One Dirty Night - Page 107

I hadn’t been able to eat anything.

I’d nicked myself twice with my razor because I couldn’t stop shaking long enough to shave my legs.

I’d paced my bedroom a thousand miles while waiting for the afternoon to pass and night to fall, fighting the urge to run the entire time.

Run to where?

I had no family to turn to.

No friends I could be this honest with.

The only person I could share this mess with was Hunter, and I didn’t want to call him during the day because I had a feeling he worked all night and slept while the sun shone.

Besides, if he told me to hop in my car and drive to see him instead of offering myself to a total stranger, I would probably do it. ‘Break Nick Plan’ be damned.

Better the devil I knew than the devil I didn’t.

He’ll come…

He has to.

Tears pricked my sore eyes.

I wasn’t so sure.

The roar he’d made as he slammed the front door had been loud enough to rattle the bricks loose from our porch.

I’d waited for him to come back.

I’d braced myself for him to be waiting outside for me—to tie me up and prevent me from going.

I hoped against all hope that he’d see how much he needed me before I even had to step foot in this place, but…he’d vanished.

I’d spent two miserable hours trying to decide what to wear, googling what was most appropriate for a first visit to a club such as this and fought the diabolical urge to go shopping for corsets, leather, and buckles.

Apparently, leather had to be earned or gifted.

There were rules on hierarchy and wardrobe.

According to most of the beginner sites—the webpages full of wannabe subs and hesitant Doms—they all said the same thing: fetish wear, theme appropriate, and costumes were welcomed, but if you were going to a munch (a casual meet-up outside of a club, usually at a restaurant or bar) then anything went—work uniforms, scuffed jeans. If it was your first time at a club, then it was best to wear something comfy and cool because no one did well stressing and sweating in tight latex.

Thanks to my internet surfing, I’d probably flagged a number of bots to track my internet history and learned a stack of new words that I’d never heard of before. Terminology such as Drop: for those emotional exhaustions that took place after a scene. Similar to what I’d experienced after Nick and Hunter had finished with me. Dungeon: the place where a scene took place. Dungeon Monitor: an overseer of safety and consent—which I supposed that was what Hunter was in his big top. Edge play, impact play, breath play, role play, and blood play. So many plays. So many tricks and temptations and—

“You alright, standing there all alone?” A woman dressed in a flowing black dress that trailed on the floor behind her smiled. Her dark stunning skin soaked up the lowlights of the club and her short cap of tight curls made her savagely sharp bone structure look as if she had blades beneath her skin instead of cheekbones.

I swallowed hard and nodded. “I…I think so?”

She chuckled with a bell-like laugh. I didn’t know how she did it, but my heart skipped into a little crush. Thankfulness that she’d talked to me. Gratefulness that she was so kind.

“First night?” she asked with a cant of her head.

“That obvious?”

“Unfortunately, yes.” She grinned, taking in my choice of ‘street legal’ attire. I’d decided to go with a suggestion I’d seen on a Fetlife community board and took their question to heart: if my father saw me in this outfit would I die?

Well…no chance of that happening, but…if my boss saw me, at least I wouldn’t be mortified.

Smoothing down the same black dress I’d worn when I’d gone to Spectacle of Secrets, I stepped down the two stairs, leaving the entry foyer behind. Two bouncers had checked my ID and asked me a bunch of supportive questions to check I was here of my own free will and knew what stepping inside entailed before even allowing me to get to this point.