Skin. Bare skin. Everywhere she looked.

Esme’s fingers tightened their grip on Pax’s strong arm as she tried to steady herself.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

“Yes,” she whispered, “it’s just—” Stopping short, she almost swallowed her tongue when a woman on a leash wearing a cupless bra and an ass-baring thong walked by with her Master. Proving it was an equal opportunity bondage club, a Mistress led a man past them sporting nothing other than assless, crotchless chaps. Esme cleared her throat and finally managed to finish her thought, “—a shock.”

He chuckled. “I felt the same way at first. After a few trips your eyes will unglaze, and you’ll see more than bare tits and asses every time you walk in.”

“I don’t know. Just walking through the lounge I felt overdressed, in here I feel positively Victorian.”

She saw bare shoulders, a back exposed by a daring dress, and smooth legs revealed beneath an up-to-the-ass micro mini-skirt. It seemed bar attire was more circumspect, but once inside the dungeon, it was no holds barred, or more aptly put, no holes barred.

Exposed nipples were commonplace for both male and female attire—the subs, mostly—she saw bare bottoms in all shapes and sizes, again, not gender specific, and genitals on open display as if they were no more intimate than an earlobe or an elbow.

Esme could only stare, entirely at a loss for words.

No, wait, she had two—holy crap!

Looking down at her own attempt at sexy fetish wear, the leather corset she’d chosen which revealed a modest amount of cleavage, and the skirt that fell to mid-thigh made her feel like a nun. A flash of memory took her back to her days at St. Anne’s Catholic School. She imagined the good sisters’ expressions upon witnessing the spectacle before her and would have laughed if she weren’t so stunned.

“You’re beautiful, Esme, and you don’t have to bare it all to fit in here. They take all comers. When you find someone you’re comfortable playing with, you can negotiate how much you’re willing to expose in the scene or go upstairs for more privacy. They monitor the theme rooms just like the main floor.” He squeezed her hand. “You’re shaking, sweetheart. Are you sure you don’t want to go back to the bar, have a drink, settle your nerves, and talk about what you can expect? It’s been a while for you, and LA is not Baltimore.”

Truer words...

As the memory of that first night three months ago faded, Esme looked around and realized how right Pax had been. Standing inside the gothic doors now, she no longer saw only yards of skin, bare boobs, and exposed bottoms, but the people behind the BDSM trappings, or lack thereof.

Underneath, they weren’t much different from those she knew in the lifestyle back home. Out of the mainstream, they sought acceptance, kinship, and connection with a community. All of which they seemed to find here at Decadence LA.

While she looked around, she considered what a perfect name it was for the club. In addition to kink in every manner imaginable there was also—extravagance. No expense had been spared from the exquisite marble fixtures in the bathrooms to the plush furnishings and rich décor in the lounge and bar, or the custom-made bondage equipment that filled at least thirty play stations on the main floor and the dozen theme rooms upstairs. They even had heated floors! Rightfully so since the rules stated subs go barefoot once inside the dungeon. She found it ironic how no one blinked at the crops and paddles connecting with bare subbie bottoms and other tender parts, but heaven forbid their toes get cold.

She giggled, drawing strange looks. Because attention was something she tried to avoid, she smoothed out her features, averted her gaze and headed inside.

As she made the circuit which was pretty much a walking path around the constant activity in the stations, she sensed heightened energy she hadn’t noticed in her many trips before. The room was buzzing with excitement broken by the frequent and loud crack of a whip. Esme looked toward the back of the room. The lights were up which was unusual. There were whipping posts and large cordoned off spaces for their use, but she’d never seen them used before.

She missed having Pax at her side, and it wasn’t the first time. Something was going on tonight, and she wasn’t sure what. Half of her wanted to high-tail it out the front door, but morbid curiosity drew her deeper into the room, and the further she went the bolder the play got.

She’d been to clubs before with Andrew, and a few times by herself about a year after he died. She was depressed and lonely, and like now, Pax had been out of town. But the dungeons back East were nothing like Decadence. The clientele wore leather and participated in scenes, but the most daring things she’d observed was the paddling of a male sub on the seat of his leather pants and a female submissive bound to a cross. She’d also been clothed, although her short skirt and skimpy top left a lot of bare skin exposed to her Dom’s lash. It was the same at all the other clubs she’d visited; nudity was against the rules as was public sex.

Here, the submissive men walked around in cock sleeves and nothing else, or harnesses, which were mostly a series of thin straps, buckles, and rivets—or completely naked.

Not to be ignored were the pussies, also exposed and in varied presentations, from smoothly waxed to neatly trimmed and in vintage style—full 1970s bush. Some were clamped, others had a single piercing, and a few looked like they’d spent considerable time in the tool-and-die shop being modified with O-rings. Still, others were bejeweled and bedazzled, and a few had dangling weights. Ouch!

Unlike the public clubs she’d been to in the past where sex only happened behind closed doors because full nudity was against the rules, at Decadence, it was the rule, evidently. It was happening everywhere. Not your average, ordinary, run-of-the-mill missionary-style sex, either, but raw, undiluted, kinky sex. In pairs, trios, and more participants than she could count. There was even a solo performance or two going on, directed by a crop-wielding dominant, naturally.

The variety of implements didn’t stop there. While walking the circuit around the thirty-some stations on the main floor, she saw paddles, floggers, and whips in a variety of colors and lengths. A few were full-sized bullwhips worn coiled at the waist of a scary-looking leather-clad man, although she had seen a red, braided quirt carried by a woman.

Tonight, the kink wasn’t limited to basic bondage and impact play; it was edgier. Pax may have steered her away from the hardcore stuff on prior trips, but he couldn’t have concealed the crackle of a violet wand or the smell of acrid smoke from the fire play scene she’d glimpsed in a dimly lit corner. And, she couldn’t have missed the cries of pleasure or the screams of pain that sounded more strident, and frequent than on previous nights. The most voluble, if she had to rate it, came from a well-lit scene toward the rear of the enormous space. Curious, she wandered over and tried to see over the shoulders of the crowd, but it was shoulder to shoulder and at least five gawkers deep.

“What’s going on here?” she asked the woman beside her who was also up on her toes, but she had the strong arm of the man beside her for support.

“A lacing demonstration. I’d love to try it, Mistress Melissa’s corset designs are so beautiful, but I have a needle phobia.”

“We’ll work on that, Chloe, if this is something you want to try,” the man beside her said. “Hush now, so everyone can hear her instructions.”

“Yes, Master,” the blonde said dutifully.

Esme couldn’t understand what was so fascinating about watching someone being laced into a corset, but this couple and the other onlookers appeared transfixed. It became clear when a few people in front of her shifted. A submissive lay face down on a bondage table, as her Domme stood over her, hands expertly lacing a crisscross pattern down her back. At first glance it seemed innocent, the black and ivory laces a beautiful contrast to each other and the woman’s fair coloring. On second glance she noticed there was no corset. Instead of boning and satin, there was only the sub’s pale skin, and rather than metal grommets to thread the laces through, they were looped around parallel rows of needles embedded into the woman’s skin running the length of her back on either side of her spine.

“Oh my God, that must be excruciating!” Esme whispered in horror.

The man standing next to her glanced over with his eyebrow sharply raised. “Look again. The needles are a fine gauge and only penetrate a fraction underneath the skin.”

She took another glance, this time more closely. The needles went through the sub’s skin at a small angle, not deeply as it first appeared. Still, it was shocking and to someone squeamish like herself, disturbing. “Won’t they scar her back?”

“This is your first play piercing demonstration, isn’t it?”

And my last, was on the tip of her tongue. Wisely, she answered with, “Yes, sir,” instead.

“When done correctly, in a controlled setting with precautions taken to prevent infection, needle play is quite safe. Note the gloves the Domme is wearing, they are sterile, as are the needles, and she took care to prepare her sub’s skin with an antiseptic in advance. It’s a work of art when finished, but more so than aesthetically pleasing, it’s erotic. With the excitement of the scene, the crowd looking on, and the needle pricks, not to mention the high she gets when she surrenders completely to her Mistress’ care, a flood of endorphins are coursing through the girl’s system. Look at her face, and listen to her moans, she’s in subspace and has been since the fourth or fifth needle went in.”

Looking at it through different eyes—green ones that were calm, not shocked and horrified—Esme realized it was true. The sub’s eyes were half closed, her lips slightly parted as she kept up a constant moan which didn’t sound anything close to pain. She flushed, realizing she’d jumped to a conclusion, which considering where she was and what else she’d witnessed tonight, was wrong and narrow-minded.

The man leaned down and said quietly in her ear, “Next time, I suggest you gather your facts and reserve your judgment until after you do.”

Though softly worded, it was a scolding all the same. She looked up at him, but he was watching the scene.

“One other thing, little sub. We always have medical staff available on nights like tonight, just in case.”

Good to know. But the thought of needles anywhere except her earlobes made her squirm and her stomach queasy. No freaking way!

She murmured, “Thank you for the lesson, sir,” then was out of there so fast, she accidentally stepped on a few bare toes and ran head first into another Dom. He steadied her and glowered when he didn’t immediately get the requisite apology, but she didn’t stick around for another scolding.

Leaving behind thoughts of needles in tender places, no matter how sharp or how small, she wandered to the back of the main room and the stairs leading up to the second-floor theme rooms. In Esme’s opinion, the elaborate fantasy suites were where the Decadence magic really happened. There was an authentic school room complete with a blackboard and a naughty girl stool in the corner, an office with a large executive’s desk where she imagined more than a few subs had spent quality time taking more than dictation, and a private torture chamber which was straight out of the middle ages.

As she passed by the dungeon, she saw the observation windows were open and she stopped to peek in.

Flickering bulbs in the wall sconces cast eerie shadows over the iron shackles mounted to the walls, a set of wooden stocks, and a bondage table that looked an awful lot like a rack. And hanging from hooks on the back wall, every punishment implement imaginable. But tonight, the main attraction was the iron slave cage and the willing victim inside.

On her hands and knees, she had her face to the large rectangular opening near the top of the cage and her bottom pressed against the one on the other end. Her two strapping guards were availing themselves of what she offered, one sliding his cock in her mouth while the other took her hard from behind. From the moans emanating from within the iron bars, she seemed far from tortured.

Moving on down the long corridor, Esme paused to take in the scene at the next room and the next. She could exit medieval Europe, enter a CEO’s office, and then be in a modern-day schoolroom all in the span of a few moments. Walk another thirty feet and she could step into the opulence of a Sultan’s Chamber in Istanbul, complete with a huge four post bed with silk bed curtains.

Most of the rooms had their doors flung wide and the sliding glass observation windows open, inviting people to stop and watch. Esme had figured out why, pretty quickly. The membership here was heavy into exhibitionism and loved holding demonstrations. She’d seen them before, mostly stilted, boring, anticlimactic how-to sessions, Doms liked to teach. But once again, at Decadence there was a difference, they were a step above, and neither boring nor stilted, and more like choreographed mini-dramas. And, when it was an actual how-to session, Esme noted they were often interactive with the audience.

Like in the medical room where she stood.

A man in a crisp white lab coat, presumably the doctor, stood beside an authentic-looking gynecological exam table, where a stripped bare, strapped down sub with her legs in the stirrups lay calmly watching as he addressed the crowd peering in through the open observation windows.

“The elusive G-spot,” he was saying, “does it exist? And, if so, how does it work, where do I find it, and how can I make my partner explode with a deluge of passion? How many of you have asked these questions?”

Affirmative answers rippled through the crowd from both the men and the women.

The doctor grinned. “Tonight, we will prove it is more than a myth by making Ellie, my beautiful assistant, a very satisfied and extremely dehydrated submissive. Who’d like to be my volunteer for this demonstration?”

Hands shot up in the air, too many to count.

The lucky man selected entered the room as the rest of the spectators pressed closer. They looked on in eager anticipation—or in her case gaped in horrified fascination—as the man donned a pair of long gloves that went well past his wrists.

Considering the man’s large hands and the sub’s smallish frame, Esme hoped she was wrong about what she suspected was coming next, but knew down deep, after cage sex, needle play, a fire scene, and everything else, she wasn’t.

Under the direction of the man in white, he coated his hand liberally with lube and stepped between the stirrups. Then, he slowly fingered the woman, building her arousal and penetrating her one digit at a time until she had taken four fingers inside her. Her cries rolled through the room and out the window to the onlookers, becoming gasps of pleasure-pain when the volunteer folded in his thumb and sank in up to his wrist.

The sub whimpered and moaned continuously now, tossing her head from side to side, but she wasn’t asking to stop, or crying in discomfort, and, much to Esme’s amazement, no safeword had passed her lips.

“She’s nearly there,” the doctor Dom murmured. “Add clitoral stimulation with your other hand, and when you press the knuckle of your thumb against the anterior wall, stimulating her G-spot, she’ll erupt like Old Faithful.”

As predicted, in minutes, the woman let out a sustained wail and shuddered. Next, her body convulsed, and she bucked wildly against the restraints. Then she came with such intensity it forced the man’s fist from her pussy along with a spray of liquid.

The crowd cheered while the man in the lab coat urged his volunteer to resume.

“Fisting gets her excited. Keep going; she’s good for at least three squirts per session, sometimes more.”

Esme didn’t think it possible, but to the voluble approval of the crowd, he fist-fucked four screaming orgasmic eruptions from the bound woman. Amidst the clapping and murmurs at the conclusion of the scene, she heard one man comment that Dr. G-spot—how she’d refer to him from this point forward—was a real-life gynecologist.

Overwhelmed and in a daze from the barrage of extreme activities she’d seen, some she didn’t even have names for, she wandered back downstairs.

Standing on the main floor looking around her, she decided what she needed before leaving was a nice, normal, flogging scene. She headed to where she knew one of the several spanking benches was located. When she got there and found a Domme painting her sub’s testicles with drop after drop of melted red wax, she resigned herself to the fact nice and normal weren’t on the agenda tonight.

She whispered to the woman standing beside her, “Things seem a little intense tonight, don’t you think?”

The stupefied look she got was almost comical like she’d sprouted antennae on top of her head, or a third eye or something.

“You’re serious?”

Esme nodded.

“Are you new?”

“Um, not really. I’ve been a member for several months.”

“Don’t you read the newsletter?”

She was too embarrassed to admit she didn’t. Pax had always kept up with the special events and planned accordingly. Since he’d been off somewhere in parts unknown, she was rather out of the loop. He’d warned her, however. “I must have missed this month’s edition. What’s going on?”

“Tonight, is Edge Night, advanced players only.” Her eyes dipped to her throat and grew big. “You don’t have a ribbon.”

“Yes, I do,” she exclaimed while fishing it out of her corset where she’d tucked it when the stiff edge—likely off the end of the roll—kept scratching her skin.

All uncollared subs got one at the door when they signed in. Either red, pink, or white, it identified their experience level to the other members. White stood for someone inexperienced, interested in learning what it was all about, though if not handled with extreme care, could bolt, and never return. Since it was Edge Night, she doubted there were any subs in white ribbons running around.

On the other end of the spectrum, red indicated a sub with tons of experience, who felt comfortable negotiating whatever they wanted on their own. Esme had selected a pink ribbon when she’d signed in meaning she was somewhere in between white and red, had some experience, was open to playing, but within limits, and a scene with her would need to be carefully negotiated with those in mind.

None of the ribbons told the submissive’s interest in sex. The willingness to take a scene to that level was never a given for anyone in the club and consent in advance had to be clearly established.

The woman blew out a relieved breath. “Good. I was afraid you were a white ribbon who’d gotten in by mistake. Better put that back on. Without a collar that ribbon might be the only thing that saves you tonight.”

“Come on, Becky,” a man, appearing suddenly at her side, ordered with urgency. “Our bench is open. I can’t wait to try out the new labia clamps and plug.”

She grinned, then waved over her shoulder as her Dom pulled her away.

Edge night—no wonder!

What she’d experienced in five years as a submissive didn’t compare to what she’d seen in the last two hours.

“I should have asked for white when I checked in,” she muttered.

Swearing to read the darn newsletter before coming back, she thought it wise to make a hasty exit. She hadn’t taken more than two steps when hard fingers encircled her wrist. Her head snapped up in alarm, and she met the blue-eyed gaze of an incredibly handsome, black-haired, bronze-skinned man.

“Come with me,” he barked. She didn’t process much other than a light Spanish accent before he announced. “I have a station reserved for us.”

With no preliminaries and zero negotiation, he pulled her through the crowd, moving against the flow of traffic that seemed to circle the stations continually.

“I, um… perhaps you have me mistaken for someone else?”

“No mistake. Your red hair is appealing, and your fair skin will display my marks beautifully, I think.”

She did not think so.

“I’m here... with, uh, friends... sir,” she lied, stammering as she tried to keep up, afraid if she didn’t he’d drag her as the image of a caveman came to mind. All he lacked was the animal skin, off-the-shoulder tunic, and a club. “They’re leaving soon. Some other time, perhaps.” She only added that to be polite, having no intention of ever agreeing to a scene with this pushy Dom.

“They can wait until I’m done with you,” he replied.

“Sir, please,” she appealed again while trying to twist her wrist free. “I can’t miss my ride home, or I’ll be stranded.”

Apparently, he didn’t care, and continued right on walking while ignoring her protests and struggles. When she saw the station with the reserved sign up ahead, the ropes much farther back than usual for a station, she realized it was one of the large areas toward the back set up to allow indoor whip play.

His fingers tightened. “Stop struggling. I’m not in the mood for games.”

“Neither am I,” she bit out, her voice rising, all pretense of politeness evaporated. “I have asked nicely, but you won’t listen. I have said no repeatedly, but you must be deaf.” She yanked hard on her hand, which hurt, pinching her skin. “For the last time, I don’t want to go anywhere with you.”

He stopped, oblivious to the surrounding people, in particular, the two women who skidded to a halt behind him and came close to slamming into his back. With a hard tug on her arm, he knocked her off balance, and she fell against him. His fingers dug into her arms, and he pulled her up on her toes at the same time he snarled down at her, “I’ll enjoy whipping your back raw in repayment for your defiance, slut. Now, move your ass, and while you do, keep your mouth shut until I’m ready to shove my cock in it.”

“Red,” she called loud enough that despite the ambient noise he couldn’t miss hearing. The man blinked in surprise, acting as if he’d never heard the word before, which considering his swinish behavior Esme found hard to believe.

Suddenly, comprehension dawned. Still holding her in an unbreakable grip, she watched as his handsome features transformed into a scowl and fury flashed in his cold, blue eyes. When his fingers tightened painfully, she repeated the club safeword, crying “Red!” in a shout, this time at the top of her lungs.

The Dom’s lips flattened into a hard, thin line and his nostrils flared. Everyone and everything around them came to a halt. With witnesses watching, he dropped his hands at the same instant a Dungeon Monitor arrived.

“What’s the problem here?” he asked her, not even looking at the enraged Dom.

“I’m not interested,” Esme explained as she rubbed her wrist, the tender flesh he’d abused likely bruised, “but he wasn’t listening.”

“There is no problem, Finnegan,” the nasty Dom replied, ignoring her comment, and addressing the DM instead, though his angry gaze remained fixed on her. “It would seem I mistook her signals and the appallingly negligent lack of a ribbon.”

The monitor’s eyes dropped to her bare throat. Esme flushed.

Stupid, stupid.

Her hands flew to her corset, but she remembered she’d taken it out. Looking down, she spotted it on the floor where she must have dropped it when the jerk grabbed her.

Before she could squat to retrieve it, her rescuer bent and did it for her.

After seeing the other submissive’s response, she intended to put it back on, but she’d gotten distracted. Her lack of a ribbon should not have opened her up to a non-consensual whipping by this asshole, however.

“Pink, I should have guessed,” the asshole muttered under his breath. “After this unpleasantness,” his nostrils flared, and he grimaced as though she smelled bad, “I find I am no longer interested. In better light, I see I made an error in judgment. There are many more beautiful submissives here tonight who will eagerly fall to their knees and beg to be under my lash.”

Esme couldn’t image who would be so incredibly foolish but didn’t utter a word in response to his insult. Her only reaction was to move closer to the man with the bright orange DM badge on his sleeve. Her rescuer was big and looked strong enough to snap in half a man twice the size of this insensitive, boorish Dom, who was far from little.

“Then I suggest you go find one, Carlos,” the big man stated smoothly, though there was underlying steel in his tone. “And, I’ll remind you to keep your rude comments to yourself. Because a submissive doesn’t choose to scene with you is no reason to be nasty. Verbal abuse unless negotiated in a scene is against house rules, something you’ve been warned about on more than one occasion.”

Having his prior infractions aired before her and the other members still gathered to watch the drama, so incensed the Dom his face turned blood red. Esme was afraid his ears might pop off the side of his head. Unfortunately, they didn’t, and he gave the DM no reason to snap him like a twig—also to her disappointment. Instead, he cast her a scathing look before stalking away.

With him gone, a wave of relief swept through her, but the incident left her shaking. She swayed, feeling weak at the knees, and jumped when her rescuer put a supportive hand on her back.

“Easy, lass. It’s over.”

Responding to his deep, soothing voice and authoritative presence, she inched closer, leaning into him to steady herself.

“Thank you.”

“Carlos is an ass,” he stated succinctly. “I’ll keep an eye on him the rest of the night. He’ll find someone else, but they won’t be who he wanted, and the scene won’t go well. We’ll have more trouble out of him tonight, of that I’m certain.”

“I can’t stop shaking.”

“’Tis a delayed stress reaction. Breathe deep.” The DM’s hand shifted to her chin, lifting her face for his inspection. “Do you need to sit down, little sub?”

For the first time, she truly looked at him. At five foot eight, she hadn’t ever considered herself little, but compared to him, she supposed she was. Aside from being several inches over six feet, he was broad-shouldered, muscular, but not bulging, like he was familiar with the gym though not obsessed with it. His thick, dark hair gleamed with strands of auburn and had a slight wave to it. It touched his collar in back as if he’d been busy and was several weeks past due for a trim. She was tempted to brush it back off his forehead or finger comb where it curled around his ears.

He was strikingly handsome, but what struck her most was his startling green eyes, just a shade darker than her own, not quite a jade, and different than emerald. Unique, but oddly familiar though she would have remembered this man had she ever met him before. Her body heated as a tingle of awareness raced through her, something that hadn’t happened in a very long time.

Feeling suddenly vulnerable, she averted her eyes, and in a self-conscious gesture, nervously tucked her hair behind her ear.

He arrested her movement by taking her hand in his, then with his head bent near, he examined her wrist already discoloring from harsh, unyielding fingers. “I’d like to wring the bastard’s neck,” he growled fiercely.

For the first time, she noticed an accent, the bending tones becoming more pronounced with his anger. She couldn’t quite place it, but Carlos had called him Finnegan. Irish, was her guess.

“I’ll be all right but am glad you came when you did. He was persistent and when he didn’t get his way became furious.”

“Carlos has an over-inflated opinion of his charm. Your refusal hurt his pride.”

Esme sniffed. “Surely he’s heard it before.”

“He’s new here, and that is a novelty all its own. He’s a successful businessman, has some wealth, and a few connections in town, all of which he likes to flaunt by name-dropping whenever possible. His self-proclaimed importance tricks people into tolerating more than they should, but word will get around pretty quick.”

“He didn’t intimidate you.”

He looked up, a glint of amusement brightening his beautiful eyes, and while a grin played around his very kissable looking lips, his thumb continued to stroke her abraded skin. “His money doesn’t impress me, and true power comes from within, not how much your money will buy. Besides, I wouldn’t be doing my job as protector of fair-skinned submissives who bruise under harsh treatment if I let him get to me.” He brought her wrist to his lips and brushed the ring of marks forming in the shape of Carlos’ fingers with a gentle kiss. “He’ll remember you, pretty subbie, so you’ll need to keep your distance.”

Her face heated at his touch and the compliment although she felt the latter was a bit overdone. The Dom hadn’t lied with his cruel remark; there were supermodel-beautiful subs swarming the place. “I appreciate your kind words.”

His green eyes flashed again, darkening with an emotion she couldn’t read, impatience, annoyance, anger perhaps, but his voice had the same smooth, deep quality when he replied. “It wasn’t kind, lass, but truthful. What Carlos said was bullshit.”

“My thanks for your truthful words, then, sir. And I’ll heed your warning and avoid him in the future. As for tonight, I’ve had enough and think I’ll head home.”

“Don’t let that horse’s ass run you off. There are plenty of other Doms eager to play tonight.” He held up her pink ribbon. “We use these for a reason, however.” Slipping the ribbon beneath her hair, he tied it around her throat where it belonged, his fingers brushing her skin lightly and standing close as he was, sent a ripple of excitement coursing through her. “Keep this on,” he ordered, when he was done. “Carlos usually sticks to masochists and subs with a taste for humiliation, who invariably wear red. Pink may have made him think twice before he approached.”

She would accept some responsibility for what happened, but not all. Carlos would have assumed she knew the rule for the games played in the dungeon, including the ribbon system. He hadn’t bothered to ask why she didn’t have one, or he could have simply asked her color. He didn’t care, nor had he bothered to negotiate a thing, including a safeword. Esme had run into dominants like him before. They believed rules existed for everyone else except them.

“You don’t play much, do you?”

She glanced up. How had he guessed?

“I haven’t found someone to suit me yet, sir. To be honest, and I’m not only just basing this on tonight, but your club may be a little too much for me.”

“If you find the right dominant to guide you, it won’t be. I could introduce you to someone.” Aiming his gaze over her head, he searched the crowd. “Jerry is here, somewhere.”

She felt a pang in her chest that he thought nothing of passing her off to someone else as though the possibility of him being her guide hadn’t entered his mind.

“No, please,” she rushed to say while placing her hand on his forearm. “That isn’t necessary. My sponsor is out of town but intends to make introductions when he returns.” She gazed up into his kind concerned face. Like Andrew and Pax, this Dom was one of the good ones.

“Who might that be?”

“Ryan Paxton.”

He nodded. “I heard he might be away for a while which leaves you on your own. Something I don’t recommend on nights like tonight.” Gently, he traced the satin strip at her throat. Another surge of excitement rushed through her at his touch. “Why do I get the feeling you’re a little lost and lean more to white than pink?”

“Probably because it’s been a while since I’ve had a Dom, and I’ve never been to any place like this,” she admitted, having no idea why she was telling him, a complete stranger, things she ordinarily wouldn’t tell a close friend. They’d just met, but she could feel the pull of his dominance, which was the opposite of the repellant vibe she got immediately from Carlos.

“Decadence is a lot to take in at first, but when the hardcore extremists come to play, it can be scary especially for little innocents alone.” He paused, his perusal of her face sharp and assessing. “Did Paxton explain when you’re unattached your ribbon is like a collar, there to clearly state your status to everyone?”

“He did.” Her cheeks flushed as she anticipated what was coming next.

“Since you don’t have a Dom looking after you, I will step in for a little lesson. Though Carlos is an undeniable ass, you have experience, no matter how limited and should have known better than to take it off.”

“I won’t remove it again.”

“I’m going to hold you to that, and as a guarantee I promise the flat of my hand on your lovely ass if you so much as think about it. Got it?”

“Yes, sir,” she agreed quickly, also nodding, not daring to disagree with the big man who was kind, concerned, insightful, and utterly dominant. She wasn’t so rusty she would test him.

“As far as being too much, you’ll never find another club or a better community than what we have here at Decadence.” Looking down on her, his eyes searching her face, she felt the invisible web of attraction building between them, or so she thought. His next words obliterated the fine threads of hope, unfortunately. “Should you change your mind and decide you don’t want to wait until Pax gets back, find me and I’ll recommend a Dom who is patient and will help you get back up to speed, yeah?”

Before she could blurt out why not you, he squeezed her shoulder and walked away. Esme stared after him, his height, and those appealing glints of red in his dark brown hair making it easy to keep sight of him as he strode through the crowd. When she lost him some moments later, and she stood where he’d left her, the nagging feeling she’d missed out on something awesome made her frown. Despite the threat to her posterior, she could tell, without question, Master Finnegan was one of the good ones.

As she strained to find him in the mass of players, she noticed another man near a whipping post staring at her with interest. How had she become a whip magnet suddenly?

Having gotten herself into enough trouble, she whirled and avoiding eye contact with anyone else, made her way quickly toward the doors.