The Dungeon Fantasy Club

by Anya Summers

  Shaking off her malaise, Delilah set her purse on the floor a few steps away, and then took up her stance. Singing and music, for Delilah, was the one place she could escape reality—or it had been until recently. It was her heart, the better parts of her soul and, for her, was where her internal peace resided. She hoped she could eventually retrieve the parts of it she'd allowed Ethan to tarnish.

  She rolled her shoulders, working out a few of the kinks from her travels, expanded her chest, filling her diaphragm up with oxygen, and slid into her rendition of Ave Maria. As the notes and her voice permeated the space, workers who hadn't laid down their tools stopped mid stroke. Everyone's eyes shifted to her as her voice rose with the cadence, trilling over a high note. She blocked out their stares. She always did, turning inward until there was nothing but the melody inside her veins. The room and its inhabitants dimmed as her voice soared.

  This was the one space where everything made sense to her, where Delilah felt at home. She didn't get stage fright; not really, she'd always just focused on the way the music made her feel and where it took her when she was on stage.

  After Delilah's voice hit the final note, ending the song, the room was deadly silent. There were tears in Zoey's eyes as the workers began to clap and hoot their appreciation.

  "Not to interrupt, but where would you like the band to set up?" A deep bass male voice reminding her of molasses boomed over the applause.

  There was an audible gasp. And was that a 'squee' from the bride-to-be as she turned toward that male voice? Delilah's gaze shot to the rude interloper, only to spy mega-watt rock star Bastian Dean of the band The Harbingers, with his hands shoved in his ripped jean pockets, replete with a bad boy half smirk and devil may care confident vibe rolling off his hot rod body. He had managed with a few choice words to remove the focus off her and redirect it toward himself.

  Her hands clenched. Either that or she'd do the man bodily harm. It wasn't that she craved the spotlight, but dammit, Ethan had done the same thing, using her voice to pretend he was the star of the show. It had been a way to erode her personal power and confidence in herself.

  "I can't believe you are really here!" Zoey said with an audible girlish sigh, her voice filled with a tone of reverence.

  "In the flesh, love. Where would you like the real band to set up? No offense, just never been one for music that's as old as dirt." He directed the last of his words to Delilah as he sauntered into the room toward Zoey, his long strides eating up the distance between them.

  Delilah straightened her spine and headed toward the group. She'd graced the stage with icons that spanned multiple generations, withstood arrogant directors and fellow cast members, and even a manager and ex-boyfriend who acted like he owned her, so she would not bow before this arrogant jerk.

  "That's all right; most pop stars don't understand what it means to make music with staying power," she said.

  At her intentional dig, Bastian briefly scowled in her direction before he brought Zoey's hand up and kissed the back of it; all gentlemanly like. She didn't buy it for a second. Delilah knew his type all too well. The music superstar playboys, who were offended if a person didn't bow down before them.

  Apparently sensing the impending fireworks between Delilah and Bastian, Zoey interrupted. "Delilah, it was gorgeous. I think the Ave Maria is the one we should go with. Now, Mister Dean…"

  "Please call me Bastian."

  "If you'll follow me, I'll show you to the ballroom, where I believe the stage is already finished, and you can begin your preparations there. Jared, why don't you show Delilah to her room? Delilah, I will meet you back in the library for some lunch in thirty minutes."

  "Take your time."

  Zoey escorted Bastian Dean from the conservatory as Kara and company resumed their activity around her. Delilah tried to keep her face blank, to not show how irked she was over Bastian Dean's comments. If she wasn't so raw, normally it wouldn't faze her, but Mullardoch was supposed to be a safe haven for her.

  Jared wrapped his arm around her as they left the room, pulling her out of her funk.

  "You were lovely as ever, lass. Don't worry much over Bastian. He can be a royal ass but he means well."

  "I won't." But that was a lie. She would worry over it. And as for Bastian's ass—she'd like nothing more than to give his well-formed posterior a swift kick.

  Chapter 2

  After a rather tense lunch, at which Zoey profusely apologized for the interruption in the conservatory, Delilah opted to sequester herself in her room. Guests were starting to trickle into the manor for the celebration, and she didn't have the energy required to smile and preen like she was on display. There'd be enough time for that later in the week. By midday tomorrow, the decorations would all be in place in the conservatory, leaving her the room to rehearse. The orchestra ensemble would be in sometime in the morning, which left them more than enough time to rehearse with the musical accompaniment. She knew Ave Maria backwards and forwards, could sing it in just about any key, accompanied—or, as she'd done today, acoustically.

  She hated that it likely appeared as though she was hiding out in her room when she ordered room service for dinner but there was nothing else for it. She'd deflected Declan when he'd called, and explained she wanted to rest a bit before heading to the club tonight. In truth, the last thing she wanted to do was run into Bastian Dean again before she felt mentally prepared. He of the smoldering good looks, with his midnight hair artfully arranged to appear disheveled, and an arrogance that, with a simple smirk from his assessing gaze, made her want to do him bodily harm. Delilah was not prone to violent outbursts but the man dredged up all her fury and made her want to lash out. Safer to have dinner alone than to shock her hosts by strangling the man.

  Oh, she knew that her style of music was not for everyone. She was fine with that, truly, she wasn't a huge fan of techno, so she got it. Opera was unique in the emotions it evoked. Most people either loved or hated it; she understood that aspect of her music. Except it galled the hell out of her when one performer dissed another publicly, like Bastian had done with her today. Dratted man.

  Instead of staying in her room all night fuming, Delilah headed to the Dungeon Fantasy Club below decks. It had been a while since she'd been to the main club, or any BDSM club for that manner. Ethan had used her appearance, her heftier size, as an excuse, saying it made him uncomfortable for others to see her like she was, and if only she'd lose twenty pounds then he wouldn't be embarrassed. Instead of standing up for herself, and embracing the brave façade of living life to the fullest the way she showed on stage, Delilah had caved, conceding parts of her soul to Ethan for him to trample on. He had been her Dom, after all, and only had her best interests at heart—or so he professed.

  Delilah hadn't realized how deep the wounds he'd inflicted upon her, every time he used her appearance as an excuse not to have sex or go out in public with her, had gone until she'd broken it off with him last month. He'd controlled everything she did, what she ate, where she went, when she worked out, when she performed, who she was seen with in public, and so on. It wasn't until she walked in on him fucking the newest La Perla underwear model, in their bed, using Delilah's own handcuffs, that she'd seen him for what he was; a scum-sucking bottom feeder she'd blindly handed control of her life over to.

  Delilah had broken things off with him immediately and fired him as her manager. Ethan had threatened to go public with their relationship, adding that he was going to sue her for breach of contract for firing him. Let him try, she'd counter sue the hell out of him. It wasn't like she needed the money. Her bank accounts were well stocked, and Ethan had never had access to those. Thankfully, she'd had the good sense not to give him access to her bank account numbers. She'd transferred everything to new accounts the day she kicked him out. Just to be sure. Maybe she'd had some sixth sense guiding her actions with regards to her money. He'd certainly pushed for the control there, attempting to tell her that as he was her Dom, she sho
uld grant the power of the decision over to him. Not a day had passed since that fateful day a month previously that she wasn't grateful she'd had the foresight not to indulge him and grant that access. She'd never been one to harbor and carry hatred toward anyone, but she loathed Ethan as much as she thought she had once loved him.

  Delilah's stress trickled away as she waltzed into the club. It was only nine, still early yet by club standards, but packed. This was what she needed, a night to be herself, maybe find a Dom to do a scene with, and relax. Away from the snapping cameras of the paparazzi and dazzling stage lights. Away from the confines and restrictions of her former relationship. Because, if she was honest, sex with Ethan had been subpar. She'd believed him when he told her it was her size that made it hard for him to perform. Echoes of his words had lingered as she dressed for tonight, which was why she'd chosen a knee-length leather dress in slimming black, with matching black knee-high boots. It did show her more than ample cleavage, but when it came to BDSM club wear, it was tame by any standards. And she did have the requisite leather cuffs at her wrists that proclaimed to all and sundry that she was a sub and a free agent.

  Delilah prayed that Jared and Declan would be too busy with the extra wedding guests to chide her over her appearance. She knew she should be wearing less and baring more flesh, but she couldn't right now. Ethan had done that, made her feel ashamed of her body. Granted, it had always been there. From the time Delilah was a little girl, she'd always been the bigger girl. She still had pictures from when she was in gymnastics in fourth grade. All the other girls were these twigs, while she had been solid. Not fat, not even chunky yet, but just more solid than they were. Her parents had put her on diets as a teen. She even remembered an instance where her father had said in a room full of extended family members that she had to watch what she ate or she'd get fatter.

  Delilah tried like hell to conform and make her body into something that was acceptable to them, that would make her worth loving in their eyes. Nothing ever worked. It didn't matter how healthy she ate or how many personal trainers she worked with, her body didn't want to be smaller—unless she went and had surgery to remove excess skin, which was something she didn't believe in.

  As much as she had put on the face of loving who she was unconditionally, Ethan's words over time had put a chink in that belief, until she could no longer look at herself in the mirror without hearing his ugly words. That was why she needed the time off from the stage. To remember who she was at her core, away from the tabloids that called her the 'plus-sized diva.'

  The day after she caught him with the model, Delilah had put her apartment, which she'd paid for and shared with Ethan, on the market. Then she had moved into a hotel until her understudy could take over her part. She'd spent Christmas alone in a Paris hotel with a pint of Ben and Jerry's Chunky Monkey. Pretty pathetic, but it wasn't the first time she'd spent a holiday alone in a hotel room. Although she was mollified somewhat that she didn't have to spend it with her well-meaning family who, while they always tried to make her feel better, never seemed to understand how much it hurt when they told her that perhaps she could get him back if she lost a few pounds. Like it was her fault Ethan cheated, or that because she was a larger girl, it made his cheating okay, instead of the fact that he was actually a cheat and a liar.

  Delilah steeled herself, doing what she could to appear like she was enjoying the holiday festivities when really it just made her want to cry as she approached the bar and took a seat.

  Jared, as always, had a big smile for her from behind the bar. "What'll ya have, Dee?"

  "Grey Goose and cranberry."

  "Coming right up."

  "Thanks, Master J. How's life been treating you at the manor?"

  Jared shot her a contemplative look as he mixed and set her drink on the bar. "Different."

  "I'll bet. When are you going to find yourself a sub to settle down with?"

  "Lass, you know I'm not relationship material," he said. She didn't miss the wistful expression on his face that he shot toward the soon-to-be Mrs. Declan McDougal before it vanished and he covered his blunder. "But if you'd like a scene tonight, all you have to do is ask."

  He winked without any real heat behind it.

  "I don't know. The last scene I did with you, it took me three days to recover, and I need to be able to stand at the wedding."

  He flashed a devilish grin, and his accompanying dark chuckle was pure Dom pride as he moved on to the next patron. Delilah sipped her beverage, enjoying the fruity smooth flavor of her vodka cranberry. Music from Enya pumped through hidden wall speakers and Delilah felt her shoulders relax. She was home. In her mix of like-minded people; no masks, no pretenses, and no lies. She scanned the crowd at the bar and beyond. So far all she'd come across were couples who were either already engaged in a scene or were preparing for one. In fact, if she wasn't mistaken, she could see the wedding planner at the stocks, with the brawny beefcake workman and a gorgeous, blond gentleman whom Delilah had yet to meet, in the middle of a scorcher of a threesome.

  Delilah spied a few unattached female subs loitering in the arena. They were gorgeous and, more importantly, thin. Shit. In a nano-second, she felt her good mood begin to slip. With the four of them here, looking stunning in their barely there attire—and did she mention thin?—a Dom wouldn't even look her way. It always happened. Even though she could take more pain in a scene, her tolerance level being much higher than most, for some reason, she was always passed over.

  Maybe she should take Jared up on his offer. At least with him, she'd get a killer orgasm out of it. She was just about to call out for him when the deep timbre of a male voice spoke behind her shoulder.

  "It's against club rules for a sub to be so overdressed, love. You need to strip and put on something more appropriate."

  She knew that voice, ignoring the way the bold tenor made her belly flutter and skin flush. Before her brain connected with her mouth she said, "Bite me, asshole."

  Delilah realized her mistake a split second later as Jared's head whipped around at the vehemence in her voice. She hadn't been quiet in her rebuttal. As it was, she had a voice that carried. She held still as a strong set of hands swiveled her barstool until she was staring into the furious hazel eyes of Bastian Dean. Her heart thudded in her chest. She'd just back talked to a Dom. And, more importantly, he was the jerk she didn't like and wanted to punch.

  Fuck me.

  Delilah should have stayed in her room and watched television all night. Up close and personal, she noticed the faint creases at the corners of his eyes, the rigid set to his stubble covered, square jaw, shadowing a pair of full, kissable lips which were currently compressed in a thin line of displeasure over her words. Dropping her gaze to his chest was the wrong call, even though it was a submissive gesture on her part, conceding him control. His chest was, without question, incredible. His wide shoulders bore the start of a full sleeve tattoo on his left arm and a half sleeve on his right.

  The tattoos on both arms made his sculpted and firm chest stand out just a bit more for her. Even the flat disks of his nipples appeared more prominent. She didn't know why, but those tats were sexy as hell. It made her mouth water and she licked her lips. Delilah had always had a thing for bad boys. Her gaze traveled further south, following the black trail of chest hair as it tapered over his abs and disappeared in a single line beneath his leather pants. Why, out of all the men, all the Doms she'd run across since her split with Ethan, was it the one she'd like to bash upside the head that her hormones chose to make kissy noises at?

  "What did you say to me, love?" The intense dark flavor of his voice flowed over her, and it galled her that her insides quivered in melty anticipation. It was as though her uterus recognized the dominant, take-no-prisoners, alpha maleness of him, urging her to throw whatever good judgement she had left to the wind.

  The man had torqued her too much today, so combined with her desire to fight the crazy magnetic pull his proximity had on her s
ensibilities, she pushed the envelope further without hesitation. Maybe she'd been pushed too far in too short a time but she couldn't have stopped her response if she'd tried and said, "You heard me. Don't be a jerk and make me repeat it."

  "I'd say this little sub has forgotten her manners and needs to be punished. Come with me." The command in his voice brooked no room for arguments, but did Delilah heed the warning in his voice? Hell no.

  "I'm not going anywhere with you." She snorted and attempted to swivel her chair back to the bar.

  "Delilah, it's Bastian's right to discipline you for offending him. You are blatantly defying club rules with your mouth. And if he doesn't punish you for it, I will, and I won't be gentle in the slightest."

  She shot a glance at Jared's rigid stance behind the bar. "I'd rather you do it, Master J."

  A muscle ticked in Jared's jaw as he contemplated her, his gaze shooting to Bastian over her shoulder. Bastian's commanding nearness made her blood sizzle. Delilah wanted to believe it was because he pissed her off, but feared it went much deeper and more carnal than that. She tried to keep her expression bland, like it didn't matter who carried out her punishment—which she rightly deserved—even though it did.

  "And that's why Bastian will do it," Jared said.

  Traitor. She bit back her retort before she uttered it aloud and had two pissed off Doms to contend with.

  "Come."

  At Bastian's command, Delilah turned her face back toward him, knowing in her heart that Jared was right, she'd given the club rules the finger and had to pay the penalty. But dammit, couldn't it be any other Dom but him? She didn't like him, didn't want him to touch her or give him satisfaction of any kind.

  "The longer you delay, the more inventive the reprimand will become, Delilah." Bastian articulated her name like a caress, and her lady parts quaked. She enjoyed being disciplined. Always had. It tended to make her internal engines run that much hotter. And it had been a long time since she had been properly spanked or flogged. Ethan's halfhearted attempts had left her wanting.