Black Light: Roulette War

by Grant, Livia

  Completely lost.

  I shrug off the devastation that’s been hitting me square in the chest lately. This is not how I pictured my life at thirty-five.

  “Nope,” she says, as if telling me no will erase my doubts. “This is exactly what you need to forget Jeffrey and move on.”

  Says the woman with no long-term relationships to speak of. Even back in law school, she preferred the one-night-stands while I was searching for ‘the one.’

  And dammit, I thought I’d found him. But last month I finally had to face the fact that my Jeffrey, my seemingly perfect boyfriend, had no intention of ever sealing the deal. Eight years as my boyfriend and he couldn’t commit. Didn’t want to put a ring on it, let alone help me out with creating the family I’ve always longed for.

  So, I finally let go.

  Which was harder than it might seem.

  It’s easy if a guy cheats on you, or offends one of your friends or family, or does something concrete to convict him. No, Jeffrey was a perfectly nice, handsome guy who cared about me… but not enough.

  Oh well.

  Thank you, next, as the lovely Ariana Grande would say. But I don’t feel that fucking grateful.

  No, I feel like I just got mowed down by an asphalt truck.

  So, when Gretchen came up with this crazy idea of me joining her for a special event at her BDSM club, I agreed.

  But now I’m definitely having second thoughts. I’m not the adventurous one. And Rocky Horror Picture Show always confuses me.

  “What are you going to wear?” Gretchen demands, pretending I’m not still on the fence about this thing. She unzips the garment bag I hung in her guest room closet and stares at my options.

  “Um…” Apparently she finds them lacking.

  “The red dress,” I say without enthusiasm.

  She unhooks the hanger and holds it up. It’s a slinky wrap-around dress made out of soft, clingy fabric and a low-cut neckline. “This would be nice—for a date with a lawyer.”

  “I am a lawyer,” I point out unnecessarily.

  “Not tonight you’re not. Tonight you are a sex slave. A submissive.” She tosses the red dress on the bed and takes my hand, leading me to her bedroom. “Tonight you’re going to learn to surrender control. As soon as you surrender, the universe can deliver the perfect man to you. The guy who will be so honored to be your man and make beautiful blond babies with you, and…”

  “I don’t see how offering my body up for torture is surrendering to the Universe.”

  She opens the bottom drawer of her dresser where, apparently, she keeps her dungeon gear.

  I recoil at the tiny, latex clothing items she pulls out.

  “Well, it’s not. But you’ll find the joy of surrender. It’s a practice session. You give up control for three hours. Let someone else take the reins and be in charge of your pleasure.”

  “What if I don’t find pleasure?” I hold up a pair of shiny red latex booty shorts that lace in the front. Super hot—for a stripper. “I’m sorry, I just don’t think I could wear anything like this.”

  “A dom is responsible for your pleasure.”

  “He’s also responsible for giving me pain.”

  A wide grin stretches across her face. “That might be his pleasure.” She shrugs. “And it might be yours.”

  Gretchen is a switch—someone who likes to play both top or bottom. Not at the same time, obviously.

  Tonight, she’ll be going as a domme, because that’s what Black Light—the exclusive BDSM club she’s a member of—requested of her after she submitted her application for Valentine Roulette. They hold a special event every year. Gretchen told me about it last year, only back then I’d been listening with the avid interest of a voyeur, never imagining I would throw my own name into the hat to participate.

  The event involves a roulette wheel which is used to select one partner for the night and up to three ‘scenes.’ On my application, I was only able to select four hard limits, which nearly killed me, because I pretty much wanted to hard limit out of everything on the list except for intercourse.

  No, that’s not true. I’ve been fascinated by Gretchen’s lifestyle from the beginning. I’m just getting cold feet now that I’m considering dipping my toes in.

  “Well, wear the red dress if that makes you feel more comfortable. Just tell me you have sexy panties to wear underneath.”

  I make an attempt at being brave. “I was thinking no panties.” I wink.

  “That’s my girl!” She slingshots a thong at my face and I splutter as I catch it. “This is going to be fun. Promise me you’ll let yourself have fun?”

  I suck in a deep breath and nod. I’m not a wimp. I am a hard-ass lawyer who defends ruthless criminals without letting anyone see her sweat. Hell, I manage the account of one of the most powerful crime families in Chicago. I can certainly handle whatever the Black Light wheel throws at me.

  I hope.

  Chapter 2

  Ravil

  Black Light is a secret club, hidden beneath a dance club. The guard knows Valdemar, but I have to show my invitation and I.D. to get in.

  Valdemar stops to greet everyone he knows, so I slide past and head to the bar.

  “Wild Turkey on the rocks,” I tell the pretty bartender.

  I nod appreciatively when she brings it and slide a large tip across the bar.

  Valdemar gives me a wave from where he’s flirting with a couple of women and I lift my chin. I’m not going to trot over there and introduce myself, which I know is what he wants. If they want to meet me, they can come over here.

  I’m content to sit and observe.

  Two women enter and the energy in the room shifts. Women and men alike blatantly check out the newcomers.

  Both are tall. One blonde, one with long dark brown hair. At first, I think both are dommes because they wield that kind of power. They seem to carry the control and confidence necessary to dominate another.

  But then I realize the blonde is too stiff. The confidence is put on—more of a defense mechanism than an internal resonance.

  For some reason, that makes my dick go stiff. I like recognizing weakness in another. And this one is absolutely delicious.

  Her clothing is all wrong. She’s not in a role-playing costume or something revealing with easy access.

  She’s in a red dress that clings to her curves—which are slight. She’s too thin, as if she keeps her body to the same rigorous standard she holds all others to. Her neck is long and stiff like a ballerina’s. Her hair is pulled up in a twist.

  If she were my partner, the first thing I would do would be to take that hair down and wrap my fist in it.

  Tug her head back and bare that throat.

  Flick my tongue in the hollow of her neck and taste her.

  I suddenly want very much to have her as my partner. Especially because I am quite certain she would hate such a thing. A woman like her wants one of the diplomats. A man in a suit and tie. The kind who makes a show of removing his cufflinks to roll up his sleeves to spank her.

  Not a tattooed Russian cur dressed in a black t-shirt and black jeans.

  And because I am a man outside the law, one who lives by the Code of Thieves, I instantly slide off my stool to make it happen.

  “Who do I pay to get the right girl?” I murmur in Russian to Valdemar.

  He breaks off his conversation with the enthusiastic women to raise his bushy brows at me. “You cannot.”

  I scoff. “Of course I can. Someone will always take payment. Who do I pay? Who runs this place?”

  He shakes his head, insistent. “No, you cannot. It is a roll of a ball. I told you this. A game of chance. No one can fix it.”

  My jaw flexes as I look around. I believe Valdemar, I just don’t want to accept his answer.

  I want the blonde. She looks like so much more fun than the eager women begging to be hurt by me.

  She needs to be taught to let go.

  Taught to receive pain.
r />   Taught to yield.

  Only then should she receive pleasure.

  Only then can she receive pleasure.

  Because I seriously doubt that woman has ever had a decent orgasm in her life.

  She and her gorgeous friend head to the bar. I’m tempted to take up my seat again, to get close enough to hear their conversation, but I hold back. I’m the sort of man who never shows his hand too soon.

  There’s a reason they call me The Director.

  Besides, I need to consider my move. If I don’t win the roll for this woman, what other options are available to me? I could pay the man who does win her to swap with me.

  Da. This is a good plan.

  I will not allow him to refuse. I can be very persuasive.

  I finish my whiskey and set it on a tray nearby. It’s settled.

  One way or another, the woman will be mine for the night.

  * * *

  Lucy

  “Everyone’s looking at you,” Gretchen murmurs when we sit at the bar at Black Light. I order a red wine, which makes Gretchen roll her eyes.

  “Because I’m not dressed right?” I ask. Of course it’s because I’m not dressed right, I don’t know why I’m even asking.

  “No, because they’re curious. It’s almost too bad tonight’s the Roulette event, because you could probably have your pick of the men here on an ordinary night.” She looks around. “Which one would you pick?”

  I sip my wine and swivel on the bar stool to look around. The truth is, I hardly saw anything as we came in. I was too worried about projecting my courtroom bad-assery so no one would know how much I’m freaking out.

  There are men of varying ages—many older than we are, which makes sense considering how expensive this club is. The few younger men I see look like playboys spending their trust funds. Many appear screwable.

  “That one,” I murmur, directing my gaze at a man with dark hair in an expensive suit.

  Gretchen smiles. “Nice choice. You didn’t hear it from me, but that’s Trent Joyner, the CEO of McFennel Holdings—the company that owns half the coal mines in this country. Unfortunately for you, he’s a bottom. I’ve had the pleasure of topping him once and it was very fun.”

  Damn. I try to picture myself topping someone like Gretchen does. I believe I could do it—maybe even be good at it. I play the bitch role to perfection, when necessary. But the truth is, it’s just a role. A persona I put on because that’s what is required of a woman practicing criminal law. But it doesn’t turn me on.

  No, I may have never allowed it in real life, but my darkest fantasies are of a man taking control. As a teenager, I used to read Viking romance under the covers at night. They always started with some strapping young Viking warrior carrying off the heroine as his war prize. And I always rooted for him eventually winning her over.

  Gretchen’s right. She knows me better than I know myself sometimes.

  “How about that one?” I ask, directing my attention to an extremely good-looking man in a suit, looking like he’s charming the panties off the group of women standing around him.

  Gretchen rolls her eyes. “Master Lancelot. Yes, everyone wants him and, unfortunately, he knows it.”

  “He calls himself Master Lancelot?” I give a derisive snort. “Okay, yeah. I’ll skip him.”

  “You don’t get to decide,” she reminds me. “Surrender, remember? Ask the Universe to pair you with the perfect dom and it will happen.”

  “Uh huh.” Gretchen has always been into positive thinking strategies to get ahead. And I have to say, for her, they work. Being here with her reminds me how much I miss being around her infectious outlook on life. Like anything is possible.

  She was right. This is exactly what I need to get over Jeffrey and the reality of being single at thirty-five, with my biological clock blaring that it’s getting late—way too late—to find a man and have the family I always dreamed of.

  I want to keep playing the game of pointing out guys and having Gretchen give me the dirt on them, but the MC—a hot young black DJ who goes by the name Elixxir—calls all the participants to the stage.

  I down the rest of my red wine all at once and slide to my feet. “Here goes nothing,” I murmur to Gretchen.

  She hip bumps me. “Knock ‘em dead, counselor.”

  We hook arms and walk toward the stage.

  “I take it back. That was the wrong thing to say. Surrender. Remember—just let go of control. Trust someone else to take care of you.”

  I’m shaking all over, but I nod my head.

  Right. Trust.

  Easy for her to say. She gets to be the one holding the leash tonight.

  We separate when we get to the stage—she stops to stand with the dominants, and I continue to the submissives. I scan the dominants so I can put in my order with the universe. If I’m going to be following Gretchen’s quasi-spiritual manifestation beliefs, I might as well be specific.

  Not him. Not her. Not him. He’s a maybe. Maybe. I’d take him. Maybe. No way. I stop on a blond man in a fitted black t-shirt. He looks like an Instagram-ready bodybuilder, covered in tattoos, except the tattoos aren’t pretty. They aren’t the colorful swirls of dragons or designs you see on the arms of young men these days.

  His are done in black and dark blue ink, the markings distinctive, and what I see chills me to the core.

  I’ve seen markings like that before.

  On photos of dead bodies the D.A. sent over to me when they wanted to question one of my clients.

  They’re a type of gang symbol, but very different from your usual American street gang.

  These are Russian markings.

  Which means this man is a member of Russian organized crime.

  The Bratva. It means brotherhood in Russian.

  I shudder.

  Not him, Universe.

  Definitely not him.

  * * *

  Ravil

  I don’t believe in luck. I make my own fortune. When you grow up on the streets of Leningrad, when you’ve spent time in a Siberian prison—you learn there’s only one person you can rely on to change your fate.

  Yourself.

  Some believe the brotherhood can be trusted, but I know there’s always someone waiting to stab me in the back. Especially now that I’ve climbed as high as I have.

  I don’t ask for luck when I draw my number to choose the order of pairing. I don’t ask for luck when I’m called forward to spin for my submissive.

  I have no expectations of my ball landing in the groove for the woman in the red dress. I have my plan to get her another way. I don’t even pay attention to the spinning wheel, or the name they call out when my ball settles. I glance with disinterest at the group of submissives, not allowing myself to even look at my prey.

  “Master R will be paired with Lady Luck,” the DJ calls out.

  I don’t plan to watch my lovely target, but it’s the startled reaction that runs through her body that snaps my focus to her face.

  Our gazes tangle. Hers is charged with alarm before she blinks a few times and steps forward.

  She’s Lady Luck?

  I lose my breath.

  So easily? I didn’t even have to work for it.

  Lady Luck, indeed. Maybe I do believe in good fortune. I stride forward and place my hand at her lower back, claiming her with a light but possessive touch.

  I listen as the DJ reads out the important notes, “Lady Luck’s hard limits are: ABDL, or adult baby diaper lover, blood play, needle play, and fisting.”

  I take it in without any reaction. She turns her head to look up at me, but doesn’t quite manage eye contact. She smells like red wine and fruity shampoo. The urge to lick her neck returns with a sudden tightening of my balls.

  I decide not to resist. Primarily because I can tell she’s not happy about our pairing and I need to establish that it’s my will she bows to now, whether she likes it or not. I dip my head and brush my lips across the place where shoulder meets nec
k.

  She doesn’t breathe at all.

  I flick my tongue over her skin and a shiver rips through her. A stronger shiver than the light trembling I already detect.

  “Come, Lady Luck. You must choose our entertainment,” I murmur in her ear.

  Another shiver, but she straightens her spine even more—which seems impossible—and allows me to lead her to the wheel.

  Her fingers visibly tremble when she picks up the ball, and she throws it so wildly it barely stays within the confines of the wheel, bouncing erratically and taking some time to settle.

  “Wax play,” the DJ announces.

  “Ah, another fortuitous choice for Lady Luck,” I murmur.

  She sends another darted glance in my direction. This time I catch her gaze. Her eyes are wide-set and a soft brown, like a doe’s. It’s a lovely combination with the blonde hair, which appears natural. Her skin is pale and ice-princess smooth. She has high cheekbones and one of those dimples in the center of her chin.

  She could have been a model, this one, when she was in the full bloom of youth. But she’s too smart for that. Intelligence radiates from that gaze. I read it in her wariness, her quick checks of her surroundings. Her mind is working hard.

  I’ll have to work even harder to get her past it.

  “Come, kitten. Let’s find some wax.”

  * * *

  Lucy

  I’m going to tell Gretchen this whole surrendering to the Universe thing is bullshit. She’s the one who picked the name Lady Luck for me because she said it helps to affirm what you want to believe.

  But this is the opposite of luck.

  I specifically said not him.

  Although it occurs to me that she might have told me once you never ask for anything in the negative because the subconscious—or the Universe—or whatever mental gymnastics Gretchen was programming at the time—doesn’t hear the negative, it only hears what you’re focusing on. In this case, it was the Russian.