Chapter 2

Fun to Play With, But Not for Keeps

ONE YEAR LATER...

"This is it," Fiona told her reflection in the mirror. "It's now or never."

This was no exaggeration. In just three days, her membership would expire, and she'd already made up her mind not to renew. She couldn't justify the expense, which was significant, especially when she was no closer to finding the dom of her dreams than when she'd joined. Adopting a cat would provide her with a deeper level of commitment than any of the doms she had been with, a number so small she could count them on one hand.

She often asked herself what she'd expected as a chronically shy introvert flying solo at the most exclusive kink club in LA. With exhibitionism the most common kink among the members, her mission was destined to fail from the start.

Fiona took a step back, and, turning from side to side, scrutinized her appearance with a critical eye. The rule of thumb in the BDSM world: submissives wear less than dominants. She thought she'd achieved that with the jade minidress she'd chosen for tonight. Its keyhole front revealed a good three inches of cleavage and, except for straps, it essentially had no back. But no matter how daring she considered it, compared to what the other women wore—or didn't wear—it was practically demure.

At thirty-four, she was older than the average twenty-something submissive. She stood out among them, and not in a good way. Sure, she was pretty enough, she supposed, with golden skin that radiated a healthy glow, natural caramel highlights in her brown hair, and warm mocha eyes framed by long black lashes. She had the looks of her Columbian mother, who was a Sofia Vergara doppelg?nger, right down to her hourglass figure.

Unfortunately, what Fiona inherited from her father, a renowned two-star Michelin chef who owned a restaurant in San Francisco, was his love of food. Like him, she carried around an extra thirty pounds.

Her gaze swept down her profile in the mirror. She sucked in her gut, but she couldn't hide the pooch in her lower belly that never seemed to go away even when she starved herself and did hundreds of crunches a week. Frowning, she ran her hands over the bane of her existence, her bubble butt.

Okay, so it was more like an extra forty pounds, but at least she had her mother's height, and her 5'9" frame hid some of it.

Fiona sighed. There she was, like always, heart racing with excitement that tonight could be the night she met her dream dom, but also drowning in self-doubt. Shyness and self-consciousness clung to her like a second skin, especially in the dungeon in the presence of so many near-perfect, drop-dead gorgeous men and the bevy of beauties surrounding them.

That she did so alone didn't help. She felt especially pathetic coming here by herself. Everyone knew what she was looking for. She needed to be dominated by a man she trusted, who could also compel her submission. Who had the skill and stamina to tie her up, spank, and then fuck her—hell, she didn't care in what order—like in all of her fantasies. And she needed it, as much as she needed air to breathe.

Well, maybe not to that extreme, but she wanted it bad.

Her social circle was small, mostly consisting of co-workers. But the children's rehab clinic where she worked as an occupational therapist, wasn't exactly overflowing with dominant masters. She'd tried dating services but struggled to tell the vanilla guys from the kinksters. And she didn't have the nerve to come out and ask them.

What would she say, exactly? I like kittens, long walks on the beach, Italian food, and having my bottom smacked hard whenever I'm naughty—or nice.

She'd turned to the fetish and kink communities online and chatted with a few doms who seemed to have potential. But when it came time to actually meet them, she put them off or chickened out. They, in turn, got impatient with her stalling and moved on.

A club full of like-minded people, all in the lifestyle, had seemed her best bet. But if she couldn't find someone here, maybe it just wasn't meant to be. That left her facing an unfulfilled future with a vanilla guy who was nice but just didn't do it for her.

One last time, she adjusted her dress, tugging the neckline up and the hem down then twisting to double-check her ass crack wasn't showing. If she sat, it was a sure bet. Leaning in, she touched up her lipstick—deep red, which she could pull off with her coloring—then returned her makeup bag to her locker.

Having stalled long enough, she smoothed her dress in front, serving the dual purpose of drying her damp palms, then left the safety of the ladies' locker room. Instead of heading for the playroom, which was her usual routine, she made her way to the bar. Her monthly fee included an open bar of which she'd never partaken. That changed tonight.

It was crowded, as usual. As she wound through the throng of people, most of whom she'd seen but had never spoken to, her heels clicked against the polished floor in rhythm with her pounding heart. The dim lighting and bluesy music cast a seductive haze over the room where confident men and stunning women engaged in the age-old ritual of flirting, some absorbed in conversation, others grinding on the dance floor, and several making out in plain sight.

Envious of all of them, Fiona approached the bar and chose one of only two empty barstools. Master Samson, huge and rugged, with a mountain man aura, moved down the bar to take her order.

"Fiona, right?" he asked in his deep, booming voice.

"Yes, sir."

"You rarely grace us with your presence. What's the occasion?" His gaze swept the crowded space behind her. "Are you meeting someone?"

She wished. "I just thought I'd mix it up a bit."

"Is that so? Okay. Lay it on me. What bold, breaking-out-of-a-rut cocktail are you having tonight?"

"A glass of your house red, please," she replied, expecting the disappointed look he shot her way. "That's daring for me. I usually order a Diet Coke with lime."

"Doll face, you gotta drop in more often and let us bar rats help you bust outta your shell. Wine," he scoffed as he moved away, shaking his head. "What a snooze."

Instead of delivering it himself, a blonde in a black corset with a tiny cinched waist set her drink in front of her. She didn't utter a word but flashed her a kind smile before she scurried off to serve someone else.

Fiona held up the wineglass. From the way it caught the light with a flash of color, she suspected it was crystal. Like the gold fixtures in the bathroom, and the heaters beneath the tile floors that kept bare feet warm in the playroom, the club lived up to its decadent name, sparing no expense.

After taking a sip, she licked her lips, the crispness making her pucker the slightest bit. Her preference was for sweet red, but rarely did bars have anything but dry selections, so she'd learned to settle. She did that a lot she realized. Her psych professors in school would say it was indicative of low self-esteem, a lack of confidence in her abilities or worth. And wasn't that the story of her life?

Even here, at Decadence LA, which was supposed to be a sanctuary for her to explore her desires, she found herself settling. Every scene she'd had in the past year started out the same way. The dom approached—and several dommes—but they sought fleeting encounters, mere scenes of pleasure or erotic pain, desiring nothing more, no connection. They were up front about it, at least. Unlike her last boyfriend, who she'd woken to find sneaking out of her apartment in the middle of the night. Brandon, the big, boring jerkwad, hadn't lasted a week.

What was it about her that said revolving door rather than permanency?

Hearing her name, Fiona tensed suddenly. Without turning, she could see most of the booths and tables reflected in the mirror behind the bar. As she listened to the hum of conversation and laughter, a bluesy cover of Led Zeppelin's, "I Can't Quit You Baby," playing in the background, she tried to pick out the voice she thought she heard. There were just too many people, and none she knew well enough to seek her out.

Deciding she was mistaken, she mentally shrugged it off and took another sip of her wine.

"Fiona! You're in the lounge!"

She swiveled to see a short, curvy blonde and a gorgeous slender redhead behind her. Valerie, the former, was Master Eric's wife, who befriended every sub. Esme—such an unusual and beautiful name that suited the stunning, thirty-something submissive—was married to one of the other club masters, although she wasn't sure which one. What did it say that after twelve months as a member she didn't know who went with who?

Mostly, she arrived and went directly to subspace. Not the good kind, either. It was what the membership called the waiting area inside the dungeon where the available subs looking for a partner gathered.

"Hi, Val. Esme. I thought I'd mingle with the barflies for a bit." On my last night, she added silently. She didn't dare disclose that's what this was though. They would try to talk her out of it.

"You should come on sub night," Esme suggested.

Once a month, the submissives dressed up and pretty much took over the lounge. Valerie was the instigator, after visiting the San Antonio club and attending their Little Black Dress night. The flagship club had an amazing performer everyone wanted to see, but the LA monthly subs' night out had a good turnout as well. So she'd heard; she'd never actually been.

"I invite her every month, and every month she's a no-show," Val said with a huff. "We submissives need time together to cut loose without our doms underfoot."

"What? Do you run them off for the night?"

"As if we could," Esme giggled. "But they understand the importance of communing with other subs and dial it back a bit. At least Keiran does."

"Eric's dial is stuck on one setting," Val declared with a dramatic sigh. "He's the master dom 24/7."

"And you love it," Esme pointed out.

"Yeah, but let's keep that between us." As if they were besties, the master dom's sub winked at Fiona.

Maybe she should have taken her up on one of the dozen invitations. But too little, too late.

The gregarious blonde grabbed her hand and urged, "Please say you'll come to our next sub night. It's next Wednesday."

"I work until nine two nights a week. Let me check my schedule."

"Promise?"

"Yes," Fiona agreed. However, she was deliberately vague about what she was agreeing to. She would check her schedule, but it didn't matter. She wouldn't be able to attend because by then, she would no longer be a member.

"We're being summoned," Esme said, pointing to the dungeon doors where Masters Eric and Keiran were waiting. "See you next week, Fiona." She grabbed Val's hand and pulled her along while the petite blonde waved.

Regretting the missed opportunity to expand her slim network of friends when she had the chance, she turned back to her glass and drained it.

She didn't order a second, also included. The band announced a break, and it seemed as good a time as any to head into the playroom—for the last time. Before she could swivel on her stool and hop down, she heard her name again. This time, it wasn't someone excited to see her. Quite the opposite. She was the topic of a not-so-nice discussion at a nearby table.

"She's pretty enough, but she's a chub."

Fiona didn't react. She'd heard similar insults before. But the next words really stung.

"Subs like Fat Fiona are tempting because they're so desperate to get fucked they'll do anything and everything. And they're fun to play with, especially to spank with that extra jiggle." She heard male laughter, then the solo voice continued. "Fat cunts are fuckable when there's no better option, but you wouldn't want a steady diet of them, if you know what I mean."

She felt as if she had traveled back in time to the playground of John F. Kennedy elementary. Gina Malloy, the most popular girl in the fourth grade, was the first to call her Fat Fiona, within earshot at least. Her little clique of mean girl wannabees all giggled in support of their queen.Yeah, at ten years old, several of her classmates had already mastered catty and outright mean. The other slurs she'd heard before, although not strung together in such a completely hurtful way. From tonight onward, they would be permanently linked.

She scanned the tables in the mirror. Needing to know who'd said it, to put a face to the cruelty. There were so many people and most of the doms had already paired up. Two tables contained only men. The first was a group of four arguing good-naturedly about sports. The other was a table of three.

When she turned on her barstool to face them, she skewered the trio with an icy glare. It was extremely disrespectful, but she didn't care. Let them kick her out. Respect was a two-way street. If this was the sort of dom Club Decadence attracted, no wonder she wasn't getting anywhere.

She recognized one of them. Jordan had approached her months back, but what he wanted to do to her bumped right up against her hard limits, and she'd declined. The second man, dark-haired and good-looking, she didn't know. He nudged the third man. As if sensing her animosity, when his head swung her way, his eyes connected with hers. Deep blue and familiar.

Fiona had only seen Doc once or twice since that long-ago first night, but each time, she'd thought him the most beautiful man in the club, and that was saying something since most everyone was a nine or a ten on a bad day. She'd had a mad crush on him, and he'd starred in all of her naughty fantasies ever since watching his scene on the center stage. Which was what made his mockery and rejection sting even more.

Funny how with his shirt on he looked different and suddenly so much less attractive.

He returned her glare through narrowed eyes, appearing angry. Probably because she'd been eavesdropping on their private conversation.After what she'd just heard, his opinion didn't matter.

Giving the table a dismissive glance, she noticed Jordan had a smug grin on his handsome face as his gaze dipped and slowly ran over her body. Then he shook his head, obviously finding her lacking. Or, since one of them had called her fat, maybe the better word was excessive.

Refusing to let them see her tears, she hopped off the stool, and, giving their table a wide berth, headed for the door, amazingly fleet-footed even in stiletto heels.

Someone called her name. Deep and resonant, it rose above laughter and conversation. But Fiona didn't slow or turn back as she pushed through the crush of bodies, into the lobby then outside without even setting foot inside the dungeon.

Before the heavy doors could close behind her, she rushed down the steps and sprinted south on the sidewalk along Beverly Boulevard. It was the long way to her car. At a run, so not her forte, she reached the garage in minutes. Hurt and mortification must have inspired speed.

As she climbed the stairs to the third level, sucking wind and sweating, she was never more thankful for her used Chevy with its keyless entry keypad, and that she always left her phone and wallet in the trunk. Or she would have no choice except to return, and rerun the gauntlet of humiliation, to retrieve her purse from her locker.

They could keep her thirty dollars and tube of lipstick. No way was she going back for more insults and degradation. Not tonight. And most likely never again because among the beautiful people, she was a fish out of water.

A fat fish, evidently.

SEEING HER BOTTOM LIPquiver as she bolted toward the door, Noah shot to his feet to follow. He couldn't watch her go and do nothing. But she was more adept at battling the Friday night crowd than he was.

When he barked, "Move!" in his sternest master's voice, the subs quickly skittered out of the way. The doms, who usually felt no compunction to follow orders, took one look at his face and obeyed his command. There was no sign of her, however, when he made it out to the street.

"Damn, Jordan, that judgmental asshole," he muttered on his way back in. Acting as if he was god's gift to the submissive world when he didn't know the first thing about them. And he had shit taste in women.

Fiona was lovely. He'd had his eye on the curvy brunette since she'd joined last year and was sorely tempted to claim her for a night. But he sensed her vulnerability, not just in the shy looks or the quick rise of color to her cheeks in the dungeon, but something about her called to the protector inside him.

She was exactly his type. All the more reason to stay away. He could too easily fall under her spell, but he wasn't going there again.

Besides, he worked long hours, traveled often to some of the most impoverished places on the globe, took risks when Rossi called on him, and volunteered as a DM at the club when he could. There was little time for anything else. What could he offer a submissive like Fiona, who was obviously looking for a forever dom?

Although it was self-imposed torture, he'd watched her over the past year when he was in town, which wasn't much, as she'd crashed and burned over and over. Her taste wasn't much better than Jordan's. She'd say no to the doms who might be amenable to something long-term and yes to the players.

Her problem was she didn't hang around long enough, either in the bar or lounge before or after playtime, to mingle with the other submissives. If she did, she'd get the scoop on who might be a good fit and which doms to run from as if her incredible caramel-streaked waist-length hair was on fire.

Robert fucking Jordan would have topped his list of the latter.

Eric's subbie wife would have adopted her in an instant, but she didn't afford her or any of the many kindhearted, well-meaning, matchmaking subs a chance. It was against the rules, but watching Fiona struggle, he could see where it would be useful in certain circumstances.

As he stalked into the lounge, he was so enraged he wanted to put his fist through the loathsome man's smug, surgically enhanced face. Yeah, he'd had a rhinoplasty, and Noah would take great satisfaction in seeing that he needed another.

That was risky, however. Not that he couldn't take the smarmy little putz, but because as a surgeon, his hands were his livelihood. Another reason he didn't seek out and punish the asshole's unacceptable behavior, he lacked the authority.

He wasn't a DM tonight; he was a regular member, just like Jordan. Although it wasn't for Eric's lack of trying.

Within six months of his joining, the owners and other doms had nominated him for club master status. They awarded the title to only the most experienced and respected. It was an honor, but the elevated position came with added responsibility. They mentored new and less experienced dominants, provided demonstrations on some of the less common BDSM techniques, and served as dungeon monitors on rotation.But he wasn't in a good place then, and still didn't feel he had the time to serve in that capacity. He helped when he could, but that was it.

Instead of seeking Jordan out and give him the ass chewing—and kicking—he richly deserved, Noah sought out someone who had the authority to handle the situation.

Eric Dupree wore multiple hats, CFO for the Rossi group, which included the main headquarters in San Antonio, the satellite office here in LA, and both clubs. He had clout in all locations but especially here at Decadence LA, where, as the master dom and operating partner, his word was law.

Eric didn't tolerate any sort of humiliation in his club unless it was part of a negotiated scene. Yeah, some subs got off on that. As Fiona's distraught face and quivering bottom lip flashed in his head, he knew for damn sure she wasn't one of them.

"Eric, a word," he called, catching him leaving his private booth in the dungeon, his submissive wife at his side.

"It's our turn at the cross. Can it wait until after?"

"There has been a situation." He glanced around. "But I can track down Tristan or one of the other masters, I suppose."

"What kind of situation?" Eric interjected.

"I don't like to carry tales, but it's that or start one of the infamous brawls the bar is becoming known for."

"Please, don't," the owner said, sounding aggrieved and a bit desperate. "I just paid the invoice this morning for the new furniture after the last one. Fill me in on what's going on. Perhaps I can take care of it without breaking tables and thousands of dollars' worth of glasses."

When Eric heard Jordan's callous insults had sent one of their members fleeing the club on foot, after dark, in the middle of downtown LA, he wasn't pleased. But Valerie, who'd earned the nickname subbie guardian—SG for short—was livid.

"You've got to do something about him, master. Jordan isn't merely a misogynistic asshole. He gets off on being cruel. Last week, he called Analise an Amazon and made her crawl across the playroom floor because barefoot, she towered above him by several inches. She still has bruises on her knees a week after the fact. Before that, he used a hood on Mandy because he said her hair looked like straw and was an eyesore. They were both humiliated, and that wasn't something they negotiated as part of their scenes."

"Why didn't they use their safeword or come to me with this?" the master dom demanded to know.

"They said they didn't want to make a fuss and have the other doms think they were difficult. But they both told me they'd never scene with him again. And this isn't the first time he's criticized a submissive for being too heavy or called them fat."

Eric scowled. "I'll speak with Mandy and Analise. They were play partners but should never be afraid of using their safeword during a scene, no matter how it might be perceived by others. In Fiona's case, she was a patron at our bar. She had the expectation of using our common areas without being disrespected and harassed. And she hasn't exactly been a regular. In the year she's been a member, except on her first night when activities were held in the bar, I can't remember her ever stopping by for a drink."

"Me either. I think I finally convinced her to come to sub night, and now Jordan has probably scared her off." Val's cheeks were flushed, and she was trembling with anger when she told him, "I wish you had hauled off and slugged him, Master Noah."

"No one is slugging anyone," Eric stated with authority. "And, you, my darling wife, will retract your claws and let me handle this. Is that understood?"

"Yes, sir," she responded dutifully, although from the tense set of her lips, her anger hadn't yet subsided. "May I be excused, master?"

"Not if you're going to find Jordan and pick a fight."

She dared to scowl at her dom. "I just said I wouldn't," she exclaimed. "But the drink you suggested earlier that I declined, I've changed my mind. I'm ticked, and a stiff one might help with that."

Eric scanned the floor. "I see Mistress Lenore and Daniel leaving. They always stop by the bar to unwind before heading back to San Diego. You may sit with them and have one drink while I take care of this ugly business with Jordan."

"Two might get me in the mood to play again because currently that ship has sailed—sir."

Noah bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. The master dom had his hands full with his only sometimes submissive wife.

"You may have one," Eric repeated. "Because I plan to give you a stiff one before the night is over, and I'd like you sober enough to participate."

"Master!"

He pulled her into his side, ignoring her heated cheeks and shocked reaction as he glanced Noah's way. "Thank you for bringing this to my attention."

"You're welcome. Witnessing the subbie guardian in full protector mode went a long way in calming me down. I'd still like to punch the offensive prick."

"Can I watch while you do?" Val asked, her blue eyes gleaming with a thirst for vengeance. "Nobody likes that horse's ass. We could sell tickets and make a fortune."

"Enough about punching and brawling with other members, the two of you," Eric insisted as he led his bloodthirsty wife away.

As he watched them go, Doc didn't wish Eric's job as sheriff to a membership of close to 1000 on anyone. But he had his sub at his side now. A twinge of envy for his intelligent, uniquely perceptive, and beautiful wife washed over him. But only for a split second. He was staunchly anti-relationship, and rational thought quickly returned.

Noah had to wonder if Val's volatile response was because the situation hit too close to home. She was petite, with womanly curves. They weren't as blatant as Fiona's, but hers was a silhouette he preferred, as did her husband, apparently. And a refreshing change from the reed-slender, diet-and-fitness-obsessed model types that pervaded the LA club.

He quickly dismissed the notion. Word would have gotten back to her very protective husband if Jordan or anyone else had made hurtful comments. Their membership immediately revoked, the master dom would have promptly shown them the exit, his boot print on their ass on the way out, despite his insistence on no punching or brawling to the contrary.