Chapter 1

Faye

"I can't believe you talked me into this," I hiss as I lean toward my friend and co-worker, grabbing her arm. "This is so not my scene."

Trinity turns in her seat and smiles at me. "It's just an intro class, Faye. You don't have to commit to a membership or anything."

"You say that like it's intro to algebra or intro to poly sci," I whisper.

Trinity giggles, covering her mouth to stifle the noise as everyone takes their seats. She shrugs. "Intro to algebra. Intro to BDSM. It's all the same."

I glance around the room and shudder. I don't know a thing about BDSM. I should have done some research before I let Trinity talk me into this. I should have stayed home and read the latest issue of Science Weekly. That's the kind of information I should be filling my brain with—not BDSM.

A man at the front claps his hands together. "I want to thank all of you for coming tonight. My name is Easton. I'm one of the owners of Edge. Whether you're new to BDSM, new to Seattle, or just curious, welcome. I'll be giving you a crash course in what BDSM is all about, then I'll take some questions, and finally, you're all free to wander around and explore the club before it opens to our regular members."

Easton… I knew an Easton once. Easton Riley. He didn't look anything like this tall, buff, energetic, friendly man. The only thing this sexy Easton has in common with the Easton I knew in high school is his hair color.

I find myself mesmerized by this man. For one thing, he's charismatic. I assume everyone in the room is mesmerized by him. For another thing, he surprises me. For some reason, I expected the owner of a fetish club to be…well, not so…regular.

Easton is an ordinary man. Mid-thirties, brown hair, brown eyes, tanned skin. If he has any tattoos, I can't see them. He's wearing a black polo shirt that fits snugly around his enormous biceps. He has on blue jeans and tennis shoes.

Why did I expect leather and chains? I had visions of bikers. I'm so shallow.

I try to listen to what he's telling us about the meaning of the BDSM acronym and the general rules of the club and the fetish community in general. It's hard to focus, though, because I keep finding myself simply staring at him—the way he moves as he paces slowly back and forth. He's so confident. Every time he turns to one side, I catch a glimpse of his fantastic ass in those worn jeans. His thighs are rock-hard. The outline of his chest and abs under the tight shirt is magazine-worthy—and certainly not featured in the science magazines I usually read.

He moves on from his basic introduction to talking about various items used for impact play. I hold my breath through a lot of this, shocked by how ordinary he acts about each item as he holds it up—paddles, floggers, crops, whips, and something called a cat o' nine tails that looks like it could do some serious damage.

I wince and jerk in my seat when he flicks his wrist, making the evil torture device strike the table behind him.

I've avoided looking around the room too much because it's overwhelming. We're sitting in the middle of what he calls a playroom. It's huge. The floor, walls, and ceiling are all a deep purple. He explains that the lighting is significantly dimmer when the club is open. For this class, they have turned on all the recessed lighting.

I feel lightheaded as he tells us about all the apparatuses in the room: spanking benches, St. Andrew's crosses, cages, a spider web, and sex swings. I sit on my hands to keep them from trembling as he points out an area for medical play, another for fire play, and another for blood play. He glosses over a lot of the sections, leaving me wondering. Blood play? What the heck?

Three sides of the room have half walls that separate the various play areas without obstructing anyone's ability to view the scenes. One side of the room has a stage for performances and auction nights.

He points to a hallway in one corner and informs us there are private rooms that can be reserved. Themed rooms. I don't even want to know what those themes might be. I shudder. Some of the rooms are apparently for aftercare. Everything is included in the monthly membership fee as long as they are available. Apparently, members can reserve sections.

"It's so exciting," Trinity whispers in my ear as Easton finishes his Intro to BDSM 101 class.

I'm not sure exciting is the word I would use, but I'm oddly intrigued, which is unnerving.

Easton stops pacing to face us. "A few of our members will be around the room to demonstrate the apparatuses. Feel free to wander. Ask questions. If you're interested in a membership, you can speak to me or my brother. He got caught on a call in the office upstairs, but he'll be down shortly."

As people stand and slowly make their way around the room, exploring, Trinity jumps up. "It looks like someone is going to demonstrate that cross." She points to one of the sections of the room. "I'm going to go watch. You coming?"

"Yep. Sure. I'll follow you."

She spins around and takes off. I'm not actually quite ready to stand yet, and I'm also not sure my legs will hold me up.

When I finally push to stand up, I notice a few people gathering at a spanking bench. That seems less intimidating than the St. Andrew's cross, so I shuffle closer to watch.

A man dressed in all black helps a woman in a short black dress climb onto the bench. He guides her elbows and knees to padded sections, arranging her as she gets comfortable.

I suck in a breath when he secures her ankles and wrists, drawn closer to the unfolding scene. The man takes his time, circling her, running his hands over her body. He lowers his face to her ear and whispers something I can't hear.

The woman shudders.

When he rounds behind her and flattens his palms on her thighs, I flinch. I can't help but cross my arms, and then I slide one hand up to my mouth as I squeeze my legs together.

I'm wearing black slacks, a cream sweater, and black flats. It seemed like a good choice while I was still at home. Now, I see it wouldn't have mattered what I wore. Most of the people who've come to attend this introductory class are wearing casual clothes. After all, we'll be gone before the club actually opens.

The man slides his hands up her thighs, pushing her skirt higher and higher until he flips it up onto her back, leaving her butt cheeks exposed. All she's wearing under the skirt is a black G-string.

I've never understood G-strings. They look so uncomfortable. Why would anyone want that elastic up between their butt cheeks all day?

Maybe I'm a prude. Okay, I'm definitely a prude. There's no maybe about it. I wear sensible, plain white underwear. White bras, too. I don't have time or the inclination to shop for something prettier. Something sexier. Who would see them anyway?

The man comes to one side of the woman, molds his palm to her butt for long seconds, and then lifts his hand and gives her a firm swat.

I gasp as my entire body flinches. The woman's skin pinkens, showing exactly where he spanked her. I have no idea why I'm affected by this. Why would anyone want to be strapped down and beaten?

My mouth is dry, and I can't seem to bring myself to lick my lips. I'm practically hugging myself. My nipples are hard, and there's a weird flutter in my stomach.

"Faye?"

I jerk my gaze to my left at the sound of my name coming from the club owner. I know it's him before I look because I've memorized his mesmerizing tone of voice. Why does he know my name? "Uh…"

"It is you. Faye Lunsford," he whispers. "You probably don't remember me. We went to the same high school. You were a freshman when I was a senior. We were in debate club together."

Ohmygod. This is the same Easton I knew in high school. I stare at him with wide eyes, probably looking like a deer in the headlights. How the hell does he remember me?

I was a quiet, meek, awkward girl my freshman year. My parents insisted I join the debate club to help me learn to speak to other people. I don't think it helped. Fifteen years later, I'm still quiet, meek, and awkward.

Easton sets a hand on my elbow and gently guides me away from the scene. He grins. "You don't remember me, do you?" He smiles.

I swallow. "Yes. I mean, I remember there was an Easton Riley in my debate club. But you're…uh…buff." Buff? Lordy, what's wrong with me?

He chuckles. "Yeah, I grew about six inches after high school and started working out. I could say the same about you." He lifts a brow, his mouth still turned up in a devastatingly sexy smile.

"I'm buff?"

He laughs again. "No. Not buff. How about…curvy? Is that inappropriate?"

I bite my bottom lip, staring at him. He's not wrong. At fifteen, I was still flat-chested and gangly. I've changed.

"I guess you live in Seattle, then?" he asks.

I nod. "I moved back here a few months ago." I look around and state the obvious. "You own a club."

"With my brother, Drake, yes. We opened Edge seven years ago."

I don't have a single clue what to say. Easton exudes confidence. He hasn't taken his gaze off mine. I guess debate club served him well if his goal was to excel at speaking to people.

"Are you interested in a membership?"

"Oh, no. I just came with my friend, Trinity. She dragged me out tonight. BSDM isn't really my thing."

He chuckles. "BDSM. Don't worry; you're not the first person to swap the acronym. It's common."

My face heats. I should keep my mouth closed. In fact, I purse my lips.

He nods toward the spanking scene I'd been watching. "It looked like you were engrossed. Maybe you should give it a try."

I jerk my gaze from where the woman is being thoroughly spanked now, trying not to react to her reddened skin or the moans coming from her mouth. When I look back at Easton, I shake my head. "I don't think so. I'm not really any more outgoing than I was in high school."

"Are you sure? Can't hurt to come a few nights and watch. I'd be happy to sponsor your membership so you can try it out."

I flinch. "I can afford my own membership," I retort a bit too harshly. I have no idea what the membership fees even are. I should think before I speak. Nevertheless, I make good money. I'm smart with it, too. I save fifty percent of my salary for retirement. A part of me wants to tell Easton this so he doesn't think I'm a charity case. Instead, I purse my lips again.

"I didn't mean to insult you, Faye," he says gently. "It's not uncommon for someone to sponsor a new member so they can try out the club, especially this second floor."

"Are there different membership tiers?"

He nods. "Yes. You probably saw the first floor before you came upstairs. The fees for that floor are a hundred dollars a year. Membership to the first floor covers our high-end dance club. This second floor is five hundred dollars a month."

My eyes widened. Five hundred dollars a month? Wow.

"It's a commitment. Every member is well-vetted. Most members come at least once a month, some every weekend, or even more than once a week. We offer a safe place to engage in many lifestyle preferences."

He's standing so close to me, keeping his voice down so as not to disturb any of the demonstrations. His scent is as intoxicating as his voice. I find myself oddly attracted to him, which is not like me.

I'm never attracted to anyone. I'm a focused career woman. I have a PhD in biology. I have no interest in dallying with men. I've been a wallflower all my life, and I've come to terms with it.

With every passing year, I become more certain that I should remain single. At thirty-one, I've already watched several acquaintances get divorced, some more than once. The mating game seems ridiculous, and I'm not interested in playing.

My single co-workers go through a repetitive ritual that makes me wonder if they're playing with a full deck. They go out on Friday nights, drink too much, hook up with men, spend a few weeks oohing and ahhing excitedly as if the man were a god, and then realize he's not as great as they thought, break up, and start it all over again.

It's the oddest ritual. Why bother? I'm perfectly happy being alone. I have everything I need. My apartment is exactly how I want it. When I come home at night, everything is where I left it in the morning. I know what's in my fridge. I don't have to clean up after anyone but myself. I'm well aware I have odd tendencies, but I don't care, and I'm not bothering anyone.

Relationships are overrated. I don't need one.

The truth is I was the weird girl in high school. People made fun of me. They laughed at my expense. Maybe I'm not as weird now as I was then because I'm no longer gangly with a mouth full of braces, but being bullied leaves a mark on a person that never fully goes away.

Even after I filled out and learned how to take care of my hair and put on makeup, I never lost that feeling that people are whispering about me behind my back.

Easton reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a card. He holds it out to me. "Think about it. My number's on the back. Call me if you decide you want to come back. No obligation necessary. You could just spend some time watching. Many new members do nothing but watch for months. For some people, watching is exactly what they enjoy. For others, they find themselves drawn to certain aspects of the lifestyle and decide to try them out."

I stare at the card. He isn't trembling like I am. This man is confident and strong. He's probably also Dominant. After all, he owns the club.

Finally, I take the card from him. To be polite. "Thank you." I'll never call him. I couldn't, but he doesn't need to know that.

He smiles warmly. "I hope you call, Faye. I think you'd enjoy Edge." As he turns and walks away, I stare at his retreating form. He's mouthwatering.

What the hell is wrong with me? I don't ever find people to be mouthwatering. That's a stupid word and a stupid reaction.

I jerk myself out of my ridiculous thoughts and look around for Trinity. Luckily, it's almost time to leave. The club opens soon. Anyone who hasn't secured a membership has to leave before it opens.

Thank God.