Title - Author |
Ariana looked at herself in the full length mirror she’d dragged home
from the dollar store the night she’d posted her first message on Part
Time Lovers. She hadn’t had a mirror in her apartment—except the small
one on the medicine cabinet—for almost ten years.
She hadn’t needed one. Her wardrobe was simple. Knee length black
skirts, low-heeled black pumps, loose comfortable blouses in every color
except red. Getting dressed for work was a routine she’d worked out over
the first year after it had happened.
She had five skirts, and she rotated them—one for Monday, the next for
Tuesday, and so son right up to Friday. She had ten shirts, and she
changed them every workday, wearing the grey striped one on Monday, the
pale blue on Tuesday, the pink on Wednesday, and so on, over and over
again. She never had to think about what she was going to wear, never
had to check to see whether it fit or how she looked.
Because she didn’t care.
Her red-gold hair—the one vanity she still allowed herself—was pulled
back in a tight ponytail high on her head. Tiny gold balls adorned her
ears, and a plain black watch her wrist. She never carried a handbag,
rather slung a small backpack over her jacket or raincoat.
She kept her hands in her pockets, one of them clenching a can of pepper
spray, the other a police whistle. Neither of them had ever been used,
but she never went out of the house without them.
On the weekends, she wore a grey T-shirt three sizes too big and a
faded, ratty pair of jeans that might have belonged to an older and much
bigger brother.
No friends. No family. Just work, and her apartment filled to the brim
with books and a computer she replaced every year. It was one of her few
indulgences since she bought most of her books at the secondhand store
down the street. That’s all she did. She worked, she read, and she
surfed. She kept her head down, her eyes open, and her secrets hidden.
The books kept her sane, the routine allowed her to get through each day
without falling apart, and the Internet gave her ideas. Ideas that until
now she had refused to act upon.
Part Time Lovers changed everything.
Ariana had seen the advertisements—in the alternative newspapers—there
were plenty of them in Vancouver—and on flyers pasted to lampposts.
Writing down the URL had become a weekly occurrence, as had throwing it
away before using it. After the first few times, she no longer needed to
write it down, though she still did. She didn’t want to admit she had it
memorized.
But she started dreaming about him, the man who would help her
get over her fear, the man who would take over so she wouldn’t have to
make any decisions. So whatever happened between them wouldn’t be her
fault.
Ariana. A name that should belong to a heroine, not to a woman who had
let a single event years ago continue to control her life. She’d picked
it for that reason, had worn it for weeks before she’d used it on her
Part Time Lovers post.
Forgetting her real name had been easy. She’d never liked it, even as a
child. Gretchen sounded like a child no one would want to know, like a
child no one could like.
Gretchen was the woman who wore the same clothes week in, week out. The
woman who carried pepper spray and a whistle. The woman who was scared
of her own shadow.
And really? What was there to be scared about? The man who had hurt her
was long gone, dead in prison almost five years ago. Yet here she was,
still letting him ruin her life.
Not any more.
Tonight she would change all that.
She stood in front of the full length mirror and hardly recognized
herself. Her eyes glittered in the light from the candles she’d bought
and placed on the bedside table.
Her hair lay long and loose and gleaming on her shoulders. A dress she’d
had in the back of her closet ever since she’d first seen the ad for
Part Time Lovers. It was a dress she might have worn ten years ago but
never since. A dress that showed off the curves she’d almost forgotten
she had, a dress that showcased her long legs and breasts just a little
too big for her body.
A dress like that could get her in trouble.
Ariana shook her head at the thought. It wasn’t the dress that
had caused the trouble, it was him. And Damian wasn’t like him at
all.
Turning so she could see the back of the dress, she finally smiled at
her reflection. Great ass, she told her mirror image. The heels
that went with the dress still made her uncomfortable, but she’d
practiced for days to make sure she could walk in them.
A horn beeped outside her window.
* * * * *
Damian, as always, arrived at the club almost an hour before he’d said
he would. He wanted to make sure Ariana didn’t have to wait for him,
didn’t take one look at the denizens of Club Night and turn around and
walk back out the door.
This was his place, and he loved it, loved everything about it.
He loved the black lights, the dark walls with red lanterns, the
secluded booths with black drapes that could be pulled across to ensure
complete privacy. He loved the music, not too loud, but sexy in an edgy
kind of way. Drums and saxophones and low, deep voices singing songs
about pain and love and sorrow.
He sat at the bar, one arm over the empty stool next to him, and tried
to see it through the eyes of someone who’d never been anywhere like it.
A little frightening, way too dark, and the people who stood and danced
and sat in the front room were not your usual bar patrons.
The masters were obvious. In the way they stood and moved, relaxed and
confident, sure of themselves and their power. They didn’t appear mean,
he thought, rather strong and self-assured. Though maybe that lack of
meanness was just here, in this club. He’d heard stories…but he didn’t
like to think about them.
Those types of masters were not welcome in Club Night.
Partners in his law office moved the same way, though not all of them
displayed the sexual confidence that both dominant men and women did
here at Club Night. Submissives—Damian didn’t believe in slaves—were
equally as obvious, especially the ones who’d been in the life for a
while.
That was another thing you didn’t see at Club Night—slaves. Club Night
might be described by some in the life as vanilla, but it was exactly
what Damian wanted. Somewhere safe and private, a place where people
could explore their desires without danger.
He’d planned it that way.
No one in his office or his family knew Damian owned a nightclub; they
would be more than a bit uncomfortable about it, even if it had been a
regular dance and drinking club. This club? He had no idea of
their reaction, though he knew it would be bad.
But he’d bought and renovated the space, hired a manager who was in the
life herself and knew exactly what he wanted. Holly had taught him
everything about the business and had helped him through the rough spots
as he fought to stay in the life and maintain the façade necessary to
the existence his family wanted for him.
It had taken him almost fifteen years to get to this point. He wished,
often, that he could have more. He settled for this. The occasional
relationship with a woman who wanted to explore her submissive side.
Knowing he was always welcome at Club Night. Knowing that if he had to
bail on his life as a lawyer and an upstanding member of the upper class
in Vancouver, he had somewhere to go, some other way to make a living.
It kept him sane.
He glanced around the room, noting the regulars, both masters and subs.
Club Night was, as always, buzzing with power and sex. The combination
sent a thrill down his spine, especially as he checked out the subs.
They kept their eyes down, ignored everyone except their own masters,
and, in Damian’s eyes, were damn sexy. Didn’t matter whether they were
male or female, and he’d worked with both. That willingness to give over
control drove him wild.
When he parked his car in the underground lot beneath Club Night, his
cock started to throb and his nipples tightened. He felt a trickle of
heat bead his neck and arms, while his lips tingled.
And all this before he even walked in the front door.
Tonight, he’d been almost shaking with lust when he pulled into the
parking lot, his body tense and perspiration dampening his face beneath
his mask. What was it about this woman?
He knew next to nothing about her. They’d exchanged emails and, though
he generally tried to have at least one telephone conversation before
meeting a stranger, she’d somehow managed to avoid that step.
She was smart, she was a fanatic about books and magazines, seemed to
have read every book he’d ever heard of. She worked in an office
downtown but he got the impression that it was just a basic job, not
anything she was thrilled about.
“It pays the rent,” she had said in an email, “and that’s all that
matters.”
Damian wished he could say that about his job; he’d give anything to
have a job he worked at just to pay the rent. A job that didn’t tie him
up in knots and strings of commitment. A job that didn’t feel like a
chain around his neck.
Mostly, though, he’d love to have a job that didn’t involve his family.
His grandfather had founded the firm. His father was the managing
partner. His Uncle Joe was the rainmaker, and his younger sister,
Frances, was being groomed to take over as head of his department after
Damian ended up in the managing partner’s chair.
A whole life laid out before him; a life he dreaded. A life that bored
him to tears. And along with it came—though not yet explicitly spoken
of—a suitable wife. He’d work his ass off while she looked after
the house, raised the kids, and chaired the appropriate committees.
A new car each year, moving up from a Cadillac to a Lexus, then to a
Mercedes. And finally, like his grandfather and father before him,
ending up with a Bentley or a Rolls Royce, while his wife drove a
new-each-year Range Rover.
They’d buy a new house every five years when his wife got tired of the
old one. They’d have a vacation home in Whistler, a boat at the Royal
Vancouver Yacht Club, and contribute to all the right charities.
Well, the only club Damian wanted membership in was Club Night. And his
family would be more than appalled to find him here. They’d be
devastated.
He knew they loved him, wanted the best for him. The trouble was that
what was best for him was something they couldn’t understand, would
never understand and couldn’t forgive. So he lived the life they planned
for him for most of the time and, when he couldn’t stand it anymore,
when he thought he’d go crazy with the rules and regulations and
obligations, he indulged himself in what he thought of as his real
life.
Club Night. And tonight, Ariana. |
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