The music changes, slow and sensuous replaced with something more upbeat. Behind me, a whip cracks, making me tense up before I force my shoulders to relax again.
“Allllll right, kinksters. Doms, get up and move on to your next lucky partner!” Lucas is having a blast with this speed-dating thing.
Which is exactly why I thank god every day for my business partners. If I’d been the one to open this place instead of Lucas and Harlow, the club would be a big, utilitarian black box. No bells or whistles. None of the fancy paint colors or plush velvet furniture. No shockingly expensive baroque murals painted by avant-garde artists or hidden lighting to warm and soften bodies and turn sexy into sultry.
They’re right, as always. And like Lucas said, if gimmicks like speed dating are what it takes, then speed dating is what they’ll do. Along with auctions, leather nights, burlesque shows, costume parties, and whatever other extraneous crap keeps membership growing.
The fact is that the club isn’t really mine. I’m a silent partner, an investor with a personal interest in its continued existence.
I agree that the club is important. Thiscommunityis important, and these people will do whatever it takes to keep the club alive and thriving. Including hosting kinky bachelorette parties or, in my case, giving them the space rent-free until they turn a profit.
Which had better be soon. Because between this place and the company moving in upstairs, I’m not making a goddamn dime.
With a sigh, I stretch over the counter and snag another beer from the cooler, knock the cap off against the edge of the glowing wood bar I salvaged and refinished myself, and do my best to ignore the question-and-answer session happening between some lucky Dom and that fascinating little sub at the table right behind me.
CHAPTER THREE
Rae
“GOOD MEETING YOU, SUNNY.” My seventh or eighth Dom of the night slides me a business card as he shakes my hand, and then clasps it in both of his. Very, very heartfelt. “Let me know if your place of employment’s ever in the market for a new printer/copier.”
Right. Okay, then.
With a nod and a smile, I wave goodbye as Master… Frank, was it?… moves on to the next table. I then cross another number off my little cheat sheet. He was fine. Nice. Just not what I had pictured.
None of this is what I imagined when I left home tonight.
I mean, the space is amazing, and there are more than a few interesting people, including Tank, the really handsome guy who’s leading tonight’s event, whip in hand. He seems nice, friendly, smiley, but then his name tag says that he’s a Daddy and a sadist, and that’s not what I’m looking for. Bossy, yes. Mean? No, thank you. I get enough of that in the real world.
Then there’s the brooding man standing at the bar in his dark pants and crisp button-down shirt, sleeves rolled up to show thick, veined forearms and impatient, long-fingered hands. His dark hair curls a little long around his ears and his nape. It lookssoft and thick. His face, though youngish, is sort of craggy and worn. Like he’s lived. He’s seen things. And he’s maybe a little pissed about it all.
His eyes meet mine, and I quickly turn away, only to find myself sneaking glances at him a few seconds later. He’s interesting. More than interesting, actually. Intriguing, intense, mysterious.
Funny how, all night, with every Dom I’ve sat with, I’ve barely been able to muster ameh, but somehow this man givesallthe adjectives.
Annoyed. I add that to the list when our eyes meet again.
Maybe he’s just bored.
Which I get. I’d expected a whole lot more excitement when I gathered up the courage to come here tonight. Not quite people hanging naked from the rafters, getting whipped and flogged, but something close to it.
Although there is a definite buzz in the air.
I cast a quick look around. There are a few vinyl- and leather-clad folks not involved in the speed dating, lurking in the corners on sofas or in clusters around funky pieces of furniture. That bench over there, for instance, is that really a sculptural table, or is it meant for something painfully sexy? Right now, a couple’s cuddling on a sofa beside it, their drinks resting atop its shiny surface, but I can picture myself stretched over it, ass in the air, ready for a spanking or—
“You’re cute.”
I look up as my newest speed date takes a seat across from me. “Oh, thanks.”
Daddy Brice, his name tag says. Okay, another Daddy.
I’ve met three sadists, a couple of new Doms who, like me, are maybe a little out of their depth. One guy—Sincaid?—whosaid all the right things, but just, I don’t know, smelled wrong or something. He was also a Primal Dom, which I’d never heard of. The whole time he described his fantasy of chasing a submissive through the woods and having his way with her on the ground, I pictured gnats and mosquitos and just how bad poison ivy would feel on my nether regions. Huge no. Then there was Master Ev, dressed head to toe in leather, whose ideal partner would submit to him 24/7. I can almost see the appeal. I mean, making decisions is exhausting. But nope. There was Pedro, the rope guy, who was attractive and seemed pretty fun. Maybe I could do the suspension thing if it’s low-key and doesn’t put too much pressure on my knees or cut off my circulation or hurt in any way at all. Oh, then there was Thor, who called medeareven though I’m pretty sure I’m ten years his elder.
This new man’s nice looking in a straitlaced, older-dentist way. His wire-rimmed glasses don’t exactly go with his mesh top and tight, squeaky vinyl pants, but that’s okay. A Dom’s a Dom, right?
Wrong.
Yeah. I’m learning very quickly that there are a few things the romance novels—not to mention my favorite kinky subreddit—have gotten wrong. First off: most Doms arenotsexy. Or smooth. Or even, if I’m being honest, very dominant.
