Page 109 of Double Daddies (Dirty Daddies Anthologies #8)
In all probability, thanks to his controlling attitude and the distance it caused between them, she doubted they’d have lasted more than another month, maybe two. She couldn’t stay with a man who physically and mentally compressed her to suit him.
What did that make her, in his eyes?
A fleshlight, she thought in disgust. A handy sheath to keep his dick warm when it wasn’t buried in another woman.
If that wasn’t a neon sign for her to change something, she didn’t know what it was.
She deserved more than that. She was worth more than that, and she owed it to herself to find out what she was truly capable of in this world.
Yes, Adam had shoved her down into a box until only the pieces of her he required were left, but she’d allowed him to do so.
She’d closed herself off because there was something…
unusual about herself that she didn’t know how to understand.
Maybe now was the time to explore that side of her.
She laughed, a tiny bubble of humor popping at the absurdity of the notion. How did one go about exploring the quirks she’d had for years, digging into why she was this way? Was she even going to like the answers if she found them?
The laughter kept coming until she couldn’t stop. Her chest grew tight, her breathing turning into sobs. Too tired to hold it back anymore, Avery laughed until she cried.
Three days later, an Uber dropped her off in a parking lot somewhere in the foothills of a freaking mountain.
It was pretty unnerving, enough so that she’d asked her driver three times if he was sure they were in the right place—she was getting kidnapping and murder vibes, even though there were a handful of vehicles scattered across the spaces.
The clunk of the car door closing behind her was ominous, but not as much as the eeriness surrounding her when her driver cheerfully drove away and left her in a goddamn forest.
What had possessed her to apply for a new job?
Oh, yeah, that was the vodka.
The day she kicked Adam out and indulged in the crying jag of a lifetime, Avery had spent that night avoiding his constant calls and texts while going through every room in the apartment, collecting his belongings and throwing them in trash bags.
The next morning, the abuse started. The phone calls, she rejected immediately.
The texts had been… cruel, vindictive, accusatory.
He called her a whore, a slut, a cunt, then switched to more offensive tactics—she was fat, frigid, ugly.
No one wanted to fuck a blimp; no one could ever love someone so immature.
That one had set her hackles rising, and she’d fired a single text back, telling him she wasn’t the one using a relationship to get free accommodation, food, and internet like a leech while banging her way through every guy in the city.
She ended it informing him he could find his belongings in the dumpster, didn’t tell him which one, then turned off her phone.
Although it was an inconvenience, she trekked the trash bags to various dumpsters across a six-block radius and took great delight in ridding her apartment of his presence.
After a long day at work where her usual joy was noticeably absent, she’d gone home, crashed on the couch with a bottle of vodka, and…
well, things got a little hazy once she’d downed a few shots and bought a new bed, but there was a vague memory of Googling her affinity for stuffies, coloring books, and all things reminiscent of her childhood.
Psychology websites filed it under several labels—infantile personality, age regression, child ego state, Peter Pan Syndrome—all of which felt kind of demeaning.
However, the BDSM community simplified it as being Little .
Avery much preferred that; there was an innocence to it rather than the insidious vibe of a mental health disorder. She’d fallen down the rabbit hole then, a painless fall cushioned by vodka, and landed on a website for a BDSM resort right here in Denver.
Club Serenity .
Somehow, she ended up perusing the job vacancy section and, in a drunken haze, she’d applied for several positions, giggling all the while, before passing out… and waking up, hungover, to the offer of an interview the next day.
So here she was on a Monday afternoon, standing in a potential homicide scene, trying to decide if she was grasping the gold ring of insanity by turning her life upside down or being brave and straining the boundaries of her comfort zone.
Insanity was winning by a mile.
The whine of a small electric motor hummed through the trees before a golf cart appeared, zipping along at speed along an unseen track. It bumped down a slight incline, careening around a corner at the bottom, then flew across the tarmac to stop beside her.
The driver was maybe a few years older than her twenty-eight, male, slightly rugged and weathered. He wore black basketball shorts, a red tank top, and aviator sunglasses which he tugged down his nose with a fingertip to unveil vibrantly blue eyes. “Hey. Would you be Ms. Morello?”
“I, uh…” Taken aback by the almost inhuman shade of blue, she lost her voice for a few seconds. “Um, yes, sorry. I’m Avery Morello.”
The guy checked his watch, a dark eyebrow lifting in approval. “I thought I was here early, but you’re an eager one. That bodes well for you.” Those eyes appraised her with… was that interest? “Come on then, hop in.”
Hop in the golf cart with a man whose eyes were the living equivalent of a hypnotist’s watch? A man who, by all accounts, was ticking off every box on her fantasy-guy checklist?
Dark hair—thick, rich, black.
Eyes—hell, yes, double check.
Physically fit—muscular without being steroidal.
Smile—ample wattage.
Not a cheating asshole—yet to be determined.
When she hesitated, he seemed to catch on.
“Hell, where are my manners? Of course you won’t feel comfortable hitching a ride with a stranger.
Clay Fielding. I’m one of the Masters here at Serenity.
Passed my security clearance and everything,” he said with a wink, then held out his hand.
“I can call Evander if that reassures you.”
Evander Ledston was the founder and co-owner of Serenity, she remembered. The interview email she’d received yesterday came from his office.
She looked down at the offered hand—tanned, wide-palmed, long-fingered. Strong lines across the palm, not that she could read them. Calluses at the base of his fingers, suggesting he worked with his hands.
Was she supposed to shake it or take it?
Warily, she placed hers in his, shivering as a tiny jolt of electricity skittered frantically down her spine. She rather liked the slightly rough texture of his skin as they clasped hands. It made her wonder what they’d feel like running over more sensitive parts of her.
Adam’s had been pansy hands, soft and manicured, religiously moisturized until they rivalled a baby’s ass.
He’d never missed his weekly manicure, pedicure, and waxing sessions the entire duration of their relationship; now she knew what he’d been up to, she highly doubted maintaining his physical appearance was the sole focus of those appointments.
Asshole .
“There, now we’re friends.” Clay grinned at her, but those eyes had sharpened as though he’d felt the quick surge of connection as well. “Want to get in or would you prefer to walk? It’s scenic, but in this heat, we’ll probably melt before we get halfway.”
She was being ridiculous. Sure, this place was a million miles from nowhere, but this was the address given to her in the email. Clay obviously knew the owner—or this whole thing was a ruse, set up to lure women into the forest.
What else was she going to do?
Her ride was long gone, she didn’t even know if she had cell service all the way out here, and if she called another Uber, she’d still have to wait for it to come pick her up, which gave Clay ample time to just haul her over his shoulder and kidnap her anyway.
“I… Would you mind if I take a picture of you?” When his eyebrows flicked up, she realized how that sounded. Hurriedly, she added, “To send to my friend. As a precaution.”
Approval lit his face. “I think that’s a smart idea. Sure, go ahead.”
Avery whipped out her cell and snapped off a picture before he could change his mind, but he just pouted and shook his head.
“Sweetling, slow it down, take your time. Make damn sure you get my best side.” He turned his head, dragging two fingertips down his stubbled cheek. “Personally, I like my right side. My profile really pops on the right.”
Okay, this was so far out of the realm, she wasn’t sure whether she was dreaming.
Everything she’d researched about BDSM warned her that there was an etiquette, protocols, and a deep vein of underlying strictness.
When a lifestyle spun on an axis of punishment and reward, dominance and submission…
well, Clay’s blatant sense of humor was a shock to her already nervous system.
She took a second photo, a lot clearer than the first, and sent it to her friend, Stacey.
Not that Stacey was talking to her right now, not after Avery told her she was heading to a job interview, but the owner of Wakey Bakey was her best friend.
She’d understand, eventually, even if this interview was just a missed step in Avery’s tumble into post-breakup insanity.
She added Clay’s full name to the message, then Evander’s. As an afterthought, she took a couple pictures of the parking lot and forest, sending them with the club name and address.
There, all bases covered.
Returning her phone to her pocket, she slid onto the seat beside Clay. She really wished she’d brought one of her Mallows along for moral support, but she’d tried that once and been ridiculed. It probably wasn’t appropriate to bring a stuffie to a job interview, even at a BDSM resort.
“Done?”
She nodded.
“Let’s go then. Welcome to Serenity, Avery.”