Baby, baby, I feel crazy
Up all night, all night and every day
Give me somethin', oh, but you say nothin'
What is happenin' to me?
(Song is I don't want to live forever by Zayn)
"You don't belong here."
His voice cut against the thrumming cello of the jazz quartet.
The warning pulled Regina from the music and pinned her to my seat. Her heart jumped into a spikey, unsteady rhythm. The stranger spoke with a resonating authority, unbridled confidence, and sinfully sensual growl.
And for whatever reason, he focused on her.
Figured. She had finally worked up enough courage to order a drink in this thoroughly unconscionable bar. His words rekindled her panic. He was right, but he didn't have to know.
Regina smirked. "I don't belong in a lot of places."
Sinful, an exclusive fetish night-club, lingered at the top of the list.
"Are you lost?" he asked.
In him? Very possibly. "Believe me, I've located all the emergency exits. The one over by the couple wearing half a cow's worth of leather seems to be the quickest way out."
And yet, her gaze traveled upstairs—to the white LEDs leading to a guarded door of the notorious second floor. A threaded curtain separated the VIPs from the public. Either a mercy or the only way The Vault—the hottest, most exclusive S&M club in Silicone Valley—could operate without earning half a dozen indecent exposure violations.
Her peachtini was too light on the -tini to consider the shenanigans happening on that second floor. Even the curtain's material looked too ritzy for her wallet. Regina was as out of place in Sinful as she was in Pottery Barn.
The stranger didn't leave. Instead, he claimed the barstool to her right.
She should have bolted, but he smelled of spice, and she was a glutton for punishment. Not a good trait to have in a club like this.
His shoulder grazed against hers, and she reached for her drink, teeth clamping down on the straw before she could say something idiotic. Did people say hello in places like this, or did they introduce themselves with hard limits?
Hi, I'm a light-spanking, no ball-gag, Aquarius. I'm allergic to soy and don't like people touching my tushy.
Maybe they had a shorthand for this?
Or maybe the stranger was right, and she didn't belong here, and the two friends who might have helped her survive the indignity of this evening were forty-five-freaking-minutes late.
No calls. No texts. Leave it to Tink and Mary Margaret to trap her in the one bar that served leather conditioner alongside thirty dollar mixed drinks.
The stranger stretched his long legs under the bar—black shoes, black slacks tailor fitted to his build. He was much taller than her, but that was no surprise. She got carded at the door. Three times. A place like this needed a you must this tall to ride sign at the entrance.
Thoughts like that wouldn't help her survive the night.
Neither would warming the instant her eyes drifted over his legs to the crest of his pants.
He noticed, and she contemplating drowning in what remained of her cocktail. The last thing that Regina needed was to look like some sort of hungry crotch-wench in this sort of club.
She drew her gaze up. His shirt was a safer place to stare, except the crimson material stretched neatly over a chest harder than the rock sitting in my stomach.
Regina thought the guys in these places were supposed to be decrepit? An early retiree in the midst of a mid-life crisis, brandishing a clearance-rack leash from PetSmart.
Wow—were her sources wrong.
The handsome stranger hummed in amusement. "Are you having fun?"
Her heel slipped off the stool. She caught herself before her chin collided with the bar. He steadied her, grasping her elbow within his strong hand. A million goose bumps followed.
"I…"
He expected an answer. And a voice like that—a melody more appealing than anything the jazz ensemble played—deserved an answer.
Unfortunately, her throat closed over a chunk of sticky peach lodged somewhere between her tongue and the last shred of her dignity. A sexy half-cough, half-chortle might have sounded great, but she decided silence was the best recourse for the only girl wearing a cocktail dress in the ocean of second-skin leather skirts.
A demure nod. A quick clearing of her throat. A guzzle of the peachtini.
And there was the -tini. Great. Her bones melted and puddled on the imported floor tile.
"Are you meeting someone here, or were you brave enough to come on your own?"
"Um…" Awkwardness didn't steal her words. That was all him.
He'd be a god if she wasn't so sure only the devil hid in places like these.
My stranger was probably in his early thirties, he had dark blonde almost brown hair and a stubble-dusted jaw. Strong. His chin angled hard, like every other part of him. His accent was definitely British, and from the lights in the club, she thought he had blue eyes.
Her glass tinked back onto the bar. She swallowed the frilly vibrato in her voice. His eyes were fixed on her.
Wasn't it rude to stare? Wasn't it equally rude to linger in silence like a tongue-twisted invalid who enjoyed the umbrella in her drink more than the liquor?
"This isn't your normal night out." He was a good guesser.
"No."
He mocked her in dire amusement. "No, you don't belong here. No, you aren't meeting anyone. Or no, this isn't your normal night out?"
"Yes."
Oh, Christ. This was just embarrassing. She chugged the last golden drops of her peachtini. Might as well stumble out of the bar too. If she could find some spinach to stuff between her front teeth, every nightmare would play out in the middle of a fetish club.
And yet, her mysterious stranger smiled.
Just a hint, but infinitely more controlled than her humble freak out.
Better to have him thin that she was playing coy than deliver the actual truth. She had no idea how to talk to a man like this.
We—well, wherever Tink and Mary Margaret happened to be—planned to come to The Vault for a laugh. He was here legitimately. He belonged here.
And he chose to sit next to her.
Her stranger leaned over the bar, his biceps straining against the fabric of his shirt. His shoulders formed a barrier between her and the safety of the exit. The bartender set a drink before him. Gin and tonic? He hadn't ordered it but he still had his drink delivered a hell of a lot faster than hers was given.
"What's your name?" His stare blended with the effortless baritone of his voice.
"The name is Regina."
His eyes dipped over her again. Regina knew she was tiny, just a chocolate chip on the cookie called life, but she seemed even smaller next to him.
Did he like that?
Why did he smile?
"Good evening, Regina."
His evening washed over her. She had nothing in her arsenal as smooth. Not even a did you know that's not really a trumpet in the band? It's a cornet, and I think it sounds snazzy.
As if on cue, the sadistic quartet switched to a different song. Something tragically mellow that fostered the silence.
Meeting guys seemed easier in college. She couldn't walk through a party without some fraternity pledge offering to buy her Natty Lights on his parents' semester allowance. But her stranger was no overeager kid looking for an easy score. He toyed with her—waiting for her to run away or drown in her drink. Two could play that game.
"So." She leaned back to get a better look at him. He welcomed the intrusion. Proud and vain. That could be trouble. "Come here often, stranger?"
He chuckled. The pressure in her chest eased. She tugged the edges of her dress down. He watched every movement, and her fingers dug into the material. She didn't want him thinking I meant for the hem to creep up, exposing too much mocha. Or that she panicked if she revealed a little more than what was proper. Or that she did or didn't want him checking out her legs.
This would be one bundle of humiliated anxiety to unravel in bed tonight.
"The name is Robin."
"Evening, Robin."
He cracked and smirked. Maybe she was better at the game than she gave herself credit. Her cell chirped. She checked the text and groaned. Mary Margaret was her own personal town-crier, but she only ever gave bad news.
Sorry, we're having a bit of a crisis. Life or death. Can't make it. Another time?
Another time? This was our other time, making up for two almost-nights out.
Her mother's voice echoed in her head. Do something with your life. Go back to school. Meet a man. If she was still talking to her, she'd have loved to bring home one of Tink's biker friends, just to watch the fireworks.
She didn't answer her text. The less she knew, the safer it was.
Robin watched while she twirled the straw in her empty glass into a crumpled mess.
"Would you like another?" Robin asked.
Regina looked up. The bartender awaited her order. She jiggled the phone. Her hair escaped the bun, and the spiraling black curls bounced as she shook her head.
"No thanks. Something came up."
Robin motioned, and, before she could argue, he paid her tab.
"Let me guess," he said. "Friends chickened out?"
Regina set the phone on the bar. Traitorous thing. "No. They've seen worse than this place, believe me. But I knew they weren't going to make it. They're usually…busy."
"But you came anyway."
Her shrug was half-hearted. "This beats half-priced soggy wings at our usual hangout."
"No wings here."
"Nothing's half-priced either."
Another smile. His lips curled over a flash of white teeth. The pale light of the bar shadowed his strong nose and hardened jaw. But his eyes layered in darkness, like a splash of ink across a canvas. For a second, Regina was glad her friends flaked out on her. She had a ridiculously attractive guy offering to buy her a drink.
Maybe the night wouldn't be so bad.
Then again…
Regina looked again to the stairs leading to the secret second floor.
What was happening up there?
At the bar, the scene seemed normal. Expensive drinks and jazz music. A pair of gothic couples giggled in the corner and a few women danced in slinky dresses and avoided the men trying too hard to buy them a drink. She spotted the occasional collar around a neck, but this place wasn't any worse than a college Halloween party.
Except for Robin.
He had Regina cornered. She crossed her legs and hoped the straightened posture would give her more confidence.
It didn't.
He had her pinned without even touching her. Examined without seeing all of her. Regina couldn't think, not even to make her jumbled small-talk about the differences between the band's cool and smooth jazz.
And yet, she didn't feel threatened. She might have walked away without a word, and he'd have let her go.
What should she have said to keep him around?
"If you want…" Robin's voice rumbled in a whisper. "I'll call the valet for your car."
Regina offered him a shy shrug. "Maybe I'll stay a bit longer."
This time, his iPhone beeped. He briefly glanced at the screen. His fingers rapped a slow rhythm next to it, separate from the music. Like he didn't hear the song or deliberately ignored the tempo. His expression shifted, the playful twitch on his lips exchanged for a practiced stoicism.
"That's not a good idea."
The goose bumps retreated, her bones remolded, and her smirk vanished. She had never sharpened her voice, but her eyebrow rose as aggressively as she could without seeming rude.
"Excuse me?"
Robin sipped his gin and tonic. He might as well have thrown it on her. He morphed from sexy stranger to distant authority figure in a split second. Sized her up and decided she wasn't worth his effort before he even answered the text.
"Regina, you don't belong here."
"I was carded at the door."
"You're young, attractive, and dangerously naïve." He let the word hang. "Do you know what happens here?"
Robin nodded towards the man in full leather lurking in the corner, biding his time with a scowl. Then his gaze swept to a second man a few seats away. Regina couldn't see his hands, but, judging by his movements, he was having an enjoyable evening.
"You should call it a night," he said.
Regina ignored the staring creepers. "So who are you? A bouncer?"
"I work closely with the owner." He tapped his cellphone. As if on cue, another message appeared. "We know the type of people who shouldn't be here. We don't need an incident."
"I can't handle it?"
"No."
"You've known me for ten minutes. What makes you think I'm not into this stuff?"
Robin's stare was a harsh chastisement, as if she should be ashamed that she defended herself. "The women who belong here know better than to argue with me."
He stood. The bartender appeared and Robin directed him to call for the valet.
"Have a good night, Regina."
He left without another word.
What the hell just happened?
Being rejected was one thing, but Robin's appraisal was a real-life, left-swipe slap in her face. Who was he to tell her where she did and didn't belong?
The women here knew better than to argue with him?
What did that even mean? What would he do if they did disobey him?
Regina exhaled a shaky breath. The possibilities wrapped her in an endless shiver that hit every delicate area from her head to her toes. With her legs crossed, a delicious pressure pulsed between her thighs. Somehow her decency eroded away in a single night.
This club and its services weren't that underground, and she wasn't so much of a prude. Robin's preferences were no mystery. He was a prime, muscled specimen of testosterone, authority, and kink.
And she had no doubt he was right about her.
Regina probably didn't belong here. Still, that was her mistake to make, not his verdict to pass.
But the leather-bound creeper in the corner of the club wandered her way. He fiddled with the pair of handcuffs clipped to his belt, and Regina decided to wait for her car outside.
But a chirp from the bar stopped her. Robin's forgotten phone buzzed.
Done yet?
The text was sent by someone named Natasha. Now that sounded like a woman who could call him away. Someone who probably gave him the same shivers that had slammed through her.
But the message didn't make sense. He didn't like women arguing with him, right? The social ramifications of such a demand would send every sociology major Regina knew through the roof. But, if it were true, why would he let a woman text him in such a demanding manner?
Oh, curiosity spanked the cat.
Regina eyed the stairs. She couldn't leave a brand-new iPhone on the bar to get lost or stolen. Besides, she wasn't above playing Good Samaritan to prove that some random stranger couldn't measure her entire personality from a single girly drink, no matter how pink and frilly.
Regina made it within arm's length of the stairs before the bouncer blocked her path.
He wore a sharp, expensive suit and stood tall—not nearly as big as Robin, but intimidating enough with a bald head and goatee. An earpiece tucked within his ear. Tight security for a single staircase. Her insides shriveled as he stared at me.
"Going somewhere, miss?"
Now or never. Regina sucked in a breath and showed him the phone. "I need to find Robin. I have his phone."
This was a stupid idea. She offered the phone to the bouncer, but he moved aside for her. "Go on up…this outta be good."
"Thank you."
"We'll see."
Fantastic. Regina eyed the stairs, hoping her stomach would join her on the way up.
An empty hallway separated the noise of the bar from the mysteries upstairs. Fancy oil paintings hung on the walls. Most of the artwork were nudes. Was there ever any doubt? Who commissioned the work? Regina had seen her share of the wide with shameful Google searches, but these paintings depicted either some seriously complicated Twister games or sexual positions beyond anything she'd ever attempted.
Which wasn't much.
At all.
Ever.
Regina had taken six steps and already regretted her decision.
The hall ended before a dark, ornate door. Regina considered knocking, but a place like this probably had an entirely different definition for solicitation. Her hands shook, but she clutched the phone and what remained of her dignity.
This was just some glorified sex club for men with too much money and not enough rules. What was the worst that could happen?
A lot of things, but she wasn't about to imagine it.
"Here we go…"
I pushed open the door.
And I definitely wasn't in Kansas anymore.
The VIP lounge wasn't as cheap and tawdry as the public bar downstairs. Leather furniture and a grand fireplace partitioned this particular room into a comfortable sitting area. The cherry wood bar and walls framed an elegant, old-school smoking room.
Classy, masculine, and far more yacht club than she expected.
Then again, most yacht clubs didn't employ a topless bartender.
Two women in lace bodysuits lazily stretched over the lap of an older, chubby man on the couch. In the corner, a masked man stood shackled, his ankle chained to a convenient hook in the wall. He stayed still, completely naked, though obviously excited about his predicament.
A party raged with excited shouts and cheery giggles beyond a second hallway, but that was further than she intended to venture.
Regina edged forward until a harsh crack echoed over the club—the distinct clap of leather connecting with flesh. A woman screamed. An audience applauded.
And she thought ordering a peachtini made her Friday night wild.
The bartender cocked a condescending eyebrow, as if she weren't the one standing in full view of everyone with her breasts completely exposed. But she was right. This was a little beyond her expertise. Her second best idea all night was leaving the phone with her. The first was getting the hell out of here.
His voice caught her before she took a single step.
"You don't follow orders very well."
Regina froze, her breath escaping with an undignified ooh, as if someone wrung out her lungs like a wet dishcloth.
Robin's gaze burned directly through her, a practiced look of immediate disapproval.
Regina accidentally backed away, realizing all too late he'd pinned her against the wall with only a few words. She wore heels, but they did nothing. Robin's shadow cast over her, his body obscuring her view of the club.
Or did he hide her from them?
Oh, God, he was big. Tall. Fit. Every inch of him was sculpted with muscle—the kind of strength forged from a deliberate attempt to intimidate. But he didn't need to raise a hand or flex a bicep. He possessed just as much strength in his penetrating stare, the roughness of his voice, the ripples of displeasure radiating from his annoyance.
Regina had majorly fucked up.
And then the inappropriate images flitted into her mind. Those powerful arms pressed against either side of her. His body trapping her between his solid chest and the wall. Him going down and picking her up under her butt and carrying her over to a bed. Parts of her e offered to him that she'd barely discovered on her own.
It was a good thought—a stirring, heavy thought—but one she didn't need to have in a modern-day sex dungeon, no matter how many fish tanks or leather couches were stacked against the hall.
It was also a thought Regina didn't need to have about a man who had no problem chastising a perfect stranger. But his voice issued that threat with such precision it nearly drove a whimper from her lips.
The wall offered her no protection. Robin stepped closer. Within arm's reach. Towering over her. Regina's mouth dried. Other parts of her did not.
What was wrong with her?
Another cry echoed from the party. More applause. He ignored it. Regina couldn't.
"Well, well, well, who is your little friend?"
The feminine voice snaked behind Robin. For a second, she breathed easy, grateful for the reprieve.
Then she emerged.
An absolute goddess tucked her arm around Robin's elbow only to offer her the same stern, unrelenting stare.
Christ, she was as beautiful as him.
The woman rocked skin-tight black pants and a crimson corset—an ensemble matching Robin's chosen colors. But she didn't look like the other girls wandering the floor. Her four inch stilettos were more for presentation than practicality, and she must have sewed her pants over her hips. The corset framed her perfectly flat stomach and barely contained her chest.
Not a single lock of her hair dared to slip out of her meticulously tended French braid. Though she coiled over Robin, pouting trouble-maker red lips, there was no way in hell anyone was leading this woman around on a leash.
Who was she?
Robin introduced them with a darkness to his voice. "This is Regina."
"What a pleasure, Regina." The woman purred over her name. She studied her as remorselessly as Robin. Licked her plump bottom lip.
Damn her curiosity.
"Welcome to The Vault." She spoke pure seduction. "I'm Pam. This is my club."
She was everything Regina imagined in a fetish club owner, and she fit perfectly against Robin. Regina swallowed as best she could, but a response wasn't coming.
Regina held out the phone and prayed she wouldn't spontaneously combust under the combined burden of their attention.
"You left this downstairs," Regina whispered. "I…I thought you'd want it."
He didn't hear her. Regina might as well have mewed like a kitten and started to cry. Pam lowered her head onto his shoulder.
"Look, Robin. She returned your phone." She tapped her heel against the wooden floors. Regina got the point. She'd squish me in a heartbeat. "How sweet."
Robin deliberately waited to take his phone, forcing her to hold her arm out for longer than was necessary or polite. Was it a test? No. A judgement. He wanted to see if she would crack under the pressure.
Another slap echoed off the wall, and a girl moaned for mercy. The crowd murmured their appreciation.
Robin exhaled, but his aggravation melted away. He took the phone, his fingers dragging over her palm.
"You didn't need to bring this up to me," he said.
Despite her best intentions, and everything she was taught about holding a proper conversation, Regina had to look away.
He liked that.
Regina swallowed. "I didn't want it to get lost."
Pam wiggled against him. "She's so thoughtful, Robin."
"Apparently."
"And brave, coming up here all alone." Pam's words sounded too sweet. She charmed and insulted in the same breath. Better than the alternative. She owned The Vault, and Regina had a feeling more than a few people were thrown out for crashing the upstairs party.
Maybe she'd just let her leave. Was it a crime to trespass up here?
Regina couldn't imagine the news headline: College Dropout Jailed Overnight in Sex Club Scandal. Then the quote from her mother: 'I don't know where we went wrong, but I blame her father for encouraging her to go into the arts.'
"Okay." Regina had nothing to do with her hands and nowhere safe to look. "I wanted to make sure you got your phone."
"Leaving so soon?" Pam pouted. "But we're just starting to have fun."
Regina had no doubt our definition of fun varied significantly.
Regina made the mistake of looking into her eyes. Whoops. She bet many innocent girls got into trouble for so brazenly meeting her gaze.
Robin was a safer target, but even he looked at her as if he had the power to see through her clothes. Regina gripped her dress, just to make sure she still wore it.
"Let me thank you properly for returning my phone," Robin said.
Her stomach peeled out and raced down the stairs. Coward. A dozen scenarios played through her mind, and not one of them was suitable outside this crazy club.
Pam's blood-red fingernails traced over Robin's shoulder. "A reward? Excellent. No good deed goes unpunished."
And the panic was back. Regina stepped backwards, colliding again with the wall.
Oh no…did they hear the thunk?
Regina couldn't take much more evaluation. Everything inside her fluttered.
"Let me take you out for coffee," Robin offered.
Coffee? Was he serious?
This was not a coffee man. And this club was not a coffee place.
The lingerie clad women slid off the couch and settled between the man's legs. Parts of him exposed to the world for only a brief moment before one of his associates swallowed his pride. The masked man tethered to the wall groaned. His chain rattled. The bartender gave him a slap on the way to deliver a drink.
How could he talk about a coffee date when a woman in the next room squealed while someone beat the hell out of her? Sure, she loved it, but the rest of the looney bin watched like it was County Club Bridge Night.
"Coffee?" The word didn't even sound right on her lips.
"You know. To drink."
Pam bit her lip, her teeth a stark white against her spanking-red lipstick. "Oh, go on. He doesn't bite on the first date."
One step too far. The disapproving glance once aimed for Regina ricocheted to her.
Pam went silent. Interesting.
Regina took a breath. "So…where?"
Where?
That was the question she picked?
"There's a cafe not far from here." Robin ignored the pleasurable screams echoing from beyond their hall. "On the corner of Fifth and Washington. Do you know it?"
Regina sighed. Yeah, she knew it. She'd almost worked there. She'd managed to get a job at the one on Eleventh instead, six blocks closer to her apartment.
"Tomorrow," he said. "I'll be there at seven."
He was firm, but it wasn't a question. It also wasn't a demand.
Regina bit her lip and offered him a nervous smile. Pam's hand tickled along his bicep. A pang of jealousy ripped through her.
"Okay," Regina said.
Regina didn't confirm his invitation, but it was a sufficiently diplomatic response. It worked. They both stood expectantly, and she had the distinct impression their conversation was over.
Dismissed then ignored.
Not exactly polite, but, then again, society checked its morals with its coat when it entered a place like this. Regina turned, though Robin called to her before she could escape.
"And Regina?" His smile bound her in place. "I despise tardiness. You will be on time."
"What if I'm not?" Curious, not defiant. It made no difference to him.
"You might be sorry that you're late. You'll be there…and you'll be on your best behavior." Robin said with a wink.