Dare to Love Again

by Maddie Taylor

  “After this much time, she likely needs professional grief counseling, as well as a Dom.”

  “I was thinking along those same lines. I’ve enlisted Valerie’s professional skills, so you’ll have her expert help, though indirectly. Don’t expect her to share. You could strap her to the St. Catherine’s wheel and take your whip to her and she still wouldn’t talk. You’d be a dead man by my hands for trying, too.”

  Keiran chuckled softly. Eric was as protective as he was enamored of his petite subbie wife. “No worries in that corner, my man. And I haven’t said yes. I’ll give it some thought, but no promises.”

  “I sense she’s ready to move forward but isn’t sure how. I’ll point her out to you tonight. When you see the way she lights up, especially while watching a scene between a committed pair, you’ll understand what I mean. And when you see her auburn hair, creamy white skin, Irish green eyes, and curves, you’ll think you’ve been transported back to Belfast.”

  “Spoken like a Sassenach racist,” he muttered. “We’re not all stereotypical Mickey Rooney’s you know.”

  When the Master Dom’s eyes rose to his dark brown hair, which Keiran knew shone red under the lights broadcasting his heritage, he muttered, “Cheeky Viking bastard.”

  With light blue eyes and blond hair, some of Eric’s antecedents undoubtedly hailed from the Northern Isles so the label wasn’t off base. He laughed, unfazed, having heard it before. “I’ll set up a session.”

  “I have not agreed, man.”

  “You will.”

  “We’ll see, but no matter how it pans out, you owe me.”

  “How do you figure? If anything, we’re even.” His glare was as heated as his ice-blue eyes were cold. “Recall if you will that I delayed my honeymoon for two days because you needed me on Diva Duty.”

  He grinned. The diva in question was a fiercely passionate, highly temperamental, multi-Grammy award-winning pop star who would give Mariah Carey a run for her money on the prima donna scale. No one had wanted the assignment of guarding her when she had a psychotic stalker after her. Eric had drawn the short straw and brought it up every time they talked about who owed who more.

  “Worst assignment I’ve ever had,” he grumbled on cue. “She wanted me to carry shoes while a psychopath was gunning for her. Shoes!”

  “I’d forgotten about that,” Keiran chuckled.

  “That was two years ago and still, if I hear her on the radio, I have flashbacks,” he growled, unamused. “You do this, I might forget her.”

  “That’s high incentive, but as I said, I’ll think about it.” He glanced at the clock and grimaced. “I need to go relieve Jerry. He’ll whine if I’m late. I don’t mind tears from a submissive when I’m the cause—intentionally, of course—but I can’t bear to see a two hundred fifty pound, grown-ass man, and supposed dominant, cry.”

  Eric’s chuckle followed him down the hall.

  Chapter 6

  Keiran stood by the stairs at the front of the room. His eyes swept over the stations. It was busy for mid-week, not shoulder to shoulder like on the weekends, but all the stations were full, with members waiting their turn by the spanking benches and crosses, the most popular of all the equipment.

  Closed on Sundays, and covered up with work all week, this was the first chance he’d had to put any thought into the assignment Eric had proposed to him. He’d asked up front when he arrived if she was here, but no one in the dungeon could point her out. Red hair, green eyes, and curves could describe several of the women present tonight. Most were collared or engaged with a Dom in a scene. Another, dressed in crimson leather from the top of her head to her thigh-high spiked boots, fit the bill, but her bold choice of dress, her manner, and the crop dangling from her waist proclaimed her a Mistress. He’d easily crossed her off his list of potential Esmes.

  He breathed deeply and exhaled heavily, the pull of exhaustion weighing on him.

  Though the troubled widow piqued his interest, Keiran would have just as soon headed home to bed. It was a crying shame when a thirty-five-year-old man, purportedly in his prime, would rather get some shut-eye than play at a bondage club. He doubted if he would have enough energy after he concluded his DM duties to find a sub and restrain her to a cross. A bed might be more his speed tonight, or a bondage table where he could lie back and make her do all the work. A lackluster scene hardly sounded fair to his partner, however, and was a far cry from his preference of making a sub dance at the end of his whip as he turned her bottom hot and pink. That was definitely out since it took strength, and considerable attention, both of which were waning in him as it approached midnight.

  What had possessed him to agree to relieve Jerry at ten p.m. for DM duty after pulling a fourteen-hour day? It had to be the guilt trip Dupree had laid on him for not doing his part. His men were taking their turns, so he should too. Although, had any of them called him on it, other than Dupree, he’d have told them to fuck off. But Eric, like he, was spread paper thin and juggling multiple projects. Something had to give soon.

  “I’m surprised to see you tonight. You were up to your ass in paperwork when I left after six,” the man, as if conjured, said from beside him.

  Keiran only grunted, then they both lapsed into silence, each scanning the floor, watching for signs of trouble.

  “Have you met with Esme and made your decision?” Eric asked, after a moment.

  “Haven’t had the chance yet,” he replied, as his gaze locked on the auburn-haired submissive he’d had to rescue last week. She was winding her way through the crowd, as though on a mission. She barely glanced at the wax table where Jerry was creating an impressive piece of art on his bound submissive, instead, appearing intent on reaching the doors.

  She’d already been on his radar since walking onto the floor tonight. He’d have to be blind to miss the creamy skin and all that fiery hair falling in soft waves nearly to her waist, or the curves tucked once again into a tightly laced leather corset—an outfit all wrong for her softness. He was happy to see she’d learned her lesson about wearing her ribbon, the pink bow centered over her lovely throat. She was exactly his type and her description matched the one Eric had given for Esme, but she’d been sitting in a booth negotiating a scene with a Dom, something his target allegedly wasn’t able to do, so he continued on with his search.

  “Think someone will snatch her up before she escapes into the lounge?” Eric asked.

  Keiran ignored him, not sure what he was yammering about.

  “You can cut her off at the end of the circuit by the doors if you hurry.”

  He gave his business partner an annoyed sidelong glance

  “I’m supposed to be monitoring the stations, not angling a little action for myself. Besides, you wanted me to scope out your troubled widow, remember?”

  “I do, the bigger question is do you?”

  Again, his comment made no sense, so he brought up an incident that happened earlier, one that couldn’t wait any longer. “Before you arrived, we had a little problem on the floor. An asshole overly enthusiastic with a tawse, the same one I rescued the little redhead from last week.”

  “Carlos?”

  “None other. I thought you were going to suspend him, or make him repeat Dom basic training?”

  “That was my plan, but I haven’t seen him to do either one. I left orders up front for him to be detained until we had our little chat, however. Damn,” Eric sighed and reached up to rub his eyes. “Who’s on the doors? Not Thomas, nothing gets by him.”

  “Amelia was the only one in the lobby when I arrived a little before ten.”

  “Fuck,” he muttered. “How bad was it?”

  “Carlos has always been rough, but tonight he really stepped it up. By the time Thomas and I arrived to haul his ass out, the male sub he had up on the cross had bruises, and according to witnesses, that was after only three strokes. Carlos denies it, but the man’s a sadist. He’s got a cruelty about him. If he’d had one of the females up on th
at cross, they would have wound up in the ER. My take—he needs to go, permanently.”

  “Agreed. Why didn’t you call me?”

  “You and Val were busy upstairs, so we handled it.”

  “My thanks, and Valerie’s. It’s the first chance we’ve had to use the Sultan’s Chamber in a while. I’ll inform Mr. Hernandez he is no longer welcome at Decadence LA, first thing tomorrow. If I find out Amelia is responsible for letting him in, she won’t escape punishment, either.”

  Lapsing into silence, they watched as the pretty redhead stopped by the picture frame and gaped at Mistress Emily exacting some pretty intense CBT on her long-term submissive. Shifting uncomfortably at the notion of a metal cage clamping down on his boys, he didn’t blame the little nymph for stopping and staring, but she appeared a little green, as though queasy.

  “Did you decide not to take Esme on?”

  He shot his friend a sidelong glance, his vaunted patience nearly exhausted. “I told you I haven’t had time to meet the lass yet. I looked for her earlier, but no one seems to know who she is.”

  Eric tossed his head back and howled with laughter.

  “You’ve gone daft,” he muttered, his Irish slipping.

  “After running this place for two years, you might be correct. What I found amusing is that the tempting little package you’ve been staring at for the past thirty minutes is Esme.”

  At this revelation, he scanned the crowd near the doors until he found her again. She appeared flustered while talking to Tristan, another Rossi man.

  “I’ve seen her approach no less than four Doms in the past hour. I thought you said she was sweetly submissive. She looks the part but seems rather aggressive, and she’s hardly stuck if she’s the one approaching to negotiate. Maybe she’s a switch.”

  “She’s as dominant as you are submissive my friend. Do you remember me saying I was considering ending her membership?”

  “I’m not muddled in the head, Dupree. Of course, I do. It was only just Saturday that we spoke.”

  “Well, I may have left out the ultimatum I gave her.”

  “What ultimatum?”

  “Either she find a Dom by the end of her intro phase, which is this weekend, or she’s suspended until Pax returns.”

  “The hell you say.”

  The man she was talking to shook his head, patted her shoulder, and left her standing at the bottom of the steps, looking defeated.

  “She’s burned so many bridges, you might be her only hope,” Eric noted.

  As if she’d heard him, she looked up, green eyes glistening. From this distance, Keiran wasn’t sure, but it could have been from tears. Slowly, her gaze swept the length of the huge room and at the last minute, just before she turned, her eyes found Eric’s. They shifted briefly to him, before her face fell, her shoulders slumped, and she walked up the stairs and out of the dungeon.

  “Set it up. Friday. In the little dungeon upstairs. Seven o’clock sharp.”

  “Why the dungeon?”

  “If she can face me there, she’s ready. Otherwise, it might be kinder to cut the lass loose, so she can go on grieving.”

  Eric stared back at him a moment, then his concern slowly eased and was replaced by a shit-eating grin. “I knew once you saw her you’d take her on.”

  “After that look, like someone just ran over her puppy, how could I say no?” He stepped in front of his partner, meeting him eye to eye, Dom to Dom, and added, “You should be horse whipped for putting the poor lass through the humiliation of repeated rejection and should have assigned her to me to begin with.”

  “Sight unseen, you turned me down flat. How would the same request a week ago have made any difference? Besides, she needed a nudge. Being brave enough to approach Doms when she could barely look them in the eye let alone speak to them when she first got here, means she’s ready for you, if not your dungeon.”

  “You’re still a bastard, Dupree.”

  A feminine gasp from beside them announced Val’s arrival.

  “What’s going on?” she asked.

  “Just a disagreement on management styles,” he replied while he slipped an arm around her shoulders and pulled her into his side. Saint Keiran uses kid gloves, while I tend to take them off and get a bit dirty.” The amusement left his face when his eyes cut back to him. “The end will justify my means, my friend. See if it doesn’t.”

  A cry of red echoed above the play. Instantly, Keiran started toward the station. Over his shoulder he warned, “I’ll kick your ass later, Dupree.”

  “I’ll let you if this doesn’t turn out as I anticipate.”

  “Let you? My Irish ass.” But he was halfway across the mammoth play space, his gaze on the station with the weeping submissive in chains, and her Dom, frantically, but ineffectually trying to set her free.

  He arrived, saw it was an equipment failure, not a cruel top causing the problem, and had the bolt cutters out of the emergency box before more help arrived. Thomas and David both on DM duty tonight, Mistress Erin who chaired the membership committee, and was the de facto head Domme-in-Charge, and Gareth, one of the other club Masters who was here simply to play. When Keiran cut through the malfunctioning quick release shackle, the frazzled Master scooped his weeping sub into his arms and carried her to a booth to comfort her. Erin followed with water and a blanket from one of the aftercare stations set up around the big room

  “Step aside, please.”

  The club members gathered to watch this latest drama parted to let Eric through. He was alone, which meant his delay in arriving had been to secure Valerie somewhere safe.

  “Can we have one night without a drama?” he asked in disgust as he took the defective shackle from him and examined it. “These haven’t been oiled as required. I’m calling a meeting first thing in the morning. Things have gotten lax and asses are going to be flayed.” Usually even-tempered, by the time he finished his voice was approaching a roar. “We have a responsibility to ensure everyone’s safety and we’re falling down on the job. Carlos got in when he shouldn’t have, and now this. What the fuck?”

  David, who oversaw the schedules of the full-time staff, was able to answer his question. “Amelia was assigned to the doors tonight, and she, along with Jaquelyn, were supposed to have done the preventative maintenance and oiled all the shackles, metal cuffs, and equipment hinges on Sunday.”

  “That’s twice she’s failed to carry out an assignment,” Eric said in a deadly tone. “Unacceptable.”

  “Her attitude has been increasingly bratty, which for Amelia is saying something,” Thomas noted. “She’s been without a dominant since Destry parted with her last spring.”

  “Amelia’s the type of sub who needs constant attention, and a firm hand on the reins. I’ll take care of this recent inattention, but we need to see about getting her someone permanent.” Gareth Michaelson was one of the few Club Masters who wasn’t a Rossi man. A software designer who made his first million by the age of twenty-five, the computer genius didn’t fit the Master mold. He looked like a linebacker, not the typical nerd. His looks and adventurous nature—again atypical—made him popular among the subs despite being a sadist. And, he could always be counted on to volunteer when one of the club’s submissives needed disciplinary action.

  “She may be lax in her duties,” Eric stated, “but we can’t—I won’t—lay the blame for this solely at her feet. We had an issue with the St. Catherine’s wheel last night, and I don’t mean jammed cuffs. One of the foot manacles had lost a screw. If the conscientious Dom hadn’t noticed it before he inverted his sub, we might have had a more serious incident. Now this.” His hand around the back of his neck, he looked at his feet a moment, before he announced his decisions on how they would move forward. “We’re operating six nights a week on a skeleton crew and that can’t continue. Tomorrow, we’re closing and I’m calling in a maintenance crew to perform a thorough inspection.” Eric nodded at Gareth. “You deal with Amelia tonight but she’s to be back here in
the morning at eight. In addition to whatever corporal punishment you administer, I think a fitting lesson for her inattention lately is to polish every piece of wooden furniture while the men check every hinge, bolt, and screw. Are you available to supervise her?”

  “Absolutely, with a cattle prod if necessary.”

  That he anticipated using one of the low-voltage implements on the errant sub’s backside was obvious to Keiran, as well as David and Thomas who were both nodding in approval.

  Eric went on outlining his plan. “Afterward, I’ll meet with her in my office to decide her future as an employee.”

  “Excellent idea, boss,” David said with a nod, while Thomas grinned. His ire blew hot and quick, then usually dissipated when the wrong was made right.

  “In the meantime, we need to shut down the wheel, the chain station and any equipment with metal pulleys, chains, latches or cuffs,” Keiran advised. “We can’t risk an injury.”

  They all nodded and dispersed except for him and Eric.

  “Friday at seven p.m.,” he repeated. “And I’m still gonna kick your ass. If I wasn’t so busy, I’d tell her myself, then do it now.”

  Eric didn’t appear concerned; they had sparred often and were equally matched. “Thank you,” he murmured, “for helping out tonight and with Esme. Also, I’m approving those other eight positions you sent over this morning. Part of the issue here is we’re all overextended. I’m also hiring a permanent maintenance man and some staff Doms. But that doesn’t mean I’ll stop harassing you to be here. I miss having your observation skills and quick reactions on the main floor.”

  “You won’t hear me arguing about more staff. We’re operating well in the black, no sense killing ourselves trying to manage things alone.”

  “Agreed.”

  “I’m on until midnight. I’ll keep an eye on things here. You can tell my errant sub there’ll be no more propositioning Doms before our interview. In fact, send her home, not to be back until our appointment and we’ve had a chance to talk.”