Darkest Desires
Nicole Blanchard
Contents
Copyright
Acknowledgments
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Epilogue
The Club
About the Author
Also by Nicole Blanchard
Copyright © 2016 by Nicole Blanchard
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Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.
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Proofreading: PREMA Romance
Cover Design: IndieSage
Acknowledgments
Thank you Scarlett Dawn, for heading this project and for the honor of participating.
To my Knockouts for being beside me every step of the way.
To Afton and Sean, always.
To my Knockouts, who keep me sane.
Chapter 1
I delete another text from my ex-boyfriend and manage to feel only the slightest twinge of guilt. It’s not his fault I broke up with him, but the least I can do is not lead him on anymore. Much as I enjoyed his charm and sense of humor, those just aren’t the qualities in a man that get me off.
My tastes are much more…complicated.
And much more than a pretty little frat boy like him could ever manage to handle.
I sigh and crank up the A/C on my ten-year-old sedan, crossing my fingers it’ll be able to make it the remaining twenty miles to Karim, Texas, my hometown. Nothing like limping back home with no job, no apartment, and no love life to speak of.
Apparently, the bigger your dreams, the harder you fall when they don’t come true. Considering I’ll be bunking with my mom for the foreseeable future I’ll officially consider this move the splat on the ground I’ve been waiting for. Definitely not the star of Broadway like I’d always dreamed.
My phone buzzes and I snatch it up from the center console to give the pretty little frat boy a firm fuck off, when I recognize my mom’s name on the caller I.D. I smother a groan.
“No, I’m not there yet,” I answer without preamble.
“Well, considering that I’m sitting in the living room and you’re not here, I’m not surprised, but that’s not why I called.” Even though my crushing failure in New York hasn’t given me much to smile about, the sound of my mother’s Southern twang brings one to my lips.
I flick on my blinker and take the exit to Karim. Dread settles low in my stomach. I blow out a series of short breaths. Would moving back home be just another on my list of failures? Brushing those doubts away, I say, “Then why did you call?”
She murmurs to someone else in the room and then fumbles the phone. “Sorry, had to let Fifi in. Anyway, what was I saying?”
Only half paying attention to her, I merge with traffic. “Well, you haven’t really said anything yet.”
“Oh!” she exclaims. I hold the phone away from my ear at the increase in volume. “I remember. Well you know Jennifer, from work?” She doesn’t pause for my response before continuing. Her rambles are often one-sided so I reapply my lip gloss as I wait at a stop sign. “She was telling me yesterday about this new ER doc on the floor. He’s about your age, maybe a little older. Handsome. Single. Apparently, he just so happens to love theatre.” Her smug tone is apparent even over the spotty cell phone connection.
Scowling at my flushed expression in the rearview mirror, I find myself considering her news. I don’t know if I’m embarrassed because I have to resort to my mom choosing my dates, intrigued because: doctor, single, theatre lover, or if I’m just plain tired of the whole dating game. I forego all three and just go to my default setting: dismissive. “Please tell me you aren’t trying to set me up.”
“It’s not a setup, I’m just saying.” If I know my mother, I know she’s smiling now as well as smug.
“You’re meddling.”
“I can’t help it. It’s what I’m supposed to do.”
“I’m starting to regret moving back already and I haven’t even gotten there yet.”
“You won’t regret it,” she says. “We’re going to have so much fun. We can go out to dinner, see movies. Oh, I know! There’s a new club that just opened up that I’ve just been dying to try.”
Her enthusiasm is catching, and I smile. At least one thing about moving back won’t completely suck. “Your social life sounds more exciting than mine.”
“We’ll just have to get you out of the house,” she says. “Maybe you should meet this doctor,” she adds nonchalantly.
Intuition prickles and I groan. “You set me up, didn’t you?”
There’s a telling pause before she says, “I may have mentioned your name to Jennifer to pass on in case he was interested.” Another heavy pause. “Then, I may have convinced him to take you to dinner.”
I groan. “Mom.”
“Stella,” she mocks.
“I haven’t even been here a day and you’re already interfering in my personal life.”
“I don’t consider it interfering if the end result is good for you.”
Tilting my head to the side, I change the radio stations, lowering the volume so I can concentrate on her words. “I guess I don’t have much else to do when I get there.”
She squeals. “You won’t regret it. He is H-O-T, hot.”
“I don’t think you’re supposed to talk about your coworkers like that. I’m pretty sure there are seminars about it.”
“Trust me. When you meet him you’ll understand.”
Sighing, I say, “Well when am I supposed to meet this illustrious doctor? If he’s not as extraordinary as you’re making him out to be, you owe me a bottle of wine—and not the cheap stuff either!”
“If you like him, you owe me two grandbabies, at least. One boy and one girl. You don’t have to name them after me, but under no circumstances are they allowed to call me grandma. I’m Nana.”
“Geez, he must be something else if you’re advocating the white picket fence and happily ever afters.” As a notorious bachelorette, Mom had never been married. I don’t think she’d ever had a boyfriend for longer than a menstrual cycle. She’s more relationship phobic than I am.
“I’m not saying you have to marry the guy for Christ’s sake.
I’m just saying if I were twenty years younger, I’d give him a roll in the sheets.”
“I just got out of a relationship in case you’ve forgotten already.”
“Sure, with what’s-his-name. But that’s beside the point.”
“Fine. When am I supposed to meet him, then?”
“Tonight.”
Dead air fills the line between us. I gawk at the cars in front of me. She can’t be serious. “Tonight?”
“Well, I felt bad that I have a night shift and I didn’t want you to spend your first night home all alone and depressed, getting into my ice cream stash.”
“I’m not going to eat all of your ice cream,” I sputter.
“That’s what you said the last time you came home,” she says.
“I can’t decide if I should be upset because you set me up without asking or because you did it to keep me from raiding your freezer.”
“You can thank me for it later. You’re meeting him tonight at seven at Bella Bella Italiano. Dress nice,” she says cheerfully, then hangs up without letting me have a word in edgewise.
The balmy night air wraps around my bare legs and I give a fleeting thought to whether or not a form fitting little black dress is appropriate for a blind date. Then, I figure, screw it. I look spectacular in this dress. And I could use a little more feeling spectacular and a lot less of feeling like a failure.
I’m a fifteen minutes early, but I couldn’t stand being alone in the house surrounded by the corpses of empty boxes and realizing just how far I’d fallen. Meeting a good looking guy to take my mind off of unpacking the rest of my meager belongings started to sound better around the time I found the box full of relics from my failed relationship.
The hostess greets me with a wide smile that I mimic in return. “How many?” she asks, and I wonder why that should feel like a bullet to the gut when I’ve never had a problem being alone before.
“I’m here to meet someone,” I say to cover my sudden and rare bout of insecurity. “I’m a little early. Will it be alright if I just wait at the bar until they get here?”
She nods, “Absolutely. What’s the name? I’ll let them know you’ve already arrived.”
“Mikhail, uh…Alexandrov,” I say, wincing when I mangle the pronunciation horribly. “Dr. Mikhail Alexandrov.”
“I’ll let him know. Go right on in to your left.” Her Southern twang and hospitality a welcome reprieve from the often rude New Yorkers.
The interior is dimly lit and shadowed, the air scented heavily with garlic and oregano. My stomach growls, reminding me I didn’t put food on the list of priorities when I got to Mom’s house. As much as I protested, the thought of a date buoyed my mood and meant the two hours between pulling into her drive and leaving for the restaurant were spent primping and beautifying—two of my favorite activities.
It’s worth it. My long brown hair is styled into artful waves. I applied makeup with a slight hand, having grown tired of thick applications after one too many stage performances. Now, I tend to go for a more natural look. A little liner to emphasize my sultry brown eyes and a light gloss on my full lips. The result is sexy casual and I’m aware enough of myself to recognize the blatant interest on the faces of men stealing not-so-subtle glances as I make my way to the bar.
“White wine,” I tell the bartender as I take a seat on one of the empty stools.
As he sets the chilled glass in front of me, I take it with a grateful smile. My hands tremble a little as I bring the wine glass to my lips and I hope the preemptive glass of alcohol will help settle my nerves.
My phone buzzes and I dig through my purse, knocking it from the bar to the floor with a muttered, “Shit,” when a group of people pass by. The hushed tones of their conversation filter over the piano music and chatter from the other patrons.
I completely forget the phone, the text most likely from my ex, and my blind date when I hear one woman say, “I’m not so sure about this corset I just ordered. Do you prefer the ones with plastic boning or steel?”
“Honestly, the stronger the better, in my opinion, so mine are all made with steel.”
“Well, I ordered one of each, so I guess we’ll see. I’ll wear it the next time I go to the club and let you see.”
“You better. Corsets are a fetish of mine.” The woman’s laughter is warm and throaty. She and her companion are passing by the bar toward a secluded room in the back where more people have gathered.
I imagine wearing a leather corset, maybe the one I wore underneath my costume for my last period performance. Except this time, I don’t have anything on over top of it. All eyes are on me. My skin prickles as I picture the scene and get to my feet. I down the rest of my wine in a couple gulps to cool the rising heat in my body. If anything, the alcohol is kindling to flame, making me burn brighter.
I shift from foot to foot, feeling more anxious, elated and apprehensive than I did at my first stage performance. I’d heard of people who were into fetish things—you can’t really live in New York and not meet some characters, but aside from porn and books, I’d never met someone who seemed so open about it.
And in Karim of all places.
I should sit down, order another glass, and wait for my date’s arrival. I should, but even as I waver on the brink of indecision, my feet are already moving.
Leaving the empty glass on the bar, I follow the women down the shadowed hall on the pretense of finding the bathroom. At least that’s what my excuse will be if they catch me. My intense yearning for something I don’t quite understand doesn’t give a damn about propriety as I tilt an ear to listen to the rest of their low conversation.
“Did you try the new knotted flogger they have at Risky Business?” The woman who laughed shivers now as if recalling the pleasurable act. My heart starts to race.
“No, girl. I stick to the deerskin. I haven’t quite graduated to the rougher stuff yet.”
“You don’t know what you’re missing.”
“Well, maybe next time.”
They reach the entrance to the room and the first woman turns to the other, then notices me in the background. “Sorry,” she says as she holds the door open for her companion. “Didn’t see you there. Are you here for the munch?” she asks. At my confused stare, she adds, “Ah. You must be a first timer. Don’t worry, we don’t bite. Unless you’re into that sort of thing.” She widens the door and holds open a hand. “C’mon, don’t be shy.”
Laughter explodes from inside the room and I catch phrases that cause my stomach muscles to tense. Master. Slave. Beg. Come. Need. Take.
Teetering on the precipice of all the yearnings I’ve suppressed, I take her hand and enter the room.
Chapter 2
The room narrows in the shadows, a roaring in my ears blots out the hushed conversation from the restaurant behind me. Thankful for the darkness that covers my blush, I say, “I’m sorry, I don’t think I was invited,” as I step through the threshold. “I’ll just go.”
She waves my hesitation away with one elegant hand. “Nonsense. I can tell a like-minded individual when I see one. Why don’t you stick around for the munch? No strings. If it’s not your thing you can leave, no hard feelings.”
“I don’t—” I take a deep breath, soothe my already jangled nerves, and paste on a confused smile. “Lunch? Bit late for that, isn’t it?”
“Aren’t you cute?” she says with a smile. “Munch.”
Even though I’ve spent the better part of my twenties in one of the trendiest cities in the world, I find myself grasping at memories, wondering if I missed some important social convention. Finally, I say, “I’m not sure what a munch is, exactly.”
“Nothing serious,” she assures me. “Just a gathering for folks in the lifestyle. Food. Wine. Conversation.”
“Lifestyle,” I say with a twinge, okay more than a twinge, of curiosity.
“BDSM,” she says, her eyes twinkling. “A much is just a get together for those in the lifestyle to socialize. They
’re mostly meant for those who are curious about BDSM to talk with others, get comfortable. We meet here and a couple other local restaurants so those interested in joining can get their feet wet, learn about The Club, and get comfortable. We share stories, gossip, and enjoy some great food and company.”
I nod, but she’s already flitting off to socialize with the rest of the people in the room. They don’t look particularly ‘different’, though there are some with a predilection for leather attire, but it’s subtle. Knee-high leather boots with kickass skinny jeans, genuine belts, vests. Chokers also seem to be a theme, again subtly. If the woman hadn’t pointed out it was a BDSM meeting, I wouldn’t have noticed. Then I remember the word slave I’d heard early and can’t help the blood that rushes to my cheeks.
“Are you new here?” comes a smooth voice.
Turning, I find a reasonably attractive, well-dressed man in his mid to late thirties. He doesn’t look like he’d be the type of man to frequent what I imagine to be a dungeon-esque club, wielding whips or belts or other whatever-the-hell. My flair for the dramatic leads me to imagine him surrounded by a wall of red velvet with black tools hanging on hooks.
My lips curve in a natural response to the attention. “I guess you can say that.”
“Are you a friend of Tally’s?” he says, nodding toward the woman I was speaking with. So that was her name.
Shaking my head, I say, “No, we just met. I’ve never been to one of these things before.”
“Would you like to—”
My phone buzzes in my purse and I give the man an apologetic smile. “I really apologize, normally I wouldn’t be so impolite as to answer a phone like this, but I was supposed to meet someone before I came here.”
He nods. “Of course. It was nice to meet you…”
“Stella,” I supply, then take a few steps away toward a secluded corner, pulling my phone from my purse. I’d nearly forgotten about my blind date and guilt settles low in my stomach.
Darkest Desires (The Club #14) Page 1