Sweet and Dirty (2 page)

“But if you don’t mind me saying so,” he added in a tone that indicated he didn’t care whether she minded or not, “I don’t see you needing this particular tool. Any pet of yours would keep himself ready and waiting for you.”

“Pet?” Michelle asked, surprised into letting go of the device. Had he read her mind about the dogs? “Pet of mine?” Michelle couldn’t help it. She began to giggle.

“Pet. Or pony boy?” His answering smile warmed his eyes to a glinting green. “The pony gear is over there if you’re into pony play.”

He was flirting with her. A thrill spiraled through her body. And yet, he was one of the weirdos. “Thanks…” Michelle took a hesitant step away from him.
Pony play?

Then his voice immobilized her. “A dog-breeding rack is for canines, to hold a bitch muzzled and ready for mounting. That structure”—he jerked his thumb over his shoulder—“is a strictly human affair. Though the similarities are obvious.”

“You know about dog breeding?” She was surprised enough to stare directly into his eyes for a long moment. He looked back, calm and amused. He was the alpha male of the pack, after all.
Dangerous, dangerous
. She backed away, then sideways, into the corridors of exotic dresses, always keeping an eye on him.

He stalked her, not deigning to acknowledge her comment. He made a quick scan of her, head to toe. “Size six.”

“I know what size I am,” she snapped. She felt adrenaline amping her up, making her feel more jittery than normal. It seemed important to defend herself from him, from the danger that seemed to radiate from him. From the way he made her feel. “Do you work on commission?”

His voice was even. “It’s not often I give a demonstration here at Fantasy Dresser. Not with a club of my own to run.” He stepped closer, raising an eyebrow at the way she tensed. His tone became soft and caressing. “You disappointed some people back there. And you still haven’t apologized. It’s almost as if you want to be punished…?” He reached behind himself and began to pull something out of his back pocket.

“Forty whacks,” she said airily, but her nerves shrieked in warning. What was he reaching for? Michelle whirled to grab the nearest dress. Black. Size six.

“Forty-one. Now I’m going to touch you. If you want me to stop, say so.”

Something touched the small of her back, momentary and feather light.

She jerked. A moan started in her throat, but she swallowed it, locking it there.

A thick fingertip, or a knuckle, slowly traced her spine up and up. What was he
doing?
The single contact seemed to unfurl, radiating sensuously throughout her body. She was about to start gasping like the woman in the rack when he pulled away, grazing against strands of her hair, tickling the nape of her neck.

She tingled, holding her breath.

“Turn around,” he commanded. When she did, he held out a business card. “This is my club. The Dungeon. It’s new. I want you to stop by.”

“Maybe I will.” She took the card, trying to maintain her crumbling reserve. The grin he flashed told her he knew it.

“My name is Ro.” He held out his hand. She took it. Large, warm fingers closed around her smaller hand. “And you are…?”

It was too much, too soon. She felt naked under his knowing gaze. All she’d wanted was a dog collar. Inside a store she’d never normally enter, she’d collided with a dominatrix, interrupted a paddling, and now felt her body wanting to fling itself at an assertive stranger who administered punishments. A lusciously dominant male who’d promised her forty-one whacks. She admired his calm authority.

She wanted to possess his calm authority. Not him. Not his forty-one whacks.

Reaching deep for the reserves of determination that had enabled her to begin a brand-new life away from those who’d dominate her into oblivion, a memory was triggered. A nursery rhyme: “Lizzie Borden took an axe / And gave her mother forty whacks. / And when she saw what she had done, / She gave her father forty-one.”

Michelle took his hand. “Call me Lizbeth.”

He wasn’t fooled. “Whatever you say. Lizbeth.”

Michelle made a show of looking at her watch. “What’s the dress code for your club?”

Ro tilted his head, as if trying to figure her out. “Dress to play. That”—he indicated the latex dress she held—“is playful.”

“Indeed. It was nice meeting you, Ro. Maybe I’ll see you later?” Initiating the end of their conversation, she felt an odd sense of courage envelope her.

“You, too.” Brusque nearly to the point of rudeness, Ro pivoted and disappeared into the thicket of clothing, presumably in the direction of the back of the store. She felt the loss of his presence immediately.

She wanted to feel it again. Soon.

Excitement gripped her. As she backtracked, looking for matching shoes, she felt a nervous smile begin to play about her lips.

R
o surveyed his nightclub and felt his heart sink. The lack of bodies packing the place worried him. He prayed the events he had planned would turn the place around before he had to consider his business a failure.

He had to make the club an LA hot spot, and he believed he knew exactly how: offer an oasis of authenticity, where LA’s fetish people could romp to their heart’s content with the latest and safest toys and equipment.

Killer tunes pleased the ear. Tasteful decor pleased the eye.

He showed a stoic face to his bartender, his waitstaff, and his friends. Especially “Mistress Vivian.”

She turned away another group of guys.

Immediately he crossed The Dungeon’s too-empty dance floor to where she worked the door. He saw her expression, clearly disdainful even behind the half hood that hid the upper part of her face. Her blood-red lips curled in a feral smile at his approach.

Ro gazed at her appreciatively. He’d known Mistress Vivian for years, knew her past, knew what she did at her day job, knew everything about her vanilla life outside of the club just as well as she knew his. He knew her a little too well, maybe. She drove him as crazy as an irritating younger sister. But, she was a top-notch dominatrix, and she stalked on her six-inch heels with style and menace.

Sometimes too much menace.

“Scaring boys again?” he asked her, giving her a stern look.

“My second-favorite pastime.” She didn’t spare another glance for the group of guys, even when they howled insults—from safely across the street, Ro noticed.

He sighed. “So, what was wrong with that batch?” They moved slowly away, he saw with both relief and regret.

“Fag bashers. I heard one of them say ‘dung-punching ass bandits.’ You don’t want their kind.”

“I want any kind at this point.”

He intercepted her sharp look, gave her one back. “You know I trust your judgment, Vivi. But if you threaten their masculinity, they’re not going to stay.” He saw the cynical quirk of her lips. Lowered his voice. “I want you to let more people in here.”

“I will. The right kind.”

“Don’t be elitist.”

She snorted. “More like quality assurance and safety management.”

“Please just do it.” She was wrong, but Ro didn’t want to debate it. Vivian loved nothing more than to pick fights.

She sneered. When he just stared in response, she shrugged, nodded, stalked away. Leaving him to gaze at his nightclub’s brick-and-cinder-block columns, at the subtle lighting and decoratively painted walls, at the stockades and strategically placed, cushioned, bondage-themed chairs.

He frowned.

It was a great place. It should be packed.

The Dungeon was his brainchild, a BDSM haven where people could be true to themselves, whatever their consensual kink. More than an enormous investment, it was a labor of love.

People would come. Of course they would.

Ro scanned the club, from the cash room/coat check to Whip It Good Café to the open dance floor and the stage where he would hold his first Dungeon slave auction in a few weeks. He began to walk, enjoying the buzz of satisfaction he felt about owning such a nightclub. The sense of power cheered him and centered him. He evaluated the themed mini-rooms that scalloped the main space. They still looked fun, intimate and inviting.

He couldn’t shake the feeling that something stood in opposition to his goal of making The Dungeon a success. Had his father, who’d been irritable since being told Ro wasn’t following in his respectable lawyer footsteps, somehow managed to torpedo his dream before it even got off the ground? Or was it something else?

Ro reached the heavy wooden door at the far edge of the club. The faded words stenciled on it, CAGE ROOM, looked far older than he knew them to be. Pondering how to ensure that his first month in the nightclub-owning business wouldn’t be his last, Ro turned to see if Vivian had maybe let in a few dozen people while he wasn’t looking.

He was just in time to witness a very strange thing. Vivian, always aggressive and capable in her role as bouncer, let in a trio of giggling coeds without even checking their IDs. She was too busy staring, seemingly astonished, at the attractive woman next in line.

Ro instantly recognized the woman from Fantasy Dresser.

Why is that woman staring at me?

Michelle—no, she was Lizbeth now, she had to remember—looked away, then felt her gaze drawn back to the black-clad bouncer woman like some hypnotized puppy. The woman was tall, aided no doubt by the high-heeled leather boots, but her Amazonian presence didn’t come from height alone. A steel-riveted black leather hood hid half her face, revealing only a stubborn jaw and hard red slash of a mouth. A bare neck and corseted cleavage showed blinding white skin, and strong shoulders and arms extended from a tight sleeveless top to swing confidently, menacingly. Heavily black-lined eyes bored holes into her. The irises were an unlikely shade of bright purple. Contact lenses, of course, but still…Michelle—
Lizbeth, damn it
—felt suddenly anxious and alert, hyperaware of the woman’s scrutiny.

Her own outfit, a black vinyl dress, hugged her curves and the high heels weren’t so stratospheric that she couldn’t walk easily, but it still felt more like a Halloween costume than evening wear. The red lace bra she wore under the peekaboo top had felt especially daring, but now she withered under the other woman’s gaze.

Lizbeth reluctantly stepped up, next in line. She couldn’t seem to control the anxious tremble of her bottom lip or the wobble in her stride. The woman had more presence than the dominatrix at Fantasy Dresser. It was intimidating. Lizbeth could see the woman’s nostrils flare and her mouth open slightly, as if in recognition. For a moment, the woman did seem familiar. Which was impossible, of course. This one was more muscular and young than the other dominatrix.

Lizbeth let her right hand drift over to her left arm. She pinched herself just below her elbow. A measure of relief rushed in after the brief pain, helping her conquer the jittery dance of nerves and adrenaline enough to calmly present her ID. The woman snatched it, checked it against Lizbeth as if she suspected a fake. A smile spread across the visible part of her face. “What is someone like you doing someplace like this?”

Was she flirting? Or challenging? “I’m here to play.”

“Are you.” Vivian handed back her ID. Her long, red-lacquered nail tapped it, twice. “My name is Vivian.”

“I’m Lizbeth,” Michelle responded, before remembering there was a different name on her ID.

Vivian simply stood there, blocking the entrance.

Feeling increasingly tense and insecure, Lizbeth peered past the woman. Finding Ro and learning what she could of dominance suddenly seemed a silly dream. She didn’t belong here; she was a pretender, and everyone could tell, including herself. What had she been thinking?

But even as she turned to leave, a familiar male form suddenly appeared out of the greater darkness inside the club.

“Is there a problem?”

“Ro.” Lizbeth felt the individual thuds of her heart against her breast. His charisma licked out at her.

“You know her?” The dominatrix looked like she wanted to laugh. A flash of irritation shot through Lizbeth.

Under the goad of ire, Lizbeth lifted her head high. She saw the way Ro looked at her, and smiled. She stepped inside, took Ro’s offered arm. The cotton of his dress shirt crinkled and slid pleasantly over hard muscle. His body heat and the clean musk radiating from him had her moving closer, as if her body had its own secret plans. Too close; her lace-covered nipple brushed against his forearm.

“You came,” he said. Pleased but not surprised.

“Not yet.” It was her voice, yet not hers.

Lizbeth’s.

A purely masculine laugh vibrated against her. He directed her into one of the darker alcoves off of the dance floor, one equipped with new-looking restraints jutting from the back wall. She turned. Instantly closed off from the rest of the world, with only Ro’s broad shoulders before her, she felt safe rather than trapped.

“Are you the Pied Piper? My club was deserted before you arrived, and now they’re lined up. It’s a short line, but it’s a line. You’re incredible.”

His look of delight, and appreciation, made her smile. She couldn’t remember the last time a man wore quite that expression while looking at her.

Then he spoiled it.

“You don’t belong here.”

Her calm felt punctured. “You invited me.”

“Yes.” The appreciation was still there in his face, but she could see he’d pounced on the puzzle of her like a dog on a bone. “You didn’t belong in Fantasy Dresser either. Your accent. Your clothes. Your nervousness. It was cute.”

“I was a bitch,” Lizbeth protested. Did she really have an accent? She moved restlessly and felt the thick dangling leather manacles dig into her back. Chains scraped against stone. It seemed she was in a multipurpose alcove.

Ro smiled, his eyes glittering dangerously. “Perhaps,” he said. “And perhaps not. You’re an enigma to me, which is unusual. Believe it or not, I’m usually pretty good at pegging people quickly. Part of the job description, running a place like this. How do you identify?”

“You’re straightforward, aren’t you?” she asked, while parsing his last question. How did she identify? “Hetero?”

“Good.” His eyes lit up even more, if that were possible. She suddenly understood what was meant by the phrase “burning gaze.”

“Hetero, and…?”

“And I’m not sure.” What else was there? She had the feeling she’d find out. She met his gaze, feeling heat swirl in her belly, and up and down her spine. He seemed perfectly at ease with her uncertainty, with her nervousness, which had the strange effect of lessening it.

He gave her a small, purely friendly smile that further reduced her worry. “If I may ask another way…please try to tell me what you want out of this.”

She noticed it wasn’t a question. The force of his personality penetrated what remained of her reservations. She found herself grinning back at him. “You really want to know what I want? What I need? What only you can give me?”

His smile turned speculative as he lowered his head, hooding his irises. A nod.

“I want to learn how to be dominant. I want you to teach me, whatever it takes.”

“That’s what I thought.” Then, shocking her with the sudden sure movement, he secured first one of her wrists, then the other, in the dangling leather manacles. When she only gasped, surprised free of words, he cocked his head critically then tightened the buckle on her left-side manacle. He was close enough for her to smell his scent. He smelled nice.

In the first few seconds of her bondage she felt herself launched into a more intense version of the erotic high she’d experienced at Fantasy Dresser. A languorous, knee-buckling anticipation.

Then she returned to her senses.

“Let me
go
.”

With the same startling swiftness, Ro released first one restraint, then the other. He looked at her expectantly but said nothing.

Disappointment cascaded through her. Lizbeth rubbed her freed wrists though they didn’t hurt. The stiff leather had only gripped her snugly, like the firm grasp of large hands. “I think you misunderstood,” she said. “I definitely don’t need to learn about being…being…”

“Restrained.”

Lizbeth nodded, and blushed. She’d enjoyed it. She knew he knew she did. And yet, it wasn’t what she needed to learn. He was looking at her inquiringly. She spoke, still confused. “I don’t mean to imply I have vast experience with that sort of thing. Not that there’s anything wrong with that sort of thing. I don’t even want to label it ‘that sort of thing.’ I’m not a judgmental person. Um.”

“Are you finished?”

“Yes, please.”

“You want dominance lessons. I can give them to you.”

“Tying me up isn’t going to teach me how to be dominant.”

“You’re wrong about that, actually.” His honeyed voice sent a pleasant sensation all through her body. “May I show you why?”

“Start by telling me.” She was amazed at how badly she wanted him to show her why. She hoped he’d grab her and lock her up again. She certainly wasn’t about to
ask
him to put those manacles back on her. And why was she having such thoughts about a near stranger, anyway?

“You can’t top until you’ve bottomed. The top is the dominant person. Controlling, confident, maybe a little aggressive. But always respectful of a bottom’s limits. Bottom is the sub, or submissive, person, the one who gives up control, either all the time or only during a session. There’s no shame in being a bottom. It’s certainly a lot less work.” He spoke with the assurance of someone who only had to give half his mind to the topic under discussion. But what he said next seized her imagination with possibilities. “There’s a rack in the Cage Room. Similar to the one you saw at Fantasy Dresser. Would you like to know what it feels like?”

A bolt of lust shot through her.

He smiled, a knowing expression. “You’re not ready for that. But these”—he flicked a manacle—“maybe these aren’t too much? I won’t do anything you don’t want me to.” He paused for a long moment. Then, “Tell me you want me to put these back on you.”

As if an invisible string controlled her head, Lizbeth found herself nodding.
I can’t believe I’m letting him do this
.

He locked her back in the manacles.

“You’re thinking that you can’t believe you’re letting me do this,” he said, securing the straps around her wrists until they held her firmly. She felt the delicious languor suffuse her once more.

“You’re awfully sure of yourself.” Her voice came out breathless. “Oh god, we just met and I’m letting you do this. Why am I letting you do this?” And yet she couldn’t deny her almost painful arousal.

“Because you trust me. Wisely. The most important thing in a relationship is trust. Now, we need a word—”

“We’re in a relationship? I don’t even know your last name.”

“And I don’t know your real first name,” he retorted. “And I won’t ask, Lizbeth. Respect for privacy is common in the fetish scene. However, everyone knows I own this place and that’s something that is a matter of public record. I don’t use an alias. My name is Ro Kaliph.”