Inside the Lines: Without a Trace series, a contemporary erotic romance novel (5 page)

Chapter 6

Uncomfortable Truths

Not every city has a club devoted to kink, but thankfully, New York City does. Paddled has been around for at least twenty years, if not longer. Inside, it’s anything goes, except outright sex. You can pet, fondle, kiss, whip, spank, and/or tie up. As long as all parties are consenting and everyone enjoys their play, no questions are asked.

I step into the dark space, and some of my defenses fall away. When you spend your life living on the fringe of society’s preferences, it gets lonely. Here, no one asks why my preferred clothing is black patent and ties in the back. Or why I like my eyeliner dark and my lipstick intense. I can simply be.

I nod to a couple of friends as I find my way to the juice bar—some sex clubs shy away from even considering a liquor license. When you are involved in activities that involve risk and pain, you need all your wits. I order a cranberry juice and smile at the barista.

“How’s it going, Tice?”

She grins back me, her beautiful face a mask of delight. “Fuckin’ amazing, jelly bean. How’s you?” She pumps the cranberry juice from a soda gun, looking for all the world like a real bartender.

“Not bad. Remember that business idea I talked to you about?”

“You got something for me?” Her dark eyes rake over me with intensity. Tice—also referred to as “Entice”—manages Paddled, and she’s pretty confident that the owners and investors of the sex club will be interested in Kinked.

My stomach leaps into my throat. “I have a business consultant looking over it now. I can email it to you tomorrow.”

“That’s my girl!” She reaches over to high-five me. “Let’s get this shit on the road, baby!”

I smile at her confidence. “Here’s hoping your bosses like it.”

She waves a hand with ridiculously long, bright blue fingernails. “I will sell that shit, baby. Don’t you worry about it.” She hands me my drink.

“Thanks, Tice.” I’ve known Tice since she was a man, and I don’t take her words lightly even though they’re said with her flippant style. She’s shrewd, and she’s never been one to blow smoke.

I head for the balcony, my nerves jangling at the thought of handing over my business plan and seeing if it can finagle the financial support I’ll need to get my idea off the ground. A haunting beat pumps through the space, the black walls with silver and muted magenta accents seeming to pulse with the vibe. One thing that most folks don’t know about sex clubs is that you can go and just watch. Many players enjoy the taboo of onlookers, and as long as you’re complimentary and not rude, your attention is often very welcome.

From my favorite perch up top, I can look down on all the activity and choose what pleasure I wish to watch. In the far corner, someone engages in rope play. A slim Asian girl closes her eyes in obvious rapture as her master ties intricate knots around her naked body. When the craft is finished, the girl has ropes pinning her arms to her sides and forming a design over her breasts and torso. The ropes are attached to the ceiling, though she isn’t suspended. Her Dom draws two ends of rope between the girl’s legs and begins to pleasure her.

Along the walls are alcoves with barred entrances, where people can perform a wealth of different activities. In one, a lover strikes her submissive into a frenzied orgasm using a rubber whip. Center stage is a caning already in progress. Not an activity of the faint of heart, it’s the true measure of a masochist. A man lies facedown on a padded table, similar to something you might see in a massage therapy room. His wrists are bound to the head of the table, and each ankle to a corner. A long, firm rattan cane forcefully strikes his back and buttocks in measured strokes. Each hit should be separate, spaced apart, so the sub can endure the pain. A sheen of sweat covers both the sub and his Dom, and I recognize both of them. Ethan, the man tied to the table, is a long-time friend, and his Dom is his wife. It’s as much work for her as a sadist as it is for Ethan, if not more so. She must watch his expressions, evaluate her pattern, make sure she gives him just enough pain, but not too much. And he can lose himself in it, focus on the bliss the pain offers, and disappear into the experience.

When they are finished, Ethan’s back is covered in raw, red lines, but she did not break his skin, a true sign of a master. As he recovers, she presses a wet cloth to his face, kisses him passionately, and soon they’ll disappear into the crowd, probably leave to find a private place to fuck.

I smile at their affection and remember Charles’s question. Is it too much to ask to find someone who not only gets you, but is willing to give of themselves to make you happy? Don’t get me wrong—I’m realistic. I know that there’s no perfect match. I also recognize that I need to be with someone who understands
me
, at my core. I’ve dated really nice guys; I’ve never lasted with someone who didn’t respect me. But they couldn’t understand what made me tick and what turned me on after the initial novelty had passed. I don’t need crazy scenes and intense setups to enjoy sex. But I do need to be in control, to be me.

Some days, I’d give anything to be “vanilla,” like so many others.

I work my way through two cranberry juices before I check the time on my phone. I should head home. The confusing thoughts in my head and recent moodiness that has overtaken me are exhausting. I’m mildly distracted by a threesome setting up on the center stage: crops, clamps, and clothes pins ensuring a very intense display, but I’ve had enough. As I slip off my stool, I land on a foot.

“Oh, God, sorry. Are you okay?” I say as I turn to see a familiar face.

Fin smiles down at me. “Aye, it’s all right. Ye’re a wee thing, anyway. Hardly heavy enough to do much damage.”

“What the hell are you doing here?” I ask, surprise turning to wariness.

“Lookin’ for ye, as it turns out.” He’s dressed in jeans and a button-down shirt that hangs loose from his broad shoulders. His auburn hair curls around his collar, still damp from a recent shower, and he smells like the same yummy cologne from our last meeting, as well as fresh grass.

My throat dries out as I look up at him, the pure sexiness of him a bit overwhelming, which only serves to irritate me more. “Really? Oh, I guess I do owe you money, come to think about it.” I’d promised Stephen a cut of Ari’s payment, but since he didn’t show up, I hadn’t sent him the cash. I create a note on my phone. “Just give me your PayPal information, and I can send it.”

“Oh. Well, that’s okay, then. That’s not what I’m here about.”

He pronounces “about” like “a-boot,” and I smile despite myself. “Then what can I do for you?”

His large hand rubs the back of his neck in a familiar motion. “Aye, well, I wondered if, ye know, I could book ye?”

“Book me?” I arch an eyebrow. “For what, pray tell?”

“Weel, ye know, for services, like. Er, whatever ye call it.”

Shit. The downside to not following my own rules means this guy now thinks I’m a fucking prostitute. “Yeah, well, I’m not available.” I push past him, my embarrassment complete. I hear him call my name—another mistake, as all my clients know me as Mistress Hathaway, not Lux—but I keep walking. While I love a sexy high-heeled boot, you don’t have the same traction as you would with, say, sneakers. I focus on the back exit that only regulars know about, and when the cool evening air hits my face, I take a deep, cleansing breath.

“Lux?”

And Scotty followed me. “Do you seriously not know when to back off? Or is being obnoxious part of your charm?”

My fury forces him back a step, his confusion evident. “I—look, I’ve clearly said something to upset ye, and that wasna my goal. I just wanted to see ye again, and I didn’t want ye to think I was cheap. I apologize if I’ve offended ye.”

I glare at him, but his logic seeps past my rage. “So this is you trying to ask me out?” The back alley surrounds us with cement and asphalt, our voices echoing in the cramped space.

He holds back an uncomfortable smile, looking appropriately chastised. “Aye, I guess it was, though I’ve made a fair mess of it.” He drops his arms to his sides and blows out a breath. “Can I try again? Will ye let me, Mistress?” His eyes twinkle with renewed humor.

Those greenish blue orbs and his easy manner
are
appealing, in addition to his raw, seemingly innocent, sexiness. It doesn’t hurt that I also know what he’s got under those jeans, and I wouldn’t mind test-driving it myself. “I’ll give you one get-out-of-jail-free card. Ruin it, and there’s no hope for you.”

He laughs. “Fair ‘nough.” He sobers and meets my challenging gaze. “Mistress—Lux, rather, may I take ye to dinner?”

I’m surprised to find my mouth curving up at the invitation. And there’s an odd trill in my stomach as I accept. I feel like I’m back in high school, and the guy I’ve had a crush on is finally looking my way.

“Friday night, then? Around seven?”

I agree to the time, as well as where to meet.

“See you then,” he says as I walk away.

I turn. “Don’t be late.” I level my gaze at him, lips curved.

He nods, his crooked grin disarming. “Never.”

Chapter 7

Second Thoughts

Dating. It’s the bane of my existence. I want to skip past all the awkward glances and uncomfortable silences, weird attempts at conversation, and talking over each other accidentally…I want to hop forward to the part where you’re like Ella and Ian. When they’re together, they move as one. He’ll sit on the couch, and she’ll automatically tuck her feet against him so he can rub the arch of her foot. She’s barely finished her glass of wine when he’s already pouring her another. She mentions texting him, and suddenly, he’s sent her some romantic, sexy message that turns her cheeks pink, even after settling into domestic monotony.

I want that. I don’t want the messy, uncomfortable, unsure in-between. Alas, no one seems to have come up with a dating method that allows communication by osmosis. So I raid my closet, determined to find the right outfit.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were moving out,” Noah comments from my doorway.

Clothing covers my bed and floor, outfits that I’ve either discarded or deemed ready for Goodwill. I stick my tongue out at him, then drop onto my bed, deflated. “I have a date.”

He mocks shock. “What is this? The impenetrable fortress of Lux Trace has a crack?”

“Har, har.”

“Aw, come here.” Noah crosses the room, pulling me into a hug.

He’s always warm and smelling of a spicy fragrance, and right now, it feels good to be held, though I’d never admit to it. And don’t think I haven’t eyed Noah a time or two for myself. I adore him. He’s an incredibly giving, good-looking, and intelligent guy. Despite his rather wanton sex life, I know he’s lonely and looking for the right woman. But he’s a straight arrow, and I’m a labyrinthine bull’s eye. We’ve been friends a long time; I was actually closer to him in college than I was to Ella; he and I both took business classes, while Ella took marketing and PR classes. Eventually, it all evened out, and now they are both like family to me.

I give myself the moment, then I pull free. “I can’t believe I’m going to say this, but I have nothing to wear on a date with a normal guy.”

He pulls out my desk chair and straddles it, resting his forearms on the back. “A normal guy? As opposed to, what? I thought Evan was pretty normal.”

I dig through a mound of colors on the floor, looking for my red bra. “Evan was a submissive. He knew that about himself. This guy’s…not like that.”

“He’s not submissive? Or he’s not like Evan?”

I consider his questions as I delve into my closet again, determined to find an outfit I probably don’t have. Satisfied I’m hallucinating about a patterned skirt I could have sworn I purchased, I rest a hand on my pajama-clad hip and look at Noah. “Both. Neither. I mean, he’s definitely not like Evan. And he’s probably not all that submissive. Which means this is going to be an utter disaster, because you kind of have to love the life in order to live with it.” I hold up my pronged collar as an example of everything that won’t work with this date.

“Or, it could be amazing because he’s something different. You’ve primarily dated in the kink world so far.”

I narrow my eyes at him.

“Don’t give me your sexy gaze, Lulu,” he teases, using a pet name he only employs when we’re alone. “Think about it. You’ve dated how many guys in the years I’ve known you, all of whom knew exactly what you were about, and they’ve been flops. Perhaps dating someone who can be, shall we say, ‘schooled’ and ‘trained’ wouldn’t be such a bad thing.”

I snort. “Oh, trust me. I’ve tried the training bit. All I ended up with was a guy who thought I wanted threesomes every night. Which, don’t get me wrong, I enjoy, but not every night.”

“Oh, God, tell me you have pictures or video to show me.”

I toss my pillow at him. “Don’t be a guy.” I lie on the bed and stare at the ceiling, its off-white surface the perfect canvas for my frustrated thoughts. “You know what I really think the problem is?”

“Hm?”

“Me.”

He rests his chin on his arms. “Come on, Lux, you just haven’t found the right person yet.”

“Your sister said the same thing.” I sigh. “And I don’t know about that, Noah. I’ve dated men and women, lived with several, and I always leave before things get ugly. Maybe I have a commitment problem. Or maybe I’m just not cut out for long-term relationships.”