Page 10

I regret my decision the moment I step into the lobby of The Sanctuary. Heat rushes to my face and my hands grow clammy. The lobby is tasteful, unassuming, and elegant. Everything is decorated in dark beige and black leather, with soft recessed lighting shining on a lady in a red minidress working behind a chrome receptionist’s desk.

But I know what has to lie beyond the dark double doors behind her.

Sex. Debauchery.

And from what I’m hearing in stray conversations of couples and groups gathered in front of the receptionist…

BDSM.

My skin feels sensitive, like the barely visible wounds from my maladaptive needle poking behavior has been ripped right open. What am I thinking? Being here? Why did you think this would be a vanilla, run-of-the-mill sex club? This is the last place a person like you should be in.

I turn toward the exit. I want to throw up.

You were trying your year of yeses again.

Fuck that damn book. I’m sure The Wonderful and Terrifying Year of Yeses wasn’t written for someone with messed up post traumatic disorder. I might as well give it to someone else. Maybe Belle. She could use some excitement in her life.

Mired in my thoughts, I don’t pay attention and plow into a willowy person who wobbles on her feet from my impact.

“Oh my God, I’m so sorry.” I quickly reach out and steady her before she topples over.

A black-haired Asian girl wearing a gray dress suit, looking completely out of place just like me, stares back, clearly bewildered. I grin, sensing kinship immediately—she doesn’t belong here anymore than I do.

“It’s okay.” She smiles, and her expressive brown eyes behind her stylish glasses look me up and down before she leans in and whispers, “You nervous too?”

I bite my lip. “That obvious?”

She nods. “I’m a psychiatrist. I’m good at identifying tells. You’re gripping your arm and flushed…not in a good way too.”

I groan to myself. “This is so stupid. What was I thinking—”

“Want to go inside with me?” She motions toward the double doors.

I blanch and shake my head. “S-Sorry, I’m not, you know, into women. Not that I think chicks aren’t cool, I just am not—”

She laughs. “No, no, no, that’s not what I meant. I’m straight and into men too, but I’m nervous about going in there by myself and figured you must be here for a reason, so we might as well psych each other up.”

My shoulders relax and I let out an exhale. “Oh.”

“You’d be doing me a favor, really. I’m here purely for professional reasons.”

I arch my brow. That’s a new one. “How is going to a BDSM club a professional visit?”

She purses her lips before extending her hand. “I’m Olivia, by the way. Olivia Lin. My practice specializes in anxiety disorders and addiction. Of which, a common one is sex addiction. I have a few patients who frequent establishments such as these and I want to better understand them. So,” she motions to the dark space, “field trip.”

Olivia looks up at me imploringly. She’s tiny and I feel like a giant next to her. “Please? Help me, yeah?”

She reminds me a little of Belle and Millie combined—sweet, sassy, intelligent. I relent, her plea giving me the small amount of confidence boost I need to do this.

I’m not here for me this time. I’m here for a new friend. And you’re a badass. Let’s not forget that.

Swallowing, I shake her hand. “Taylor, but friends call me Tay.”

Olivia beams and we head over to the receptionist, who gives us the lay of the land behind the closed doors. Consent is paramount. We’re one hundred percent safe in there. There’s a two drink maximum policy. There are open group spaces and private quarters. Protection is required unless we have signed waivers and health consents. Security will patrol the place and if we feel threatened, we can press a small button on the silver bracelet she gave each of us, and help will be on the way.

I feel a little better—it sounds like I’ll be safe in there. My palms grow sweaty.

“Ready?” Olivia whispers as we pause in front of the double doors.

“Never.” I take a deep breath, my pulse kicking up. “But here goes.”

We push through and step into a large, modern room lit up with soft recessed lighting, highlighting the circular tables with wraparound black leather sofas spaced throughout. At a quick glance, one would almost think they’re at a run-of-the-mill high-end lounge.

But then I notice the groups sitting in the leather booths. One table has a scantily clad woman in leather lingerie, her mouth gagged with a black ball, and three men in suits flanking her. Another corner has a man tied to the table, his ass exposed, and he’s writhing as another man stuffs something up his backside.

Heat blooms on my face and nausea appears violently in my stomach again.

Sounds of skin slapping against skin. Harsh groans and lewd moans.

“Look at that slut, asking for it,” that voice whispers in my mind.

I push the thought out of my mind. Leave me the fuck alone!

“Whoa, this is um. Interesting. Hey,” someone snaps her finger at me, “hey, Tay! You okay?”

Dazed, I glance at a flushed Olivia who is frowning at me with obvious concern.

I force out a smile, but I have a feeling it doesn’t work on her because she just cocks her head to the side, her eyes sharpening. Damn my luck for making a new friend who is a psychiatrist.

“You want to leave? You know, you don’t need to do this until you’re ready,” she says. She doesn’t ask me what’s wrong, which I appreciate. Her voice is soothing, and I try to focus on it.

I have a feeling she’s using her doctor voice on me.

“N-No. I can do this.” I give her a shaky nod.

She stares at me for a few more beats and then nods. “Stay here. I’ll get some water for you. That can help.” She leaves before I can stop her and tell her I don’t accept drinks I haven’t gotten for myself.

“Hey beautiful, looking for a Dom for the night?” a low voice rasps in my ear a few seconds later.

I jump in place and stifle a scream. Turning toward the man, I blanch when I take in his towering frame clad in a suit. He’s too close—standing way too close to me. His eyes gleam with nefarious intent.

“You’re gorgeous. I’ll take good care of you,” he murmurs, his voice dripping with fake charm I’m sure will work on other women.

Not me. Not anymore.

I back away, shaking my head vigorously. My heart beats violently and I curse myself for trembling in his presence.

“S-Stay away from me. Stay away, asshole.”

He holds his hands up, his eyes narrowing. “No need to go crazy, you frigid bitch. You should be lucky—”

I don’t stay for the rest of his words as I walk away, as fast as my legs can carry me, not paying attention to where I’m going. The sounds of moaning and screams of pleasure burrow into my ears the farther I go—shit, I’m heading in the wrong direction.

The lustful noises are louder now, but they don’t sound pleasurable to me. They sound like torture.

My mind blanks as my strides quicken. I want to escape, to be anywhere but here.

But aren’t you trying to get over your fear? Don’t you want to control your body? To have sex like a normal human being?

Don’t you want to dance Odette? How can you dance her when you’re so angry all the time?

The questions are bullets to my mind, hitting me from all directions. I break into a jog, my sneakers squeaking against the floor as I hurry past private booths and alcoves decorated with glass and velvet curtains, past more couples in the throes of sexual release, the sound of skin slapping against skin making me want to retch.

Finally, I find my way to a quieter space. It’s darker here, almost like the abandoned dance studio I call my second home, and my tense muscles slowly relax. I can almost imagine myself back on the rooftop of ABTC, dancing under the pale moonlight.

Breathing a sigh of relief, the cold AC sweeps across my sweaty skin, and I shudder from the sudden onslaught. This was a bad idea. Maybe I should just resign myself to a loveless and sexless life and be a kickass cat lady. That’s safer. Much safer.

Huffing a disappointed chuckle, I walk toward the entrance when I hear it.

Slap. Slap. Slap.

“You want to be punished like this, huh?” a barely audible voice whispers.

“Yes.” A soft moan.

Slap. Slap. Slap.

“More.” The woman’s voice grows desperate.

“See? This is how you punish her for disobeying you. None of the gentle slaps. Let her have it,” the man murmurs, and I hear another man respond with a grunt.

“You need to see it again?” the first man asks.

I assume the answer is in the affirmative because I hear a collision of slapping noises again, each one louder than the other.

The woman screams, her cries loud and piercing. My heart slams into my throat.

My instinct is to run away, but something about the first man’s voice draws me—commanding, dominant, and yet…the way he asks the woman for her permission, I couldn’t get that out of my mind. My breathing is thready, my pulse louder than the beats of the sultry music, and I slowly peek past the half-opened curtains of a private room.

A woman is held down on the couch by a dark-haired man. Sweat pours down her face as her breasts thrust against the air. Her skin is red, and tears are streaking down her cheeks.

Horror streaks through me.

I’ve made a mistake.

She’s crying out in pain.

A light-haired man stands next to her, a whip in his hands.

My feet stay rooted in place and memories of that horrible night assault me again. I break out in a sweat, my breathing coming out in quick pants.

“More?” the blond man asks.

The woman cries out something, but the pulse in my ears drowns out her response. No. I shake my head. No, I can’t let this happen. Not to her. No.

“I’ll show you one more time, Colt.” The blond sets the whip down on the table, takes off his gray suit jacket, and flings it to the side. Then, I watch in horror him taking out his cufflinks and slowly rolling up his sleeves, showing his muscular forearms.

He grabs the whip again.

“No! Stop it!” I scream.

They turn toward me, and I find myself at a loss for words because the blond man staring back at me, his sky-blue eyes burning like the hottest fire, is none other than Ian Vaughn’s nephew.

The angry god of thunder. Charles.

His eyes widen in shock as his hand tightens his grip on the whip.

Then he prowls toward me.