Darkest Desires (The Club #14)

by Nicole Blanchard

  Even a momentary brush with this new, dark, and needy flavor of sex has my blood thrumming hot in my veins. It has my mouth going dry, so I’m thankful when I realize it’s a text and not a phone call. I put in my code and navigate to my text messages.

  Mikhail: Stella, I hate to get off on the wrong foot before we’ve even first met, but we’ll have to reschedule today. I’ve had an emergency with a patient and can’t get away. Are you free Saturday? Your mother mentioned you like the theatre. I have box tickets.

  Somewhat relieved and disappointed, I tap out: That sounds wonderful. Just let me know what time and where.

  I wander back to the crowd of people, feeling more in my element now that I don’t have to worry about being caught by one of my mom’s coworkers at a meeting for a sex club. When I get another text, I glance at it, perhaps a little too eagerly, and I’m sorely disappointed when I realize its from my ex.

  The waiter comes then and I order a grilled chicken salad with another glass of wine. I don’t want to get drunk, but I definitely need the social lubrication. He brings the wine immediately and I gulp half of it down within seconds.

  Tension grows between my shoulders, locking me up tight. What the hell am I doing here with these strangers? I have to be some sort of fucked up to be excited by it. By the prospect of going to a club like this. And, God, do I want to. Based on the topics floating around, I’ve only scratched the surface of all the kinds of sex and kink possible.

  I don’t know whether I should be turned on by those possibilities…or running in the other direction.

  Natural gravity, or perhaps orchestration, has me sitting between the woman, Tally, and the man I’d spoken with before. Around me, conversation flows and is as diverse as the participants. It volleys from the newest and most effective methods of spanking, to retirement funds, and tax preparations. Much as I’m used to crowds, even I become overwhelmed by the rapid-fire change in subjects.

  “You don’t strike me as a submissive,” says the man next to me, his eyes warm, but inquisitive. “What exactly is your kink?”

  I take a sip of my wine before answering. “To be honest, I’m not really sure,” I tell him in a stage whisper.

  With amused interest, he says, “Never been to a club like this before?”

  “I’m going to show my naiveté, but to be honest I’m still not sure what this club is exactly.”

  He leans back in his seat, taking a drink from his own short glass of amber liquid. “I think you know more than you think.”

  “Whips and chains,” I say offhandedly. A joke, but I think we both know I’m not really joking.

  He winks. “And more. But I don’t think you’re into that so much.”

  Fascinated, I lean an elbow on the table and prop my chin in my hand. “How can you tell?”

  “Well for one, you don’t have a problem looking me in the eye. In fact, you seem more concerned about how other people are looking at you.” He pauses, before his smile turns rueful. “Mores the pity. I’d love to get my hands on you.”

  Glancing down at my plate of untouched chicken salad, I remind myself these people deal with discerning wants and desires from everyone they interact with. Unused to the scrutiny, I fidget in my seat, toying with my fork. “I guess you can say I enjoy the spotlight. I was an actress.”

  “Was?”

  See? Discerning. “I just recently moved back to the area from New York.”

  “Ah,” he says knowingly. “Now it makes sense.”

  Frowning, I say, “Excuse me?”

  Before he can respond, the dinner comes to an end, and the others start getting to their feet. Standing, I polish off my glass of wine, my head spinning more from the sudden turn of events than the alcohol, and I push in my chair. What had he learned about me in such a short conversation that I hadn’t been able to figure out in twenty-four years?

  “You should come on Friday,” he says as he helps me from my chair.

  “What’s on Friday?” I ask. The words slip from my lips before I can choke them back. What am I doing?

  “Guests are allowed to come to the club. Take a look around. I think you’d enjoy it.”

  “I’ll consider it,” I say with a smile. “It was nice talking to you,” I add.

  “You too.”

  As I walk out the door, the woman who extended the invitation smiles warmly. “If you are interested, we welcome you to join us the day after tomorrow. We open the club to guests. It’ll be somewhat like today, unless you’d like to take it further. The man you were speaking with can serve as your reference when the hostess asks.”

  Not trusting myself to comment, afraid I’ll blurt out my eagerness and embarrass myself, I nod and accept the card she extends.

  Filing out after the rest of the crowd, I fumble with my purse, stuffing the card inside and pulling out my phone to keep my hands busy. If living in New York for the past four years had taught me anything, it was how to look busy and important in any social situation.

  The phone rings in my hands as I walk out the front door of the restaurant and head to my car. Glancing at the caller I.D., my stomach flips a little when I recognize Mikhail’s number.

  Chapter 3

  “Hello,” he says.

  Needing the solitude, I duck into my car. I clear my throat and respond breezily, “You better not be calling to cancel again.”

  An undeniably male chuckle washes over me like silk, turning my already heated blood molten from the sound alone. Clearly, I needed to get laid, or invest in some sort of battery-operated relief. My eyes catch on the white outline of the card in the darkness.

  His voice distracts me from an imagination fraught with images of The Club. “Not a chance,” he says. “I hope I didn’t ruin your first night back.”

  Already knowing I won’t be able to resist the invitation to their guest night, I bite my lip to contain the hum of anticipation that bubbles up in my throat, then focus on my response to Mikhail. “Is it rude if I say no? It was a great restaurant. Good choice. Would have been better with your company, but I managed to enjoy myself.”

  “Glad to hear it.” In the background, I note the low murmur from the radio, then the silence from his engine turning off, followed by two beeps from his car. I try to imagine him based on the sound of his voice alone. Mom mentioned he’s good looking. As I conjure an image of a tall, broad man cloaked in shadows, he says, “Does six work for you Saturday?”

  “It does,” I say as I start my own car and pull into traffic for the short ride home.

  He yawns heavily into the phone, and then laughs at himself. “I don’t make a habit of cancelling on beautiful women, then boring them to death.”

  Feeling more at ease, I join him in laughter. “Long day?”

  “The longest.” His groan is deep and conjures even more heated images.

  God. I flick on the air conditioning, hoping it will help alleviate the scalding lust inside of me.

  “Epsom salts,” I suggest after a few seconds. “Mom always says they work wonders after a long shift.”

  “Am I that transparent?”

  “Yes,” I say bluntly, then we laugh again as I pull into my drive. “And I’ve seen it many times before. She always said night shifts were the hardest.”

  “You don’t want to hear about my night,” he says over the click of ice in a glass. I picture him pouring a couple fingers of whiskey. He’d be wearing slacks, a crisp, collared shirt unbuttoned at the top, his tie hanging loosely on either side of his neck. “It wasn’t one of the good ones.”

  “Sometimes we need the bad to appreciate the good,” I say, still sitting in the quiet dark of my car. The lights inside the house are still out; Mom hasn’t made it home yet. Much as I love her, I’m glad. Way too much has happened tonight for me to process without her probing questions added to the mix.

  The ice in his drink clicks against the glass and I hear him swallow. “Do you really believe that?” he asks.

  “Sometimes.” I
give a self-depreciating laugh. “Not so much right now, considering I’m couch surfing at my mom’s and accepting her advice on my love life. But normally, yes. A year from now, I imagine I’ll look back and be grateful for the low points. It’s all about perspective, right? Well, at least that’s what they say.”

  “Hard to think that way when you’re wrist deep in the stomach of a shooting victim.”

  Concern softens my response and I wince. “Definitely Epsom salts. Your back must be killing you.”

  Leather creaks and fabric rustles as he shifts in his seat. My breath catches in my throat as the sounds echo in the closed quarters of my car. “Now that you mention it, yeah. Maybe I should have come to dinner after all. You are a regular fount of information.”

  “I also give a killer massage,” I say.

  “Now you’re just being cruel,” he says in response.

  Needing the fresh air to clear my mind and give me a sense of control, I get out of the car and let it wash over my fevered skin. “Did he make it?”

  “Barely.” There’s a pause, then a sigh. “Enough about that. Tell me about you. I’m sure you can’t be the angel Diana makes you out to be.”

  Smiling, I unlock the front door to Mom’s house and let myself into the empty living room. “She can’t help herself. Since I’m an only child, she’s always spoiled me.”

  “Don’t I know it. She knew I wasn’t interested in dating and yet, here we are.”

  I toss my keys on the buffet table next to the front door. “I hope she wasn’t too much of a pest.”

  “Considering I’m getting a massage out of the deal, I’m feeling more into the idea of a blind date. Besides, I always look for an excuse to go to the theatre.”

  A laugh tickles the back of my throat. “Do you go often?”

  “Not as much as I’d like. Work keeps me pretty full up these days. I’m surprised you still like it, even though you’re there for work all the time.”

  “Not so much these days, but I wouldn’t have gotten into acting if I didn’t love it.”

  “What do you love about it?”

  Settling onto the fluffy couch that has been a staple in our household for as long as I can remember, I stare up at the ceiling, considering. “At first it was just an obligation. You know? School plays, high school performances, speeches. But as I got older, I realized I was good at it. Really good. And I liked being up on stage, feeling almost invincible, being anyone in the world.”

  “Must be a great feeling, having all those adoring eyes on you.”

  Laughing softly, I murmur, “Unless you put on a bad performance.”

  “Well, I doubt you’ve ever given one.”

  “Not too many, but everyone has a few.” I toe off my shoes and stretch my legs on the cushions.

  “If you enjoy it so much, what brings you back to Karim? As much as I love the arts, we aren’t exactly known for them.”

  Blowing out a breath, I say, “I guess I’m one of the unlucky thousands with big dreams and not enough talent. After college, New York was all I wanted, all I could think about. Those big dreams died hard when I woke up a couple weeks ago and realized I’ve been slogging for years without making any headway. I never even landed a real audition. So I gave up my room in the apartment I shared with six other actresses and came home.”

  “What are you going to do now?”

  “Teach acting?” I say with a humorless laugh. “I don’t know. Maybe go back to college for something else.”

  “I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”

  “Thanks. I hope so.”

  “And you never know.” I hear him smiling over the line. “Maybe I’ll see you on stage sometime.”

  The laughter bubbling in my throat spills over my lips. “Want a special performance, huh?” I bite my lip, stemming the flirtatious banter that threatens to burst forth. I haven’t even met this guy and I’m already flirting with him. First the club, now this. My sex-drive must be in high gear.

  “I wouldn’t say no to one,” he says, his voice low and inviting.

  “Maybe if Saturday goes well, you will.”

  “Upping the stakes, hmm.”

  “Incentive,” I nearly whisper it over the line. The part inside of me stoked by the thought of the club is enjoying the back and forth with this stranger. Maybe it’s easier because I can’t see him. Haven’t met him. He’s still an imaginary lover, practically anyone I want him to be. My ex hadn’t been so open to out-right flirtation and he loathed most overtures of a sexual nature. It’s no wonder I’d grown stifled in the relationship.

  “I’ll put my game face on,” he says next. “Make sure you wear something that will put your mom to shame for setting us up.”

  “I don’t know, she’s a pretty risqué woman herself. It’d take a whole hell of a lot to drop her jaw.”

  “Even better,” he says.

  “What are we going to see?”

  He tsks. “Now that would ruin the surprise and since I’ve already gotten off on the wrong foot, I’m going to need all the help I can get.”

  “I don’t know,” I murmur. “You seem to be doing just fine on your own.” His chuckle makes me squirm on the couch, my legs rubbing against each other as if it’ll help burn off the nervous energy pulsing in my veins. “What about you? Did you always want to be a doctor?”

  His sigh is long this time, weighted. “Some days I don’t even remember why.”

  “Hard, I imagine.”

  “It can be.”

  “I don’t know if I could handle that kind of pressure.”

  “I don’t know,” he says, “I couldn’t imagine being on the stage in front of hundreds of people.”

  “Totally not the same thing. No one’s life depends on me.”

  Liquid splashes into his glass and the bottle thumps down on the table. “Don’t devalue yourself like that. People need entertainment just as much as medicine. I can heal them, bandage their wounds, prescribe them medicine, but I can’t make them smile like you. Make them laugh.”

  His words steal the breath straight from my lungs. Out of all the pieces of advice, words of encouragement, and doling out of sympathy, no one had made me feel quite as good as the comments from a complete stranger.

  “Thank you,” I say, when I manage to steady my voice enough to respond. “That means a lot to me.”

  “No matter what you say, going out to follow your dreams is never a mistake and you have more guts than most people for setting out on your own to make them come true.”

  Blushing and grateful he can’t see it, I say, “You’re changing the subject.”

  “Caught,” he says without shame. He pauses, then adds, “How about this? I’ll let you ask as many questions as you want when I see you on Saturday. Does that work for you?”

  “You may end up regretting this,” I warn.

  “Not a chance,” he says, causing my lips to spread into a smile. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  Chapter 4

  I’ve been many people.

  A queen. A lover. A daughter. A prostitute.

  Even with all the costumes, makeup, and masks I’ve worn, no amount of stage time or acting lessons could have prepared me for the cascade of fear and uncertainty that rush over me as I pull up to the nondescript building where The Club is located.

  I never would have expected a BDSM dungeon to be located on a relatively normal-looking street. The brick building looks like many others surrounding it, right down to the wrought iron balconies and New Orleans style lamps lining the front face. The only oddity is the single front door and the lack of windows on the first two floors.

  Guiding my car down the road to find a parking spot nearby, my stomach tangled in knots, I wonder if I’m making a huge mistake.

  Again.

  I wish I were the type of person I projected to people. Confidence is easy to emulate and so much harder to actually believe yourself. Nevertheless, I choke back my indecision, fueled by blatant curiosity and growing
need.

  Like recognizes like. Hadn’t Tally mentioned something similar?

  Is that why I am so drawn to the idea of this club and the experiences I may have here?

  I pull into the parking spot with damp hands clutched on the steering wheel. Feeling rushes back to them as I release the wheel and grab my bag. There wasn’t a dress code that I’m aware of, but even so, I wish there was. It would have been a million times easier if they’d given me guidelines, rules. Even as an artist, I can respect rules in this sense, but aside from “Keep your mouth shut”, the card doesn’t list any other requirements.

  I decided to keep it simple and wear a dress similar to the one I wore to the munch. Clingy, black, easy to move in, and attractive. Unsure of what, exactly, I’m going to get into, I figure something easy to take on…and off…is best.

  My skin heats as I abscond from the car, my purse shouldered. Cool air winds around my limbs and reminds me of how exposed I am. I shiver as I cross the street to the one and only door. Finding it unlocked, I enter with bated breath.

  The foyer doesn’t scream sex-club to me. If anything it reminds me of several other restaurants and businesses in Karim, including Bella Bella. Subtly Italian, all dark wood and black and gold accents. Looking around, I note a door to my right partway open. A quick glance inside shows flickering screens and an attentive guard manning a desk covered with papers.

  There’s another door to the left, one that leads into another shadowed room with more dark wood. Heart racing, hands damp, I delve into the shadows.

  A hostess stand is to my immediate right and a smiling woman in a bustier, that leaves little to the imagination, is situated behind it. “Welcome to The Club,” she says, smiling.

  “Hello,” I manage. “I was invited to the guest night. I hope I’m in the right place.”

  Her smile widens. “You’ve found it. If you’ll please provide your phone—don’t worry, you’ll get it back at the end of the night. We don’t allow any cameras or video equipment to protect the privacy and identities of our patrons.”