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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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