Sierra Cartwright - Doms of Dark Haven

That lovely, low voice would deepen after she came a few times. His fingers closed over hers, and he kept his other hand wrapped around her arm. Now he had her securely trapped, and the knowledge appeared in her eyes. Her breath quickened, her tongue flicked over her lips, and she swayed, almost imperceptibly, toward him. Yes, the feeling of being controlled aroused her.

Now, wouldn't she look lovely in ropes? “And you are…?” he prompted.

“Rona.”

“Scottish? Yes, it suits you.” He looked down into her eyes, enjoying the slight tremble of her fingers in his. “Is this your first time in a BDSM club, Rona?”

“Yes.”

“And how long have you been here?”

“Not even an hour.”

“Not even.” The phrasing implied she felt off balance. And he'd definitely pushed—was still pushing, which wasn't appropriate or honorable to do to a sweet newbie. When he opened his hands and released her, the sense of loss surprised him. I want to keep this one.

But the choices, always, belonged to the submissive—unless and until she freely gave over those choices to him. “Do you want a guide, or would you rather explore on your own?”

She hesitated. “Um. Well…”

She didn't want a guide. Despite her obvious attraction to him, she'd prefer to see the place on her own. He almost laughed at his annoyance. Getting too accustomed to adulation, was he? This woman might tremble, but she wouldn't throw herself at anyone's feet, and that only increased his interest.

“All right.” He ran a finger down her cheek, marking her as his in the indefinable way of dominance. “I will see you later, then.”

As Master Simon walked away with an easy, confident stride, Rona stared after him. He'd only touched her with a finger, and her pulse had increased to serious tachycardia.

She'd read BDSM books but hadn't really grasped the power a dominant could exert. That walking, talking model of intimidation had wielded his eyes and his…his sheer presence…as skillfully as he'd used that flogger. Lord help her.

After sucking in a breath, she shook her head, told her body to stop reacting, and headed for the bar. One bottled water coming right up.

The diversion and the icy water worked, and within a few minutes, her self-possession returned. Putting her back to the bar, she looked around.

Lots of people, but no Master Simon in sight. Disappointment washed through her, cooler than the ice water. And how stupid to be disappointed after having turned him down. But she'd done the right thing. He was just too, too much,—her bottle stopped halfway to her mouth—and she'd totally chickened out, hadn't she?

Here she'd made all those resolutions to dump her Miss Propriety image, to let go of her I'm-a-mother-and-a-wife-and-not-a-sensual-woman thinking, yet when a stunning man showed his interest, she'd run for the proverbial hills.

Of course, her plan for an exciting life hadn't included hanging out with a guy who enjoyed multitailed whips, but still…

She'd do better next time. For now, she needed to scope out the place. Aside from the demonstrations on the stages, she hadn't spotted any of the “scenes” she'd read about. But people kept disappearing down stairs near the front, so maybe the fun stuff happened on the lower level. She picked up her bottle and eased past a group of people, including a black-haired woman wearing a cute pink and white corset. Rona noticed the bright pink streaks in the woman's hair and grinned, remembering the receptionist. Matching hair color to clothing—not exactly correct for the period.

At the bottom of the stairs, she stopped, feeling as if she'd descended into a literal hell. Holy crap, Batman, but some of these people needed a psych eval. Like the blonde letting a guy stick needles into her breasts. In pure reflex, Rona crossed her arms over her chest when the man shoved another needle in, right through the woman's nipple.

Now that was just wrong. Maybe she should go back to the car and get her first-aid kit.

Instead she walked farther into the room. The industrial Goth music from upstairs blended with the sounds of flesh being struck, moans, high cries, the snap of a whip, a long, shuddering groan. A series of cracking noises sounded way too close, and she jumped, looked around, and then snorted a laugh. She'd clenched her water bottle so hard that the plastic had crumpled. Noisily.

She rolled her eyes. Hopefully no one would yell boo! at her, or she'd go into cardiac arrest.

By the second scene area, she noticed guys scoping her out. Cool. She moved her hips and made her full skirts sway. Sexy me. Then a young woman walked past clad in only a G-string, all firm skin and high breasts. Right. Sexy me as long as I'm wearing clothes. She might have lost some weight and firmed things up a bit, but those things were still well over thirty years old.

An hour or so later she knew a heck of a lot more about what kinky people did for fun. Watching Simon's flogging demonstration hadn't prepared her for canes or black whips—although no one in the place came close to his skill—let alone hot wax, needles, gags, and masks. As one dominant applied a line of small suction cups up a woman's back, Rona wondered if the glass cups ever went on more…intimate spots.

She mentally added it to the list of things to try—someday—and just the thought sent a zip of excitement right to her clit.

As if she weren't already excited. A few steps farther, she glanced through a large window into a very authentic-looking medieval dungeon. A black-haired woman was manacled to the stone wall, and a man in jeans slapped the poor woman between the legs, sending her right up onto her toes. A minute later he dropped to his knees, gripped her buttocks, and put his mouth on her pussy.

Rona swallowed and fanned her overheated face as she moved away. Shocking and erotic as heck.

By the time she'd toured the room, her corset bones felt like bony fingers digging into her ribs, and her clothes as if they weighed a good twenty pounds.

Finding an empty couch, she collapsed onto it. Oops. Proper Victorian ladies didn't drop like rocks; they undoubtedly sank gracefully down to a seat and, of course, sat erect rather than leaning back.

She'd have made a lousy Victorian lady.

She'd probably make a lousy BDSM person too. In fact, she might not even like doing it, although watching stuff like the way that belt had hit the woman's round bottom made her really…warm.

Maybe, while here, she could try a little bit—just a taste, not a whole meal.

Have someone tie her hands or something. A quiver trickled through her insides at the thought of actually acting out some of her fantasies.

Mouth suddenly dry, she sipped the last of her lukewarm water. First she'd have to meet a dom. She could watch another demonstration. But the shows—

scenes—down here seemed more personal. More intimate. If Simon wanted to beat on her, she'd rather do it here than upstairs.

She choked on the water. What the heck had brought Simon back to mind?

Well, she knew the answer to that. Any woman would want him, with that devastating combination of easy manners and merciless authority. And don't think about his voice—as smooth and rich as Dove's dark chocolate. Goose bumps prickled up her arms, and she sighed.

Hopeless, she was just hopeless. And Master Simon was way out of her league.

She needed someone less intimidating.

She looked around. Hmmm. Not the old guy over there or the fat one. She checked the other direction and spotted a tall blond, maybe in his late twenties.

Rather cute. He stood with his hands behind his back, watching a nearby scene.

When he looked around, his gaze met Rona's. She smiled at him. You. Yeah, you.

C'mere, honey.

He blinked and headed over. “Hi. You're new here?”

“That's right.”

There you are. Simon stopped at the sight of the woman he'd been hunting.

Someone else had captured his quarry first and secured her arms to chains dangling from the low suspension beam. The dom, one of the younger men, had removed her gown and petticoats, leaving her in a corset, sleeveless chemise, and drawers.

What a nice picture. Lovely, soft curves and pale skin, big eyes and a stubborn chin.

However, for someone so thoroughly restrained, the submissive had taken control of the play.

“Pitiful,” Xavier said, joining him. The owner of Dark Haven wore a frock coat like Simon's over a silver-and-blue paisley vest. Very dapper, especially with his black hair braided back almost to his ass.

Simon raised an eyebrow at his friend. “You know the sub?”

“No. She's not been here before.”

Then why is she so familiar? Simon watched for a moment and winced when Rona laughed at the dom. True, she had an adorable, low laugh, but the dom had totally lost control of the scene. From the young man's unhappy expression, he didn't know how to get it back—if he'd ever had it. The term “submissive” didn't necessarily mean pushover.

“I told David to stick to the easy subs,” Xavier said.

“Friend of yours?”

“He took one of my classes for dominants. He's not bad, just inexperienced.”

Xavier started toward the scene, but a barmaid stopped him, chattering about a problem. He held up his hand to pause her, then turned to Simon. “Do me a favor and rescue David, would you? I'll join you shortly.”