BDSM Club Series Box Set

by Claire Thompson

  Again the place erupted into applause. Jordan looked at Donovan, and once more he could have almost sworn he saw the longing there. But before he could respond, she had turned away and was beaming down at the audience as several men began to chant, “Mistress Jordan! Mistress Jordan!”

  Gene turned to Donovan and nudged him in the ribs. “I think this is the start of something big, partner. That scene was fucking stellar. The subs were great, but it was the energy between you and Jordan that really heated things up. Whatever it is that’s going on between the two of you, keep it up, dude. Keep it up.”

  ~*~

  Jordan sat at the bar, a glass of chilled grapefruit juice and vodka over crushed ice untouched in front of her. She wanted to go home with Donovan and snuggle into his arms in his bed, but he had disappeared shortly after the stage scene, swallowed by the usual crowd of hangers-on and admirers.

  Though it had been tough, she was proud of how she’d comported herself throughout the night with respect to the Master. And she was grateful to Annette for her excellent advice in that regard. Left to her own devices, Jordan might have turned around when Donovan had entered the changing room and thrown herself headlong into his arms. Worse, she might have demanded to know why the bastard hadn't called her or texted her after they’d just spent the most amazing two days of her life together. Had it really meant so little to him? Was he really so shallow as that? Had it all just been one big game to him?

  Jordan wanted to talk to Annette, who was busy pouring drinks. Even if Annette had been free, Jordan found herself surrounded by a host of men and some women too, all of them eager for her attention. She’d already booked a dozen private sessions in the red room for later in the week, and from the steady clamor around her, she figured she’d have another dozen scheduled before the night was over. It was kind of hard to get her head around the idea that she was going to be paid for doing what she loved—what she’d done for free back in the city for all those years.

  No question, the stage scene with Donovan had been electric. Mary and Richard were amazing, but beyond that, in spite of her confusion over the past hours since they’d parted, Jordan had felt a powerful connection with the Master on stage. It was as if they’d been one person, one entity, as they’d dommed the submissive couple, each somehow sensing not only what the subs needed, but also what each other was doing or about to do, as if they’d practiced and choreographed the scene to perfection, as if they’d been doing it for years.

  When the audience had burst into thunderous cheering and applause, after the initial thrill Jordan had wanted to throw herself into Donovan’s arms. Or, like Mary, she had wanted to sink to her knees and wait to feel his hand on her head, like a benediction. Fortunately, she’d caught herself in time, forcing herself to focus on the cheering audience instead of the commitment-phobe standing beside her.

  “Men like that are like wild horses,” Annette had told her earlier that evening. “One false move and they run. If you try to break them with what they perceive is a saddle, they’ll throw you to the ground and leave you in the dust.”

  “I just don’t get it,” Jordan had said, running her hands through her short hair as she sat beside Annette on the bench. “He wasn’t like that. For the entire weekend he was totally focused on me. Like I was the only person on earth, and he acted like that was fine with him, like it was perfect. How could he go from that to completely dismissing me within a matter of hours?” She had felt her eyes tearing up and rapidly blinked away the tears. No way in hell was she going to cry on the night of her debut as Mistress Jordan.

  Annette had patted her shoulder. “First of all, it helps to remember that Donovan is an idiot.” When Jordan looked askance at her, Annette laughed, adding, “A wonderful idiot, but still an idiot, at least in the ways of the heart. I don’t doubt that everything he said and did this weekend was done with utter and complete sincerity. Whatever else Donovan might be, he’s definitely not full of shit.”

  Annette had paused, staring for a moment into the middle distance before continuing. “I think the crux of the matter is fear. Donovan’s got a kind of charisma that attracts women across the board. In the San Francisco BDSM scene he’s become something of a legend. We have a much higher female clientele here at The Bondage Wheel than your average BDSM club, and Donovan Cartwright is the reason. All that attention can go to a guy’s head. He’s used to just pointing and the chosen woman will fall swooning at his feet, metaphorically speaking. When he actually bumps up against the real thing, against the potential for love, he’s too blind, or too scared, to actually realize what he’s got. But again, remember the wild horse analogy. If you want to coax him back into your arms, you need to take your time. You need to approach him carefully, cautiously, even indifferently. That will be a lot more effective in the end. If you have the patience for it, that is.”

  Jordan wasn’t sure she did have the patience. It pissed her off that the first man she’d fallen for, really fallen for, in years, was now running scared as if she were some kind of desperate woman sending out marriage vibes or whatever the hell it was he was afraid of. She’d been judged and sentenced without any trial for a crime she hadn't committed.

  Yeah, the weekend had been stunning. It had opened up a whole new world of possibility for Jordan, a world she’d never even entertained until Donovan had shown her its power and potential. Though she’d been frightened at first by the intensity of what he offered and her own reaction to it, she remained intrigued, even eager to continue the exploration with Donovan.

  But Jordan Heller was not one to sit home alone by the phone, weeping and waiting for some man. If Donovan was too stupid, too timid, too whatever the hell he was to realize that what they’d shared that weekend had gone way past just satisfying some bet, then he didn’t deserve her.

  Jordan swiveled on her barstool and focused on the small crowd of men still hovering around her. They all smiled as she graced them with her attention, wanting to know where she’d been hiding, and if she had her own dungeon, and what her rates were. One especially handsome man, an African American with dark soulful eyes and very white teeth, sat on the empty stool beside her and said in a low, sexy voice, “Tell me, Mistress Jordan, do you play the other side? While I was watching you on the stage, I had this incredible image of you suspended by your wrists in my dungeon, your lovely green eyes wide with fear and anticipation as you watched me sharpen my knives.” He put his hand on her thigh. “Have you ever experimented with blood play? It can be very, very powerful.”

  Jordan swallowed hard, startled by this abrupt turn in the conversation. She started to assure the man in no uncertain terms that she had zero interest in blood play, especially if he expected her to be on the receiving end. But at that moment, Donovan strode into the bar, several women trailing behind him like a pack of puppies. As Donovan approached, Jordan turned her focus entirely to the man beside her.

  Reaching out, she touched his leather-clad knee. “No,” she said earnestly as she gazed into his liquid brown eyes. “I never have. Tell me more.”

  Chapter 14

  Donovan put his hand lightly on Jordan’s shoulder, trying not to glare at the guy who was leaning way too far into her personal space.

  It had taken him nearly a half hour to extricate himself from the usual cluster of admirers who always materialized after a show, along with a handful of subs, both male and female, who wanted to know if they could be the volunteers for the midnight show. He was leaning toward selecting Gina, a statuesque brunette who, he knew from experience, enjoyed extreme bondage and was quite limber.

  He felt bad for leaving Jordan alone for so long. He knew how exciting your first stage show could be. They had been an incredible team up there, their shared energy powerful. Jordan, new to the experience, needed to decompress. Maybe he would suggest they slip out for a little while to a nearby pub, or at least snag a private table at the back of the bar.

  It wasn’t like whatever had started between them had t
o be over. Now that he saw how easily she’d adjusted to their working together at the club, maybe they could still be weekend play partners. After all, they had barely begun to scratch the surface of her submissive potential in the two days they’d been together. Jordan was like a tight, perfect rosebud, poised and ready to bloom. Who better than he to oversee and nurture that blossoming?

  It was decided. He would ask her to join him for a quick drink at the pub next door. Maybe on the way he would push her gently but firmly against an alley wall, pinning her there as he bent down to kiss her, just to remind her of the weekend, of who was really in control.

  Jordan swiveled slowly toward him, a look of casual surprise on her face at seeing him. Her hand, he noticed with annoyance, remained on the knee of the guy she had been talking to. It was, Donovan now realized, Brent Underwood, a regular at the club. Underwood never tired of telling Donovan he was an MD, like Donovan was supposed to be super impressed by that. The arrogant prick.

  “Oh, hey there,” Jordan said breezily, as if they hadn't just spent an amazing weekend together and then conducted one of the best shows in the club’s history together. “What’s up?”

  Donovan stiffened, her distracted response hitting him like a slap in the face. What had he wanted? For her to fall to her knees and kiss his boots? The pub, the scene against the wall—he realized now he was fantasizing about something that would not come to pass. With her body language and her dismissive tone, Jordan was stating loud and clear that she wasn’t interested.

  He forced himself to smile back and gave a noncommittal shrug. “Just checking in. I was thinking maybe you’d care to join me for the second show at midnight. I was planning some bondage and suspension action. I already have one volunteer selected.”

  Donovan hadn’t realized he was going to make that offer until it was out of his mouth. He hadn't expected the powerful connection he’d felt on the stage with Jordan during the scene with Mary and Richard. He had to admit she’d been flawless in her execution, and had even made some better choices than he might have if left entirely on his own.

  Still, he was the Master. He’d spent years honing his craft and making his name in the San Francisco BDSM club scene. He was bestowing quite an honor on this newcomer by asking her to join him for the second show. If nothing else, he reasoned to himself, it would be a good way to get her out of Underwood’s clutches. The bastard was staring much too intently at Jordan, his eyes moving insolently over her body as if he owned her.

  To Donovan’s dumbfounded dismay, Jordan shook her head. “Thanks for the offer, but I don’t think so.” She tapped the small, leather-bound notebook on the bar in front of her and offered an apologetic shrug. “I’ve already booked enough sessions to fill the next week, and since I won't be starting in my formal capacity until tomorrow, Gene said it was fine if I left early tonight.”

  She put her hand lightly on Donovan’s arm, her touch sending an electric current of desire directly to his cock. “Maybe once I’m more settled in my new role as Mistress in residence we can do another show together.” Jordan’s smile pierced Donovan’s heart like a barb as she pulled her hand away. She swiveled back to the man beside her, Donovan apparently dismissed. “You were saying, Master Brent?”

  What the hell had just happened?

  ~*~

  Jordan stood under the shower spray in her tiny apartment long after she’d finished washing her body and her hair, just letting the hot water splash over her. Last night had been miserable, going against all her instincts in following Annette’s advice and leaving the club before midnight. How her heart had leapt when she’d turned on her barstool to find Donovan standing behind her. She’d known it before she even turned around, his touch instantly heating her skin, his scent perking her nipples and soaking her cunt.

  When he’d invited her to do another show with him, she’d been dying to accept, thrilled at the offer, aware they would need to meet beforehand to plan it out. But through it all, Annette’s warning words had echoed in her mind. Just before they’d gone on stage, Annette had pulled Jordan aside.

  “Remember,” Annette had said, “all is fair in love and war, and right now, though you may not realize it, you’re engaged in both. No matter what Donovan does or says, you say no. Do it sweetly, do it kindly, but do it. Tonight is the first tactical move in our battle. You’re setting up the field so he understands you are not the usual sub girl he’s come to expect, with her heart on her sleeve, waiting and praying for the Master to notice her.”

  When Jordan had protested, Annette had crossed her arms firmly and stared Jordan down with all the power and persuasion she could muster, which was considerable. “You are Mistress Jordan, and don’t you forget it. The weekend was great, but, like the Master, you’re moving on. Donovan is so used to women throwing themselves at him, he won’t know what hit him. Trust me, no one ever turns down the Master. You’ll be the first, and, if we play our cards right, the last.”

  Still, Jordan had been so tempted by Donovan’s offer. It would be the perfect way to get him alone, without seeming at all desperate. But Annette had been standing right there on the other side of the bar when Donovan had approached, flashing warning daggers at Jordan with her eyes. Though it had nearly killed Jordan to do it, she’d turned the Master down, and the hurt in his face had been both heartbreaking and thrilling. Had she done the right thing? God, she hoped so.

  Just as Jordan turned off the shower she heard her cell ringing. Grabbing a towel, she dashed from her tiny bathroom to the bedroom and grabbed the phone, her heart soaring. Donovan!

  But it wasn’t Donovan. Betsy Hanover showed on the screen. A sudden wave of guilt surged through Jordan, and she took the call. “Betsy! Hey, how are you? I’ve been meaning to call.”

  “I’m doing fine. How’s it going on the West Coast? Tell me everything. Spare no detail. Has Mistress Jordan taken them all by storm?”

  Jordan laughed. “Well, yes, as a matter fact!” Should she confide in Betsy about her amazing experience as Donovan’s temporary sub girl? Should she admit she had fallen head over feet for a commitment-phobe? Betsy would tell her to cut the guy loose and find a real man, a man would knew what he had. Not quite ready to have that particular conversation, Jordan instead told Betsy all about the club, and her rise from waitress to Mistress in residence.

  During Jordan’s description of the stage show the night before, Betsy interrupted, “I’ve heard about Donovan Cartwright, though I never met him personally. He’s got a great reputation as a trainer. You might learn a thing or two from the guy.”

  “What do you mean? I know what I’m doing, thank you very much.” Jordan found herself bristling at the implication she needed lessons in domination.

  “Don’t get your panties in a bunch, sweetheart.” Betsy laughed. “I’m not talking about Dominatrix training. Remember our conversation before you left? About you exploring your submissive side? He might be a good person to approach in that regard. He could help you explore those impulses you apparently continue to deny.”

  Jordan was silent, temporarily speechless.

  “You still there?” Betsy finally said.

  “Yes,” Jordan whispered.

  “What is it? I’ve known you long enough now. You’re keeping something from me. Come on, spill the beans.”

  “Well,” Jordan hesitated. “It’s kind of complicated. It’s a long story—”

  “That’s all right,” Betsy interjected. “I’ve got all the time in the world. Tell me.”

  And so Jordan did, telling her about the bet, about the amazing weekend, and about Donovan’s sudden withdrawal. After crowing a little about her gut feel regarding Jordan’s inherently submissive nature, Betsy, as Jordan had feared, derided Donovan for having his head lodged firmly up his ass, asserting that men like that didn’t deserve the women who loved them. “Wait a minute,” she interrupted herself. “Do you love him?”

  “Yes,” Jordan admitted before she had a chance to censor herself.


  “Then don’t listen to me. What the hell do I know, anyway? Find a way to let him know. Find a way to reach him.”

  The waiter set down their plates, asked if they needed anything else, and left them alone. Jordan was glad she’d agreed to Annette’s invitation to lunch at Café Rose, located down the block from the club. Though the day was sunny, Jordan pulled her sweater around her shoulders, still not used to the wind and mild temperatures of San Francisco, even though it was the end of June.

  Jordan told Annette about Betsy’s call, and her advice toward the end of their conversation.

  Annette remained firm. “Betsy doesn’t know Donovan like I do. Trust me, last night you handled it, or should I say him, brilliantly,” Annette reassured her.

  Jordan shook her head, still not entirely convinced. “I don’t know,” she said. “I don’t like to play games like that. When I feel something for someone, which doesn’t happen very often, I like to let them know. I mean, shit, I’m twenty-seven, not seventeen. I’ve been in love exactly twice before this, and not that I’m looking to get married or anything, but I’m not getting any younger.”

  Annette threw back her head and laughed. “Talk to me when you’re pushing forty, babe. Gene and I didn’t even meet until I was thirty-six to his thirty-three. You’re still a spring chicken.”

  Jordan offered a rueful smile. “I guess it’s relative. All I can say is I haven’t felt like this in years. No, make that ever. I’ve never felt such a strong, immediate connection with someone. And the crazy thing is, the tragic thing really, is he’s all wrong for me. Even if he wasn’t a genetically-impaired commitment-phobe or whatever you called him, Donovan and I could never work out. We’re both dominants. I know people say you can be a switch, but I don’t buy it. You’re one thing or the other. You can’t just change your wiring, just like you can’t be straight one day and gay the next.”

  As had happened at least a dozen times since Donovan had sent her away, tears flooded Jordan’s eyes and she brushed them angrily away. What the hell was happening to her? She had never been a crier, but since she’d met Donovan, or no, make that since he’d ended things so abruptly the morning before, she couldn’t seem to keep the tears at bay.