by Tessa Bailey
Jonah dragged his gaze up from her mouth, knowing he’d be looking again within seconds. He’d gone rigidly hard when she’d sunk her white teeth into the lollipop. Not only because her spirit turned him on like hell but because it had felt like a transgression. She’d gone against his long-indulged wishes, and his dominant instincts made him want to chasten her for it, have that fierce spirit at his command. Not her. Not yet, anyway. “See, that was unwise. Now I’m just picturing you in a bustier.”
Her eyebrows lifted innocently. “Well, knock it off.”
“The bustier?”
She hummed in her throat, sizing him up as if for the first time. It wasn’t, but if she wanted to delude herself into thinking she hadn’t checked him out thoroughly minutes earlier, he’d play along. While she mounted her next attack, Jonah nodded at the bartender to pour him a drink. This was going to take a while.
Caroline watched the action with interest, not missing a thing. Her smile turned smug. “All right, I think I get where this is going, Johnny Pickup Line.”
Jonah sighed at his bartender’s jerky reaction to the girl’s disrespect, something he never tolerated under any circumstances. No doubt the entire staff would know by the end of the night.
It’d better be worth it.
“You’re obviously a regular here and know what goes on a short elevator ride away. So I have to ask myself, what are you doing moving in on me? Possibly the only woman at the bar who isn’t dressed for whatever evil torture goes on upstairs.”
“And what conclusions have you drawn?”
“Either you’ve already gone through every woman in the joint—”
“I think there might have been a compliment in there somewhere.”
“—or you think I’m waiting for someone to show me the ropes. Pun intended. Maybe you’re hoping I read that oh-so-popular novel and I’m here to hogtie my very own billionaire.”
He feigned ignorance. “What book?”
She blew out an exasperated breath. “If you are indeed a regular in this”—she waved her hands around—“scene, then I’m sure you’re familiar with it. I’m dropping it now. Any further discussion on the subject would indicate that I’m curious, which I most certainly am not.”
Her glasses slipped down her nose, and she pushed them back up. He squashed the sudden urge to throw them across the room and punish her smart mouth with his own harder one.
“I’m not being critical, but I refuse to facilitate a discussion wherein you try to convince me pleasure through pain is the ultimate high. That’s where this is headed, isn’t it?”
“For someone who has never tried it, you seem terribly confident it’s not.”
“A person doesn’t necessarily need to encounter pain to know they don’t desire it. For example, without having been hit by a semi-truck before, I’m pretty sure it would suck.”
Jonah hid his smile by taking a pull from his scotch, watching her over the rim of his glass before he lowered it. “What if I told you it’s only about pain for some? For others, it’s an entirely different experience.”
He watched her process that, liking the fact that she wasn’t disregarding his words outright. She was listening, weighing, deciding whether or not she agreed. It was refreshing. So often, he found people were unwilling to consider any point of view save their own.
Again, he felt a sting in his chest at the reminder of others’ unwillingness to trust a word that came out of his mouth, simply because he owned Serve. If anything, the precautions Serve’s management took with each and every individual allowed upstairs should speak for itself, but people refused to trust what they didn’t understand.
She spoke then, interrupting his dark thoughts. “If that’s true, that people have different experiences, then tell me. What else is there?”
For some reason, his answer seemed infinitely important. As if it could make or break the connection developing between him and this woman, whose name he still didn’t know. The people who frequented his club knew what they wanted and didn’t usually require an explanation about what to expect, so he didn’t have much practice putting it into words. He had managers who dealt with beginners. His first experience in a BDSM club had been at age twenty-one and completely by accident. While on shore leave in Germany during his stint with the Navy, he’d stumbled half wasted into an underground club, and his life had been irrevocably changed by a half-crazed dominatrix named Velda. He was fairly certain she hadn’t sat him down and given him a syllabus.
“What else is there?” Jonah tossed back the last of his drink, relishing the burn in his chest. “Trust, communication, honesty. Risk, sensation, surrender. Power.” His gaze dropped unbidden to her lips again. “It’s about permission to explore desires you might not even be aware of yet.” When she licked that plump flesh again, his hand resting on the bar curled into a tight fist. “And sometimes it’s just rough, dirty, no-holds-barred fucking.”
Her chest had begun to rise and fall with effort, eyes glazed over, looking slightly lost. She swayed toward him just a little, and without hesitation, his body moved closer as if magnetized. One of his knees slid along the outside of her thigh, nudging up the hem of her skirt ever so slightly. That snapped her out of wherever she’d gone. His proximity seemed to alarm her, but he didn’t move away completely. She pulled the edges of her collar tighter, and that uneasy movement sent a jolt of irritation through him. Not with her—with himself. He’d clearly gone one step too far.
“Well, I guess it’s a good thing I didn’t come here for any of those things.”
“Right. And I’m not in the business of strong-arming or coercing customers, so please stop fidgeting like I make you nervous.”
“Nerv—” Something akin to recognition dawned on her face. “Wait, what kind of business are you in?”
“You’re sitting in it.”
“You own Serve?”
He gave a single nod and stood. “What is your name?”
The barest hesitation. “Caroline.”
Jesus, he fucking loved that name. It demanded discipline. His discipline. “Caroline, you seem like the type of person who appreciates honesty. Is that accurate?”
She nodded warily. Smart girl.
“Good. I’d like you and your precious skepticism to come upstairs with me. I won’t ask you to do anything you’re not comfortable with. You have my word on that.” He signaled the bartender. “But I can’t sit here anymore, and I don’t like the idea of leaving you here. In fact, since we’re being honest, I hate it.”
That gave her pause. “Why can’t you sit here any longer?”
Jonah leaned in close, watched her lips part to suck in a quick breath. Fucking beautiful. Take the risk. The payoff could be glorious. “If I sit across from you much longer, I’m going to pull you astride my lap and kiss your superbly formed mouth until you soak straight through my pants.” He pulled back just enough to watch redness suffuse her cheeks. “It wouldn’t take long, sweetheart. I can do amazing things with my tongue.”
Chapter Three
Caroline’s pulse raced. Not in a post-Saturday-morning-spin-class way. In a holy-motherfucker-someone-pass-the-Gatorade way. Who the hell was this guy? She read people for a living, and yet, for the life of her, nothing he did put him into one of her neatly organized categories. Not an overindulged player or a lonely divorcee…not an unhappily married corporate executive with a wife and three kids stashed out on Long Island.
Her mind presented and discarded several adjectives to describe him. Intensely concentrated one minute, restless and taciturn the next. Finally, she settled on enigmatic. Which, to an insanely meticulous person like herself, simply wasn’t good enough. She needed something more logical and satisfying.
Furthermore, he’d been attempting to pick her up, right? So why keep his owner status a secret until the last minute? Yet another contradiction. He had no idea she was there to write a story, and it probably worked like a charm on the ladies every time. Well, almost every t
ime. Her palms might be tingle-sweating, she might be feeling a tad itchy and restless after his concisely delivered monologue, but no way was she giving in. There would be a lightbulb moment at some point where mystery fled and he turned typical. She needed to be there for it. Otherwise, this encounter would forever feel unfinished and undefined.
He moved in, his big body pressing closer, waiting for an answer to his non-question. She looked down at her skirt quickly, smoothing an imaginary wrinkle. Really, his question had been more of a mission statement, of which she was the mission. His words bounced around her head like ping-pong balls, refusing to settle. She should have already refused, thrown the remains of her drink in his impossible-to-read face for good measure.
Why hadn’t she?
Good question. Instead of blowing him off as originally planned, she’d actually managed to forget her discomfort while they spoke. A feat she could barely manage on a regular date with a regular guy. No, she’d been far too busy trying to figure this one out. Throughout the multitude of articles she’d read on Serve that afternoon, the owner had never once been pictured. She’d found that odd, considering he’d been brazen enough to open a BDSM club without attempting to disguise it. Which piqued her journalistic sensibilities even more. The club owner could very well be the focus of her feature.
On top of that, wasn’t she just a tiny bit curious what went on upstairs?
Feeling his gaze on her, she looked up and was immediately drawn back into his riveting intensity. There was knowledge in those eyes. Knowledge she didn’t have. A man who provided pleasure for a living. Arranged it. If given the opportunity, what would he do to her? Stop. Irrelevant. She pushed the errant thought aside, but her voice came out sounding husky, betraying her. “What’s going to happen upstairs?”
“That’s entirely up to you.” His gaze traced the curve of her neck, leaving heat in its wake. “My plan is to give you a tour, but you should be fully aware of something before we go up.”
When his hand coasted over her hip and squeezed, a tremor wracked her belly. Snuck lower. Pulsed. Oh, God. She shouldn’t be allowing this. “What’s that?”
He brought his mouth within a scant inch of hers. “If you give me the slightest bit of encouragement, I will get you somewhere dark and rough up that mouth with mine. I’ll push those lips open and give it a better reason to pout.”
Their bodies brushed together, and she almost moaned at the simple contact. His words were weaving some kind of spell and she needed to get clear of it.
“But you won’t encourage me. Will you, Caroline?”
She jerked back. It was a challenge and she answered it immediately. “No.” No, she affirmed to herself. No man, especially not some cocky BDSM club owner, would be breaching her defenses this evening. Her brain was in control, as always. This response she was having to him…it had to be the atmosphere, the liquor. This place had been designed to test people’s judgment, but she wouldn’t give in to it. Not on her life. She was here for her story, nothing more.
With an alarming effort, Caroline distanced herself from Serve’s confusing, but undeniably interesting owner and glanced around the lounge. No sign of Eliza and Gavin Rossdale. The crowd had begun to close in around them, pressing together tightly at the bar. Bass pumped even louder. Several couples were making out, bodies grinding to the beat, drinks forgotten on the bar. One such couple bumped her elbow hard but didn’t cease trying to swallow each other long enough to apologize.
What was more appealing? Staying here and waiting for Eliza or gaining a valuable perspective for her story from this walking, talking paradox? After all, she’d come here to hate this place, hadn’t she? What better way to succeed than getting a front-row seat?
She tilted her head and met his challenging gaze. He expected her to decline, and that sealed her decision. “Against my better judgment, I’ll brave the wilds upstairs.” She drew her phone out of her purse and shot a quick text to Eliza. “Do you mind saying something for me first, though?”
“Depends.”
She dug deep for her best Humphrey Bogart impression. “Say, ‘Of all the BDSM clubs in the world, she walks into m—’”
“Jesus.” He curled a strong hand around her arm and tugged her off the chair, but not before she saw a smile curve his lips. “Let’s go.”
Noticing the interested looks being thrown their way, Caroline ducked her head and followed him through the crowd. Knowing he wasn’t watching and she could get away with it, she let her gaze travel upward, over legs encased in black dress pants. His backside was firm and tight. You could bounce a quarter off of it. She’d never understood that figure of speech before, but it made complete sense now. When he threw a questioning glance over his shoulder, she realized she’d laughed out loud. This is good, she thought. Laughter means I’m continuing to make light of this and seeing this place for what it is.
Finally, he faced away again, and she continued her observation. The man didn’t walk. He prowled. Like a panther pacing in front of a cage waiting for his afternoon meal. She grew momentarily lightheaded as the implications of that became obvious. He’d made it abundantly clear that she was the desired meal.
Not if I have anything to say about it.
He stopped abruptly as they made it to the other side of the packed dance floor, and Caroline stopped just short of crashing into his broad back. To her right, there was an elevator with double doors, surrounded by a gigantic golden mouth. As if by stepping into the elevator, you were being swallowed. Or entering the mouth of Hell. Either way, it was further proof the man holding her arm possessed a wicked sense of humor. The reminder was…oddly comforting?
He inserted a key into the wall, drawing Caroline’s attention away from the golden mouth. They stood in front of a different, single-door elevator, stainless steel and simple compared to the other one. It slid open immediately, and he briskly led her inside. She barely had time to register the cramped size of the compartment before the door eased shut behind them.
Caroline’s back went up against the wall. He was suddenly so close. Too close. His body was flush with hers, head dipped down within inches of hers, eyes heavily lidded and sensual. Without removing his gaze from her, he reached over and turned another key in the panel of buttons. With a jolt she felt down to her toes, they started to move.
“You got into this elevator with me after the things I said to you?” He braced his hands above her head. “I don’t know whether to be grateful or pissed off.”
“Go with grateful,” she breathed.
A muscle in his jaw flexed. “I don’t understand you, Caroline. You seemed so cautious and level-headed, then you follow me in here, knowing I want to fucking debauch you.” His mouth brushed over hers, and he groaned. “I have a weakness for inconsistencies.”
“Join the club.” She tried mightily to steady her voice. “It’s why I followed you.”
“Is that so? Curious girl.”
She nodded shakily. “Why don’t we start with your name?”
He dragged his tongue across his teeth. “The one I was given at birth or the one I’d prefer you to call me?”
Caroline swallowed hard, already regretting her answer. “Both.”
“Jonah.” He pressed his hips forward. “Master.”
Heat swamped her, making it impossible to think clearly or draw the fortifying breath she sorely needed. She fought against the image of her down on her knees looking up at him, hands bound behind her back, body bathed in sweat. Something that had seemingly turned her off today as she browsed websites and images. Now, though, with this man making her body feel things she didn’t want to feel, hated feeling, “turned off” couldn’t be used to describe her current state. Hot, needy, confused. Those were more adequate.
She was so far out of her depth here that she couldn’t see the shore.
The elevator door pinged open, and Caroline hurtled herself through the opening. She stumbled into the near-darkness, picked a direction, and started walking
on unsteady legs. Her mouth had gone dry, and her heart hammered loudly in her ears. Even her vision had grayed a little around the edges. She’d grossly underestimated the effect he would have on her when they were alone. She couldn’t possibly want him more than common sense dictated, could she? This world, this place he’d created, was abhorrent to her. Once she made up her mind, wavering was unacceptable. It didn’t make sense that her body would overrule her mind.
A steady hand banded around her upper arm. “Slow down,” Jonah growled behind her. Needing another minute to get control of her conflicting emotions, she tried to keep walking but was brought up short by the scene playing out in front of her. A woman was blindfolded and handcuffed to some type of bench, while a bald, shirtless man brought a flogger down hard onto the backs of her thighs, her reddened buttocks. Several people were sprawled on couches, watching. Instinctively, Caroline began turning away but stopped when she caught sight of the woman’s face. Or her mouth, to be precise, since her eyes were covered. Her expression was one of pure, undiluted bliss. Every strike of the flogger only seemed to increase her enjoyment, not to mention her partner’s. Sweat beaded his head and face, and his muscles were rigid with tension.
Caroline recognized the echoing tension in herself then. It came on like an engine roaring to life. Spreading downward from her stomach, a God-awful squeeze twisted inside her. Only she wasn’t entirely certain it was awful, so much as exotic and overpowering. Her breath left her in a rush in tandem with the woman’s moan. Her mind railed at her to stop watching this act, one that should surely be private, and walk away. Her usually victorious mind, however, seemed to be momentarily ineffective.
Never in her life had she witnessed such unrestrained sexuality. She couldn’t put into words what she’d expected to see. Drunken revelry? People laughing maniacally while they whipped some sacrificial virgin as a gift to the gods? She’d expected to be disgusted.
Yes. This is gross. Demeaning. Caroline, get out of here. Move your ass.
