by Anya Summers
Reaffixing her disguise so that she didn't inhale feathers, she assessed Dungeon Pleasures. End of Summer Masquerade Party her foot, it was more like an excuse to fondle, ogle, and show everyone your naughty bits. Its tagline should have read, 'debauchery central, if you want it, this is the place to get it'. 'It' meaning sex. This club was a place for the wilder LA crowd to break out their leather gear. Ophelia didn't think she'd ever seen so much leather and spandex in one place, nor so many nipples. Women and men displayed their cleavage wrapped in clamps, jewelry, or spilling out of leather corsets—or all three. And she wasn't even going to mention the barely-there skirts or number of people going commando. There was a cowgirl strutting herself in assless chaps. She hadn't known until tonight that they made assless chaps, but apparently, they do.
A resounding bass pumped out of the sound system and that, combined with the sweaty mix of gyrating, oversexed bodies getting their groove thing on out on the dance floor, was enough to send Ophelia scurrying for the hills. She'd rather be at home, curled on the couch with a good book, than in the midst of this sexual feeding frenzy. She liked sex; she did, but she had never been into overt displays. She was more the fine wine, candlelight and lingerie type, than the leather studded corset type.
So why was she here? Besides the crushing amount of guilt she needed to assuage. Ophelia turned Anna and Molly down for attending social functions ninety-nine percent of the time. It wasn't that she didn't like her friends—she did—but she also far enjoyed her own company above the overcrowded, over-stimulating clubs her peers seemed to adore without question. There really was something erroneous about her attitude toward social interaction. She knew it, but didn't believe there was a fix for it. Crowds made her uncomfortable and filled her with anxiety. And, if she were honest, most clubs bored her to tears, even ones with ample amounts of bared flesh on display. Although Dungeon Pleasures did take the cake for the sport of people-watching. Yet Ophelia far preferred her books than the bump and grind she was presently witnessing. That was where the world made sense, where men behaved with honor and dignity, sent you a calling card so you knew from the start what their intentions were toward you.
Dating was something Ophelia had never seemed to get the hang of, not in high school, not in undergrad, and certainly not now. She'd had boyfriends, who had skedaddled the moment they realized she was more interested in her books that she was in them. Sad, really, when she thought about it.
The only reason she had come tonight was because lately, she'd been feeling like she was nearly coming out of her skin she was so desperate for physical contact. In other words, she wanted sex, with no strings attached. She didn't have the time necessary to cultivate a relationship. Her end game was sex. Really hot, she might need to fan herself with an Austen novel, pulse-pounding sex. She wasn't a virgin or a prude but found most men lacking in this department. Then again, the deficiency could be in her, and maybe she just needed to order that super deluxe vibrator she'd found online, the one that promised its purchaser hours of pleasure. At the rate Ophelia was going, she'd be happy with five minutes. Between school and classes, she had little time to develop the necessary foundation for a relationship, when what she truly desired from a man at this point in her life was a few good orgasms. Was that really so wrong of her? She was just shy of her twenty-fifth birthday. Her peers were all having copious amounts of one night stands, it was what all the women her age were doing now anyway, and she wanted just one night to sustain her while she finished her masters. Then there were the myriad online dating sites she'd perused the other night, the same night on which she'd found the all-star goliath of vibrators. Ophelia had inspected the dating profiles and groaned, and not in a good way—those damn sites were the reason why she considered the men in her books a better, safer bet.
She had one measly year left before earning her master's degree in eighteenth century literature. Then roughly three to six years to earn her doctorate, depending upon how long it took her to write her dissertation. Once she reached that milestone, had those three letters added to her name, then she could have a real life, but until that time, she didn't know how to balance a relationship with the demands of her career. When she wasn't in class, she was teaching undergraduate classes at the university, or studying. That was it; the entire substance of her life was English literature. Her robust work ethic was something her parents and her older sister had instilled in her. She couldn't let them down.
Ophelia had assumed that, with her friends' penchant for discovering the latest hot clubs, she'd have a chance to mingle and find a reasonably attractive man, have some hot hanky panky and be done with it. Itch scratched—no harm, no foul. Not that she'd ever been good at the whole sex thing, as most of the interludes she'd experienced had left her sadly wanting something she couldn't name. Her sexual experiences had been pleasant diversions, but that wasn't what she craved. She wanted no holds barred passion. She wanted to be taken by a man who knew what the hell he was doing. Her fantasies of late had been disturbingly carnal.
The one thing Ophelia hadn't counted on was that her friends would take her to not just any type of club, but to a hot new BDSM Club, Dungeon Pleasures, in Pasadena, and would subsequently desert her, leaving her to her own devices, shortly after entering. Who knew where Anna and Molly were in this place? The building was an old converted warehouse. Wall to wall bodies, and sex practically oozed from the ramparts. The thumping bass competing with the symphony of moans—because clubgoers were having sex right on the dance floor, never mind finding a darkened corner or alley—and the whole entourage was starting to give her a headache as she sipped her Cabernet. She could feel the beginning drumbeats of a migraine at her temples.
The warehouse style club boasted multiple rooms. Ophelia sat at the bar, a modern meets Goth style number that mixed sleek gray steel with midnight taboo and suggestive undertones. The décor dripped the promise of naughty pleasure. The first area, where she sat people watching, was aptly named the Arena—which was more or less a regular club if you took away the obvious bump and grind action happening—with glossy black floors, lowlighting, and neon purple lights that throbbed in time to the mind-numbing techno music. Through a set of grand theater style double doors, again in a lacquered black, to her left, was the entrance to the more private, I'm-hooking-up or about to hook-up with a virtual stranger and have super kinky sex area. It was inscribed the Devil's Lair in large, garish, burgundy letters which had the appearance of flames. And then, finally, from what she had learned from the bartender, there was the third and final area known as the Dungeon; for the avid lifestyle BDSMers. She probably didn't want to know what happened in that third level, even if she was curious. It was a bad habit of hers, that curiosity. Made her want to find out if they sacrificed virgins or something on that level, or had raging orgies.
Tonight's theme was a Masquerade Ball, which was why Ophelia was inhaling feathers from the peacock mask she wore to compliment her barely there sapphire dress which clung to her body, her cleavage all but spilling over the top, and she had to sit precariously on the stool or she'd be flashing the whole room her naughty bits, thankfully covered with a silky strip of black lace panties—but it left little to the imagination. Not that anyone in the place would notice her. Believe it or not, her attire was tame compared to that of most of the party-goers.
Leather, corsets, and bare breasts seemed to be the couture of the night. It made her wish all the more for her yoga pants, comfy blanket, a cup of tea, and Mister Darcy or one of the other noble heroes she was head over heels for at the present. Hell, she'd re-read Jamie Fraser's adventures for the hundredth time if it meant getting her away from her unfortunate night out.
When Ophelia spied a woman—in violet, sprayed-on latex—kneel at her biker-clad counterpart's feet and begin to give him head right there in the open, she knew she was in way over her head and was out.
Signaling the bartender, Ophelia paid her tab, slipping the Goth girl, with blue hair and skimpy f
ishnet top, a generous tip. What a hell of a place! With her purse clutched in her hands, she got down off the stool and started to maneuver through the throngs of bodies to the exit. A set of strong arms slithered around her waist from behind and pulled her body flush against his.
"You weren't leaving yet, were you, baby?" the man mumbled in her ear, rubbing his obvious erection against her ass.
Gross! He drove home what he wanted, rubbing his hips back and forth. White hot anger bubbled and foamed at the surface. This was why she didn't come out much, because of asshats like this. What the hell had happened to chivalry? Or asking permission before you manhandled a woman, grinding your erection up against her? Not to mention she hated that endearment: 'baby'. Ophelia wasn't a baby; she was a grown-ass woman.
"Get your hands off me," she ordered, praying her voice would sound firm but cursing how whiny and scared it sounded to her ears. She struggled against his grip, squirming until she was half turned in his arms and could finally get a look at him.
The only word she could think up for him was 'poser'. His outer appearance was a walking billboard for Bikers'R'Us, replete with a skull and crossbones bandana over his bald head, while his dull, cornflower blue eyes said 'investment banker playing at being a hard-ass'. She rolled her eyes, praying that she could extricate herself without causing too much of a scene. She just wanted to catch a cab and go home at this point, she'd text Molly and Anna that she'd left and that would be that.
"Now is that any way to be, baby? I've been watching you at the bar and thought we could head to Devil's Lair and have ourselves a private party."
Ophelia grimaced. "Thank you for the offer, but no. Please take your hands off me and let me pass." She pushed against his hold, feeling more and more like a fly caught in molasses.
An unholy light gleamed in his eyes as he narrowed them into slits. He yanked her back against him, his hand covering her mouth. "You're coming with me and no one's going to stop me, you uppity bitch."
The first grips of panic speared her pulse as the man used the crowd to his advantage and ushered her toward the doors with the red lettering. The throng was so busy dancing and getting their groove thing on that no one noticed as she struggled against his iron grip. Fear pounded in her veins and she prayed she could escape him. Ophelia didn't care about any scene she might cause—she might want to get laid, but not by him, and no way in hell was she going to let this guy force her. Beyond those doors, they had bondage tools available. He'd have her gagged and bound before she could call for help. The phrase 'be careful what you wish for' played on a recorded loop in her mind as she fought to free herself.
Unable to think of any other avenue of escape as his fingers closed like a vise around her arms, she acted without thinking and bit the hand he had slipped over her mouth. She bit him hard, unwilling to let go until she drew blood.
He yelped, howling in outrage.
"Fucking bitch!" He slapped her across the face, breaking her hold on his other hand.
Ophelia cringed as he drew his arm back, struggling to escape his grip. One minute, she was preparing for another blow. In the next, she was watching in stunned amazement as a gladiator of a man knocked her attacker to the ground. Tattoos covered his muscled biceps, disappearing under a fitted black shirt with the club logo that displayed his wealth of muscles. His angular face was too masculine to be considered beautiful, with dark stubble covering his jaw, framing full lips that were set in a hard line as he hauled her attacker to his feet.
The man fought his grip, belligerent that he had been denied his prize. "I'll sue you and this club," he roared.
"How about we call the cops? I'm sure they'd find your assaulting a woman a punishable offense," her rescuer said.
"Fuck you," the man spat, clearly deranged, as two more bouncers—who looked like they bench pressed semis on a daily basis—stepped in, restraining him.
"Do you want to press charges?" Her rescuer turned his amber gaze Ophelia's way, addressing her for the first time. She shook her head. She just wanted to go home and forget about the whole night. Maybe drown her sorrows in a pint of double fudge brownie. The press of the clubgoers, the horde that had formed a wide circle around the firework festivities, was becoming too much for her. She felt like she had entered a tilt-a-whirl as the eager faces of the mob watched the interaction with unrepentant glee.
He nodded his understanding before returning his stare toward the perpetrator. "You are banned from this club. Matt, Derek, fill out a violator's report with his information, call the authorities if you have to, and escort this asshole out of the club."
Ophelia wobbled on her feet in relief as the jerk was dragged away before she focused on the man who'd saved her from unspeakable horrors. She used him as a lifeline as the room continued to spin.
"Are you all right?" the deep gravelly voice of her rescuer said. He really had a nice mouth, the bottom lip fuller than the top, surrounded by burnished copper stubble.
Ophelia opened her mouth to respond, to thank him for his timely save. Then her knees buckled and she felt herself falling. The horror of the night's events finally caught up with her.
"Shit." Her rescuer moved like lightning, which was surprising for a man who was so big. His burly tattoo-covered arms scooped her up, and carried her from the press of curious onlookers.
"Brendan, watch the floor while I take care of our wounded bird here," his voice rumbled as they passed the bar and she felt his words keenly inside her chest. She liked the way his voice sounded. The honeyed baritone resonated, making her belly quiver.
She buried her face in his neck, clinging as tears fell. This was the last time she would hit the club scene for some time. A night out wasn't worth this. A man had struck her because she'd said no. Ophelia would have one hell of a time explaining away a bruise she could practically feel forming on her cheek—where his hand had landed—to her sister, Zoey. She'd be furious and get all over-protective like she had since their parents died.
They passed through a pair of doors on the other side of the bar, down a long, rather forlorn hallway that made Ophelia think of every horror film she'd ever watched, and up a set of stairs. With each passing footstep the sounds from the club became muted and diminished. She felt the sensation as they climbed—it seemed, in her position—the longest flight of stairs in the world.
He pushed inside a large steel door, closing it behind them. He deposited her on a leather sofa and she protested the loss of his warmth, his strength.
"I'm just going to grab some ice for your cheek, I'll be right back." He lightly traced her throbbing cheek. His amber eyes simmered like molten gold as he held her gaze. Then he withdrew, walking around the couch and leaving her there.
Ophelia studied her surroundings, her tears drying on her cheeks as her natural curiosity got the better of her.
Gone was the garish club lighting and couture, replaced by hints of old world décor. It screamed 'expensive'. The loft apartment appeared to span the entire back-end upper-level of the warehouse. Dark walnut hardwood floors, the real deal, not the fake stuff that had hit the market years ago; midnight leather furniture; and plush ebony rugs dominated the open space. Barely any splashes of color anywhere. It made Ophelia wonder what he had against colors other than black. There were a few oak doors, the same uniform color as the floor, on the wall opposite the front entrance. She assumed they led to bedrooms and bathrooms.
Then she returned her attention to her knight in shining armor. His strength was lethal. He had taken down her attacker with one solidly landed punch. Tall, his body power-packed with muscles that rippled with each movement, he moved with a lion like grace as he withdrew a bag of something from the stainless steel industrial grade refrigerator. His kitchen color scheme was like the rest of the place, dark wood and black, with stainless steel appliances breaking up the monotony.
He approached her, then, kneeling in front of her, he removed her feathered mask, which she'd completely forgotten about with the enti
re hubbub. He lightly gripped her chin, angling her face as he inspected the damage, and then placed a frozen bag of peas against her jaw.
"Ow," she murmured. She winced, hissing, staring into his sensual amber eyes framed by some of the longest inky eyelashes she'd ever seen. There were women she knew in this town who would kill for a set of eyelashes like his.
"Sorry, you're going to have quite the bruise there. Are you sure you don't want to press charges?" he said.
Like a complete ninny, she couldn't stop the tears as they spilled on to her cheeks. Ophelia had never been exposed to violence like that, even though she'd lived in LA her entire life. She'd never even seen the pictures from her parents' fatal car crash. Mom and Dad had used time out and other punishment tactics growing up. Even though she'd had a few frenemies throughout high school, not one of them had ever struck her. It burned her to her core that she couldn't seem to stop shaking. Ophelia wished with everything inside her that what had transpired downstairs hadn't decimated her sensibilities, but she'd be lying.
"No, I just want to forget it ever happened. No one's ever—" she blubbered, unable to stop the tears. She observed him through watery eyes, trying to finish her explanation, but found that words escaped her. God, she must look horrible, holding a bag of frozen peas against her right cheek, tears leaking down her face, her left arm wrapped around her body as if she could hold herself together by will alone.
"Hell," her beefy, gorgeous rescuer muttered.
Her world upended itself as he lifted her up into his arms, turned and seated the two of them on the sofa. He cradled her against his chest, his warmth seeping into her frigid limbs, and held her with such gentle chivalry. A dam burst inside her and she wept on his firm shoulder. All the while, he comforted. His large hands stroked her hair, her back, cuddling her close while she unleashed her sorrow upon him. As the storm abated, he held a tissue up to her nose.