I nod, shovel the last mouthful of pancakes into my mouth, and kiss him again as we both head out of the kitchen in opposite directions. My phone rings when I’m halfway up the stairs. It’s Cleo, requesting video.
“Hey, girl,” I answer as I head into my room. I prop the phone up on the dresser and look around.
“Hey!”
“Hi!” says Venice, our other friend, clearly joining the call, and I turn and wave to my phone.
“How much have you got left to do?” asks Cleo.
“Just a few boxes,” I tell her over my shoulder. “I want to take some of my cherry varietals research, and after that it’s just clothes.”
“Just clothes,” mimics Venice. “I’m shocked that you can be so blasé about clothes. And holy hell, girl, look at all those boxes! Are you an alien? How are you already packed?”
“Venice is planning to just throw everything into bags the day she leaves,” says Cleo, laughing.
“How dare you?” gasps Venice in mock outrage. “You know I’ll pack my clothes with the utmost care, unlike some people.”
“I’ll be careful packing my clothes,” I protest. “I just don’t have very many of them.”
I don’t add that most of what I do own, I bought specifically for college. They already know I’m basically an alien, but I don’t feel like reminding them right now.
“We’ll solve that problem when we get to the city,” Cleo promises. “We’ll go shopping. Clothes for you, an extra closet for Venice.”
“What about you?” asks Venice. “An extra trophy cabinet for all the awards you’ll win?”
I turn around in time to see Cleo toss her russet hair over her shoulder. “No awards open to freshmen at Moyle,” she says. “I checked.”
“Of course you did,” Venice and I say in unison.
There’s a moment’s silence, then Venice’s voice breaks the quiet. “McKenna? Are you okay?”
I suddenly realize I’ve been standing there staring into space. “Yeah. No. Maybe?”
I sigh and turn to sit on the bed, facing my phone. “I don’t know, you guys. Dad works so hard here. I’ve been picking up the slack for a long time, but he’s not getting any younger, and I feel bad about leaving him behind to do it all himself, you know?”
Cleo’s lips twist. “Do you think he can’t handle it himself? You know he’d tan your ass if he knew you thought that.”
“It’s not that I think he can’t,” I protest. “I just don’t think he should have to.”
“You have guys to help, right?” asks Venice. “And your dad was farming before you were born.”
I glare at her. “You sound like him. And yes, we have guys to handle it, but they don’t have as much reason to care as I do.”
There’s more silence, but I know this silence. It’s the kind of silence where, if we were all in the same room, they’d be looking at each other, and then back at me. “What?”
Cleo looks shifty, clearly trying to figure out how to word what she wants to say. Venice has so such issue.
“Girl, I love you, but you’re a control freak. Your dad can handle that place with his eyes closed. You need to come to college with us, meet some hot guys, get laid, and get a degree.”
“In that order?” I ask, fighting a smile. She’s right, and I can’t argue with her because she knows she’s right.
“It takes a lot longer to get a degree than it does to do all the other things on that list,” she points out, and we all burst out laughing.
A high wail pierces the air, and I frown, looking around. “Is that sound coming from you guys?”
They both shake their heads. “What is it?” asks Cleo. “Sounds almost like a siren.”
I grimace. “I hope the Grimes haven’t set fire to their barn again.” I look out the window. I can see the road from here but there are no flashing lights, no…
Then I hear it.
“No! No no no no no… MCKENNA!!!”
“Something’s up,” I say, ice splashing down my spine. “I’ll call you back.”
But I don’t call them back.
Not for days.
Not until it’s all over, and everything’s changed.
Chapter 2
McKenna, five years ago, a long way from home…
The music in Nimba is darkly sexy, thrilling parts of me which have never been thrilled, and I force myself to focus on what’s going on around me. Venice and Cleo swear this place is the place to see and be seen, but I’m not so sure. For a start, it’s named after a variety of cherry, but putting that aside, Nimba isn’t like any nightclub I’ve ever been in.
Not that I’ve been in many. My home town has a population of about three thousand people. The closest thing Valentine Lake has to a nightclub is Saturday night at Lou & Joe’s Bar. Back when I was a senior in high school, getting ready to go off to college in the fall, I was excited about seeing the inside of a real nightclub. I even had a few outfits buried in my closet, bought on our quarterly family trips into the city. I was so ready for college, for freedom, and maybe, finally, a boyfriend…
And then life happened.
I stayed home. Those outfits are all still at the back of my closet, waiting for a life I’ll never lead. Well, all of them except one. The silky red dress clinging to my ample curves seemed like a good idea in the privacy of my own bedroom. Here in a cavernous room surrounded by sweaty, drunken strangers…not so much.
“McKenna!” Venice leans in next to me. “Damn, girl! You look hot!”
She’s yelling over the music, clearly already feeling the vodka she and Cleo drank before we left their dorm. I passed, but I don’t blame her for wanting to cut loose. I don’t blame either of them. After all, they did both just graduate from one of the top schools in the country.
I grin at her. “So do you!”
Her smile is immense, and she hugs me. “I’m so glad you were able to make it. I’m just sorry you didn’t get to graduate right along with us.”
She murmurs the words in my ear, and tears prick behind my eyes. Once upon a time, this was my dream, but things change. I squeeze her back. “It’s how it was meant to be. I love the farm. I have a great life. And you never know, I might not even have graduated.”
She pulls back and glares at me. “Are you kidding me right now? You took your parents’ farm and made it into a successful business. In three years. Damn straight you would have graduated.”
I force myself to smile, because I’m pretty sure I would have graduated, too, but what’s done is done and we can’t go back. I can’t go back. All I can do is be proud of my choices and keep moving forward. Just then, Cleo arrives, drinks in hand, and this time, I drink the vodka. It blazes a trail down my throat to my belly, spreading heat through me in warming tendrils. Okay, I can kind of see the point in alcohol now.
I turn and put my glass down. “Let’s dance!”
Venice and Cleo follow me to the dance floor, all three of us whooping in celebration.
A couple of hours later, we’re chilling on a couch. The girls have been scanning the space like they’re waiting for something. I point out a few cute guys, but they both shake their heads, so in the end, I give up and relax.
Until a man approaches. He’s not dressed like most of the people in here, in their flashy outfits. He’s wearing a dark, plain suit, and he’s wearing sunglasses.
Sunglasses? In a nightclub?
I stare up at him, wondering if we’re about to be arrested, or creeped on. I’m trying to decide which would be worse when he starts talking.
“Would you ladies care to experience Black Cherry?” he says.
My eyes widen as I stare up at him. “Uh—”
Venice nudges me with her elbow. “Relax. It’s like a VIP area.”
I didn’t even know this club had a VIP area, but judging by Cleo’s sharp inhale, she did. I turn to look at her, and she gives me a sly smile.
Now it makes sense. This is what they’ve been waiting for.
/> “How about it, ladies?” she says. Venice is wearing a similar smile. I just roll my eyes. I’m happy to stay down here, but we’re supposed to be celebrating my friends’ graduation, and that means they get to choose where we go and what we do. I’m just glad I stopped drinking early. The vodka has cleared my system, and now I’m stone cold sober and ready to protect my friends from whatever trouble it is they’re about to get us into.
“Lead on, Agent J,” says Venice, standing up and smoothing down her dress. Cleo and I both snort with laughter, but J doesn’t react, just turns and leads us towards a door in the wall. He pushes it open and gestures for us to go through.
“Girls, I’m not sure about this,” I say, but Cleo grabs one hand and Venice grabs the other, and they both pull me into the dark space beyond.
“You’re going to love it, we promise,” says Cleo, and I let them drag me up the stairs which appear in front of us, softly lit at ground level so it’s still quite dark but impossible not to see where you’re going.
We get to the top, and a man is already holding the door open for us.
“Welcome to Black Cherry,” he says. “Explicit consent is a house rule.”
I don’t have time to think too much about what that means before we step out into a brighter, but still softly lit, lounge area, and I suck in a breath.
This is not what I expected.
There’s an oval-shaped bar in the centre of the room, and booths around the edges of the space. In each booth there’s an assortment of…furniture.
There’s no other word for it. There are curved footstools, except they’re too big to be footstools, and large crosses, both upright and horizontal. Sighs and moans drift on the air, but they’re not from the music.
They’re from people.
Using the furniture.
Using...each other.
Venice turns to grin at me, but sobers fast. “Oh honey, it’s not that bad. No one’s going to do anything you don’t want to do. We just thought…well, it would be cool to introduce you to another kind of life experience.”
I stare at her. “You brought me here to have sex?”
Cleo sighs and wraps her arm around my shoulders, squeezing gently. “Unless you’ve lost that cherry to some cute farm boy since we left for college?”
I slant her a sideways look. “When would I have had time for that?”
“Exactly!” says Venice, regaining her usual cheer. “Now you have time, and the rules of the house say you have to consent, so if no one takes your fancy, nothing will happen. But there’s nothing to stop you from getting a little education, if you know what I mean.”
“Just standing in this room is an education,” I tell her, and she smiles even wider. “I don’t know if I can do anything like…that, though.”
My gaze is fixed on a woman spread out on a cross on the other side of the room, her face twisting in ecstasy as a man whips her breasts and pussy with what looks like a cat o’ nine tails.
“You don’t have to,” says Cleo, leading me to a booth. “Just watch. Learn what you like.”
I stare at her, but she’s already heading for the bar. Venice is there ahead of her, leaving me alone in this booth with a table which looks like a table, but also has rings around the edge. Seeing that woman tied to the cross gives me a clue as to what the rings are for, and the idea of being spread out and tied up, at some man’s mercy…
Heat blooms in my belly, much the same as when I drank the vodka, except that this is growing from inside me, not from a drink heading down my throat. The warmth pools deep between my thighs, and I shift on the seat, cursing my nipples as they tingle and tighten.
I am not the kind of woman who gets off on being controlled. I’m not. I’m in control of my life, of every aspect of it. I’ve had to be.
But for some reason, the idea of being tied down and...used, makes me squirm on the leather seat, moisture pooling in my panties.
“You look as though you see something you like,” says a deep, smooth voice, and I jump and look up to see a devil standing over me.
I’m sure he’s not actually a devil, but he’s tall, with immensely wide shoulders, dark hair, a knowing smile and eyes that gleam with intent. The heat intensifies in my belly, and I swallow. I don’t think talking to this man is a good idea, which is fine by my body, which doesn’t think we should be talking to him either.
“Um, I, uh…I don’t know,” I stammer, then blush as his smile widens.
“First time at Black Cherry?”
I nod, unable to speak. My mouth is dry. There’s a million butterflies fluttering in my belly, and his voice just makes the heat and the tingles more intense.
He’s gorgeous.
He holds out a hand. “Allow me to show you around.” I hesitate, and something flickers across his face. “I’m Gibson. Gibson Hall.”
He pauses, as though that should mean something to me, and then I realize this is where I’m supposed to introduce myself. I hold out my hand obediently. “McKenna.”
I may be so turned on I can barely speak, but I’m pretty sure there’s something in the Meeting Hot Strangers In A Sex Club handbook that says giving them your full name is a bad idea, and my brain hasn’t entirely melted.
Yet.
Again that faint smile, and he lowers his head, brushing his lips across the back of my hand, sending a streak of heat through me. I gasp as the heat settles between my thighs, turning damp, and then he tugs, very gently, on my hand.
Somehow, I’m well aware, despite his far greater strength and air of authority, that if I pull my hand away, he’ll back off, but I don’t want him to. I’ve never met anyone like him before, and I want to know…more.
I stand up, my hand still in his, expecting him to lead me away, but instead, he draws me towards the bar. Cleo and Venice are still there, and when they turn around, their mouths drop open in unison.
“Ladies,” he says. “Gibson Hall. A pleasure to meet you. I’m going to show your friend around, introduce her to what we do here. Just so you know.”
Their eyes flick to me, Venice looking excited, Cleo mildly concerned.
“You okay with that, ‘Kenna?” Cleo asks. She’s always been the serious one in our little group. Well, she was, until three years ago.
I nod. “Yeah, thanks. Um, I’ll see you guys back here?”
They nod, still looking a little shell-shocked, as we move away, and Gibson starts pointing things out.
“That’s a St. Andrews’ Cross,” he says, indicating the large cross with the woman tied to it.
“Was St. Andrew into…that?”
He chuckles, a rich, low sound which rubs over my skin like a physical touch. “I don’t know, but his cross is an awfully convenient shape.”
I snort, trying and failing to hide my smile. “What are those?” I ask on a sudden burst of confidence and curiosity, pointing to the curved footstools.
“Bondage benches,” he says, in a matter-of-fact tone. “They’re quite versatile, as you can see.”
I swallow and nod. As more and more people come in, the furniture is being used, and yes, I’m getting an excellent idea of their versatility. There are examples in action everywhere I look.
And every time I see someone tied up, I can’t help but squirm as my pussy throbs, full of deep, nameless need.
“Nimba is a variety of cherry,” I tell him, desperate for a distraction from the smell of sex and the heat I feel every time he looks down at me. “Do you know why they called the club that? And how come this area has a different name to downstairs? Do you know?”
Have I mentioned I babble when I’m nervous? In my defense, I’m surrounded by people doing things I’ve never even imagined, and my escort is the sexiest man I’ve ever met. Which isn’t saying much, since I can count on both hands the number of times I’ve left my tiny home town. Mom and I haven’t been anywhere since Dad passed.
Still, even taking my lack of experience into consideration, I’ve never met a guy who ma
de my panties wet just by talking to me. I’m pretty sure that’s not normal.
He doesn’t seem fazed by my word vomit, just grins at me. It’s a naughty look, different from his previous smoldering intensity. Somehow, it’s even hotter.
“Nimba is kind of an in-joke, for those who know. Black Cherry doesn’t exactly cater to…intact cherries.” He arches an eyebrow, his lips curving in a smile as he looks down at me.
I’m taken aback, and then I get the joke and can’t help but laugh. Something dark flickers in his eyes, and I look away, my mouth suddenly dry. The tension becomes unbearable, until he points off to our left and starts explaining all the ropes looped around a woman’s arms and legs.
“Shibari is a very exacting discipline. Everything about it is aimed at increasing the sensual enjoyment of the scene, both for the one binding, and the one bound.”
His voice breaks the deep, dark contact between us, but my panties get even more damp as I take in the woman’s hooded eyes, the way she squirms as her bonds are tightened.
Eventually we stop in a small, dark alcove near the end of the room furthest away from the stairs. I’m very conscious of Gibson’s big, strong hand wrapped around mine. He hasn’t let go of me the whole time, and I’m grateful. A number of people have invited me to join them with a glance or a gesture, but then they saw our joined hands, looked at Gibson, and looked away again.
“You don’t...play?” I ask. With his looks and his air of ruling every inch of this place, I’m surprised he’s not more involved in what’s going on out there.
He turns into me, partially trapping me against the wall, his body so close I can feel the heat of him. There’s a clear way out to one side though, if I want to take it, and I know that’s deliberate. He’s reiterated to me several times as we walked around that consent is one of the few rules everyone in the club must abide by. If I don’t want something to happen, it won’t.
The fact that he’s making that so clear makes me want to see what could happen.
“I play,” he says. “Not so much in the last few years, though, and not at all over the last few months. Things change. My...tastes changed.”
Eat Your Heart Out: A Romance Charity Anthology Page 27
