by Cathryn Cade
Dedication
To all the readers who enjoy red-hot romance,
To Linda Ingmanson for her insightful editing,
and
To all who make
digital publishing and reading possible.
Chapter One
On a hot July night, Sara James walked into the exclusive and private Club 3 to find a man who would help her let go of her sexual inhibitions and doubts about herself.
Instead, she walked straight into hell.
Club 3 didn’t look like hell—it looked like a classy private club, created from an old but beautiful Craftsman-style home. Tucked away behind a new fitness center in Beaverton, a suburb of Portland, Oregon, and reachable only by driving the narrow lane to the south side of the huge gym, the big house went unnoticed by nearly everyone who didn’t know it was there.
Sara knew of it because her best friend Daisy Charles was a member. She’d overheard two women gossiping in the Big Iron locker room about the other, private club run by the three gym owners. Dack Humboldt already had his eye on Daisy, so when she asked about Club 3, he invited her to join him as his guest. Daisy had blossomed, excited and happy to be trying new things with Dack.
Sara desperately wanted to crawl out of her self-imposed sexual shell as well. She’d been married for a year, divorced for two. But while she led an active life and dated, she was lonely. She seemed to attract guys who were nice, fit and attractive but didn’t send even the slightest shiver of excitement through her.
Thus, she hadn’t had sex in over a year except with Vadim, her vibrator. She’d named him after reading a romance with a sexy Russian spy for a villain. While Vadim could give her an orgasm, he couldn’t hold her in warm, strong arms or reassure her that she was attractive and worthy of a real man’s time and attention. Sara was pretty sure the fictional Vadim would rate a divorced middle school PE teacher as exciting as a bowl of oatmeal, even if she was only twenty-six.
With Daisy’s encouragement, Sara had read through the Club 3 application online, mouth dry and heart pounding as she discovered some of the sexual preferences she was expected to either accept, deny or designate as a possibility.
Do you enjoy public sex? No.
Are you gay, lesbian or bisexual? No.
Do you find pain arousing? Oh heck, no.
Are you interested in a ménage? Hmm…not really. Okay, so she’d had fantasies of not just one but two gorgeous hunks handling her intimately, making her do what they told her and giving her lots of orgasms in the process, but was she ready to note that on a form and actually try it? No, sirree. Outside her comfort zone.
Her fingers had hovered for a long time on the ten-point scale between “sexual dominant” and “sexual submissive”, but she had finally checked the number eight, on the end toward submissive. Being a career woman, a teacher who faced large classes of unruly preteens daily and managed them with skill and aplomb, she was abashed—okay, ashamed that she wanted a man to tell her what he was going to do and then do it, but she did want this.
She wanted a man who was a confident dom. A man like Dack, who knew what he was doing, who would see to her pleasure and his own. Daisy hadn’t given her many details, but the look on her face and the note in her voice when she spoke of Dack made Sara squirm with guilty longing. Not that she wanted Dack, but she wanted the experience. She was not especially proud of this, but then she wasn’t proud of having to rely on an imaginary lover for her orgasms either.
She wanted to be told what to do, do it and be rewarded sexually. She didn’t want to have to worry that she was doing things wrong or once again failing to be alluring enough to keep her man monogamous and faithful. It was fine with her if a Club 3 dom was a slut the rest of the time, so long as when they hooked up, he made her come and come hard—maybe more than once.
This fantasy man had a face. One that she was also not ready to admit.
Trace Bowen was one of the owners of Big Iron Fitness and Club 3. Tall, lean and blond, with a face and body that belonged on the cover of an outdoor clothing catalogue. He had the kind of athletic good looks that showed he spent time outdoors as well as in the gym, and a smile that said he knew the effect he had on women. A Portland stock broker by day, he showed up at the gym in gorgeous tailored suits and coordinating shirts and ties during the week and golf or other outdoor attire on the weekends.
He also, when he was not smiling, had an intensity about him that scared the poo out of Sara. When she learned that he was a sexual dominant, something clicked solidly into place inside her, like a lock closing. The sensation then arrowed straight down through her and pulsed like a guilty secret, making her skin flush, her nipples tighten and her pussy swell. Yearning so strong, so powerful it made her literally step back and shake her head in denial. No, this was not what she wanted, this connection, this need. She’d been burned once already by love and need, and now she just wanted sex, no more.
She had clicked quickly through the rest of the Club 3 questionnaire, agreeing to confidentiality and to regular testing for STIs. Then she took a deep breath and hit Send.
She’d be fine. The club had other doms; she’d just hook up with one of them. Not Jake Stone, the third owner, because her other best friend Carlie blushed whenever his name came up. Additionally, he was so big Sara found his size and scowl intimidating. Being a fitness expert and PE teacher, she certainly admired his huge physique, but it didn’t turn her on.
Nope, she’d find some other hot, lean, maybe blond dom and let him show her the ropes. Literally.
So, tonight she dressed in her sexiest summer dress of green knit, blow-dried her long, auburn hair, slicked clear gloss on her lips, added mascara to her lashes, decided she was tanned enough to skip the foundation and blush, stepped into her favorite platform sandals of brown leather, and drove to the club.
She stepped out of her sporty forest green Honda SUV, closed the door and locked it with a click of her key fob. She dropped her keys into her tiny purse. Then she took a deep breath of the hot summer night air, let it out and walked on trembling legs across the lamp-lit parking lot toward the big, old-fashioned house.
This was her third try at using her new club membership. The first time, her car had broken down, and she spent the evening arranging towing and repairs instead of being introduced to kinky sex.
The second time, her mother, who lived alone west of the city, had badly sprained her ankle. Sara had driven to the small town of Forest Grove instead of to the club and spent the weekend helping her mom. They were close, so she didn’t mind doing it, but the timing sucked.
These false starts had not improved her self-confidence. Instead they’d given her more time to wonder what in the world she was doing. She was now so nervous she was about to turn tail and run, even in platform sandals.
She felt the way she had in high school gymnastics competitions, when she was wondering how the hell she’d talked herself into thinking she could do in public the intricate floor exercise she’d worked out. Like those times, her nerves were twitching with an overload of adrenaline, and she wished she could bounce on her toes and do some quick backbends the way she had before competitions, to shake off her nerves.
The faint sound of music with a heavy bass was audible through the walls of the club. That was good. Maybe she could loosen up by dancing for a while.
She smiled at a couple who reached the broad steps just ahead of her. They smiled back, so she guessed her smile looked more real than the grimace it felt like. They preceded her across the wide veranda.
The man, a stocky blond in a dark shirt and leather pants, held the door open for the woman, and then for Sara, giving her a friendly but thorough once-over. She nodded her
thanks, pretended not to notice his inspection and walked inside.
The small foyer gave the first indication that this was no ordinary house. The music was louder here, Nickelback singing about turning back time. Also, the receptionist, a pretty young woman with café au lait skin and heavy makeup, stood behind a concierge desk wearing only a black leather bustier and a thong, and a black leather collar with a silver key dangling from it.
She beamed at the three of them. “Welcome to Club 3.”
“Hey, Rochelle,” the man said, holding up a key of his own. “Joe and Lisa Ritchie, members.”
Rochelle made a note on her computer. “Thank you, sir. May I take your sub’s coat?”
Sara noted that she addressed the man, and that his petite brunette wife did not answer but waited for his instructions. He held out his hand, and his wife shrugged out of her black knee-length jacket and handed it to him. She wore a scarlet bustier, a black skirt so short the bottom of her ass cheeks were visible, and thigh-high black stockings. On her feet were black patent leather stilettos.
Sara’s skin tightened, goose bumps shivering across her shoulders. Anything went at Club 3, which meant she was going to see lots of naked and nearly naked bodies. But she was not a prude, and she had grown up swimming, doing gymnastics and playing basketball, so she’d seen plenty of other females in showers and locker rooms in various stages of nudity. She was also comfortable with her own body. She could do this.
The other couple strolled to the inner door, the man’s hand on his wife’s ass. The door opened inward as Rochelle pressed a button under her desk.
She smiled at Sara. “Hi, welcome to Club 3. I’m Rochelle. Member or guest?”
Sara cleared her throat, which was dry as sandpaper. “New member.”
“Awesome,” the other woman chirped, her eyes lighting up. “You’re Daisy’s friend, aren’t you?”
“Uh-huh.”
“So glad you decided to join. We just have a few things I have to go over with you, okay? New rules. Oral as well as online.”
Sara nodded.
Rochelle waited to see this before reading off her computer screen. “As you know, Club 3 is a BDSM club. This means you may see or hear things that are offensive to you. You’re welcome to ask one of our doms about anything you don’t understand, but never interrupt a scene. Our head doms are Dack, Jake and Trace. Oh, and Mason and Twyla—they’re both new to the role. At least two of the head doms are always on duty, to make sure all behavior is safe, sane and consensual.
“You indicated on your form that you’re a submissive.”
Sara’s face burned as she nodded.
Rochelle merely nodded. “No dom is allowed to touch you without your consent unless you’re wearing his or her key. You are expected to treat all doms with respect and call them sir or madam if they ask you to.”
Sara nodded obediently, although this rule made her upper lip want to curl. At work, the middle school students gave respect to the teachers they deemed worthy. The other teachers struggled to keep order. Like the kids, if a dom didn’t seem worthy of Sara’s respect, she was going to find it difficult to give. However, unlike some of her students, she did not want to get expelled, so she would try to keep her mouth closed.
“If a dom offers you his key, it means he’d like to scene with you. If you take it, you are agreeing to submit to him as long as you’re wearing it. If for any reason you want to call a halt or want assistance, you’ll use the club safe words.”
Sara nodded. “Green means go, yellow means wait, I’m not sure, and red means stop.”
“Right.” Rochelle nodded approvingly. “If you’re wearing a gag, you’ll have another signal.”
Sara shuddered. That was not going to happen, not in this lifetime. The thought of being voiceless, of having something shoved in her mouth, did not make her hot. It made her want to gag, literally.
“That’s it. Ready to go in?”
Now or never. Sara nodded again, ignoring her trembling legs and the knot in her stomach. “I’m ready.”
“Trace, buddy,” called a deep voice across the administrative office of Club 3.
Trace Bowen turned, his hand on the door that led out into the main room of the club. A cacophony of sound spilled through; the heavy beat of dance music and the voices of a club full of partiers. “What?”
As one of the owners and head doms, he was not on duty tonight, but he’d shown up at the club to visit, maybe scene if there was a sub that interested him. He’d been waiting for one in particular to show up, but she hadn’t, so he guessed he’d check out who else was available. This did not fill him with enthusiasm.
Nothing at the club excited him lately. That was weird, because he’d been in on the idea from the inception, had worked hard to make it go, arranging the financing and putting up a chunk of his own money.
The truth was, he wanted something more in his life than serial sex, no matter how kinky. He was bored and he was lonely. He wanted a committed relationship with someone of his own.
And one of those someones was almost within reach, but thus far she hadn’t ventured into his chosen venue.
Jake Stone, co-owner of the club and one of Trace’s two best friends, beckoned over his massive shoulder, his gaze on the monitors that showed the various areas of the club on closed-circuit video. “Someone here you’re gonna want to see.” He tapped one thick finger on the monitor showing the club foyer.
Trace stopped behind him, his gaze riveted on the petite redhead listening to Rochelle. Solid satisfaction tightened his groin and warmed his chest. “Sara.”
“Yep. She finally made it. Looks good too,” the other man said. “Not that she doesn’t rock those Lycra shorts she wears most of the time.”
“PE teacher,” Trace said absently. “Active all the time.”
She did clean up well—really well. He drank in the sight of her in a short, clinging knit halter dress the hue of the manicured greens on his favorite golf course. Her auburn hair hung straight and loose around her shoulders and framed her face, which was more square than oval, with high cheekbones and a straight little nose, arching brows only a shade darker than her hair.
Damn, she had a small waist, and those slanting hips and slender arms and legs belied her heart-shaped ass. Not a lot on top, but he’d stopped caring about large breasts on a woman a long time ago. All he needed was a mouthful and a place to hang some naughty hardware anyway.
“And she works out damn near every day,” Jake added. “She’s at Big Iron almost as often as I am, and I’m the fuckin’ manager.”
This place had been the original home on the five-acre parcel they’d purchased to build a gym and fitness center. They’d built the gym, planning to tear the house down later. But then one of them—Trace couldn’t even remember who—had the idea to use the house for a private club of a very different kind. One that catered to people with sexual proclivities like theirs. Anyone else who asked about the building was told it was a private office and meeting rooms, end of discussion.
Club 3 had been open for two years now, and Trace had scened with many who walked through its doors. But he hadn’t been as pleased to see any of them as Sara. And it wasn’t because she was voluptuous or a raving beauty.
He wasn’t sure why he was so drawn to the small, slender redhead. There was just something about her tautly muscled little body and grave, pretty face with wary hazel eyes. Something that turned him on. Made him want to dominate her. He thought he saw longing there.
He wanted to fulfill that longing, to give her instruction, guidance. Hell, he wanted to fucking own her. Which was not going to happen—not outside the club anyway, because he wasn’t into the lifestyle that far. He’d take what he could get. Her, finally in his hands, under his domination.
He’d seen Sara the first time at Big Iron, one May morning when he was taking his bimonthly turn as Saturday gym manager, and she was there with her friend Carlie, putting the voluptuous blonde through a hard workou
t that had her breathless and perspiring. Trace took a moment to discreetly admire Carlie’s very fine breasts but then quickly decided that, although smaller and not so well-endowed, Sara was definitely the finer of the two. She was delicate but sleek, like a racehorse.
“Ladies,” he said, stopping by the chest-press machines where the two women sat side by side, resting between sets. “Looks like you’re having a good workout.”
Carlie widened her eyes comically. “She is. I’m dying here,” she panted.
Sara smirked at her friend, glanced up at Trace, then away. “No exaggeration there, huh-uh.”
Trace chuckled, enjoying their cheerful sarcasm. He noted with pleased surprise that Sara’s cheeks, already flushed, turned an even deeper pink hue, and she shifted on the narrow leather seat of her machine. She was interested in him and trying not to show it.
“You clearly know what you’re doing,” he said, keeping his tone easy, friendly. “But if you need anything at all, let me know. I’m Trace, one of the owners.”
Carlie nodded, smiling back at him. “Nice to meet you. I’m Carlie.” She gave her friend a sidelong glance. “And this is Sara.”
“Who can speak for herself,” the redhead noted, her brows snapping together. If she were a racehorse, she’d be tossing her head and whinnying, maybe even trying to nip, Trace decided, biting back another chuckle as she looked up at him again.
“Nice to meet you, Trace.”
Polite but dismissive. He raised his brows, holding her gaze. To his delight, her gaze fell before his, her hands tightening on the grips of the exercise machine. Submitting to his domination. In a small but telling way.
“Carlie, Sara,” he said. “Enjoy your workout.”
He walked away, greeting other members and stopping to coach a pair of high school boys on the free weights at the back of the gym. Inside, his dom was crowing.
The pretty redhead was a submissive, whether she knew it or not. And he was just the man to draw that side of her out to play.
Since then, he’d kept things casual. But he always made it a point to chat with Sara when they met at the gym. He also made it a point to get into her space in subtle ways. Not sleazy, no touching or comments on her appearance, and he kept at least a foot or two of space between them. She was a client at his business, and thus he would not push at all. But he made sure she knew he was there, that he was aware of her.