The Dungeon Fantasy Club

by Anya Summers

  She sleepily glanced at him, her heavy lids the result of many climaxes, and his internal Dom puffed up proudly. Forget having a sandwich after a good fuck. If your woman could still move enough to make you a sandwich afterward, you didn't deserve a goddamn sandwich. And from the looks of Delilah, he'd done his job well, and she'd not be moving anytime soon.

  Bastian spent the next fifteen minutes or so taking care of Delilah. He grabbed a warm washcloth from the bathroom, washing traces of semen and juices from between her thighs. He removed her barely there bra, moved her body underneath the covers, and made sure she was settled.

  She watched him sleepily but they didn't talk. He had some things he wanted to say, to ask, but he wasn't sufficiently poised to proceed in that direction just yet. Bastian needed some alone time to think, to consider the options and then plan his course of action. He rarely ever did anything without methodically examining every angle more than once. It was a far cry from how the media portrayed him as a carefree, bad boy rocker. They'd likely be aghast if they knew how stodgy and practical a person he really was.

  He was anything but carefree, even when it came to his choice of female companionship and bed sport.

  Once he'd assured himself that Delilah had been fully tended to, he backed away from the bed. Alarm bells sounded in his brain as he fought against what he truly desired, which was to climb under the covers with her and see if he could coax her into round two—and because of that, he needed to retreat. It put him in an odd position. He'd never had a woman, submissive or otherwise, make him want to stay. Spending the night with a woman was an intimate affair; it encouraged intimacy, and was something he'd always shied away from for many reasons.

  But Delilah made him crave the closeness.

  Bastian exited her room as her eyes drifted shut and a soft snore emitted from her lips. He had to leave, before he did something stupid like join her in bed and cuddle her close. And he wasn't ready for that. Not by a long shot. Bastian was the 'love them and leave them', 'move onto the next before the dust settled' type. With his hectic lifestyle and tour schedule, it fit.

  A move like that, sharing her bed, screamed commitment. Bastian didn't commit, ever. So why did leaving her alone feel like a monumental screw up on his part? He shook his head as he closed her door and headed for his room.

  The last thing he needed was attachment. So what if he was thirty-five and had begun feeling like he was missing out on something all his friends had figured out? He rubbed his hand over his face as he entered his room. Bastian wasn't sure what was wrong with him lately; other than touring, life on the road didn't seem to fulfill him the way it had even five years ago. He loved what he did, truly. And he knew that in the business he was in, he should enjoy it for all it was worth while he still had it. There were shelf lives for bands. In another decade, he and the boys would likely end up on one of those 'where are they now?' television specials.

  He stripped and lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. Not really tired but fighting the urge to go back and join the little sub with all of his being, Bastian grimaced.

  What did he want to do about Delilah? Other than wanting her again with a fierceness that stole his breath, he had no idea.

  Chapter 5

  The insistent pounding on her door woke her. She hissed at the bright light streaming in through the open curtains as she cast a reproachful glance at the bedroom door.

  Didn't whomever was knocking with such unrepentant glee know it wasn't polite to wake a musician up before ten in the morning?

  Delilah hated mornings. Had never been a fan of them, even as a child. Anything before nine a.m. was just uncivilized in her book. That was why her career worked so well for her. Often her rehearsals didn't begin until at least ten in the morning, unless there was a sadistic director at the helm who preferred torturing his vocalists. And then the majority of her performances ran until late in the evening. Many times, she wouldn't even leave the theater until midnight at the earliest, and wasn't in bed until three. It was the perfect schedule—for her, at least.

  She wanted to scream at the person still knocking on her door. The distinct urge to throttle said offender became more prominent with every thud against her bedroom door. Except she was a guest at Mullardoch Manor, and thought better of answering the door like the Exorcist.

  "I'll be right there," she croaked, her voice rough and dry. Delilah wished there was a coffee fairy. That she could click her heels three times, and the fairy would magically appear with a steaming, super-sized, extra Grande, French Roast coffee heavily laden with cream.

  Memories of the previous evening assailed her as her muscles stiffly groaned when she slid from the bed. Glancing at her state of undress, she noticed a few strategically placed, finger-shaped bruises on her hips. Her sex fluttered. Her inner thighs were sore.

  What the hell had she been thinking?

  She hadn't been thinking, that was the problem. She'd allowed her feelings and desires to override her good sense.

  Delilah slid her robe on, belting it as she strode toward the door and whomever she was going to kill for their incessant knocking. The sadistic person thought they were a comedian with their persistent tapping, only she wasn't laughing in the slightest. Bleary eyed and heading toward murderous, she yanked the wooden door open with a violent swing, a furious retort poised on her lips.

  "Unless you are a cup of coffee—" Her words died on her lips as her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. Bastian, his midnight hair slightly disheveled, dark stubble covering his jaw, stood in fitted blue jeans that were distressed at the knees, and a black tee-shirt with a Captain America shield on it.

  Her un-caffeinated brain couldn't think what else she had been about to say. One look at him, especially after last night, and her brain did a Houdini act and vanished. So she just stood there, like a complete and utter moron, drinking in the sensual sight of him. Feeling her nipples harden and a corresponding wetness appear between her thighs made her want to slam the door in his face. She'd just gotten out of a long term and, in the end, very bad relationship. The last thing she needed to do was have a fling with someone who would certainly break her heart.

  And then her nose twitched at the most lovely aroma. Her gaze dropped to his hands, which held not one but two coffee mugs. One of which he held out to her like a peace offering. With the coffee in his hand, she'd consider a stay of execution, for now.

  "Your wish is granted. We need to talk."

  Bastian Dean, purveyor of multiple orgasms and coffee delivery, apparently, waited for her to accept the mug from his hand. He studied her with that directly intense gaze of his and she wished she had a mirror to see what she looked like. Then again, she probably didn't want to see the state of her bed head, or how smudged her eyeliner had become as she'd slept. So why was it, as she stared right back at him, that she felt like he was offering her more than a cup of coffee? Stupid to read into a nice gesture, but her innuendo bullshit meter was off.

  Driven more by her need for coffee, she pushed aside any niggles of doubt as to his motives and accepted the steaming mug, sighing when she spotted it had cream in it.

  "Thanks. Come on in," she said.

  She stepped back, giving him a bit of a wide berth so he could enter her room. He ambled in with his long-legged stride like he owned the place, and more importantly, her. The thought of that, of belonging to him, made tingles of pleasure race along her spine and created a yearning for that intangible feeling. The one she thought she'd had with Ethan but which had been nothing but an illusion. God, she was an easy mark. A few good orgasms, and she was panting after the man like a cat in heat.

  What the hell had she done? She didn't even like Bastian Dean. Right? He was the complete opposite of everything she wanted from a man. He was the ultimate bad boy, probably even had a motorcycle, to boot.

  Delilah shut the door behind him and then, with coffee mug in hand, waltzed over to the Chippendale wingback chair and sat. It put her a few feet away fro
m Bastian. She needed the distance between them. His energy overpowered the space and, more importantly, her. He was so present and focused that his confidence—his, what the Greeks called kefi, his essence—suffused the room. The man was potent, dredging up every carnal fantasy she'd ever had, and making her want to turn him into her own personal sex toy. Any man who was sex on a stick was dangerous. Period. And Bastian had one fine stick.

  Needing the energy if she was going to be able to recover her wits around this one, Delilah drank her coffee, unable to stop the small guttural groan she emitted as the first taste hit her tongue. She inhaled the first half of the cup, using it as a lifeline. Normally she didn't start feeling awake until she was on her second to third cup for the day.

  Bastian's gaze heated at the sound she made, and a blush crept up her throat. She wouldn't apologize for it. It wasn't her fault that her body seemed programmed on a biological level to believe that coffee was her elixir of life. She loved coffee. She could drink it morning, noon, and night. It was her lifeblood. The thing she got out of bed for and looked forward to each day. Until last night, she would have said it was better than sex. Then again, that had been because of Ethan's tepid and lackluster skills which she'd been privy to for the last four years. Until last night, she'd begun to believe was all her fault that it had been so long since she'd had a good orgasm.

  Apparently, that could not have been further from the truth, not after her carnal indulgences tour with Bastian the night before. She'd had six. Six! And each one had been more earth-shattering than the last. Delilah couldn't ever remember having that many orgasms in a week let alone one night. He had played her body with a skill that made her belly tingle in remembrance.

  "What can I do for you?" she said, clearing her throat.

  Judging by his raised slash of black brows, and the wicked gleam blazing in his hazel eyes, he knew she was thinking about their little escapade. Damn him.

  "I have a proposition for you."

  A ball of lust slammed into her core. Her pulsed thumped at the innuendo. She held the cup with both hands in an attempt to keep herself grounded and steady as she said, "Bastian, I don't think—"

  He held up a hand. "Before you shut me down, hear me out."

  "All right." Need swirled in a kaleidoscope of colors in her belly, making her sex flutter.

  He chuckled, a wealth of understanding in his gaze, as though he knew she was affected by his presence. He gave her a once over from head to toe with such blatant desire, her body involuntarily shuddered. "As much as I'd like nothing more than to tie you to the bed for a repeat of last night, my proposition is not sexual in any way."

  "Just tell me what you want," she said, exasperated and not a little turned on at his suggestion.

  "Such a demanding little sub, aren't you? I couldn't sleep last night, and had this crazy idea for a duet we could sing at the reception. I wrote most of it last night but would certainly love your input on it. So what do you say, sweet Delilah? Sing a song with me."

  "Wait, what?" Her brain hadn't flipped the switch entirely yet, to be able to follow the shift in the direction of his thoughts. She was still envisioning being spread-eagled on the bed while Bastian disciplined her, among other things.

  "Declan and Zoey's wedding reception. My band and I, we are the entertainment portion."

  "Yes, I know that but, you wrote a song? Last night? After we…" Delilah trailed off, unable to finish her sentence.

  A slow, satisfied, and wholly male grin spread over his lips, "Continue. I'd like to hear you describe it."

  When hell freezes over. "Not gonna happen. Tell me about this song."

  "It's a duet."

  "You mentioned that fact already. But why would you want me?"

  When he raised his brow, wearing an expression that smoldered her insides, she sputtered. The man was a danger to her sanity, let alone her sensibilities.

  "What I meant was, you clearly didn't think too highly of my skills, um, my voice yesterday, so I don't understand why you would want to perform a duet with me," she added.

  "About that. I didn't mean what I said." He eased back on his seat, a bit of a sheepish expression on his face.

  "Because we slept together?"

  "No. I was in a mood from my travels and took it out on you. Sorry for that."

  "So you lied, and now you're backtracking because we slept together?" Of all the nerve. That was her rotten luck. She could pick them, that was for sure. Delilah's spine stiffened, her blood simmering as anger spiked in her system. Never again would she allow a man to mislead her and take advantage of her. Maybe she had been too sheltered and insulated in her little bubble world, but she wouldn't be a target for another man, even one who gave her the best orgasms of her life.

  "I'm confessing because you have one of the best female voices of our time. I didn't intend to lie. I was stunned to be in the presence of greatness, and like an ass, I overreacted to soothe my ego, seeing as my voice doesn't hold a candle to yours. As for why I want to do this duet with you; I think it would be an extra cool gift that we could give to the bride and groom, don't you? Declan's one of my best buds. Giving him and his lovely bride a special song for their wedding day seems appropriate to me. If you don't want to do it, I can rework it so that it's a solo. I just thought you might want in on it."

  And in a single swipe, the dratted man defused her anger and made her feel like a heel for questioning his motives. This day was off to a fabulous start. She had to temper the urge to crawl back into bed and pull the covers over her head. Her anger may have subsided a bit but she wasn't going to let him off the hook entirely.

  "Maybe. Can I think about it?"

  "Sure, I can give you some time."

  "I'll have an answer for you by the end of the day. I realize we are on a time crunch here."

  "My thoughts exactly. I'll leave you to get your day started. The band and I have to get our equipment set up. I'm a bit obsessive about our sound."

  "You? No!"

  That got a grin from him. She placed her empty mug on the coffee table and stood to escort him to the door, following a step or so behind. Delilah couldn't help but notice the way his jeans fit over his rear. Good lord, did the man have a mighty fine tight end.

  He swiveled at the door. "One more thing."

  Before her brain could compute, he hauled her into his arms and kissed the daylights out of her. Delilah actually felt her brain shut down and hang up the 'not open for business' sign as his lips claimed hers. Her thighs trembled, her nipples perked up, and she moaned into his mouth. At the precipice of tumbling into a pleasured abyss, Bastian broke the kiss and held her face between his hands.

  "Regardless of what you decide about the duet, I want you to wear my cuffs at the DFC this week." He nipped her bottom lip and let her go. "Think about it." His gaze melted every bone in her body.

  And then he was gone, shutting her bedroom door behind him. Delilah could only stare at the door knob. He'd spun her world on its axis on both fronts.

  And she didn't have an answer for him. Just because he could melt her panties off—if she were wearing any—with a simple kiss, it didn't mean she should give in to his offer to experience more mind-blowing orgasms. Even though her body appeared on board with the idea, her brain, and more importantly, her heart, wouldn't allow her to jump at his offer without carefully considering the implications. If she wore his cuffs at the club, it would signify to every Dom in the place that she was unavailable and off limits to others. They would have to get Bastian's permission to do a scene with her, and he had the authority over her to refuse it.

  And as for singing with him; it was a gift for Declan and his fiancée, which she was totally onboard with, in theory. She loved Declan, and wanted nothing but happiness for him and Zoey. Bastian was correct in that it would be a unique and one of a kind gift to present to the bride and groom on their wedding day. It was just that Delilah wasn't sure performing with Bastian was a wise move on her part. She'd already
crossed boundaries with him last night, and that could not be undone. If she accepted his offer, it would move her further into Bastian's orbit.

  Music was intimate and emotional—when she performed, it opened her up and made her vulnerable. Delilah wasn't sure it was wise of her to connect with Bastian on that intimate a level.

  At this point, the only thing she knew was that she was going to need a hell of a lot more coffee if this was how her day was going to proceed.

  Chapter 6

  Delilah stewed as she prepped for the day, finding more finger-sized bruises on her back and butt—or, as she liked to call them, badges—from last night's hookup. In her wildest fantasies, she'd never imagined having an encounter quite like it.

  Bastian Dean was a puzzle. The Australian rocker exemplified the devil-may-care playboy, living large and fast, gallivanting around the world. Delilah was the exact opposite. Oh, she traveled, quite a bit, and she did enjoy that part of her job, but at the end of the day, she would seem boring to someone like him. She toured museums and found out of the way cafés. Sure, she lived the BDSM lifestyle, but she wasn't a partier. She went to clubs to fulfill her needs. Bastian landed on People, and The Examiner, and all manner of paparazzi news outlets talked constantly about his latest conquests and exploits.

  Except, after last night, she was left wondering what he hid so well behind those enigmatic hazel eyes to make people believe that was all there was to him. He'd suffered a case of insomnia, and instead of binge-watching television, like most people would do, he went and wrote a song for a friend's wedding. Selfish playboys didn't do overtly generous things like that. They were typically more concerned with scoring the next big trend or finding the latest hot spot. It made her question her first assumptions about him. And her second assumption; that he was an uber alpha Dom who seemed to know just the right chords to play on her body, totally supported the first.