Even though she’d spent most of the weekend in bed, she didn’t feel the least bit rested. She placed the blame solely at Master Finn’s feet who on Friday, left her well spanked, thoroughly kissed, but humming with a burning, unfulfilled need. She’d gone home, dumped dry food in Phin’s bowl, then went to the garage and dug through several storage boxes to find her vibrator. Batteries were the next search since the little pink bullet had sat mostly unused ever since her disappointing forays to the public clubs in search of a new Dom a few years back. After that, she’d sublimated her need for sex with work something which had been surprisingly easy.

Evidently, with some women, the libido was like a light switch which, once turned off, stayed off, until something jolted it back on.

In Esme’s case, the jolt was Pax dragging her to Decadence and the amazing sensual kinky world inside. After her long stretch of dormancy, it was like blasting into sexual overdrive. And following her session Friday night, breaking her dry spell with Finn was all she could think of. She’d pretty much worn out her little pocket buddy vibe by the time Monday morning rolled around.

While seated at her desk, she couldn’t detect any lingering effects on her bottom, no color, heat, or the tiniest ache, although other adjacent parts didn’t fare so well. That the cause came from self-induced pleasure was disappointing. Good thing her batteries were nearly dead, and she had two days for her clit to recover until she saw him again.

Pushing all of that to the back of her mind, she booted up her computer, but a fluorescent green sticky note dead center of the screen made her frown.

Morales brief past due. Get it done.

The attorney she worked for reminded her of the absent-minded professor. She’d laid the file on his desk along with three others before he’d come into the office and turned it upside down on Friday.

Shortly after moving to LA, she’d received a job offer from Shoemaker, Reinhart, and Associates. She’d been thrilled to find something so quickly, especially if she got to work with an experienced litigator with over thirty years in private practice. Rather than an overbearing arrogant stereotype, Robert Shoemaker, the senior partner she interviewed with, was a friendly, fatherly type, who loved to teach, Esme had jumped at the chance, but shortly after joining the firm, he’d retired due to health issues.

This left her reporting to Gerald Reinhart.

In his mid-forties, Gerald was still a fit, good-looking man. He knew it too and used it to his advantage with the ladies which had led him down the path to divorce, twice. His ex-wives, according to him had taken him to the cleaners. Esme felt this was justice, but she kept her opinion to herself. He didn’t bother her, and in the time she’d worked at the firm, she’d never heard of any monkey business going on with any of the staff. For the most part, he was all business at the office.

Mr. Shoemaker wouldn’t have put up with it and was no doubt the reason Gerald kept it in his pants at work. She worried that would change with him gone. If so, she’d be out of there.

At least, that’s what she told herself, but she had more autonomy here then she would in a lot of places, and she was on the upper end of the pay scale. Starting over somewhere new would mean taking a hit financially.

Things had changed in recent months, for the worse. Gerald had gone from a rational, business-minded, motivated boss to a high-strung, often ill-tempered, unpredictable mess. And his behavior had become increasingly more erratic in the past few weeks. He was jumpy, arriving later and later each day, if he came in at all. When he deigned to make an appearance, he’d hibernate in his office insisting he not be disturbed for hours on end. A few times, after hiding out half the day, he’d rush out in an even more agitated state, not speaking a word to anyone.

Whatever was going on with him was taking a physical toll. He wasn’t getting any younger, and his face seemed red every time she saw him lately, as though his blood pressure was up. She’d asked about it, but he’d attributed his flush to a family tree full of ruddy-faced German ancestors. But the gray at his temples was showing, past due for an appointment at his salon which he never missed, and no matter how finely tailored, his suits couldn’t conceal his growing paunch which meant he’d curtailed his gym visits, another thing he rarely missed until lately.

In the mornings, she’d find a pile of work dumped on her desk. According to the state of California, she had to work under the supervision of a licensed attorney with a fancy diploma hanging on the wall, which left Bradley, a junior associate who just passed the bar six months earlier, to sign off on all her work.

As an ABA certified paralegal for eight years, with her experience in litigation, domestic relations, and tort law, she should be overseeing him. It didn’t matter she did the bulk of the research, pored through case law in the same software program the attorney used, interviewed clients, collected and organized evidence, prepared the documents for trial, and coordinated everything on a case for a fraction of the pay.

At the last minute, wearing a high dollar suit, and putting on a good show for the court, the lawyer walked in and took all the glory for her hard work. And heaven forbid they lost. In essence, he got to be the hero but never the goat, that fell to her. Still, it was interesting work and she enjoyed it. Up until Mr. Reinhart went off the rails a few months back. And before he started issuing deadlines for work already completed.

But sitting around grumbling wouldn’t get the work done or pay her bills. The latter didn’t amount to much. Her car was paid off, and she didn’t have a house payment, Andrew’s two million-dollar life insurance had left her enough to pay cash for it, even in LA County, and she still had a nest egg left over. It wouldn’t last forever if she didn’t manage it carefully, especially with the cost of living through the roof in Southern California and, if Master Eric let her stay, the hefty club membership fees.

Monday turned out to be a surprisingly productive day. She worried Tuesday would blow up at the last minute like Friday had, when Mr. Reinhart made a late appearance. He ran in a little after three o’clock, red faced and perspiring a little, and without a word to anyone, went straight to his office and slammed the door. Not a minute later, Bradley showed up in her doorway a worried look on his face, but before they could commiserate over what shit storm was about to blow their way, the attorney slammed back out and strode out the front door.

“This is getting old fast,” Brad grumbled.

“I know. Any idea what’s up with him?”

“Me? You’ve been here longer, I was hoping you did.”

She shook her head. “All I can say is it gets worse by the week, and please don’t take this the wrong way—” she stopped short, sure what she was going to say would absolutely be taken the wrong way.

“The clients are getting worse too,” he finished for her. “That’s what you were going to say, right? I’ve noticed that too.”

“I’ve never seen so many drug cases, and pro bono work. I’m surprised he can make payroll. What about you?”

“The same.” Brad had a wife, a baby on the way, and a brand-new mortgage on a pretty expensive townhouse which he’d purchased after starting with the firm, and he looked scared to death. “Between you and me, Esme, should I update my resume?”

“I can’t answer that for you except to say I plan to.”

Hurricane Gerald passing through quickly allowed Esme to leave at four o’clock as planned and plenty of time to get ready for the evening. She arrived at the club thirty minutes early and found a quiet table. The only reason this was possible was because they had live entertainment and most of the early crowd had congregated around the small stage and the alternative rock band playing.

From her vantage point, she had a good view of everything happening around her. She’d skipped this experience before now and found that the music was excellent, the atmosphere upbeat, the dancing seductive, and like the rest of the club, everything lush and top quality. Except for being more upscale, there wasn’t much different than any other club she’d been in. Her gaze strayed to the next booth and over the brunette who sat there alone. Her eyes were closed, and she had both arms stretched over her head. Esme glanced upward noting the cuffs around her wrists then followed the chain they were affixed to high up above to the ceiling. Okay, maybe the differences to the other clubs was more striking.

She looked around, thinking it odd she’d been left restrained and unattended, but she didn’t appear in distress. In fact, looking at her more closely, she noted her cheeks were flushed, her crimson tinted lips were parted, and her chest rose and fell faster than it should. The reason became clear when a hand with fingers splayed wide appeared from below and slid up her belly. It was masculine, the thick wrist and muscled forearm making it obvious. But Esme couldn’t see the man attached to it.

Fascinated, she couldn’t look away, not when it veered off its straight path, cupped the underside of her breast, and with thumb and forefinger working in concert, plucked, rolled, then pinched an already hard nipple. The woman arched into the touch and her head fell forward. The loud music couldn’t drown out the groan of abject pleasure or the name she cried, “Andrew!”

Esme stiffened, shock knifing through her when a head covered in closely cropped sandy blond hair appeared from under the table. Her focus shifted back to the hand, and the gold band on the third finger, and up to a tattooed bicep. It couldn’t be her Andrew; he’d died in her arms.

When the man turned his head to take his sub’s other nipple into his mouth, Esme saw his profile. Sharper more angular features and a thick scruff of beard broke the shock that gripped her. Glancing back at the tattoo on his arm, she realized it was all wrong too. Not the eagle, globe, and anchor she’d traced with her fingers so often, but with a closer look, recognized it as a falcon.

Great. Now she was hallucinating.

Suddenly being here felt wrong. What was she doing? Hadn’t she decided the club, and the charmingly seductive Master Finn was more than she was ready for?

As if her thoughts had the power to make him materialize, he slid into the empty side of the booth. His gaze swept over her, keying in on her dress, what could be seen above the table, and his approving grin sent her pulse racing. She’d met his condition of clingy with the simple sheath, it was also sexy, and feminine, which she could tell pleased him. Made of a spandex blend with a feminine lace overlay, it had a deep center cutout which showed the entire inner curves of her breasts. It was short, though he couldn’t see the amount of leg it exposed, but without panties she had to sit carefully or risk providing a floor show that rivaled the band.

“Pale pink looks lovely on you, lass, much better than done to death black leather.” His smile faded when he got a good look at her face. “What’s wrong?”

“I can’t stay.”

He looked at her closely, then around the bar. “What spooked you?”

His search paused on the couple at the next table, now much further along. He was seated on the bench with her on top of him, the chains still affixed to her cuffs clanked rhythmically over her head as she rode her Dom

Keiran turned back. “That’s tame compared to what you’ve seen inside.”

“I… It’s not—” she stopped to collect herself before she started babbling. “I would have sent word, but I had no way to contact you.” She paused again, swallowing hard before she blurted out, “I don’t want this.”

He didn’t react, not visibly, other than to tilt his head to the side a bit as he considered her. “This, as in drinks before playing?” he asked at length. “Talking and getting to know a little bit about the man you’ll be playing with? Or this, meaning me? Perhaps you can be more specific.”

Great, now she’d ticked him off.

“I never intended to… I don’t want—”

“Take a breath, relax, and tell me what it is you don’t want, Esme.”

She searched for something other than the truth, that he stirred more in her than she was prepared for and it scared the crap out of her. She latched onto an undeniable difference. “You like whips. That’s too extreme for me, and we, um… don’t have very much in common. So… I thought, well… it’s probably best… if we end things, now… before they get started.”

Though she hemmed and hawed terribly, she finally managed to spit out her lame justification, one riddled with bold-faced lies, because after the other night, each of her fantasies had starred a bare to the waist, gorgeous, muscular, utterly enthralling Keiran Finnegan with of all things, a braided, shot loaded black snake in his hands.

Daring to look up and see how he took it, she flushed furiously beneath the intensity of his narrow-eyed, tight face, wholly skeptical stare. Damn insightful Dom could see right through her. She needed to go, now, before he started digging and her resistance crumbled. But as she started to slide sideways, a large, black boot blocked her way.

“If any of that is true, lass, which I strongly doubt, why are you here, dressed to please, in a clingy pink dress exactly as I requested?” Though he stated his observations calmly, the determined glint in his eyes told her he was ready to lay out his case, disputing her claims, like a defense attorney during cross examination. “The lace is a nice touch, another suggestion of mine, if I recall.” When he continued, it was in the low, seductive burr she found irresistible. “If I were a betting man, I’d put down serious money that when you wiggled into that fuck-me dress you weren’t thinking I was too extreme or that we had little in common, enough to obediently leave off your panties. Shall I slip my hand beneath it and see if I’m right?”

Torn between fear that he would and dread that he wouldn’t, she said nothing, staring down at her hands.

“If you changed your mind, you could have called and left your regrets with someone on staff, instead of coming out having followed my orders to the letter.”

“That would have been incredibly rude.”

“Perhaps, but if I’m truly not the man for you, the risk of me punishing your rudeness by taking you over my knee and spanking your lovely ass until you’re dripping wet for me again is nil.”

She sucked in a breath, as her startled gaze shot to his. He hadn’t touched her Friday night, but he’d known the effect he’d had on her all the same.

He leaned in, which with his size, even sitting across the table brought him close. “The choice is always up to you, Esme.” Pausing, he searched her face, the intensity of his gaze making her squirm. Unable to hold it, her chin dipped down and she stared at her hands again, something safer to her peace of mind than Master Finn. “I might not like your choice, or believe it, but I’ll respect it. And it seems you leave me no choice, lass, other than to bow out gracefully.”

“Thank you, sir,” she whispered.

“But that doesn’t eliminate your problem or Master Eric’s ultimatum. Since you’re here, looking beautiful, those efforts should be rewarded, not wasted. Let’s find you another Dom who might suit you better.”

No. She didn’t want that at all.

“That’s really not necessary. I’ve taken enough of your time. I can find someone on my own.”

“After three unsuccessful months we both know that’s not true.” He turned and scanned the room. “When reviewing your file, I noticed suspension marked as something you’d be interested in trying. I see someone who excels at that.” He held up his hand.

“Oh, but… I…” Her protest died when she saw the man he flagged down was Master Tristan, the Brad Pitt lookalike, from Eric’s list. He’d rejected her once already, so it was a safe bet he’d do so again. She let out a relieved sigh.

She felt Master Finn’s eyes on her, but kept her gaze averted. She could feel the irritation coming off him in waves.

Good. With him annoyed, and most likely angry, after the other Master turned her down flat, she could go home.

“Finn,” the other Dom said in greeting. “You’re becoming a regular again. About damn time.”

Hearing her unintended nickname for him was actually a thing, she decided after tonight she’d have to rename her cat.

“Esme has decided I might not be daring enough for her.”

“Oh, no,” she rushed to explain. “I didn’t mean to imply that at all.”

“Hush, subbie, I’m negotiating on your behalf.”

“Who gave you permission to do that?”

“I did.” This came from Master Eric who stood at the end of their table, Val tucked under his arm and close to his side. “Perhaps I wasn’t clear. When I said I’d arrange a Dom for you, I didn’t mean for a one and done scene. You’re on extended probation; under Master Keiran’s direct supervision. Your probation officer, shall we say?”

“How long is this extended period for?” she snapped.

“Watch your tone, lass,” Master Finn advised. “In answer to your question, your probation lasts until your Dom decides, which according to the Master Dom is still me.”

She couldn’t keep the scowl from her face—she was being manipulated and didn’t like it one bit.

From the corner of her eye she saw Val shaking her head in warning, but too late. Finn didn’t let much by him.

“While running around unsupervised, it appears you’ve forgotten your manners. Snapping and glaring at dominants, for example. You’ll be spared the whip and the more extreme implements, since that isn’t what you want,” he deliberately used her words against her, “but being with me won’t exempt you from punishments. As for scenes, I’ll have to arrange those with Doms who might better suit your tastes. Master Tristan.” He held her eyes, but addressed the Master still waiting and taking in their little drama. “Esme has expressed a desire for suspension; she also likes strict bondage, moderate pain, but no whips, canes, or gags. You’ll take care of my girl and show her a good time, yes?”

“Absolutely.” He took hold of her wrist and pulled her to her feet, a huge grin on his handsome face. “This should be fun, Red. Let’s go.”

He had her out of her chair and halfway to the dungeon before she found her voice. “Wait, I thought you didn’t want to be used as a pathway to membership.”

“You never mentioned your interests. Shibari is my passion, and I’m a rigger always in search of a sub I can tie up in knots.”

“No, please, I don’t want to.”

“What was that?” he asked, not stopping. “The band is loud tonight.”

“Red,” she shouted. He immediately came to a halt and she said more softly, “I’m sorry, sir, but I don’t want to play.”

“Is it that you don’t want to play, Esme? Or you’re afraid to?”

“Excellent question, my friend,” Keiran’s burr sounded close to her ear. She turned to him, like the first night with Carlos, seeking his strength and protection, instinctively knowing despite their disagreement he’d give it unconditionally. When he immediately wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close, she melted against him.

“I’ll take it from here, Tris. Thanks.”

“Anytime,” was his amused reply, but he didn’t take the hint and leave, apparently enjoying the Esme show more than the one on the stage.

Whatever. Things had turned out too easily in Finn’s favor. Her head fell back, and she voiced her suspicion. “You set me up.”

“No, lass, you’re easy to read.”

“But, how could you know I’d refuse him?”

“I didn’t, but when you started panicking, you fell back on old habits—refusing all offers, even mine. Tristan is a friend, so is Eric, and both are very astute, they simply followed my lead.”

“And I played right into your hand,” she said stiffly, trying to pull away, but the arm at her waist held her securely.

“You haven’t chosen anyone in three months, Esme. I felt pretty safe you wouldn’t go from shy observer to naked suspension in the blink of an eye. This proves you’re a long way from being off probation.”

“Because I wouldn’t let a stranger string me up by my feet?”

“No, because you think after one spanking and a good cry, you’re unstuck. I’m good, a stór, but I’m not a magician.”

Not missing his grin, she snorted at his arrogance and then, because his perceptive gaze saw too much for her comfort, looked out at the still very crowded dance floor.

“Another reason I was sure you wouldn’t go with Tris…” He caught her chin in his hand, giving her no choice but to face him. “You want me. You’re denying it and think you can brush me aside like the others, but despite all the conflicting emotions swirling around in your brain, when you felt threatened, you turned to me, which means you trust me on some level.”

Tristan leaned in. “Saint Keiran is patient and wise, little one, trust him to guide you through whatever is holding you back. But if you want to experience the thrill of being strung up by your feet by a stranger, I’m your Dom.”

The Master holding her narrowed his eyes at the other man who was enjoying this a bit too much and said dismissively. “I’ll let you know if it comes to that, but don’t turn blue holding your breath.”

Without saying more, Master Tristan left, though he did so chuckling.

She noticed Eric, who had stayed to see it all play out, appeared inordinately pleased. Beside him, Val’s expression looked decidedly sympathetic as she gave her an encouraging smile.

“What happened to it being my choice?” she muttered. “This hardly seems fair.”

“Who said a submissive’s lot was fair?” Eric looked down at Val and asked, “What about you, baby? Do you get fair from your Dom?”

“Rarely, but I always get what I need, like it or not.”

A grin lit his face. “A perfect answer,” he murmured while kissing the glossy hair on top of her head. “Keiran, since it appears you’ve got this situation well under control, we’re off to the dungeon to play.”

“Have a good night,” Master Finn said.

Eric chuckled. “We’re at Decadence, I have a beautiful submissive on my arm, that is a given, my friend.”

When his friends walked away, he extended his arm to their table. “You, sweet lass, look like you could use a drink.” Catching her hand, he led the way and took a seat. When she didn’t immediately follow, he patted the space next to him.

She eyed it, skeptically, unsure how all of this had backfired but certain this Master was too smart for her own good; she opted for the safe seat across from him and slid in on the other side of the booth.

He grinned, obviously enjoying this more than she was.

She couldn’t deny what he’d said, she wanted him, and felt a rush of desire simply from looking at him. And why did he have to smell so damn good? It made it hard to think.

She tried not to inhale, but ol’ Hawkeye Finnegan was sure to notice.

“Relax and breathe, Esme,” he said on cue. “And don’t look so sad. We already know we’re good together, or did you forget Friday night?”

“I’m not interested in a relationship,” she blurted out. “I’ve been there before and we both know how that ended.”

“First, you didn’t breathe. Second, a spanking, a kiss, and drinks hardly comprise a relationship. And third, I’m not collaring or proposing to you, we’re simply talking.”

“What if I don’t want to scene with anyone else?”

“Then you’ll scene with me.”

“Which brings us back to square one,” she muttered.

Leaning forward, his forearms on the table, eyes narrowing on her, he asked, “Do you know why Tristan called me a saint?”

“I haven’t the foggiest,” she quipped really pushing it.

“Because I’m known for my patience, but it has limits, Esme. And you, little lass, are bumping up against them hard, right now.” He leaned back and patted the padded seat beside him. “Come sit beside me.”

“Is that an order, sir?”

“If it has to be to get your ass over here.”

She didn’t like the deepening of his tone and figured she’d better heed the warning. Grudgingly, she slid out of her side of the booth and in on his, but she hugged the edge keeping as much space between them as possible.

Exhaling slowly, he slipped his arm around her waist, and he hauled her against him, so she pressed against his side from knee to hip to shoulder. “That’s better,” he murmured. “Now we’re going to sit here and get to know one another better, have a few drinks, perhaps dance—”

“I don’t dance.”

He covered the hand closest to his and interlaced their fingers. “Open communication between a Dom and sub are crucial, Esme. Did you have that before?”

“Yes.”

“I expect no less.” Raising her hand to his mouth, he surprised her with not only his lips on her knuckles but the teasing, warm wetness of his tongue. “Now, tell me again you don’t dance.”

She pressed her lips together in frustration, then muttered, “How do you know so much? That wasn’t in my file.”

“I’ve watched you move, darlin’. You have a dancer’s elegance and grace.” He nibbled his way across the back of her hand, then flipped it and brushed his mouth over the pulse point on the inner aspect of her wrist. “Try again. This time with the truth.”

“I took ballet as a child until I was fourteen. I had dreams of becoming a professional dancer.”

“Why did you stop?”

“It’s hard on the body. I had torn ligaments in the same knee twice in one year, and then there was the obvious.”

Still teasing her skin with kisses, he looked up in question.

“Puberty.”

His gaze slid downward, boldly appraising her. “You don’t have the typical ballerina body, but that pleases me. I like softness against me rather than hard edges and sharp points.”

He was in luck; soft is what he’d get with her. Getting a vibe he would frown on negative self-talk, she didn’t say that, however.

“Did I mention you look lovely tonight? You did slinky quite well; that dress hugs your curves to perfection, and all those pretty blushes have brought a glow to your complexion.” He paused to inhale. “Instead of flowers, which make me sneeze, your scent reminds me of the beach. And I’ll refrain from commenting on all the wicked ideas those shoes have given me.”

The five-inch stilettos she’d chosen to wear were of the fuck-me variety; she couldn’t argue the point, so she deliberately ignored his shoe reference. “It’s my lotion,” she muttered, shaken by his compliments and the irresistible pull he had on her. She tugged at her hand. He didn’t let go but lowered them to the table where he lightly stroked the back with his thumb.

“Are you ready to tell me what sent you into a panic earlier?”

“The couple at the next booth.”

“You’ve been in the dungeon many times and seen a lot more than that. Why did it bother you tonight?”

“She called him Andrew, my husband’s name. It…”

“Triggered something inside you. I’m guessing guilt.”

It took effort to look up at him. She found what she expected, him watching her closely. “You’re very perceptive.”

“I haven’t been through it, but I imagine it’s normal for the surviving partner to feel that way when they move on.”

“That’s what I’m told but knowing it’s normal doesn’t make it easier. I’m sorry I freaked out on you. I’m not usually so rude.”

“Ordinarily, you’d have ended up bare-assed over my knee, but you’re working through something. You’ll get there, Esme, but I can’t promise you’ll get the same restraint from me the next time.”

“Yes, sir,” she whispered as her backside blossomed with a tingling heat, immediately recalling both the pleasure and the pain to be had while face down over Master Finn’s knee.

Conversation between them halted as the band started another set with a cover of the Goo Goo Dolls’ Use Me. They were good, but the lyrics hit too close to home—so many songs seemed to for her—and she nervously tried to talk over them.

“It’s funny you mentioned the beach. I didn’t have club wear that wasn’t leather. I ended up blowing my clothes budget on shoes and something clingy. It left me skimping on a fragrance. It’s actually called Beach, from Bath N Body Works.”

“On you, it’s priceless.” He took her hand and brought it to his lips again, the smile playing around his lips telling her he knew what she was doing—misdirection—and badly. “It puts me in the mood for a Piña Colada. Do you like them?”

“Yes, especially frozen with chunks of fresh pineapple.”

“Let’s see if our surly bartender can blend us up one, shall we?”

“You drink frozen fruity drinks, sir?” Her gaze swept over him from head to toe, not seeing an ounce of excess fat. Sugar couldn’t be the main staple of his diet, not to keep as fit as he was. “You don’t seem the type.”

“I drink whatever suits me which is usually Teeling’s Irish Whiskey, but you’ve got my tongue greedy for a taste of coconut.”

The blush he’d mentioned spread in a wave of heat from her cheeks down to her throat. When his eyes dipped to the low neckline of her dress, she guessed to the upper swells of her breasts as well.

Equally charming and seductive, Keiran Finnegan was dangerous to her peace of mind and so dreamy it made her ache. His dark wavy hair was a few weeks past due for a trim, but she liked the way it curled around his ears and on his collar. Remembering its silky soft texture, she had to fight the urge to run her fingers through the shiny strands.

Aside from his gorgeous face, his body was divine. He’d seen her in the altogether but she’d yet to have a peek. She didn’t know if his chest had a smattering of hair, a thick pelt or was satiny smooth. And she hadn’t seen him from behind, but she imagined the view of him in his snug black pants was as tantalizing from the back as the front. The same went for his upper body, which rippled and bunched beneath his tight t-shirt when he moved, though it just wasn’t the same as seeing him bare. But maybe it was for the best since she was already having a hard time concentrating with him fully dressed.

A waitress appeared as though summoned though she hadn’t seen him give any signal.

“Did you want something from the bar, Master K?”

“One Piña Colada, Arlene, with two straws. And a shot of Teeling, no ice.”

“Yes, sir.”

When she hurried away, Esme studied the utterly charming Master K who in her mind would always be Master Finn. “I thought you wanted to taste coconut.”

Raising her hand to his lips again, he inhaled, then kissed her fingers just below her knuckles, his tongue slipping out to lick ever so lightly. “Mmm… just the taste I was craving.”

Distracted with his persistent touching and uncomfortable with the topic, she tried to steer him onto a different path.

“Keiran is an unusual name.”

“Not where I’m from, although not as common as Sean or Michael.”

“I could tell from your accent you’re not from LA.”

“It’s the curse of being a southern gentleman, your drawl always gives you away.”

“You’re joking, aren’t you, sir?”

“Nope, I was born in Columbus, Georgia.” He chuckled, seeing her frown. “But I tease you, lass. I’m a hybrid with dual citizenship. My mother is a southern gal, but she fell in love with an Army Ranger one summer and along I came nine months later. She moved to Belfast while I was an infant which is where I grew up.”

“But I thought one of your parents would have to be Irish to have citizenship in both countries.”

“Not necessarily,” he replied, her assumption was a common one. “But I meant the Sciathán Fiannóglach an Airm, which literally translated is the Army Ranger Wing. It’s Ireland’s version of Special Forces. As a young officer, my father, who was born in Northern Ireland, was one of the first to train with the U.S. Army Rangers at Ft. Benning, Georgia. He met a girl, fell in love, and the rest, as they say, is history.”

She had to speak up to be heard over the band as they started another set. “What a romantic story.”

“Aye, except to hear them tell it, it’s steamy. They add details a son doesn’t want to hear about his parents.”

She grinned. “I bet.”

“With family here and there, I’ve been back and forth all my life. I attended USC then followed in my father’s footsteps and served my country. I was in the ARW for most of my twelve-year stint. When I got out, I took a job in security in San Antonio, and when the opportunity arose, returned to Southern California. I now call LA my home.”

“And your parents?”

“Still here and there, though mostly there. I try to get home at least once a year.”

“I’ve always wanted to go to Ireland. I hear it’s lovely.”

“It is, but perfect weather year-round, no snow, and the Pacific Ocean are nothing to sneeze at.”

“True. I bet you can’t swim in your ocean either.”

He chuckled. “A swim near the pier in Santa Monica is like sinking into a nice warm tub by comparison.”

She shuddered. “I dip my toes in during August, that’s it. Which means if I ever get the chance to see your home country, I’ll remain a confirmed landlubber.”

“With your coloring, you’d fit in well there, and Esme sounds Irish. It’s beautiful.” In his low, rumbling burr, he made it sound beautiful. “We were distracted with other things the other night. Now we have time. You said your mother lost a bet over your name. How so?”

She almost groaned. He had to ask. It was a long story and one she never escaped.

His head tilted to the side as he studied her. “I understand when things are new with a Dom there is a testing period. I’m fairly laid back, but this tendency to stall you have, could get you in trouble. When I ask a question, I expect a response. How bad can your name be?”

“Bad…”

“Let me decide.”

“Esmerelda Spade.”

He stared at her a moment. “You’re right. Esme is a helluva lot better.”

A laugh escaped. “Don’t hold back, sir. Tell me how you really feel.”

He grinned sheepishly. “Sorry, lass, but I have to ask. What on God’s green earth was your mathair thinkin’?”

“That’s just it—green. My mother said as soon as she saw my eyes it came to her.”

He thought a moment. “Esmerelda means emerald in Spanish.” His puzzled gaze swept over her features. “You don’t look Latina.”

“I’m not,” was her deadpan response. “Spade is German, and my mother’s grandparents, with a few greats thrown in, immigrated from Northern Europe somewhere. Which makes me a mutt without a smidgeon of Hispanic heritage.”

“I see.”

She noticed his lip twitch. “Yeah, she’s wacky but loveable. Wait until you hear the rest.”

“There’s more?” he asked in mock horror. “Please, darlin’, say your first name isn’t Gertrude or Hortense.”

“Very funny, señor,” she drawled, then let loose a little giggle. “But you’re close.”

The humor slowly faded from his face, replaced with sympathy. “I was kidding, lass.”

“I’m not. My dad was a nut, too. And a huge fan of detective mysteries. He thought nothing would do except to name his one and only daughter after his favorite detective in his favorite detective novel.”

“I’m sorry.”

“For what? I haven’t told you yet.”

“I can guess. It’s Sherlock, isn’t it?”

She blinked, then burst into laughter. “No, and that would be worse.”

“Miss Marple?”

“No.”

“Agatha Christy? No, that’s two names. How about Dana as in Scully?”

Falling forward with her forehead to his bicep, she shook her head, but he kept guessing.

“I know… Nancy as in Drew!”

“Stop, sir, please, before I pee my pants.”

His face broke into a devastating grin. “I’m kinky. I freely admit it, but even I’m not into that.”

“What?” she shrieked, turning heads. Then in a more regulated voice said, “No. Dear Lord, you’re as big of a goof as my parents. My dad named me Samantha. When I got old enough, I chose to go by my middle name, because, well… You know.”

He stared at her, suddenly sober. “No, I don’t know. It’s a beautiful name, although Esme suits you better.”

“Thank you, and it’s why I use it. The trouble with Samantha is when it’s invariably shortened to Sam.” She looked at him wide-eyed waiting for it to click. “Don’t tell me you’ve never heard of Sam Spade.”

He shrugged and shook his head.

“You’ve never read or seen the Maltese Falcon?”

“Nope. Sorry.”

Her shoulders slumped. “Well, that certainly makes the whole buildup and the story itself pointless. Huh.”

His hands curled around her shoulders, and he brought her in close, then declared in a low, nasally twang, “When you’re slapped, you’ll take it and like it.”

“You so know it!” she exclaimed.

So very handsome, when he smiled her heart beat faster, but when he grinned, like now, warmth coiled in her belly and sent little tingles dancing in her girl parts below.

“My ma wasn’t one for detective stories per se, but she adored Humphrey Bogart. It was impossible not to know him, or the unflinchingly determined private eye, Sam Spade, when I saw it a hundred times growing up.”

“You’re an awful tease, Master Finn. And, due respect, that has to be the worst Bogey impression I’ve ever heard.”

He shrugged, still grinning. “I’m not offended but allow me to make my own observation. You, Samantha Esmerelda Spade, have got the sexiest laugh I’ve ever heard.” His arms slipped around her, both hands coming up to lie flat on her back pressing them belly to belly, her breasts to his chest. “All kidding aside, I want you, Esme, and I mean to have you.” He bent and ran his lips along the curve of her neck. “I can’t wait to strip you bare and fuck you until you come screaming to the rafters. I want to see you in my ropes, tied in creative ways that will leave you trembling and breathless for more. And trust me, Tristan isn’t the only one who can rig a suspension. If not ropes, I’ll use leather cuffs to bind you to a bed or on a cross, and when I have you helpless, posed with your delicious round ass aimed my way, I’ll bring it slowly from creamy white to pink, to rosy red, and not only be by my hand.”

Moving upward along her jaw to her mouth, he hovered, his lips brushing with each delicious syllable when he continued.

“You’ll take what I give you, love how I make you feel, and, I promise, you’ll beg me for more. It’s what dreams are made of”—she’d be damned if the man didn’t throw in another Bogart quote—“and I can’t wait to make yours come true.”

A rush of hot desire tightened her nipples, they ached where they rubbed against his chest and wetness flooded the long-neglected place between her thighs. She gazed into his stunning eyes, unable to speak, barely able to think, except to remember her lie. She did want this, and she wanted it with Finn.

“Too much?” he murmured, gliding his tongue along her lower lip. “If so, you’ll get used to it. I believe in being direct.” Then, he tilted his head ever so slightly and took her mouth in a smoldering hot kiss that Esme could only define as claiming.

“Are you ready to play, little lass?”

Over his shoulder, she could see the huge double doors that led into the heart of Decadence. It would be her first scene, she was bound to draw a crowd.

“Could we… maybe, go upstairs, instead?”

“No, baby, with the band here tonight, more people showed up on a weeknight than expected, and the rooms are reserved until midnight.

“I haven’t played in public in a very long time.”

Tenderly, one hand framed her face, his thumb brushing her cheek in a gentle sweep. “Has that been a problem for you before?

“No, it’s just, I’ve developed a reputation for being distant, and, well… according to Master Eric, a gawker. Members complained. They’re sure to repay me in kind.”

“As beautiful as you are, lass, people are bound to watch, but none would dare say a harsh word. We’ll take it slow. Perhaps a scene at the chain station or on a bench.” He frowned as if remembering something. “Benches fill up first, however.”

In chains, with hundreds of eyes watching her. She swallowed and inhaled slowly.

“You can trust me to take care of you, Esme, but if you’re not there yet, we can wait for a room. It will be Saturday before I’m free again, however.”

Four days, she might die from sexual starvation, or worse, change her mind again.

“I don’t want to wait anymore, sir. And chains, well, as I witnessed earlier, seem pretty hot.”

“They can be, but with you and me, Esme, we’ll shoot for smoldering.”