Normally I don’t take too kindly to people not following through with promises. I suspect her failure to call me has more to do with nerves than evasion, but it’s still not cool. She’s lucky she’s so damn beautiful and has somehow bewitched me a little. I knew I’d track her down eventually.

Thankfully, the universe agrees with me, and on a day when I’m craving a glazed Tulio’s bow tie, she practically falls into my lap.

I’d get her there. And when I did, she wouldn’t be sitting upright. Apparently, I didn’t do a good enough job the first time I spanked her.

After handing cash to the cashier, I toss a tip in the jar in front of the register, grab her enormous cup of coffee and our box of donuts, then head over to the table where Diana and her son sit. Her son eyes me curiously, Diana’s eyes flit about the room, not meeting my gaze.

I pull out one of the wrought-iron chairs and sit down heavily, flicking the tape on the white bakery box, and pull it open. “One bow tie for you,” I say, handing it to her son. “One for me, and one chocolate for your mom.”

“Say thank you, Chad,” she instructs her son.

“Thank you,” Chad says around a huge mouthful of donut. The boy has his mother’s beautiful hazel eyes but his hair is lighter, finer, and slightly long and a little curly. He wears a pair of jeans and an Avengers long-sleeved t-shirt. He eyes me thoughtfully as if trying to figure out who I am. He looks like he’s inherited his mom’s spunk and beauty. I like him already.

“Chad, this is Mr. Creed. Mr. Creed, this is my son, Chad.”

I extend my hand to Chad, who stares. “Tobias,” I say. “You can call me Tobias. You know how to shake like a man, Chad?” Chad blinks and Diana starts sputtering, but I ignore her and plow on. “Put your donut down,” I tell him. Learning how to shake like a man is a lost art, one that I was taught. Shaking hands properly shows character and conviction, and before I think about what I’m doing, I’m demonstrating. I watch as the boy puts down his donut.

“Now extend your right hand and take mine in yours.” Chad’s gaze comes to mine as our hands meet. The boy barely grasps my hand, his small, cold hand enveloped in my larger one. “Firm, Chad. A man has a firm handshake. You look the person in the eye, and shake like this.” I demonstrate.

Chad follows my example. “Good job,” I praise. I won’t look at Diana. If she’s pissed, she can keep that to herself because I’m pissed.

“So, Chad, your mom and I met last night.” Chad nods, taking large bites of his donut. “And she was supposed to call me this morning. Turns out, I didn’t have to track her down because, as luck would have it, I stumbled upon her in the bakery. Isn’t that lucky?”

“Mmm.” Chad’s preoccupied eating. “Lucky. And this manly donut is yummy.”

Diana smiles at him. “I swear I can see hair growing on your chest already.”

Chad’s eyes widen, and she laughs out loud. “Teasing, baby. Teasing.”

She turns to Tobias, no longer smiling. “So. Are you sure it was by chance?” she asks, her beautiful hazel eyes flashing.

“Totally, babe. Stalking isn’t one of my strong suits.” I shoot her a tight smile. The nerve. “No time for that sh—” I look to Chad. “Ahem. Stuff.”

She rolls her eyes. Christ, the woman needs a good, hard session, preferably over my knee.

“Talked to a buddy of mine. Owns an auto body repair shop. Says he’ll do the work for me at cost. But I have a proposition for you.”

She freezes with her coffee cup at her lips, her eyes wide and curious. “Oh?”

“Can you get a babysitter again?”

She nods. “Yeah, and every other weekend Chad’s dad has him.”

Ah. So there’s a father in the mix.

“You want to take my mom on a date?” Chad asks, taking another large bite of his donut.

“Hoping for dinner.”

Those curves. The fiery eyes and quick wit. Yeah, I’ll maybe forgive a few hundred dollars for a chance to get to know her better, and I suspect under any other circumstance, she’d flat out refuse to date me.

“I don’t date men like you,” she says, sniffing, turning away and sipping her coffee. Though her tone is disdainful, her body turns to me, her chest rising rapidly as she inhales and exhales, and I note that she grips her coffee cup more tightly.

“Figured that,” I say. “So that’s why this isn’t a traditional date request. I want you to understand exactly what I’m asking you. Come on a date with me. We find a way to wipe your debt clean. We move on.”

Her eyes widen and her mouth drops open. I feel my lips twitch. “Get your mind outta the gutter. Not that kind of a repayment.”

“Just dinner?” she asks.

I shrug. “Dinner, maybe dancing, maybe drinks.” And a good, hard spanking, delivered in the method that will show her I mean what I say, but leave her wanting more.

She clams up, her lips shut tight, before she finally parts them and whispers, “I don’t dance.”

“Fine, then. Just dinner, on me.” Despite the fact I’m telling myself I need to make sure she pays me back, something in me tells me not to let this woman go. I haven’t met someone like her, so feisty and so desperately in need of submitting, in decades, possibly ever. She wars with what she wants, like fighting for air to breathe, and it’s the battle within her that draws me to her. She’s into this. And I’m not giving her a taste of the lifestyle and leaving her to someone else. I want to be the one that explores this with her. I like the challenge… The chase. The capture. Fuck, my dick hardens just thinking about it.

So she has a son, and one with special needs. Already, I like the kid.

The quote Braxton gave me for the damage was easily half what I’d expected, and since Brax owes me a favor, most of it will be covered.

Now it’s time for me to capitalize on meeting her.

I get to my feet. “Pleasure to meet you, Chad.” I make a fist and reach out to fist bump the kid. “Bump the fist, bro,” I say, demonstrating. Diana tenses and opens her mouth to speak but before she does, her kid tentatively bumps my fist with his own. I smile. I feel like somehow, I’ve won something, but I have no idea what.

“Diana? See you at seven tonight.”

She blinks, swallows, and finally agrees, “Seven.”

* * *

“Yeah?”

I take the call from Zack just as I open the door to Verge. It’s several hours before we open, but I need to get paperwork done in the office.

“Another attack, man.”

“Fuck. Already?”

“Yeah,” Zack blows out a breath on the other end of the phone. “Witnesses says the man mentioned Verge. Seems too obvious for it to be a member, though. I mean, who goes around assaulting women, dropping club names?”

“Right.” I slam the huge, metallic entryway door, spin on my heel, and stalk to my office. “She survive?”

A pause, and then, “Barely.”

Fuck.

A part of me wishes the perpetrator is a club member, so I could have the sick bastard alone in one of the private rooms. I’d teach the motherfucker a lesson, and he wouldn’t be sticking his dick into some unwilling chick, making what’s supposed to be an act of love a disgusting act of violence anymore.

“Be careful,” Zack says. “I’ve screened every one of your employees, all have solid alibis for the first night. Not sure a member isn’t somehow involved, though, and I’m not sure why anyone would mention your club at all. Especially if they are a member. So just… be cautious. Warn your team, and keep a close watch on things.”

“’Course.” I’m already on it. We have protocol in place to notify each other of suspicious behavior, and I’ll do whatever it takes to keep my shit tight.

Zack pauses. “So Brax tells me some chick keyed your car.”

“Brax needs to keep his fuckin’ mouth shut.”

“Couldn’t be helped, man. Tia needed some work done, took her in, recognized your car. What’d you do to get your car keyed?” Tia is Zack’s younger sister.

“Didn’t do anything. Keyed my car by accident.”

Zack’s low whistle makes my lip twitch. Any dominant I know would have something to say about what she’d done.

“Heard you spanked her ass. You think that was enough retribution?”

I huff out a laugh. “Not for keying the car, no.” I should’ve known. Stretching the girl out on the spanking bench and paddling her ass isn’t something that would fly under anyone’s radar. Especially a girl wearing red heels instead of the common black leather and latex members donned. She’d stuck out like a sore thumb, and people had noticed.

I still don’t regret it.

“You’ll work it out,” Zack says.

“See you tonight?” I ask?

“I’m off duty so yeah,” Zack says. “Let you know if anything else changes.”

We disconnect, and I boot up my laptop, pulling up member profiles. Though I like to believe that a member of Verge isn’t responsible for such a horrendous act of violence, the evidence concerns me. Frowning, I scroll through one profile sheet after another. Verge draws a large spectrum of members, being situated in the heart of NYC, just blocks away from the Financial District. Members are required to be twenty-one years or older, and all are subject to background checks. Still, I don’t know each of the four hundred plus members personally, as only twenty or so percent frequent the club on a weekly basis.

Our staff is solid. Verge isn’t just a BDSM Club and bar, but a function hall. Beyond the private rooms we host high protocol parties and munches a few times a month. The income generated from the parties and munches alone sustains the upkeep costs of Verge. Took a while, but my partner Seth and I are now drawing hefty salaries.

I’ll be damned if I’ll see our work go up in flames because of some asshole who belongs behind bars. No fucking way.

After scanning through over half of the member profiles, not surprisingly finding nothing at all that clues me in, I flick off the profiles and click over to the business software. Two hours later, after bills are paid up-to-date and correspondences caught up, I shut the laptop and run a hand over my eyes and the bridge of my nose before standing and stretching.

My stomach growls. I haven’t had anything to eat since breakfast with Diana and her son earlier this morning. Pushing to my feet, I grab my phone and scan the messages. One from Seth.

Gotta be sure expenses are up-to-date. Rochelle and I are returning from New Hampshire this weekend. Want to do it then?

I quickly fire off a response. All set. Caught up this afternoon.

Another one from Zack I’d missed earlier, and several emails. I swipe the notifications off the screen. An incoming message pops up as I push past the door to my office and into the hall that leads to the club.

Diana.

So… realizing this sounds like the most dumbass question I’ve ever asked… does a dom have… rules for dates?

I can practically hear her husky, sexy voice. I grin, my fingers traveling quickly over the screen.

That’s a very good question. There is only one problem, though. We haven’t discussed rules, consent, or hard limits. I’m not your dom unless we scene, and we don’t scene unless we discuss those limits.

No response comes for a minute as I make my way to the lobby, and then the bar. Though the place is vacant, it’s warm and welcoming, my home, and I take it all in with pride. The bar with the overhead lighting is beautiful enough to grace the cover of a magazine, the seating in the bar area welcoming and comfortable. There are no windows in the main room, though we’ve taken pains to bring in a few accoutrements that one might find in a regular bar. Two large pool tables sit in one corner and there’s a circular dance floor complete with a disco ball. During open club hours, dance party music filters through top-of-the-line speakers.

My phone buzzes.

Didn’t seem to bother you the other night, though. You spanked my ass without any… formal consent.

I smirk.

Wrong. I asked you. We didn’t do contracts or hard limits but you did consent.

Oh. Haha. Right.

A pause, then, So no rules for tonight?

I stare at my phone. She’s pushed her limits with me many times now, but she enjoys the attention. My dominance. My dick twitches as I look down the darkened hall that leads to the private rooms, and the dungeon where I spanked her ass. I love rules. I thrive on control. Always have. I’ve been into the scene since a former girlfriend brought me to my first party.

I’ll take it easy on Diana. But what’s the point of a date if you don’t have fun?

No panties.

I imagine her squirming wherever she is, maybe biting her full, beautiful lip, and I hope the panties I’ve just forbidden are good and soaked.

Ahh. Okay. Oooh, dirty.

Does she think this is just a game? I frown before responding, The correct response is Yes, sir.

A full beat passes before the phone buzzes once more.

Yes, sir.

Good girl. You are all set for tonight?

Yes. Chad’s dad will get him at six, and I’ll be ready by seven.

I’ll be there.

I shove my phone in my pocket and walk over to the bar, remembering how she sat perched on a stool sipping her water. I check the taps and bottles, making sure the trash has been emptied, and the store of salted nuts we serve warmed is full. Verifying that the fridge is stocked with lemons and limes we’ll slice later that evening. Clean glasses line the bar like soldiers at attention. I open the large plastic bag filled with laundered, folded bar mops, place a neat stack on the designated shelf beneath the counter, and tuck the rest away in the cabinet. Leaning back against the bar, I take a moment to enjoy the quiet, to take in the solitude, my chest rising and falling with the deep, cleansing breaths I take.

I grew up in one of the most run-down neighborhoods in New York, my mother taking care of me and my four younger siblings on government assistance after my father left. We lived on Top Ramen and food pantry handouts. Part of me wishes I could show my mom what I helped build, where my hard work has landed me. The prestigious, beautiful private club renowned across the country as one of the best clubs on the East Coast. But now my mama rests comfortably in a nursing home, paid for by me and my siblings, surrounded by her crucifix, her rosary between her fingers, and visited weekly by the local chaplain.

All my mom knows is that I’m a successful businessman and run a business. She doesn’t ask questions; I don’t provide details. Her bills are paid, and I donate to the kids’ hospital in her name. I keep her happy and well provided for, and she doesn’t have to worry about a thing. That’s good enough for me.

I make the rounds. The pool tables have been brushed and covered, chalk replaced. The dance floor is polished and ready. Then my pulse quickens as I make my way to where the real fun happens, thoughts on Diana. I eye the array of toys that have been sanitized and readied for tonight—the spanking implements on tables and affixed by hooks to the walls, ranging from moderate floggers to severe canes. The violet wands and Wartenberg wheels, aimed for careful sensation play. Members frequently provide their own sensory deprivation hoods and gags, the more experienced of our members.

Once I assure myself the rooms are well stocked and clean, I inspect each private room and glance through the list of reservations. The indigo room is still vacant tonight. I smile to myself. I’ll keep that in mind.