had found.
I shook the thought off almost as soon as it came. I wasn't looking for any of that. I'd tried it before and i
t hadn't worked. It never worked. I really hoped Erik and Tanya beat the odds, but if anything, what happened between Alix and Sine was proof that it didn't matter how intense a connection felt. It never lasted. And if it couldn't last, what was the point of trying to force something deeper than it should go?
I tapped the end of the crop against the base of her spine, then traced a line down one butt cheek, then the other, letting her prepare herself for what was coming. I would leave red stripes on her tanned flesh, enough for her to feel them for the weekend. I'd use the crop on her pussy and her clit, not hard enough to damage her, but she'd be whimpering by the time I finished. I'd take her right to the edge of her pain threshold, and then I would fuck her, let the pain mingle with pleasure until she came and came, until she screamed my name.
And I'd find my own release, not only physically but mentally as well.
I was using her, I knew, but she was using me too, and that was fine. It had to be. Because there wasn't anything else.
Three
Savannah
Everett looked too damn chipper considering how little sleep he must have gotten last night. He and his boy-toy had been loudly enthusiastic pretty much until dawn. I'd gone out to do some errands before the heat got too overwhelming, so I missed the morning after show, but I'd seen enough of them over the years to know how it went.
"I still don't get why you like this shit," Everett said as he set my drink in front of me. "I mean, Iced Chestnut Praline Latte? What the hell is that supposed to be, anyway?"
"Delicious and much-needed sugar and caffeine," I said matter-of-factly, then practically inhaled a mouthful. "Thank you."
"I heard your boy leaving just after midnight. Seems to me you got plenty of sleep," Everett said.
I glared at him even as a few women passed behind him, clearly checking him out. He really was too attractive for his own good.
"I would have gotten sleep if someone hadn't been making wild monkey love at all hours," I pointed out.
To my surprise, he flushed, then pointed at the plate in front of me. "Eat your Gaeng Keow Wan."
I raised an eyebrow and took a couple bites of my favorite Thai meal. It said a lot about how well the two of us knew each other that he knew exactly what I ordered even though I'd placed the orders while he'd gone to get us drinks at the coffee place next door. We'd been coming here often enough over the last couple years that the owners didn't mind if we snuck in drinks from time to time.
After a few minutes of eating in silence, he asked, "So was that guy not that good? I mean, you certainly weren't howling with pleasure."
I rolled my eyes, but there was no embarrassment. The two of us had gotten past any of that ages ago. We shared everything. Hopes. Dreams. Nightmares. Problems. Struggles. Sex. Love. No subject was taboo. Everett had said more than once that we were true soulmates, two parts of a single whole.
And without the fuck-ups that sex usually brought to a relationship.
"Come on, Sav," he continued, reaching across the table to steal a forkful of curry chicken. "Seriously. When was the last time a guy stay all night because once just wasn't enough?"
I was about to give him a sarcastic response when it hit me. I couldn't remember. And it wasn't that I couldn't remember the last time a guy had been so good that I wanted more. I couldn't remember the last time I'd wanted to fall asleep in a guy's arms. Not just wanted to, but hadn't been able to help myself.
"He wasn't bad," I said finally. "I mean, he managed to get me off, which is better than some of the other guys I've fucked."
Everett's expression sobered. "Is that really what you want? A guy that's just 'not bad' or just better than someone else?"
I raised an eyebrow as I took the last couple bites of my meal, and then I countered his questions with my own. "Isn't that what hooking up is essentially? Finding someone to fuck who was halfway decent?"
He shrugged and looked down at his cup. Poked at his Goong Chu Chee.
"Ev?"
He sighed and raised his head. "I'm thinking that maybe I want something more."
"Really?" I didn't bother to hide my surprise. "You sounded like you were having plenty of fun last night."
"I did," he admitted, his fingers shredding his napkin. To my continued amazement, his cheeks stained red. "And I asked Cal if he wanted to go out tonight. Like on a real date."
"His name is Cal?" I leaned forward and covered his hand with mine, a big grin spreading across my face. "From the way you were yelling, I thought his name was oh fuck me harder."
"Bitch," Everett muttered good naturedly, a smile playing on his lips.
I laughed and tossed a balled-up napkin at him. "Seriously though, if that's what you want, good for you."
"But that's not what you want?"
I leaned back in my seat and shook my head. "Come on, Ev, you know me better than that. Besides, with my new assignment starting tomorrow, I have enough to focus on."
"That's right," he said, his eyes lighting up. "I want details about this artist you've been gushing about."
"You'll have them as soon as I do," I promised. "But I doubt it'll be anything as exciting as your fuck me harder Cal."
His returned lob of my napkin hit me square in the forehead.
Four
Jace
"Fuck!" I shouted as I tossed my paintbrush at the canvas. It left a smear of deep maroon across what had been a sea of blue.
I'd spent nearly two hours with Lillian on Friday night, and by the time we parted ways, we'd both been sated. Physically, at least. But the turmoil in my mind hadn't truly calmed. On the surface, I'd had some peace – enough to sleep – but when I woke up on Saturday and tried to sketch out a new picture to paint, the paper remained blank.
By evening, I'd resigned myself to failure. Again. I picked up a book on Monet and managed to lose myself for a few hours. Yesterday, I hadn't even bothered to try. I sat in the dark and shadowed living room, staring at a TV I didn't really see, and wondered how I'd lost the thing that had always been my safe haven.
I could still remember the first time I picked up a paintbrush. I was six years-old, and Mom and I had gone to a mission on Christmas Eve because we barely had enough money to keep the lights on, so presents had been out of the question. We hadn't even had a tree. We'd hung lights and ornaments on coat hangers, and pretended it was a game. But Mom had said she wanted me to have at least one gift, so she walked up to one of the women there and asked where the gifts were...for teenage girls. Because she had a daughter who was still at work, and she wanted to get gifts for both of us.
I'd watched my mom eagerly pick through the choices until she'd found a manicure set, complete with nail polish and fake nails. Then she glanced over at me, walked over to another table, grabbed the first thing she saw and shoved it at me. As we walked away, I remember wondering if I should have told the lady that I didn't have a sister. Then I'd looked down at the box my mom handed me, and it had been like everything else disappeared.
It had been an introductory art set. And not just simple watercolors that would've been appropriate for a child my age. It had watercolors, finger paints, and a couple tubes of more expensive water and oil based paints. There'd also been different brushes and sponges, a few sketching pencils, charcoal pencils, and even a palate knife. And the sculpting clay that even now I tried to forget.
It hadn't been until I was in my teens that I realized someone had spent a lot of money putting that box together. I even tried to find out, but I'd never been able to learn who had been responsible for saving my life.
Because that's what happened. As my mother had spent more and more time with her various boyfriends, I'd lost myself in the world of colors and textures. I didn't just love how the colors played off each other. I loved how different techniques could give the identical picture a completely new look and meaning.
When I'd been picked up by Child Protective Services after spending a month and a half by myself at the age of ten, painting had be
en my solace. When my mother had come with a man she'd introduced as my father, I'd expressed myself through art. When my father sent me to boarding school because he hadn't known how to handle having a child, painting had come with me. When he'd had a stroke in the middle of my senior year of high school and had lingered in the eight years that followed, art had been my salvation.
It was the one thing in my life I'd been able to count on. It had never abandoned me...until now.
"Son of a bitch," I muttered as I kicked at a crumpled paper towel. The still-wet paint on it left a smudge of green on my bare foot. I'd been trying to create something with the paper towel as a medium, but I'd lost the vision partway through, just like I had with everything else.
It had never been this hard. Not in this way. It was work, like all art, and anyone who said otherwise either didn't know what the hell they were talking about, or they'd never seen anyone who'd created anything of quality. I'd heard someone once compare art to exercise. No matter how much you loved it, and how much natural ability you had, it still needed blood, sweat, and tears if it was going to be any good.
But it had never been like this before.
Like I was reaching deep inside me for something that had always been there, and I'd come up empty. Even the desire to create was waning, and with its loss came the fear that it would never return. That I would lose this refuge.
I was thirty-three years-old and hadn't needed to worry about money from the moment Benjamin Gooding accepted me as his son. I was his only heir, so I'd been in control of his massive estate since his stroke. When he finally passed, I inherited it all, including a villa in the south of France, a share in a Napa Valley winery, a house in the Hamptons, and the family mansion on the Upper East Side, which was where I lived most of the time.
