by Susan Arden
God, how long had it been since he’d seen her? Not long enough. He’d gotten past their break-up when he’d confronted her on club money gone missing. She’d worked in the club boutique downstairs, and had been the S & L bookkeeper. But each month the club kept coming up short, and Pen started complaining about their account balance, and had pointed his finger at Val.
Caught red-handed with a load of cash in her purse—marked money from their office safe. At first she claimed she needed the money to pay some bills. Her story fell apart when he found moving boxes packed in the apartment where she lived, which he’d paid for in town. She drove a car he’d given her. Val made a good salary never offering to cover even a cup of coffee when they went out together. She’d laughed in his face and confessed to taking the money—saying it was her due for all she’d done at the club. Threatened to file a lawsuit for harassment if he tried to stop her from leaving town.
He’d had her ejected from the club and from the apartment. Paid someone to pack up her stuff and told her to go ahead. Take his ass to court. Afterwards, he hadn’t said two words to her, even when she’d taunted him to do something. Feel something. He couldn’t.
She’d sent an email months ago, saying that she’d forgotten the dress and to stow it, stating that someone would be by to pick it up unless he’d gotten rid of it. Like it was some challenge. Each time he caught sight of the red leather fetish dress, he considered setting a torch gun to it. But hell would freeze over before he gave Val the satisfaction that he cared enough to torch it. So stubbornly, he let the dress hang there refusing to give a rat’s ass.
Instead, he dove into his work. Like now, when he redirected his attention to the spreadsheet on the computer screen, tamping down the sting from the memory of Val’s laughter when she’d admitted to faking her way through playing the part of his sub.
He rubbed his hand over the stubble along his jaw, and shook his head, scrolling down the spreadsheet. Cursing under his breath at the amount of work required to balance the books, he started digging through the pile of invoices. Buckling down, he organized the bills and got his head into figuring out their finances.
It would have been easy to hire a bookkeeper for a routine business. But given some of their vendors included a retailer of satin sheets, a supplier of erotic lingerie as well as an online outlet that stocked the standard kink paraphernalia required for a sex club, he wasn’t keen on fueling gossip about the S & L. A high-class club meant no loose talk. They vetted members with a background check handled by a retired FBI agent in Dallas. Membership required a signed contract with a hefty annual fee. What went down at the S & L didn’t leave, not without threat of serious legal repercussions. Tight-knit and closemouthed is how he and Pen ran this place.
Except if he didn’t get the bills paid, they’d run out of clean sheets and towels for the coming week.
Hungry & Buzzed
HOURS LATER, the sound of music and laughter filtering into Brandon’s awareness reminded him that the club had opened. He’d untangled the club’s finances. A stack of checks was written to cover vendors, and his bank account wasn’t suffering. He sat back with a satisfied grunt and stretched, unfurling his long legs and letting each boot come down with a loud thud against the floor to the side of the desk. Staring out the window at the darkened skies, he contemplated throwing back a shot of Jack. A knock sounded at his office door, a sure sign that things were heating up.
“Yeah?” he hollered, doing a neck roll as his door opened.
“Got yourself sorted out?” Sam the head bartender leaned against the doorway.
“Finally. What’s up?” Tonight he felt in a surly mood, and those types of nights never ended well.
Lately, nothing around here was easy and Sam’s normal shit-eating grin was gone. The bartender stood there and frowned. “Need your attention downstairs, on the double.”
“What happened?” he barked.
“Naw. This problem you’d better see for yourself.” Sam uncrossed his arms and made to leave.
Oh, fuck. That wasn’t good. “Sam, stop being such a pussy.”
“Dude, say what you will. I’ve seen you in action and this ain’t one of those ‘go and shoot the messenger’ kinda deals. I did my part by coming and getting you.”
“Who in the hell is at the root of this issue?” He carefully skirted around authenticating an issue as a true problem. Without laying eyes on a situation—any situation—he’d learned early on, defining things had a tendency to make them real and never real in a good way. Cattle were livestock, not pets. Connections were acquaintances, not friends. And absolutely always sex in his bed involved a willing partner—nothing more.
“Marty’s got a situation. One you gotta see.” Only now did Sam let a wide grin overtake his face.
Jackass.
“Marty? Is he covering someone?”
“Negative. He’s not working the door or the bar or the floor or security. This is a membership problem.”
“Issue!” Brandon pushed his Stetson back on his head and inhaled. “A membership issue. You got that?”
“Yeah. Issue. I also got to get back to the bar. We’re busy tonight.”
“Fine. See you downstairs, Sherlock.”
“Now you’re just being ornery,” Sam snorted.
Brandon sucked in a retort about dusting liquor bottles as payback. That shot of Jack sounded better and better. What the hell? He yanked open his bottom drawer and grabbed the bottle by the neck. He poured a liberal finger or two into his empty coffee mug. He drained the shot of whiskey and replaced the bottle in his drawer.
He trekked down the stairs, walking a direct line into the membership office run by Marty, a thirty-something injured bull-riding-rodeo-king. Marty had recently settled a huge lawsuit against an arena and needed something to do to fill his time. He wasn’t a loud talker. He kept his mouth shut and his eyes open, and knew how to size up everything from large animals down to fast-talking men and women trying to bullshit their way into the club.
The man was dead-on when it came to red-flagging potential troublesome club applicants. He’d been head of membership since the place opened, and Sam was right. He never veered away from the regulations and never needed help in revoking a membership. Not once had Marty ever needed to see him in a hurry.
There were only a few S & L rules, and each was black and white. No one could pretend forgetting them, they were so goddamn simple to memorize. The membership rule amounted to one: only he or Pen granted a membership. Anyone who broke a club rule was shown the door, and his or her membership cancelled. Three other club rules, starting with put your hands on another member without permission and you’re done. No guns, knives, or weapons of any sort on the premises. Keep your mouth shut about members’ names and the activities that occur within the club. No ifs, ands, or buts.
Up ahead he met the manager’s wide eyes. He waved Brandon over, but instead of staying put, Marty limped across the bar to meet him. “Over here,” he said and got his cane tangled up in one of the chairs. “Hold on.”
“What’s got you going?” He scanned the bar area. Nothing looked unusual. The tables were filled, the bar was busier than a hornet’s nest, and the staff along the halls were handling reservations and handing out keys.
Regular Sunday night buzz, plus Marty sweating.
They entered the membership office and Brandon stopped short. “How may I help you?” His eyes widened when the two blond heads turned around to face him. Mirror images. Esme and Selma. A twin bad dream come to life.
“We’re back,” one of the girls said, smiling wide.
He turned to look at Marty and grimaced. “What are they doing here?” he asked in a voice deadly low.
Marty pushed up the brim of his hat. “Not my doing. Guest cards. Must be Pen’s idea—?”
“Brandon! We need your help. He won’t listen to us,” one twin exclaimed while the other poked Marty in the ribs.
“Stop that.” His manager swung his
arms. “Keep your hands to yourself. Do you understand me?”
One girl pouted. “We didn’t mean anything by it.”
Shit, this better not have anything to do with Pen’s previous texts. He exhaled sharply, silently cursing. “Let me see those guest cards.”
“See? We told you he was okay with us being here. Tell him, Brandon.” The twins took two hurried steps toward him.
He pushed his hands out in front of him as though he was stopping a charging bull. “No. That isn’t what I said. I haven’t got a clue how either of you were allowed inside.”
“I knew it,” Marty snapped. “You both lied, wasting my time, and now Brandon’s.”
“What?” The twins shrieked in unison and Brandon clenched his jaw.
Marty thwacked his cane on the side of the desk. “Stop screaming or I’ll throw you out myself.”
“Why would you do that, Mr. Keller?” Both women’s eyes were wide and their chins quivered. “We haven’t done a thing.”
He almost felt sorry for them—for a second. “Let’s all calm down. This is getting out of control.” Breaking untamed horses weren’t near as much trouble as these spoiled girls.
“Really? So we’re on for tonight. Take a picture of us, Mr. Keller.” One of them tossed her cell across to Marty, and then they both came at him. A cloud of floral perfume assaulted his nostrils as he was flanked by the twins.
“Girls stop,” Marty ordered and then tripped, landing in one of the office chairs. He sputtered, “Let Mr. McLemore go.”
“Oh, I understand,” one of them uttered. Even this close, he still didn’t know them well enough to tell them apart. That same twin said, “Can’t take pictures. Right?”
“We forgot about the confidence problem,” the other twin whispered with an all-knowing wink.
His neck tightened. “That’s confidentiality policy, and we haven’t gotten that far yet,” he replied, catching his manager’s alarmed expression.
Marty silently got up and took one-step, then another to stand behind the twins. Furiously, his manager made a cutting motion across his throat. Universal hand signal for stop pouring or in this case, shut the fuck up. Marty stopped when one of the girls glanced over her shoulder.
That same one announced, “We’re here for our night.”
“Night?” he echoed, his brain unwilling to attach that lone word to any information related to his club and these two. “You’re not spending the night here.”
The thought tore at him that these two young women, who were friends with his sister, could be standing in his club. He’d taken precautions to prevent having friends, family, and acquaintances show up unexpectedly. What happened to the rule that no one got in except by his permission or Pen’s?
“How’d you get the guest passes?” he demanded an answer to the question he should have asked when he first saw the twins standing down here. He pinched the plastic cards stamped with the club name and logo. They looked legit.
One of the twins tapped the card. “Right there. See. Signed by Mr. Penrose.”
He was certain his head was going to split open at the sight of Pen’s chicken scratch handwriting. He handed the cards back to Marty. “The two of you need to leave. This isn’t the place for you.”
“What do you mean? Our money ain’t good enough for you?” The Jamison twins stood shoulder-to-shoulder directly in front of him, their eyes narrowed in displeasure.
“Money has nothing to do with this issue.” As he was about to set Selma and Esme straight, the front door opened and the sound of guests entering drew his attention. A man and woman passed by the doorway and he nodded to them.
“Marty— ” He was about to tell his manager to escort the twins outside when a red dress snared his attention.
The dress clung to the curves of a woman with hair so black it was blue. Her flashing dark almond eyes were set in an enticing face that turned toward him as though sensing his interest. The woman was familiar and he racked his memory as to where... fuck, when?
She regarded him with a defiantly fixed stare, as though it were some contest to see who would look away first. Well, it sure wasn’t going to be him. Their gazes locked and a mixture of hunger and excitement rocketed up his spine. Something about this woman’s exotic features and endless curves tore into him—a key in a carnal lock that unleashed a fiery message that roused his every male instinct.
She arched a brow right before she turned her face away, and continued past the doorway, presumably into the bar. His pulse hummed from the brief connection. His forehead tightened, wondering who she was and why the hell she was wearing red of all colors.
He rubbed the back of his neck and returned his attention to the headache in front of the desk and resumed a stern hard-ass expression.
“There’s an application and background check, even for passes. A process neither of you completed,” he informed the twins. “This isn’t personal, it’s the rules.” He’d throttle Pen the next time he saw his partner and continued, “Marty will drive you home if you need a ride. Esme...Selma, no rule gets bent around here. Anyone who tries is shown the door. No exceptions.”
Both women clamped their mouths shut. Frowning, they exchanged glances, and he jerked his chin to Marty. “Take over here. Ladies, don’t push your luck.”
“But—” one of them blurted out.
Marty pointed his finger. “You arguing?”
“No, Mr. Keller.” The girls swung their heads as their shoulders slumped, and he half-watched them being escorted to the front door.
He turned and followed the corridor leading to the main lounge, scanning the room for an hourglass figure in red leather. His eyes locked on to her. Seated at the bar, her long dark hair fell like a silk curtain down her back. She slanted to the side on the bar stool and her formfitting dress hugged her shapely ass, resembling a curvaceous upside-down heart just waiting to be explored.
Staring at her was some sort of dick-hardening déjà vu. Abruptly she swiveled around and even with several feet of space between them, the clash of her gaze tore through him. The skin over his body tightened and his blood heated. This definitely wasn’t the first time he’d traded scorching stares with this minx. He hadn’t been this turned on in a long time, except earlier.
Wait. Was she the same woman?
If so, she’d hidden her lustrous long hair under a cap when they’d first met. Christ, he was sure she was that girl, the one that got away. Only now she wore make-up and provocative skintight clothing.
Did she realize the temptation she presented to a man with his type of appetite? First teasing him and running, and now returning. One mystery solved. She’d been fully aware his club catered to singular interests. Historical building. That excuse rankled him.
Probably just another woman who couldn’t tell the truth if she had to. His sense of self-preservation directed him to turn the fuck around. Do anything but stare at her.
Except this was his goddamn club. And it was his job to assess members whether subs or patrons. Nonverbal cues he picked up to pair members with services, or drive a submissive to the brink. He itched to give that firecracker something she’d remember. Damn, he ticked off a dozen options that had his blood boiling.
Silently, he ordered his dick to stand-down. A red-dress wearing woman with her assets would be a sought after commodity for club members.
Not him.
But just as quickly, he tossed aside the idea letting another man touch her. Especially when she stared back at him like she was ready to draw a line in the sand. The couple she’d followed had taken a table off to the side. The little spitfire wasn’t here as part of a ménage. He clenched his jaw, envisioning a night of erotic pleasure that he’d craft for her—all he needed was her signature on a consent form. A one-night stand.
Nothing more.
In his bed, he’d control her every move. Hell, they didn’t even need to talk. Darkly, he chuckled to himself. As punishment for lying to him earlier, he’d prevent her fro
m speaking. Simple to do if he made her wear a gag.
No more lies. No pretense. Just hardcore fucking.
With a plan in place, he crossed his arms over his chest and studied her. She didn’t look like the average Paris submissive. She sat upright, alert as though she sensed his hunger to pound his cock into her until she called out his name. That meant no gag.
Uncrossing her long, tanned legs, the little temptress demurely pulled the hem of her tiny dress down. A damn shame she was trying to stop the slide of red leather up her toned thighs. She might be a tigress on a hunt yet she still had this innocence to her.
Why in the fuck am I entertaining mixed messages from this little minx?
Obviously, she was here for action, not to check out the architectural features.
But more and more she gave him the impression she was inexperienced in this type of setting. If anything, she appeared ready to flee again, and the thought had him flexing his muscles as though preparing for a chase. One he wasn’t going to lose this time.
He didn’t have time to grab a consent form. There were plenty in his private suite. He’d take her there and for the next several hours he’d explore her incredible naked body. His gaze traced a slow path up and down her figure—perfect for strappado bondage. He’d place a spreader bar between her ankles, restrain her arms, and blindfold her as he controlled and fucked her from behind. Several erotic scenarios permeated his thoughts—if she got off on being truly dominated.
From the way her cheeks flushed and her look of innocent defiance, yeah she was the type of woman who’d relish being commanded after an initial chase. Like the fillies he trained back home, she needed to know who was in charge, directing her when to move and how far. A razor-sharp rush buzzed across his nerve endings. His muscles contracted and he felt himself come alive.
He was hungry, and tonight the menu called for an expanse of golden thighs—parted and trembling, waiting on his instruction.