Hot Adventures In Bed

There was a heavy downpour throughout the night. Jessica's clothes were totally drenched in the rain. Breathing heavily, she knelt in the mud, surprised to have made it to the river bank so soon. She glanced over her shoulder and her body shook. Crocodiles loved to hang out in Florida waters. A few moments more and she could have been torn apart by those creatures. She paused the thought with a shudder.

She scrubbed the water off her face with shaky hands and pushed to her feet.

As her fear diminished, she peered through the darkness and could barely see her car.

"I'll be back for you. Just wait for me," she promised, feeling like she was abandoning her baby.

Once she got on the narrow road, she shifted her hair out of her face and glanced at each way. Darkness and darkness. Dammit, why couldn't she have an accident right in someone's frontage? But no, the nearest house was probably the one she'd passed about a mile back.

She headed that way, stopping to glare at the pool of water where her car had tumbled right off the road. The armadillo, of course, was long gone. At least she hadn't hit it.

With her head lowered, she walked down toward the house, getting wetter and wetter. Hopefully she wouldn't trip on something in the darkness. Breaking her leg would be the last unfortunate thing in a day that had been a disaster from start to finish.

Number one mistake: meeting at a halfway point for their first date when the man lived miles and miles outside of Tampa.

He sure hadn't been worth the trip. She'd have found more excitement auditing business accounts. Then again, he hadn't appeared all that impressed with her either. She grimaced. She'd recognized the look in his eyes, the one that said he really wanted tall and slim, an Angelina Jolie type woman, no matter that her posted picture portrayed her quite accurately: a pint-size Marilyn Monroe.

So far, she'd have to say finding a guy through the Internet rated right up there with back-country shortcuts, her second mistake of the day.

Aunt Eunice always swore things happened in threes. So would braking for an armadillo be considered her third mistake, or was there another disaster lurking in her near future?

She shivered as the wind howled through the palmettos and plastered her drenched clothing against her chilled body. Couldn't stop now. Doggedly, she set one foot in front of the other, her waterlogged shoes squishing with every step.

An eternity later, she spotted a glimmer of light. Relief rushed through her when she reached a driveway studded with hanging lights. Surely whoever lived here would let her wait out the storm. She walked through the ornate iron gates, up the palm-lined drive past landscaped lawns, until finally she reached a three-story stone mansion. Black wrought iron lanterns illumined the entry.

"Nice place," she muttered. And a little intimidating. She glanced down at herself to check the damage. Mud and rain streaked her tailored slacks and white button-down shirt, hardly a suitable image for a conservative accountant. She looked more like something even a cat would refuse to drag in.

Shivering hard, she brushed at the dirt and grimaced as it only streaked worse. She stared up at the huge oak doors guarding the entrance. A small doorbell in the shape of a dragon glowed on the side panel, and she pushed it.

Seconds later, the doors opened. A man, oversized and ugly as a battle-scarred Rottweiler, looked down at her. "I'm sorry, miss, you're too late. The doors are locked."

What the heck did that mean?

"P-please," she said, stuttering with the cold. "My car's in a ditch, and I'm soaked, and I need a place to dry out and call for help." But did she really want to go inside with this scary-looking guy? Then she shivered so hard her teeth clattered together, and her mind was made up. "Can I come in? Please?"

He scowled at her, his big-boned face brutish in the yellow entry light. "I'll have to ask Master Z. Wait here." And the bastard shut the door, leaving her in the cold and dark.

Jessica wrapped her arms around herself, standing miserably, and finally the door opened again. Again the brute. "Okay, come on in."

Relief brought tears to her eyes. "Thank you, oh, thank you." Stepping around him before he could change his mind, she barreled into a small entry room and slammed into a solid body. "Oomph," she huffed.

Firm hands gripped her shoulders. She shook her wet hair out of her eyes and looked up. And up. The guy was big, a good six feet, his shoulders wide enough to block the room beyond.

He chuckled, his hands gentling their grasp on her arms. "She's freezing, Ben. Molly left some clothing in the blue room; send one of the subs."

"Okay, boss." The brute -- Ben -- disappeared.

"What is your name?" Her new host's voice was deep, dark as the night outside.

"Jessica." She stepped back from his grip to get a better look at her savior. Smooth black hair, silvering at the temples, just touching his collar. Dark gray eyes with laugh lines at the corners. A lean, hard face with the shadow of a beard adding a hint of roughness. He wore tailored black slacks and a black silk shirt that outlined hard muscles underneath. If Ben was a Rottweiler, this guy was a jaguar, sleek and deadly.

"I'm sorry to have bothered --" she started.

Ben reappeared with a handful of golden clothing that he thrust at her. "Here you go."

She took the garments, holding them out to keep from getting the fabric wet. "Thank you."

A faint smile creased the manager's cheek. "Your gratitude is premature, I fear. This is a private club."

"Oh. I'm sorry." Now what was she going to do?

"You have two choices. You may sit out here in the entryway with Ben until the storm passes. The forecast stated the winds and rain would die down around six or so in the morning, and you won't get a tow truck out on these country roads until then. Or you may sign papers and join the party for the night."

She looked around. The entry was a tiny room with a desk and one chair. Not heated. Ben gave her a dour look.

Sign something? She frowned. Then again, in this lawsuit-happy world, every place made a person sign releases, even to visit a fitness center. So she could sit here all night. Or...be with happy people and be warm. No-brainer. "I'd love to join the party."

"So impetuous," the manager murmured. "Ben, give her the paperwork. Once she signs -- or not -- she may use the dressing room to dry off and change."

"Yes, sir." Ben rummaged in a file box on the desk, pulled out some papers.

The manager tilted his head at Jessica. "I will see you later then."

Ben shoved three pages of papers at her and a pen. "Read the rules. Sign at the bottom." He scowled at her. "I'll get you a towel."

She started reading. Rules of the Shadowlands.

"Shadowlands. That's an unusual na --" she said, looking up. Both men had disappeared. Huh. She returned to reading, trying to focus her eyes. Such tiny print. Still, she never signed anything without reading it.

Doors will open at...

Water pooled around her feet. Her teeth chattered so hard she had to clench her jaw. There was a dress code. Something about cleaning the equipment after use. Halfway down the second page, her eyes started blurring. Damn it all. This was just a club, after all; it wasn't like she was signing mortgage papers.

Turning to the last page, she scrawled her name.

When Ben returned, he checked the papers for her signature, handed her a towel, and showed her into an opulent restroom off the entry. Glass-doored stalls along one side faced a mirrored wall with sinks and counters.

She glanced in the mirror and winced: short, pudgy woman, straggly blonde hair, pale complexion now blue with cold. Surprising that they'd even let her in the door. Dropping the borrowed clothing on the marble counter, she kicked her shoes off and tried to unbutton her shirt. Her hands were numb, shaking uncontrollably, and time after time, the buttons slipped from her stiff fingers. She couldn't even get her slacks off, and she was shuddering so hard her bones hurt.

"Dammit," she muttered and tried again.

The door opened. "Jessica, are you --" The manager. "No, you are obviously not all right." He stepped inside, a dark figure wavering in her blurry vision.

"Permit me." Without waiting for her answer, he stripped her out of her clothes as one would a two-year-old, even peeling off her sodden bra and panties. His hands were hot, almost burning, against her chilled skin.

She was naked. As the thought percolated through her numb brain, she jerked away and grabbed at the dry clothing. His hand intercepted hers.

"No, pet." He plucked something from her hair, opening his hand to show muddy leaves. "First a shower."

He wrapped a hard arm around her waist and moved her into one of the glass-fronted stalls behind where she'd been standing. With his free hand, he turned on the water, and heavenly warm steam billowed up. He adjusted the temperature.

"In you go," he ordered. A hand on her bottom, he nudged her into the shower.

The water felt scalding hot against her frigid skin, and she gasped, then sighed as the heat began to penetrate. After a minute, she realized the door of the stall was open. Arms crossed, the man leaned against the door frame, watching her with a slight smile on his lean face.

"I'm fine," she muttered, turning so her back was to him. "I can manage by myself."

"No, you obviously cannot," he said evenly. "Wash the mud out of your hair. The left dispenser has shampoo."

Mud in her hair. She'd totally forgotten; maybe she did need a keeper. After using the vanilla-scented shampoo, she let the water sluice through her hair. Brown water and twigs swirled down the drain. The water finally ran clear.

"Very good." The water shut off. Blocking the door, he rolled up his sleeves, displaying corded, muscular arms. She had the unhappy feeling he was going to keep helping her, and any protest would be ignored. He'd taken charge as easily as if she'd been one of the puppies at the shelter where she volunteered.

"Out with you now." When her legs wobbled, he tucked a hand around her upper arm, holding her up with disconcerting ease. The cooler air hit her body, and her shivering started again.

After blotting her hair, he grasped her chin and tipped her face up to the light. She gazed up at his darkly tanned face, trying to summon up enough energy to pull her face away.

"No bruises. I think you were lucky." Taking the towel, he dried off her arms and hands, rubbing briskly until he appeared satisfied with the pink color. Then he did her back and shoulders. When he reached her breasts, she pushed at his hand. "I can do that."

He ignored her like she would a buzzing fly, his attentions gentle but thorough, even to lifting each breast and drying underneath.

When he toweled off her butt, she wanted to hide. If there was any part of her that should be covered, it was her hips. Overweight. Jiggly. He didn't seem to notice.

Then he knelt and ordered, "Spread your legs."

No way. She flushed, didn't move.

He looked up, lifted an eyebrow. And waited. Her resolve faltered beneath the steady, authoritative regard.

She slid one leg over. His towel-covered hand stroked between her legs, sending a flush of embarrassment through her. The full enormity of her position swept through her: she was naked in front of a complete stranger, letting him touch her...there. Her breath stopped even as disconcerting pleasure moved through her.

He glanced up, his eyes crinkling, before moving his attention to her legs. He chafed the skin until she could feel the glow. "There, that should do it."

Ignoring her attempt to take the clothing, he helped her step into a long, slinky skirt that reached midcalf -- at least it covered her hips -- then pulled a gold-colored, stretchy tank top over her head. His muscular fingers brushed her breasts as he adjusted the fit. He studied her for a moment before smiling slowly. "The clothes suit you, Jessica, far more than your own. A shame to hide such a lovely figure."

Lovely? She knew better, but the words still gave her a glowy feeling inside. She glanced down to check for herself and frowned at the way the low-cut elastic top outlined her full breasts. She could see every little bump in her nipples. Good grief. She crossed her arms over her chest.

His chuckle was deep and rich. "Come, the main room is much warmer."

Wrapping an arm around her, he led her out of the bathroom, through the entry, and into a huge room crowded with people. Her eyes widened as she looked around. The club must take up the entire first floor of the house. A circular bar of darkly polished wood ruled the center of the room. Wrought iron sconces cast flickering light over tables and chairs, couches and coffee tables. Plants created small secluded areas. The right corner of the room had a dance floor where music pulsed with a throbbing beat. Farther down, parts of the wall were more brightly lit, but she couldn't see past the crowd to make out why.

Her steps slowed as she realized the club members were attired in extremely provocative clothing, from skintight leathers and latex to corsets to -- oh my -- one woman was bare from the waist up. A long chain dangled from...clamps on her nipples.

What in the world? Wincing, Jessica glanced up at her host. "Um, excuse me?" What was his name, anyway?

He stopped. "You may call me Sir."

Like the Marines or something? "Uh, right. Exactly what kind of club is this?" Over the music and murmur of voices, a woman's voice suddenly wailed in unmistakable orgasm. Heat flared in Jessica's face.

Amusement glinted in the man's dark eyes. "It's a private club, and tonight is bondage night, pet; I thought you'd have realized that from reading the rules."

Just then, a man in black leathers walked by, followed by a barefoot woman with her head down and wrists cuffed. Jessica's mouth opened, only no words emerged.

One eyebrow raised, the manager waited patiently. She could feel his hand pressed low against her back, like a brand.

What had she gotten into? "Bondage?" she managed to say. "Like men making slaves of women?"

"Not always. Sometimes a woman dominates the man." He nodded to the left where a man dressed in only a loincloth knelt beside a woman. The woman wore a skintight latex vest and leggings with a coiled whip attached to her belt.

"And domination can range all the way from an entire lifestyle, twenty-four/seven, to just a fun bout of sex. Many women fantasize about having a man take charge in the bedroom." He stroked a finger down her flushed cheek. "Here the fantasy is real."

Something inside her tightened at his words, a fascination mixed with shock. Take charge -- what exactly did that mean? Then the memory swept through her of how he'd touched her naked body, how he'd simply...taken charge, and she couldn't keep from looking at him.

His dark eyes were intent on her face, as if he could read her reactions as easily as she would read a client's books. She felt telltale redness rise in her cheeks.

"Come," he said, smiling, his hand moving her forward. "Let's get something warm inside you --"

Inside her? Like the thrust of a man's -- She jerked her mind away. Good grief, she'd been here five minutes, and her thoughts were in the gutter. A smart person -- and she was that if nothing else -- would make a polite retreat right about now.

"And then you can decide if you want to hide in the entryway or stay here with the grown-ups."

Even as her spine stiffened, she realized how easily he'd played her, and she glared at him.

His lips quirked.

As they approached the circular bar, the bartender abandoned making a drink to come over. He looked like a Great Dane with shaggy hair, all bone and muscle, even taller than...Sir. She frowned over her shoulder at the manager. What the heck kind of name was Sir?

"Something hot, Cullen, for Jessica. Irish coffee with lots of Irish." As Zachary gazed down at the little intruder, he had to smile. She had a lovely body with lush hips wide enough to cradle a man in softness and full breasts begging to be savored. Her skin was fair, and her eyes the color of spring leaves.

And right now, those eyes were wide as his grandmother's favorite supper plates. How she'd read the rules and not understood the nature of the club, he couldn't comprehend. He really shouldn't have let her in, signature or not, but her helplessness had brought out all his Dom instincts to protect and nurture.

"A hot drink would be wonderful," she told the bartender.

Zachary's eyes narrowed; she was still shivering a little but much improved.

The toweling off had helped, as had her dawning embarrassment when he'd handled her. Although in her mid- to late twenties, she was obviously not accustomed to being touched so intimately. Her blushes had left him with a growing desire to touch her even more thoroughly, to explore her body, and discover her responses.

But he hadn't been able to ascertain if she would welcome his attentions or not. As for if she was a sub... The votes weren't in on that yet either. However, once she moved past the initial shock of seeing the club, he'd be able to look into her mind and see if the sight of domination excited her.

The night was yet young. If he sensed desire in her thoughts, he would enjoy laying her soft, vanilla-scented body out across his bed, restraining and opening her for his pleasure.

"Master Z." One of his newer dungeon monitors stopped beside him, his bony face worried. "Could you arbitrate for a minute?"

"Certainly." Zachary glanced at Jessica. "Do you need an escort to the entry or will you be staying?"

Her mouth -- pretty pink lips that would look quite lovely around his cock -- pursed as she glanced around the room. He sensed her misgivings vying with her intense curiosity. The curiosity won. "I'll stay."

"Brave girl."

The creamy Irish coffee burned all the way down, starting a little fire inside her. Heavenly. When the bartender came back, Jessica had finished and was gazing sadly into the already empty cup.

"Ready for more?" he asked.

Heck, her purse was in the car trunk and would be there until a tow truck pulled her car out. "No, thank you. That's all right."

He leaned an enormous arm on the bar and frowned. "You obviously want another. What's the problem?"

What was it with these guys? "Are you and your boss mind readers or what?"

His laugh boomed, drowning out the music. "Master Z's the mind reader; I'm just observant."

His statement was a little too straightforward for comfort. Surely, the manager didn't read -- nah. "I left my purse in the car, so no money."

"Not to worry. You're the owner's guest tonight." After a minute, the bartender set a steaming mug in front of her. "There's a two-drink limit, so I made this one plain coffee."

"But I've only had one drink."

He grinned at her. "You haven't been here before. You may well need more alcohol after a bit."

Now why did that sound so ominous? She sipped the drink instead of inhaling it, and this time the warmth filling her was from hot coffee and not potent alcohol. She set an elbow on the bar, sighing as the cold released its last grip. When she saw Sir again, she'd have to thank him for the drinks.

So, he was the owner of this place, not the manager. No wonder everyone jumped at his requests. Then again, she hadn't known he was the owner, and she'd let him strip her naked and that wasn't like her at all. Somehow he'd been in control from the moment he walked into the dressing room. Master Z, the bartender had called him; that fit all too well. She stiffened. Bondage club... Did that mean he was into tying people up?

The thought made her squirm. How could she ever face him again without turning red? She sighed, realizing she probably wouldn't see him again anyway. After all, he was way out of her class. Too good-looking. Too self-assured. With that touch of silver in his hair and laugh lines around those smoky gray eyes, he was definitely a man, nothing like the boyish types that seemed to be everywhere. And he had those lean, rippling muscles...um-hmmm.

But what really attracted her was his air of sheer competence, like whatever he did, he'd do better than anyone else. She sighed, shook her head. Duh, Jessica. A guy's nice to you, and there you go, getting all enthused.

But to her slender mother's disgust, she'd never had the trim, perky body that men liked, and Master Z would know that since he'd seen her in all her naked glory. Considering his appearance, he could have any woman in this place. Hell, any place. Yeah, she would just avoid him and not make an even bigger fool of herself.

Turning on the bar stool, she checked out the room. A bondage club. Now this presented her with an adventure she'd never imagined. Nothing like this existed in the tiny town where she'd grown up. And in Tampa, she'd never ventured to try anything so exotic. Shoot, her idea of adventurous was volunteering at the animal shelter.

She grinned. While here, she might as well widen her knowledge base. Aunt Eunice would be delighted, and her mother would be horrified.

But nothing thrilled her more than learning something new. Where to start?

The people dancing appeared to be having fun, although she'd never been at ease on a dance floor, at least not sober. Give her a business or social occasion, and she felt right at home. Make it a man-woman interaction, and she tensed up like a businessman being audited.

As she watched, her eyes widened. Some of the gyrating out there would have the participants arrested anywhere else. One young man with a serious hard-on whirled the woman into his arms and then pressed so close that only the fabric between them prevented insertion.

She took another sip of her drink and realized the dancers were just too provocative for comfort. Like that one couple. The man moved his woman where he wanted her. He touched her when he wanted, even put her hands on him...there.

With an effort, Jessica dragged her gaze away, tried to watch the other couples on the floor. And focused on a big man in skintight rubber jeans that bulged with a thick erection. He pulled his bikini-clad woman to him, tangled his hands in her hair and tipped her head back to take her lips. He kissed her slowly. Thoroughly.

Jessica blinked, realized she was pressing her thighs together. Whoa, time to stop watching the live action. Here she'd thought she could call herself fairly experienced. Sure, she was small-town raised, but she'd lived in Tampa long enough to have had several lovers. Not that she was all that good at the sex stuff. Really, making love was rather overrated, at least for her.

She grimaced, remembering the last time and how she just couldn't stop thinking about everything and anything. Did he think she was fat? Would he see how her stomach pouched out? Should she move her hips faster? Would he like his balls touched or not? Sex was just too stressful.

After finishing her coffee, she glanced back at the dance floor. Heck, that woman out there looked like she was getting more from one kiss than Jessica had ever gotten from the whole insert-dick-move-around shebang. And now, the man had his hand on the woman's bared breast, was actually toying with her nipple. When his fingers tightened in what looked like a painful pinch, the woman's knees sagged.

Damn, but just watching was getting Jessica overheated. Her own nipples burned. Furtively, she glanced down. No bra. Her nipples poked out like someone had glued pencil erasers to her chest. Turning back to the bar, she crossed her arms over the traitorous flesh and willed them to go down.

The bartender looked at her, a hint of amusement in his eyes. He lifted his thick eyebrows at her cup.

She shook her head. No more alcohol, and she was definitely warm enough. Time to go walkabout and cool off.

Sliding from the bar stool, she headed away from the dance floor toward the rear of the room. People crowded the tables and couches; the murmur of conversation increased as she moved away from the music. The place looked almost like a normal bar if she ignored what people wore...and the hands-on stuff. She edged past a table where a woman knelt at her guy's feet. He stroked her hair like a pet cat.

Jessica frowned. The owner had called her pet. She did not -- really did not -- want to think about what he'd meant by that. Especially since thinking about him made her think of that couple on the dance floor. What would it be like if it were Sir touching her, holding her against his... Oh, girl, do not think that way.

Halfway down the room, she neared one of the places on the wall that was lit with brighter sconces. Now she could see what it was. She blinked in horror. There was a naked woman strapped to a wooden X on the wall. A live woman, not a statue. Jessica's feet didn't want to move even though she knew she was staring.

Okay, okay. This was really like a strip bar; naked women doing stuff. But the woman was tied there, her legs open, breasts free. Everyone could see her.

She instinctively started to go to the woman's aid, then stopped and scrutinized the people watching. No one appeared concerned. A man in shiny black latex jeans and sleeveless shirt stood within the roped-off area busy with some small metal things in his hands.

Jessica made herself study the woman on the cross thing. Eyes focused on the man in latex, the brunette wasn't hurting; her squirming movements seemed provocative.

Had that woman wanted to be tied and naked? Biting her lip, Jessica tried to imagine what kind of person would surrender such power to someone else, even so far as being tied up. Not someone like herself, that was for sure. She'd fought her way up the business ladder, could hold her own in social circles, was an assertive, independent woman.

So why was she finding this so fascinating?

Why did this place feel like her dreams come to life, only more erotic than anything she'd ever imagined? Her face flushed as she remembered Sir saying, Many women fantasize about having a man take charge in the bedroom. Surely he hadn't been able to tell that she was one of them?

She looked at the woman again. What would that be like? Heat swirled through her at the thought of being there herself, wrists lashed... No, that was totally wrong. Keep moving.

She threaded through the spectators, past the roped-off area. Most of the members were in couples or groups, and Jessica felt conspicuously alone.

And underdressed, even if she wore more than a lot of the women. But her full breasts jutted out against the tight shirt, bouncing with her movements. This wasn't the sixties, for heaven's sake, and she never went without a bra. Not in public. Conservative accountants didn't wear stuff like this. Or go without panties either. The silky feeling of the skirt sliding against her bottom, the caress of cool air against her private areas was disconcerting, especially in this sex-charged room.

People brushed past, leaving perfume, cologne, and musk in their wake. A couple went by, the man leading the woman with a leash strung to a collar around her neck, and the scent of sex permeated the air around them.

Look at that. The way the man had the leash wrapped around his fist, the way the woman followed... Jessica touched her neck. Her core actually burned as shockingly wanton thoughts filled her head: a man's hands buckling a collar on her, touching her. A man -- Sir -- doing anything he wanted to her.

Across the room at the bar, Zachary smiled, enjoying the wide-eyed innocent. When she touched her neck, he hardened, knowing exactly what was in her mind. Her emotions were so strong, he could almost see as well as feel them.

"Lost your little sub, Z?" The bartender set a glass of Glenlivet down.

"Not lost. Released to explore."

She reminded him of a kitten freed from the kennel, faring forth on a new adventure, ears forward, tail held high. She was definitely a brave little ball of fluff. He had watched her stop in front of the St. Andrew's cross, felt the shock radiate from her.