Chapter 5

Like a House of Cards

NOAH ENTERED THE CLUBthrough the service entrance out back. Being a Rossi man who took an occasional security or DM shift, he had special clearance. When he wasn't on duty, he didn't like to take advantage and circumvent standard check-in procedures, but the line out front was halfway down the block.

Only yesterday, he returned from a month-long trip to North Africa, specifically Ethiopia, South Sudan, Chad, and Libya. During the trip, he'd performed an average of two surgeries six days a week, the seventh reserved for travel. When his plane landed at noon at LAX, he went straight home and crashed, sleeping straight through until 5 p.m. today.

Ravenous upon waking, he ate an entire frozen pizza, the only food he had in his kitchen. Although he could have easily gone back to bed, he needed to adjust his body clock to LA time. Despite being jet-lagged and exhausted, he headed to the club to catch up with his friends, have a drink or two, and find a willing partner to dominate, not necessarily in that order.

Despite the shoulder-to-shoulder crowd in the lounge, he spied an empty barstool, which he claimed. Samson, their barrel-chested, brawny barkeep immediately came over.

"What's up, Doc?"

If he had the energy, he would have rolled his eyes. Oh, to have a dollar for every time he'd heard that tired line; he could retire young and cure world hunger.

Instead of protesting the tedium, he replied, "Bud draft, please."

"Coming right up."

The big man moved to the kegs, grabbed a frosted mug, and poured a beer with the perfect head of foam. As he considered Samson's black leather vest, matching pants, and motorcycle boots, Noah couldn't help but think if he exchanged it for a kilt and brown boots, he'd look like a Highlander.

He dropped a cardboard coaster on the bar, set his beer on top, then grabbed a rag and wiped down the gleaming bar top while smoothing his dark beard with the other hand. It was at this point, Doc changed his mind. Exchange the vest for a flannel shirt, and he'd look like the lumberjack on the roll of paper towels he'd opened not more than an hour ago at home.

At the tangential nature of his thoughts, Noah rubbed his face with both hands. Maybe he should have gone back to bed after all.

Sam tossed the rag under the shelf then stacked his forearms on the bar and watched as he chugged the icy-cold brew.

"Don't they have Budweiser in Africa?" he asked.

Noah wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. As he savored the rich flavors lingering on his tongue, he let out a contented sigh. Damn, that tasted good. "Not within 100 miles of where I was stationed."

"That's third-world shit, man!" he exclaimed in horror.

"Yeah, that's the reason they needed me."

"Oh, right," he stated. "Stupid question. So, how many kids did your magic hands save this time?"

Noah grimaced. His skills weren't unique, but he'd been lucky to have resources others didn't—thank you, Uncle Sam—to pay for exceptional training, and his grades and recommendations had gotten him into internships with the best mentors. That was hard work, not magic, and neither were his hands.

"I'm an orthopedic surgeon, Sam. These weren't emergency procedures. They were elective to fix birth defects."

"Thereby improving their quality of life," the big man concluded. "Like I asked, how many kids' lives did you save this time?"

He quickly did the math, knowing the man wouldn't let it rest. "Just under fifty."

Sam whistled. "Thank you for your service. And I mean that."

"Can we change the subject?"

"So modest, but sure. What do you want to talk about?"

"Catch me up on what's been happening around here."

"Let's see," he said, stroking his beard again. "No kidnappings or stalkers. No serial rapists or murderers needing taken out, and we haven't had a bar brawl in over a month. We also haven't had more than our monthly carousel since the new year started. It's been damn dull around here."

Noah took another long draw on his beer before he replied, "None of that kind of excitement is nice for a change."

"Yeah, but that doesn't mean we can't have some naughty subbies and brats acting up to get the carousel operational once a week. Hell, I'll take bimonthly. Ya catch my drift?"

"I hear you, Sam." Noah drained his glass then stood. "I'm heading in."

"Good luck. You're gonna need it. Our single-sub-to-dom ratio is in the crapper."

"What's Eric planning to do about that?"

"He's got a few events planned later this month. You should find you a permanent sub. You're not getting any younger."

"Thanks for the observation. Jet lag adds ten years, so I'm told." His attempt to deflect failed.

"I'm serious. It's been what, four or five years since—"

"No offense, old friend, but I'm not in the mood for relationship advice. That's not why I sit at the bar."

He took a step back, throwing his hands up in surrender. "Okay, but don't say I didn't warn you. Unless you don't mind switching teams or being the third, fourth, or fifth wheel, you'll be disappointed. When I left the dungeon about an hour ago, subspace was nearly empty."

"Thanks for the heads-up," he said over his shoulder as he strode for the dungeon entrance.

Despite nearly twenty hours of sound sleep, he felt the fatigue in his bones with every step. Yeah, staying home would have been the smart thing to do. And the result would be the same—getting intimate with his right palm—and he wouldn't have had to drive a half hour to do it.

NO MATTER HOW MANYtimes he'd been here or how many years under his belt as a dominant, whenever he walked into the dungeon, he always had the same visceral reaction. As he pushed open the heavy doors, a rush of excitement coursed through his veins. It had been a month since he last set foot in this sanctuary of desire, and he could already feel the familiar pull as his dominant instincts awakened.

His eyes adjusted to the dimly lit room. The flickering wall sconces casting dancing shadows on the walls were in contrast to the ceiling spotlights illuminating the stations in a beam of light. The top in any scene could dim them with a floor switch, but few chose to do so. You couldn't flog what you couldn't see. And what red-blooded dom worth his or her salt didn't enjoy seeing his partner's reaction, from the rise and fall of their chest, to the color change of their skin, whether flushed with excitement or from a flogger. Even better, when sex was part of the scene, to watch the quivering, wet, glistening, and sometimes puckered holes they were fucking?

As he moved deeper into the cavernous room, he could barely hear the music over the symphony of moans, gasps, thwacks, slaps, and whooshes that served as a backdrop to the erotic scenes.

A quick glance at the subbie couches proved Samson's warning true. They were empty except for a bare-chested male who looked to be in negotiations with Mistress Jillian. He didn't recognize the twenty-something sub, but he was in for either the night of his life or a rude awakening with the domme whose reputation for strictness and little mercy was legendary in the club. His protective instincts rose to the surface, but he tamped them down. If he didn't like her brand of dominance, he could shout red to the rafters. If he did, the sub would likely walk out of here, or, knowing Jillian, crawl out with a huge smile on his face.

As he walked the circuit, the scent of leather and sweat, mixed with faint hints of soap and body wash, enveloped him, mingling with the heady aroma of arousal. It was a scent he knew intimately, one that had become etched into his memory over the years. The combination of leather and desire was intoxicating, a potent aphrodisiac that never failed to awaken his senses.

He recalled the days before Eric's directive—no heavy perfumes and colognes. Some members had asthma or allergies, others were sensitive, but the combination of upward of a thousand different scents released by heated skin was too much for just about everyone, and people complained.

Noah's gaze swept the room, his attention drawn to the submissives tightly bound and on display. As a doctor, he found the human body fascinating. As a man, the beauty of the female form captivated him, in all its variations. But as a dominant, he had a particular fondness for softness and curves, which were immensely pleasurable to bind, spank, and have pressed intimately against him.

As he strolled, he stayed on the lookout for glossy, caramel-kissed brown hair and rounded curves. Before he flew out, only days after the incident, he called to check on Fiona, but she didn't answer and never returned his call. He'd worried about her, recalling her tear-streaked cheeks and heartrending cries of fear and pain, and her terrified shouts of "red."

She'd said never again. If that was her decision, he laid the blame squarely at Jordan's feet. His hands curled into fists, his desire to get in a few more punches still simmering below the surface.

He stopped to watch a threesome. The man, obviously the dominant, had bound two submissive women, naked, inside a frame, facing one another. Pressed together from breasts to thighs, the strap around their waists keeping them that way. Noah heard the telltale buzz of a wand. Correction, wands—between their spread legs—one for each pussy. The open-mouthed kisses they shared muffled their cries of pleasure as their dom, who circled them constantly, expertly employed a dragon's tongue.

In his almost twenty years as a dom, Noah had tried out everything he used on a submissive. He believed a dom shouldn't dish it out until he experienced it. The suede lash could crack like a whip and bite like one too. The memory of its fiery kiss searing his skin was still vivid years later. He'd endured it rather than reveling in it as these two subs did. Receiving wasn't his thing, but he was grateful he found enough submissive women for whom it was.

After thirty minutes, with nothing and no one appealing to him, he returned to the lounge for a beer, his second. Maybe a third, which would make the playroom and any sub that caught his eye off-limits. He just wasn't in the mood. Unless it was a curvy little brunette with a delectable round ass and beautiful but shuttered brown eyes.

There was a story there. More than a prick of a dom who'd taken things way too far. Maybe one day he'd hear it from her. Not today though. There was no sign of Fiona, and he was just too damn tired.

Instead of a seat at the bar, and more grilling from Sam, he joined a group of his friends in the lounge. Except for Axyl Tavares, a Rossi man from San Antonio who had been helping routinely of late, it was all couples. Eric and Val, Keiran and Esme, and Flynn Dalton, a SEALs commander from Coronado, who had his cute-as-a-button petite wife cuddled up in his lap. Judging by the drowsy, contented smile on her face, they had already enjoyed the amenities of the playroom.

"Good to have you back, Doc," Keiran exclaimed warmly in greeting. "Did your mission go well?"

"It went as planned," he replied. "The well part remains to be seen. Most of the kids have months of rehab ahead of them before we can call our efforts a success."

"I admire you," the Rossi director said, his voice filled with genuine admiration. "Not everyone would give so unselfishly of their time."

Like his encounter with Sam at the bar, he felt awkward at the praise. He never thought twice of giving back when he had such abundance. Not knowing quite what to say, he quickly changed the subject.

He looked at Val, asking what had been nagging at him for weeks. "How's Fiona?"

She shrugged, her smile turning into a bit of a pout. "I wouldn't know. She has returned none of my calls since ending her membership."

Axyl who'd been watching a rather amorous couple on the dance floor, refocused on the conversation at the mention of her. He sat up at attention and exclaimed, "The hell you say! Fiona quit the club?"

"How do you know Fiona? You're from Texas," Noah asked more sharply than he intended, drawing curious looks from both Eric and Keiran.

"I'm here more than there, lately," the younger man replied, not seeming to notice his reaction. "I had the honor of showing her around her first time here. She didn't have much experience, and when I showed her the ropes, so to speak, she was eager to learn and seemed to really need the support of the community."

Axyl was not only good-looking and personable, he was also younger than him by at least a decade. Fiona's willingness to engage in a scene with a stranger from out of town, yet she turned down his own proposition out of hand, ignited a sudden surge of jealousy within him.

Having Val and Esme's attention as well, he leaned back, forcing himself to relax.

"I hate to hear it. What happened?" the younger man said, directing his question to Eric.

"I'm not sure, because I never got to speak to her about it. She just let her membership lapse," he replied. "It was right after a scene went bad, which I suspect had something to do with it."

"That's an understatement," Val muttered.

"She let that putz Jordan run her off," Noah concluded.

"He wasn't the only reason," Esme quietly put in.

Looking a bit wounded, Val asked, "You talked to her?"

"Only briefly. I don't think she meant to answer, but I surprised her by calling early in the morning before work. She said Club Decadence didn't have what she was looking for."

"Did she mention what that was?" Eric asked.

"Stability with a forever dom. She also wants a family someday. After turning thirty-four this year, she said her clock was ticking. She was in a forthcoming mood and mentioned giving up BDSM altogether and settling down with a nice vanilla guy if she could find one."

"That's not settling down," Noah muttered. "That's just settling. It won't make her happy."

"We should've helped her find someone here," Val stated, glaring at her dom. "If we didn't have so many stupid rules—"

"Don't start," Eric warned.

"Why? We're a community. And we're supposed to be a safe place for like-minded people. That's what you're always telling the new members. If they can't find someone here, what are the chances they're going to find someone in a city as big as LA, all on their own? Especially someone like Fiona?"

"What does that mean?" Eric demanded. "Are you calling her fat, too?"

"Like I would!" Valerie exclaimed. Then, to everyone's astonishment, she punched her master in the shoulder. "How could you accuse me, of all people, of fat shaming? I meant that she's shy with very poor self-esteem. That she had the nerve to come here to begin with, then put herself out there for a year, was a feat in itself for an introvert like her. After what Jordan did to her, I'm not at all surprised she quit. That's why I've been trying to reach her."

"She should have found your sub group, SG," Noah commented, not liking the fact that an emotionally vulnerable submissive was withdrawing from what she needed to be whole. That it was Fiona, who he'd been thinking about constantly since the incident, doubled his concern.

"Yeah," Val agreed in a less voluble tone. "That she didn't wasn't from my lack of trying."

"Did you actually just hit me?" Eric asked, a few beats behind in the conversation and clearly dumbfound by his subbie wife's behavior.

As if she hadn't noticed it hurting until he pointed it out, Val shook her hand, which had to have taken the brunt of the impact on her dom's rock-hard deltoid.

"Someone has to make you see reason," she said by way of explanation, not offering an apology, which from Eric's scowl he'd expected. "Fiona isn't the first sub who quit the club because she couldn't find a dom who suited her."

"We aren't running a dating service," he grumbled.

"Maybe we should, because you are quite good at it," Keiran, a silent observer until now, said. "Or did you forget you were behind me and Esme getting together?"

"He gave me an ultimatum," his wife disclosed. "Find a dom or get out."

Val gasped, shooting her master a disappointed how could you look.

"He did the same with me, although the threat was different," Keiran declared.

Val'sglower deepened. "I see. It's only against the rules when a submissive tries to connect two people who have something in common. That seems fair."

"I don't appreciate your sarcasm, sprite. Keep it up and you'll be standing during office hours the rest of the week."

"What did I do?"

"What did you do?" he echoed, the audacity of her question making his voice rise at least an octave. "Let's see if I can recap accurately. You glared at your master, raised your voice, and slugged him. You also scowled, glowered, and got lippy. Did I leave anything out?"

When the ballsy little sub bit her lower lip, Noah could practically see the wheels turning in her head as she tried to come up with a way to get out of the corner she'd misbehaved herself into.

"Well?" Eric prompted.

"No, your list seemed quite comprehensive. Forgive me, master," Val said, in a much softer tone. "But I feel bad for Fiona and think as a whole, the club let her down."

Not looking the slightest bit appeased, he grunted with annoyance. "I can't have 1000 club members involved in matchmaking schemes. Things are chaotic enough now."

"It wouldn't be all of them," Val reasoned. "At least half are in relationships already. And what if they weren't schemes? What if it was voluntary?"

"Yes. They could sign up to take part like with everything else," Esme suggested.

"And who would run this kinky matchmaking service?" the master dom inquired, still sounding very much put out. "I have three full-time jobs already."

Esme raised her hand. "I have some spare time and computer skills."

"You work for me," Keiran reminded her. "And you were telling me just the other day how swamped you are and that you need an assistant."

"I said that, didn't I?" she asked him, turning her big green eyes on Val when he nodded. "You should do it. You have the intuition."

"And a private practice to run," Eric replied with a shake of his head. "It keeps her busy enough."

"Maybe we should do a survey, assess the interest, and go from there," Val suggested.

"That's a great idea," Esme said enthusiastically, fully backing her friend and fellow sub's suggestion.

Val's voice brimmed with excitement as she further suggested, "We could put it in the newsletter. Since we send it out by email, anyone interested could click on a link and complete the questionnaire. Easy peasy!"

"And maybe we compile them together in half the time," Esme proposed.

Keiran caught her chin and turned her face up to his. "Why is this so important to you, mo chuisle?"

"Because I remember how lonely it was after Andrew died, and how hard it was to put myself out there. I almost didn't. If not for Master Eric, I might still be stuck."

"Me too," Val whispered, her misty-eyed gaze on her husband. A widow, like Esme, she had suppressed her desires in a vanilla marriage for years, only blossoming when she found the club and met Eric. "Please, master. Can't we at least see if there's an interest? In this small group alone, two of the three subs were adrift. All we needed was a nudge in the right direction and a guiding hand."

"I needed a kick in the pants. If you recall, it took being unmasked at the annual masquerade party for me to admit to Flynn I was submissive and in love with him." Cassie, who he thought was asleep, added this compelling tidbit to their exchange.

"That's three out of three, sir," Esme pressed. "And submissives aren't the only ones struggling to find the yin to their yang."

"Yeah. Doms need love, too, master."

Despite his irritable mood, when Val played that outrageous card without batting an eyelash, Noah almost lost it. The snickers from others in the group made it clear they didn't possess the same level of discipline.

Eric arched an imperious brow at her. "You're playing me, aren't you, sprite?"

"No!" she exclaimed. "Look at Master Keiran, Commander Flynn, and you. All married in the last few years to their perfect match. Don't you think it's possible some rank-and-file members see how happy the club masters are and want the same for themselves?"

"All right," Eric sighed. "We'll put something in the newsletter and see what kind of response we get."

Noah somehow kept a straight face as the master dom capitulated, his resistance collapsing like a house of cards faced with his woman's logic and heart-tugging plea.

"Oh, thank you, master," Val gushed, her face lighting up as she hugged his arm to her ample chest.

"That doesn't mean you're off the hook for your naughty, scowling, sassy behavior," he declared, his stern, master dom persona tempered momentarily but far from gone. "Get my bag from Samson at the bar and meet me in room 6. You have ten minutes."

She replied with a dutiful, "Yes, sir," but her eyes betrayed her excitement as she eagerly rushed to comply.

Room 6 was the e-stim room, which the entire club knew Eric's sub very much enjoyed. Getting her way and receiving punishment in a manner few excelled at, other than her dominant husband, was a win-win for them both.