Make Me (2 page)

About half of the light wood tables are occupied by normal-looking couples, save for the way they’re dressed in leather and lace, spandex and chains.

Other than the patrons, and the strange devices people are suspended by or tied to, the decor is disturbingly normal. Tasteful even, which is the most off-putting thing of all. I wanted it to be dark, dingy, and dangerous. Light hardwood floors, walls painted a rich hunter green framed by cream baseboards and crown moldings instead of the rock walls of the entrance and hallway. I’m not sure what I was expecting, but this isn’t it. I surreptitiously take a few pics of the people around me with my phone. Later, when I’m free to stare without arousing suspicion, maybe one of the shots will reveal more information about what I’m seeing.

It’s my fault Tessa’s disappeared into this world of leather and lies, where people pretend to care just so they can hurt each other. Where wounded people like my sister are seduced into the glamorous side of abuse. She’s here because I jumped all over the idea of what she was saying before hearing her out. I pushed her to embrace this place when I should have helped her more gently, gotten to the bottom of her reasons for being involved in this lifestyle.

If I can prove that this place is dangerous for her, she’ll have to listen to reason.

And since she still isn’t returning my calls or emails, writing an article about it is the best way to get her attention and make her talk to me.

“When did you get back?” the man to my right addresses me.

Hoisting my glass, I answer without looking his way. “Half a drink ago.” I’m not here to make friends or arrange date nights with a whip.

“Cute. I wasn’t expecting you tonight.”

Just like that, he’s gotten my full attention.

He’s tall and built under the black dress shirt and suit pants, both impeccably tailored. Late twenties, early thirties maybe. Dark hair, straight nose, great cheekbones. His dark eyelashes curl perfectly in a way straight men never appreciate, framing dark blue eyes. He’s beautiful, but his serious eyes seem sorrowful.

Ugh, who cares about his eyes? He could be one of the guys who’s enabling Tessa.

The dusting of stubble gives him an air of rebelliousness, or danger, which I’m sure he cultivates like a Zen sand garden. Hair a little longer than the guys I go for. But the most attractive thing about him is that he knows my sister.

I’ve found my in.

He speaks in clipped, careful tones. “What’s all this?” He motions to my jeans.

Is Tessa one of these girls who walk around in nothing but a couple strategically placed strips of leather and a few lengths of chain? If I saw someone take a crop to Tessa, they’d find out what their left nut tastes like. I focus on the stranger. The corset I could do, the short skirts that hung with them? No. I cross my jean-clad leg. “Casual Friday.”

“It’s Saturday.”

“It was a joke.” Annoyance flutters through the fear. Who the hell is this guy?

“No need to get testy, Tessa.”

His accent’s more pronounced, but I still can’t pin it down. He definitely knows my sister well enough to find her in the dark. My shoulders relax. Maybe impersonating Tessa to get in here wasn’t the worst idea after all.

He picks up his drink. “Let’s go somewhere quieter so we can talk.”

If I play this right, I can get answers from him and get the hell out of here before anyone’s the wiser. “Sure. Lead the way.”

He frowns at my comment and takes my hand, slipping it into the crook of his arm. Somehow, despite the taut muscles of his bicep showing me his strength, the body heat radiating through his shirt reminds me that despite the intimidating exterior, he’s just a person. A very sexy person who smells even better up close, like minty ice water poured through a forest.

As we walk through the room, ignoring those around us is difficult—all I want to do is stop and gawk at the people standing, sitting, kneeling at tables.

Bending over them.

No one, at least not that I can see, is openly having sex, but hands roam everywhere. Crops slap skin.

They look happy to be here. I shiver, surprised at how much I want to stop and watch.

My host releases my arm when we enter a hallway and reach a door on the right. “How are you tonight?”

“Fine.”

“Interesting.” He ushers me into a dark room with a large four-poster bed, dresser, and a small table with three chairs. I step toward the table. “Because when last we spoke, you were on a jet to Montreal.”

His words hit my bare back. Damn it, I’m supposed to be in Canada. “Uh.” Bluff. I turn back and smile. “I didn’t have to go after all. The situation resolved itself.”

“But that’s wonderful.” He smiles and it’s like watching the sun kiss a glacier. Beautiful, but still so very cold. He closes the space between us with two steps, and sets his drink on the table. “You won’t miss Tanner’s exhibition. Pressure’s high on her to deliver something impressive. She’s gunning hard to be in charge of entertainment at The Games.”

“It should be interesting.” What games? This is Tessa’s life? Watching kinky shows with men who look like this?

He walks to one of the walls and moves aside a curtain, revealing a tinted window. Two-way mirror? “Shall we observe? See if she’s done The Underground proud?”

I answer by taking a large sip of my drink and then walking over to where he stands.
Please don’t let him notice my shaky legs.
The window offers a view of the room we left to come in here. More people mill about than before, probably because of the show.

The lights dim as a curvy Asian woman—Tanner, I assume—flips onto the stage with two fist-sized white balls at the ends of two lengths of plastic. Her white silk pants ripple and flow as she twists and turns and slides into a split. She doesn’t have a dancer’s body, but she’s grace personified and I drink in her visual symphony.

“What are the balls in her hands?” he asks without a hint of irony.

That’s what she said.
I smile, glad to know this at least, having seen them when I went to Thailand on vacation one summer. “They’re called glow poi. Just wait, it gets better.” The patterns she creates blaze for so long it feels like if I reached out I could pluck them from the air. The orbs begin blinking different colors as she spins, trapping her inside a wheel, a ball of multi-colored light. One hand twirls the golden light into the shape of a star while the other creates a tornado of blue. Then she turns sideways and creates the illusion of standing behind the petals of a giant red and orange flower.

More acrobatics, and more displays of light, and she stops.

The man next to me makes an unimpressed sound. “It’s pretty but disappointing.”

I turn to him. “How so?”

He frowns. “It isn’t compelling enough for The Games, to impress all those from the other clubs. Tanner should have known this.”

From the corner of my eye, I notice Tanner stop moving and throw her hand to the side of the stage. The lights have come up a bit, and expand to include a man and woman on the other side of the stage. “Show’s not over yet. Maybe she’s saved the best for last.”

The possessive look in his eyes roots me to the spot. Already close, he steps closer, his hand moves to the back of my neck; the other grips my hip and pulls me against the hard muscles of his body.

The warm hand dissolves my common sense. He could pin me to the wall and fuck me senseless and I’d grin like an idiot.

What the fuck am I thinking, almost kissing Tessa?

I release her, remove my hands from her body, and turn to face the window. While Tanner spun the balls of light, a petite Indian woman strapped the tall redheaded man to a St. Andrew’s cross with his back to the audience. His skin is flawlessly pale except for a slight blush from the short woman’s ministrations with a flogger. She’s been taking it easy on him, judging by the lightness of the marks, but he’s been thoroughly worked over.

Tessa and I are not compatible. If my cock would get that message, it would be great.

Tanner flows over to them and rubs the sub from neck to heel—checking the temperature of his skin before whispering something in his ear for a long moment. Florentine flogging? Her assistant hands her two identical extra-long floggers, more like swords, and backs away. Facing us again, Tanner makes some of the same movements she’d made with the Poi. The floggers make comforting sounds when they slap against each other, like the sky is raining suede onto naked concrete.

I’ve never even wanted to kiss her before. At least she seems just as stunned by this as I am.

Stepping toward the cross, Tanner swings the floggers in long, low arcs, then bursts into movement, losing her shape as a woman, becoming a blur of white pants and purple suede of the flogger’s lashes as she draws closer and closer to the sub. The sub moans and stays perfectly still; the lashes never stop moving. After a moment, she spins away and crouches, head down, breathing a little heavier.

I check my watch. I owe Reiley a phone call momentarily, but a gasp from Tessa draws my attention back to the stage.

The assistant approaches the crouching Tanner and fits her with a blindfold before moving back to her out-of-the-way place. Tanner steps forward, swinging the lashes again. The room thickens with the heat of arousal. I bet there’s not a dry seat in the house. I’m finding it hard to be still myself as she swings the lashes faster and moves closer.

Beside me, Tessa is stiff, leaning forward, hands pressed against the glass, breathing heavily.

I want to taste her lips.

Tanner is skilled, but it will hurt like a bitch, especially if she goes too close to him. The blindfold is a testament to her control and her submissive’s trust in her skills. His ass twitches out a fraction. To be aroused and unable to move must be unbearable. Tessa’s hand grips the ledge of the window, white knuckles standing out, drawing my gaze to her face.

Why is she acting scared of the flogging?

The submissive’s legs tighten and relax—this time it’s apparent when the lashes make contact. The tips of the lashes swallow the spotlight and kiss off his skin, dancing for another twenty seconds, a storm of pain and pleasure.

Stillness. Then the roar of applause. People rush to their feet and to the stage, eager to see the results. Smiles from everyone at the front. With one deep bow and a smile, Tanner turns her back on us for him, hurrying to his side, petting his hair, talking to him in a low voice while her assistant unties him from the cross. His erection juts out before them as they turn him around.

“What did you think of that?” I want her silky lips beneath mine. Why didn’t she protest when I touched her?

Her eyes are huge. “She could have hurt him. What was she thinking? No one stopped her!”

She’s acting like she’s never seen anything like this before. Hurt him? Of course she could have hurt him—that is the point and half of the pleasure/pain coin.

When did Tessa cut her hair? I twirl a short strand around my finger, and instead of pushing me away, she leans into my touch.

Wait. Her last words sink in. Tessa did not cut her hair. I drop my hand. “Who should have stopped him?” I test her.

“Anyone.”

Everything inside me tightens at once as any traces of doubt are blown from my mind. Why would she dare to impersonate one of our own in such a brazen manner? “It’s over and he’s still with them.”

“He’s still hurt!”

“Is he?” Tessa has a grace to her; the ethereal vulnerability that’s real but not something exploitable. And I have
never
wanted to kiss Tessa. She has spoken about her sister, but she’s never mentioned they are identical twins. Now that I’ve spent a few minutes with the sister, I’m surprised I’d thought she was Tessa at all. They move nothing alike.

Tessa’s sister—
Sloane
, I remind myself—is far more interesting, all scrapper and insolent eye contact despite the trembling in her limbs and the pupils dilated with fear—or arousal? Maybe both if she’s into kink as well. I didn’t think Tessa’s sister was into the lifestyle. But even if she is into kink, she’s broken all the rules by showing up here pretending to be Tessa. Every membership must be earned.

How dare she prance in here taking liberties with the rules? What the hell is she doing here pretending to be Tessa? Trying to get a taste of the lifestyle?

Well, I want a taste of her.

Sloane’s lips part beneath mine, warm, soft. Sweetly willing. My anger at her abuse of our system simmers beneath my skin, but I do not punish her for her transgression—not yet. Roughly, I pull her toward me by the loops in her jeans and stroke her tongue with my own. When her body relaxes against mine, I pull away.

Her neck tenses beneath my hand as I grasp it and stand behind her, but the intriguing way she melts to my touch softens my anger and makes me curious. “Is he hurt? Or is he enjoying it very much?” I wrap my arms around this stranger and nuzzle her ear, while watching her eyes in the reflection of the glass. There are consequences for breaking our rules, and yet I want to devour her more than I want to punish. “Is he trying to get away? Look at his smile. He’s happy to be there.”

“A smile can be faked.” She leans into me ever so slightly, and I press my hips against her ass, letting her feel my cock between us. A small moan escapes her throat but her eyes are still wild in the reflection. Her mouth is visual poetry and I want to continue reading it with my tongue.

“Look at his cock.” My words are a hot whisper against the fragile skin where jaw meets throat. This ridiculous hat. I want to tear it from her head and gently drag it all over her back, decorating the skin with tiny scratches. “Is that fake?”

“Is what?”

“Is his hard cock a faked reaction as well?” Sliding my hands lower, I cup her crotch, rubbing her through the jeans. Even outside the fabric, she’s hot against my hand, and rocks her hips in time with my touch.

“No.” Her gaze is locked on the submissive and the women touching him all over, and she presses herself harder against my hand.

“Is that something you’d like?”

She squeezes her eyes closed as the performers walk slowly to a room backstage where they will administer his aftercare. “I don’t know.”

“And yet, it turns you on.” The back of her neck is whisper soft beneath my lips.

“I can’t do this!” She licks her lips and shakes her head.

Now we’re getting somewhere. “No?”

“I’m sorry. I just can’t.” Her hips still, but she doesn’t push my hands away.

“Then would you mind telling me the truth about why you’re here, Sloane?”

Her big brown eyes boggle and she twists around to face me. “You knew? Stop smiling! You knew I wasn’t Tessa, but you–”

“What? Touched you? Kissed you? Yes. I wanted to see how far you were willing to take this charade.” And how much further you’ll go.

“Where’s Tessa? What have you done with her?”

Casually, I walk back to the table and sit—not an easy task with a full erection. “An interesting question, ‘what have I done with her.’ I’ve done plenty
with
her, though nothing sexual. A more important question is who the fuck do you think you are?”

“D-do not fuck around with me. One word to my father and this whole little empire you’ve built comes crumbling down.”

“I’m flattered you think The Underground is mine. But would you really risk embarrassing your father, ruining his career for nothing?”

“For nothing?” Her heels slam a path to the table and she leans into my face. “I just saw a man get whipped in front of a crowd of people. My sister thinks this is sexy.”

“Something you have in common.”

She bites the inside of her cheek. “My sister has a past with...it’s not really your business. But it’s different for her. And yes, her safety means more to me than my father’s political career.”

That explains her reasons for breaking our rules, but it’s still not a good enough excuse. I want to nibble her angry lips. “What makes you think your sister isn’t safe?”

Sloane grits her teeth and tries to stare me down. It’s completely adorable and futile, and she looks away first. “She hasn’t called me. Or replied to any of my emails. And she hasn’t been at her apartment for weeks.” Her voice is slightly less obstinate than her eyes.

“Sounds to me like your sister chooses to be unavailable. Tessa is perfectly safe and happy.”

“Happy here?” Sloane takes the chair opposite me, posture stiff from the corset she’s obviously not used to wearing. “What, you’re saying she likes it when people beat her up? Call her a dirty whore and put a gag in her mouth before raining abuse all over her body?”

How can she know so little of our world? Do she and Tessa not speak of this? “Is that what you think happens?”

She points toward the window. “A man was whipped out there.”

I lean back in my chair. “And he loved every second of it. With one word, one little safeword uttered from his lips, everything would have stopped. We are not animals, Sloane, though some of us are sadists. There are very strict rules to being here. You’d know that if you weren’t here on some needless rescue mission.”

“My sister has...she hasn’t always been the person she is now. I don’t know what you people have told her to make her stay, but–”

“It is a club, not a prison.” Is she trying to argue with me or convince herself? “No one is brought here by force. No one is forced to do anything they don’t want to do. And no one is forced to stay.”

She scoffs, a small, irritated sound. I’d like to hear what other noises I could tease from those perfectly pouty lips. “Please. I can see it now. Maybe one of you saw her out at a club one night and slipped her a card. A free pass. Curious, she came, maybe she even gave it a try out of curiosity. At first. Tessa’s the least judgmental person I know.”

“Unlike you.”

She arches a brow and continues. “She came here and is using the experience to punish herself and you guys are enabling her. Tying her up, whipping her, whatever, while she pretends she likes it.”

I couldn’t care less about Tessa in this moment. “Would you like it?”

“This is, we’re, uh.” She blinks and I’d have to be blind not to notice the way her breasts swell up against the corset as her breathing increases. Her nipples are hard and I want them in my mouth. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

I take another sip of my drink. “I saw your reaction to watching Tanner flog her submissive. Pretending not to understand the appeal of all this is dishonest when we both know how much it turns you on.”

“We’re talking about my sister, not me.” Uncertainty riddles her voice.

I set my glass down, rubbing a drop of condensation between my thumb and forefinger. “Limitations are the best leashes for our kind.”

She rubs her shoulders as though suddenly chilled. “What does that even mean?”

“They make us want to do all sorts of things we never knew we wanted to do—not until someone tells us we can’t. Limitations free us more than permission.”

Her lips pinch into a thin smile. “I was referring to when you said ‘our kind.’ I’m not like you.”

I gently swirl a pattern on the table with the moisture from my finger. “Tell me you don’t remember the last place I touched you.”

Her hands whisper across her belly before she realizes what she’s doing, and drops them to her lap. “Please.”

“Please what?”

“Tell me about Tessa. Is she okay?”

If Sloane has attempted to contact Tessa, Tessa is aware of it. Tessa’s silence means she did not wish to be disturbed, and I respect that. It’s not my place to nag her about a gate-crasher, even if it is a member of her family.