The Dom of My Dreams: A BDSM Novel (16 page)

“My sincerest apologies, my pet,” he said humbly.
 
“I should be better at reading people’s reactions by now.
 
You let me know when something is truly bothering you, okay?”

Smiling with relief, I gazed up at Seton and nodded.
 
I liked his concerned look.
 
It was an oddly touching gesture coming from him and it relieved some of my escalating trepidation.

Seton leaned against the bar and ordered drinks.
 
A topless girl with a purple and red mask poured red wine into two glasses and placed them in front of us.
 
She smiled invitingly at Seton, but he ignored her, shifting his body sideways so that he faced me.
 

“That reminds me,” he said after taking a quick sip of his wine.
 
“You haven’t chosen a Safe Word yet.
 
Have you thought of one?”

I took a drink and frowned, considering his question.
 
No, I hadn’t thought of a Safe Word, but only one word sprung to mind right now, one that perfectly described Seton’s warm, sexy tones.

“Velvet,” I uttered, smiling at him.

He raised an eyebrow.
 
“What a lovely word!
 
Why velvet?”

I felt my face flush with heat, and I gulped down my drink as if my life depended on it.
 
“Because I…like velvet,” I finished lamely.

Amusement lit his eyes.
 
“You drink when you get nervous, don’t you?”

I blushed again and reached for my drink, then stopped.
 
Yes, I drank when I got nervous.
 
It was a compulsion.
 
It kept my mind busy, if only for a few seconds.
 
And it wasn’t just alcohol I drank—though I preferred it, for it helped block out my emotions a little—it was anything.
 
Once, I swallowed a whole glass of milk before a job interview, and I hated milk.
 

Seton chuckled, adjusting his spectacles over his nose.
 
“I like that about you.
 
It’s quite endearing.”

My breath caught as his thumb moved teasingly up and down my wrist, sending little sparks of electricity shooting through me, and I had to avert my eyes to fight desire.
 
I scanned the smoky club, my eyes roving over scantily-clad female slaves and their demanding masters.
 
Drinks were passed over heads—the poor servers moving slowly, trying not to stumble over their shackled ankles.
 
Energetic activity came from one particular area.
 
I craned my neck, wanting to see what was going on.
 
A woman clad in nothing but black leather emerged from the large crowds.
 
The cat suit that hugged her slim, feminine body was
so
not Edwardian!
 

She was the only woman at the club without a mask.
 
She was beautiful—tall and slim with glossy hair that spilled down her back in a blue-black curtain of silk.
 
Her full, luscious lips were perfectly outlined with red-blood lipstick.
 
A rhinestone choker that resembled a dog collar decorated her neck, and she wore patent leather shoes with heels not unlike the ones Seton gave me.
 
She looked to be around her mid-thirties.

As I watched, the woman walked languorously, seductively, toward one of the men at the table.
 
Upon closer inspection, I realized that the man was Victor.
 
The dark-haired goddess smiled down at him when she approached him, then unbuttoned his trousers, drawing his erection from a tangle of bunched-up cloth.
 
I gasped when the woman yanked the fabric that covered her crotch, revealing a pink, bald pussy for everyone’s hungry eyes.
 
Gasps and moans followed in her wake as she leaned forward and kissed Victor, long and slow.
 
Then, before anyone could react, she turned her back to him, straddled his legs, and lowered her body to his erection.
 
The crowd whistled and catcalled as she rode Victor hard and fast.

Mouth dry, I reached for my drink and gulped it down all at once.
 
Then I glanced at Seton.
 
He was watching the dark-haired woman, his eyes half-closed with passion.
 

“That’s Tatum Fox,” he said, voice thick with arousal.
 
“Or ‘Raven,’ as she’d rather be called.
 
She’s the club’s dominatrix.
 
My friend and I trained her for several weeks.
 
She and I were involved during those weeks, but now we’re just friends.”

I snorted softly.
 
“I didn’t know Edwardian ladies wore skintight cat suits made of leather.”

“She’s no one’s slave here, so she dresses as she pleases.”
 
His eyes moved down to my corset.
 
“She made that pretty little outfit you’re wearing.”

I raised an eyebrow.
 
“She made this?”

He smiled.
 
“Yes.
 
She also made the black leather dress you wore the other day.
 
Raven is a fetish-wear designer.
 
She owns a shop in Manhattan.
 
Designing naughty lingerie and outfits is her passion, and it keeps her sane during her day job.”

“Which is?”

“She’s a tax lawyer.”

Speaking of day jobs…
 
“I’ve noticed that you wear suits.
 
Do you do something else other than writing?”

He sipped his wine.
 
“I’m an art dealer.
 
I bought that vacant spot down on State Street.
 
My gallery will open in about two months, if everything goes well.”

“Interesting.
 
And which one of your two professions is your true passion?”

“I’d say both.
 
But there are other things I’m equally passionate about.”
 
The look he gave me just about liquefied my insides.

Flustered, I switched my gaze back to the woman just in time to see Victor shudder underneath her.
 
He had come, and “Raven” slid off of him, a contented expression passing over her feminine features.
 
She ambled over to another man.
 
Then she crouched in front of him and pulled out his cock.
 
The man grasped her silky hair as she drew him slowly into her mouth.
 
I let out a sharp intake of breath when she began to stroke her hand up and down his erection at the same time as she worked him with her mouth.

Arousal rippled through me in staggering waves and I suddenly had to get away from the luscious Raven and her very public act.
 
I needed a break, needed to breathe, to find sanctuary somewhere.
 
So I asked Seton where the bathrooms were and made my escape as soon as possible.
 

To my luck, the ladies’ room was empty—not a single lewd act in sight.
 
I claimed a stall and tried to relax.
 
The atmosphere in this club was too heady, too hedonistic.
 
I wasn’t a prude, but I simply wasn’t used to this kind of uninhibited behavior.
 
I’ll tell you one thing—erotica is fun when you read it in a book, but it’s in a whole different league when you encounter it in real life.
 

After my bathroom break, I stepped into a quiet corner of the club, to an area with walls full of erotic pictures.
 
A brief glance through them showed that these were not run-of-the-mill porn images.
 
They were paintings on canvases, and they were beautiful.
 

They were mostly of nude men and women, their bodies twisted in strange positions, tangled up with one another.
 
Others were holding each other forcefully.
 
The colors used for the paintings were black and gray, sometimes brown or dark green.
 
The images seemed to be sending a message of struggle, misunderstanding, pain, sorrow, loneliness, sexual tension, lack of communication, and unexpressed love.
 
At least that was my perception judging by their body language and facial expressions.
 
The paintings were dark and erotic, almost sinister.
 
I stared at them with fascination, getting lost in their beauty.
 

There were two paintings that I particularly liked.
 
The first one had a naked couple in a dark room.
 
They were in profile, and the woman kneeled before the man, her hands tied behind her back, an odd mixture of excitement, fear and apprehension twisting her delicate features.
 
The man—who had what appeared to be a riding crop in his hand—was clutching her hair, forcing her to look into his furious eyes.
 
The portrait reminded me of the two people I saw on the stage earlier.
 
I felt my body begin to tingle, and I had to look away from the picture.

The second painting had two nude men holding hands.
 
They were standing side by side, holding hands, but looking away (as if they were ashamed to be holding hands).
 
I liked the message that the artist seemed to be sending: there is nothing wrong with platonic love between two men, even if society does not allow it.
 
The two men wanted to be close, but their reluctance was obvious.
 
I read the caption underneath the image, and it said, “Dedicated to one of my two best friends.
 
You know who you are.
 
Just be yourself, mate.”

The artist was obviously very talented and imaginative, and I wondered who he was.
 
Straining my eyes, I peered at the tiny signature at the bottom of the caption.
 
It was signed “Q.A.”
 

“Lovely, aren’t they?” a low, husky voice with an Australian accent said from behind me.
 
“ ‘The Marquis de Sade of the art world,’ everyone calls him.
 
The artist has lost his passion for art, however.
  
He’s lost passion for everything, in fact, and this may be the last of his brilliant work.”

I turned to glance at the owner of that magnetic voice, a voice almost
as sexy as Seton’s, and my breath left me when I looked up—and up and up—at the tall, dark and gorgeous specimen standing before me.
 
He looked a lot like Seton—same formidable manner, same elegance—but he was a good three inches taller than Seton, and his features were rougher, harsher.
 
His straight dark hair was neatly cut, long sideburns outlining his chiseled jaw.
 
He had a long nose, thin but luscious lips, and the most enigmatic looking silvery-blue eyes I had ever seen.
 
A black cravat was tightened around his neck, giving him a refined, graceful look.
 
He looked like the proverbial Edwardian gentleman.
 
Were I not at a fetish club that catered to turn-of-the-century aficionados, I would have thought that he was a ghost from the past—or a very sexy vampire coming to claim my neck.

The man grinned and stuck out a large hand to shake mine.
 
“You must be Marjorie Fordham.
 
I’ve heard a lot about you.
 
I’m Quinn Armitage.”

I swallowed hard as we shook hands.
 
It took me a minute to form a coherent sentence, not only out of surprise that Seton had mentioned my name to others, but because I had to stop staring at him.
 
Seton was gorgeous and enigmatic and seductive, but this man was…dark.
 
Brooding.
 
Pensive.
 
Morose.
 
But in a very alluring, intriguing way.
 
And the rich, husky tones in his Aussie accent were…wow.
 
Be still my heart!

“Nice to meet you,” I managed to croak.
 
“Quinn Armitage.
 
Q.A.
 
You’re the artist!”

A soft smile touched his lips as he gazed past me and skimmed the canvases on the walls.
 
“I was.
 
Tragically, I no longer paint.
 
Haven’t been able to touch a brush for more than a year.”