“Score,” I whisper as I read the invitation. ‘Tango’ is printed across the top, today’s date on the second line, and below that, an address, which matches the club. There’s a handwritten number scrawled along the bottom. I hang onto it with a small rush of glee.
I take a breath and step up to the door. The building is solid stone, dark gray and aged. The door is unassuming, solid wood painted black, without a single window or any kind of signage. You’d think a dance club would do a better job marketing itself. But maybe it just doesn’t need to? If they have this many rich clients, they probably send more people packing than we do at The Pub. Exclusivity is its own kind of branding, after all.
There’s no door handle, only a huge, gothic door knocker in the shape of a lion’s snarling face. Well, that’s not imposing or anything. With shaky fingers, I lift the heavy bronze ring and slam it down twice before dropping my hand back to my side. Anticipation ratchets up my nerves as I wait for someone to answer.
The door opens silently, revealing an enormous man in a black suit. His head is shaved bald, and he has a thick, black beard. He’s astoundingly handsome, but very much not my type. The Hulk raises one eyebrow at me and, trying to be braver than I feel, I hold up the invitation. He takes it in a massive, meaty hand and grunts before beckoning me inside.
I step into the dim corridor, praying I haven’t made a huge mistake. I can’t believe I’m doing this. No one, and I mean no one, knows where I am. I should have left a note in my apartment in case this is some crazy ass secret society that sacrifices unwitting virgins. Not that I am one, but they don’t know that. The door shuts softly behind me and it’s just enough to make me jump.
“You forget your mask?” the Hulk says over his shoulder as he rounds a tall desk.
“Yeah,” I breathe, trying to sound relaxed. “I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t be,” he says as he flips through a ledger and marks a column labeled ‘guest.’ “You’re not the only one. We have extras. ID?”
I fumble with my clutch, digging out my license. He scribbles the number from the invitation under ‘member sponsor’, and looks back up at me, expression appraising. “Your sponsor go over the club rules with you? No one is exempt, not even newbies.”
“Yes,” I lie, trying to look confident.
He scrutinizes me for a long second. “Okay. What’s your flavor?”
Flavor? My mind goes blank and I stare at him dumbly as I try to come up with an answer that won’t give me away. Oh, God. I have no clue. The jig is up. I should just admit that I don’t understand and cut my losses before someone tosses me out on my ass. My eyes dart to the floor, unable to meet his.
But rather than throwing me out, Hulk chuckles. “Gotcha.” He reaches under the desk, pulling out a white masquerade mask covered in lace. Long, thick satin ties dangle from the sides. He gestures for me to take it, and I realize that I’m staring at it like it might bite me. I take it gingerly and place it over my face, trying to tie the bow without tangling my hair. I’m only half aware of what he’s saying as he leads me toward a set of double doors.
“Just a reminder that masks are mandatory at all times. No real names inside the club. Stoplight safe words are in place for all participants. You can work out something else with your top, but ‘Red’ is a universal hard stop. Monitors are stationed throughout the room. If you need one for any reason, look for the red badges.”
Safe word. In my mind, tires screech and records scratch. Wait, safe word? SAFE. WORD. He presses a button, and the doors open, revealing a scene straight out of my darkest fantasies, just as the meaning of his words really sink in.
Holy shit.
There’s so much skin. Leather. Handcuffs. Floggers. Crops. Leashes. Candles flicker in sconces along the walls, and I can’t decide if those are a permanent fixture or a Halloween thing.
Some people move around the floor, the bar, or sit at the edges of the room. Others are restrained to the walls, the furniture, or each other. Clothing appears to be strictly optional and inhibitions non-existent. Music throbs through the room, but it’s not loud enough to drown out the gasps, moans, or sharp cracks that carry through the club.
The sex club. I’m frozen in place as my brain clunks along, trying to get back up to speed.
Holy hell, I just stumbled into a fucking sex club. Or is it a BDSM club? What’s the right vernacular?
Jesus. Why am I worried about the technical term right now? There’s a woman in a catsuit deep throating a Thor look-alike five feet away from me. The real question is, what in the fresh hell is Jonas doing here? Does my boss like getting his ass spanked? Mmm… doubtful. I bet he’s the one doing the spanking.
Everyone is wearing masks; some black and some white. There are a handful of beefy men moving slowly through the crowd with perceptive eyes, red badges on the lapels of black suit coats. The monitors. I avoid looking at them. I’ve come this far, and I don’t want to get busted now. My eyes sweep the sea of revelers, trying to locate Jonas.
I came here to see what he’s been hiding, invading his privacy in an almost unforgivable way. And now, I just want to stay out of his sight. I need to see him. Need it so bad it’s almost a physical ache. Even so, I’m dreading what I might find. I know I can’t stomach the sight of his hands on another woman. Is he in one of the dark corners, a strange woman over his lap? Hands on her ass, fingers inside her? Is he one of the dozens moaning over the music?
I should leave. I should turn my ass around and forget I ever saw any of this. I should… but I don’t want to.
A woman in a black velvet dress and matching mask crosses my path. Her dress is so tight that I can see the outline of her pierced nipples through it. And compared to her companion, that’s downright tame. She’s leading a man on a thick leather leash clipped to a spiked collar around his neck. Delicate chains run down his chest and attach to his nipple rings. Except for his collar, a white mask, and a pair of leather cuffs holding his hands behind his back, he’s completely nude.
He’s magnificent, and I have to look away so I don’t stare. Or drool. Not that I’m interested in him, exactly. But that collar, and the way he’s following her, is fascinating. Beautiful. And I’m jealous, heat pooling in my belly at the thought of how those cuffs must feel against his skin…
His eyes don’t meet mine, but hers do. And then her blood-red lips curl into a smirk that makes me squirm. I must look completely moon-eyed, because she reaches out to me, stroking my hair once and gently murmuring: “Breathe, sub. You look lost.”
I’m frozen, my heart thumping in my throat as I take a shallow breath.
“I’ve got her,” a deep voice rumbles from behind my left ear. It’s possessive, a hint of warning darkening the edges. The subtext is clear: Fuck off before I make you.
My heart stutters in my chest, breath frozen. It’s Jonas. I don’t even have to turn around to know it’s him.