LEATHER AND LACE (BAD BOYS & GOOD GIRLS, #1) (5 page)

He rubbed the back of his neck and returned his attention to the headache in front of the desk and resumed a stern hard-ass expression.

“There’s an application and background check, even for passes. A process neither of you completed,” he informed the twins. “This isn’t personal, it’s the rules.” He’d throttle Pen the next time he saw his partner and continued, “Marty will drive you home if you need a ride. Esme...Selma, no rule gets bent around here. Anyone who tries is shown the door.
No exceptions
.”

Both women clamped their mouths shut. Frowning, they exchanged glances, and he jerked his chin to Marty. “Take over here. Ladies, don’t push your luck.”

“But—” one of them blurted out.

Marty pointed his finger. “You arguing?”

“No, Mr. Keller.” The girls swung their heads as their shoulders slumped, and he half-watched them being escorted to the front door.

He turned and followed the corridor leading to the main lounge, scanning the room for an hourglass figure in red leather. His eyes locked on to her. Seated at the bar, her long dark hair fell like a silk curtain down her back. She slanted to the side on the bar stool and her formfitting dress hugged her shapely ass, resembling a curvaceous upside-down heart just waiting to be explored.

Staring at her was some sort of dick-hardening déjà vu. Abruptly she swiveled around and even with several feet of space between them, the clash of her gaze tore through him. The skin over his body tightened and his blood heated. This definitely wasn’t the first time he’d traded scorching stares with this minx. He hadn’t been this turned on in a long time, except earlier.

Wait. Was she the same woman?

If so, she’d hidden her lustrous long hair under a cap when they’d first met. Christ, he was sure she was that girl, the one that got away. Only now she wore make-up and provocative skintight clothing.

Did she realize the temptation she presented to a man with his type of appetite? First teasing him and running, and now returning. One mystery solved. She’d been fully aware his club catered to singular interests.
Historical building
. That excuse rankled him.

Probably just another woman who couldn’t tell the truth if she had to. His sense of self-preservation directed him to turn the fuck around. Do anything but stare at her.

Except this was his goddamn club. And it was his job to assess members whether subs or patrons. Nonverbal cues he picked up to pair members with services, or drive a submissive to the brink. He itched to give that firecracker something she’d remember. Damn, he ticked off a dozen options that had his blood boiling.

Silently, he ordered his dick to stand-down. A red-dress wearing woman with her assets would be a sought after commodity for club members.

Not him.

But just as quickly, he tossed aside the idea letting another man touch her. Especially when she stared back at him like she was ready to draw a line in the sand. The couple she’d followed had taken a table off to the side. The little spitfire wasn’t here as part of a ménage. He clenched his jaw, envisioning a night of erotic pleasure that he’d craft for her—all he needed was her signature on a consent form.
A one-night stand
.

Nothing more.

In his bed, he’d control her every move. Hell, they didn’t even need to talk. Darkly, he chuckled to himself. As punishment for lying to him earlier, he’d prevent her from speaking. Simple to do if he made her wear a gag.

No more lies. No pretense. Just hardcore fucking.

With a plan in place, he crossed his arms over his chest and studied her. She didn’t look like the average Paris submissive. She sat upright, alert as though she sensed his hunger to pound his cock into her until she called out his name.
That meant no gag
.

Uncrossing her long, tanned legs, the little temptress demurely pulled the hem of her tiny dress down. A damn shame she was trying to stop the slide of red leather up her toned thighs. She might be a tigress on a hunt yet she still had this innocence to her.

Why in the fuck am I entertaining mixed messages from this little minx?

Obviously, she was here for action, not to check out the architectural features.

But more and more she gave him the impression she was inexperienced in this type of setting. If anything, she appeared ready to flee again, and the thought had him flexing his muscles as though preparing for a chase. One he wasn’t going to lose this time.

He didn’t have time to grab a consent form. There were plenty in his private suite. He’d take her there and for the next several hours he’d explore her incredible naked body. His gaze traced a slow path up and down her figure—perfect for strappado bondage. He’d place a spreader bar between her ankles, restrain her arms, and blindfold her as he controlled and fucked her from behind. Several erotic scenarios permeated his thoughts—if she got off on being truly dominated.

From the way her cheeks flushed and her look of innocent defiance, yeah she was the type of woman who’d relish being commanded after an initial chase. Like the fillies he trained back home, she needed to know who was in charge, directing her when to move and how far. A razor-sharp rush buzzed across his nerve endings. His muscles contracted and he felt himself come alive.

He was hungry, and tonight the menu called for an expanse of golden thighs—parted and trembling, waiting on his instruction.

––––––––

M
IA FOUGHT
to appear collected. Perched on the bar stool in her rubber band sized dress, trussed up like a stuffed bird with her boobs about to pop, she reminded herself to take a breath. All she could manage were a few mini gasps. And even those were a fight.

“What can I get you?” the bartender asked.

“I’d love a glass of ice water. And then whenever you have a chance, bourbon neat.” Her muscles were strung past tight as she scanned the bar.

The bartender set the glass of ice water in front of her. “Here’s the first part. I’ll be back with your drink.”

“Thanks so much.” She slid the glass closer to the edge of the bar, rather than risk picking it up, and dumping it into her lap.

“My pleasure,” he replied in turn.

Sure enough, her hand trembled as she lifted the glass to take a sip. Glancing around, she sucked in a piece of ice and almost choked, but she couldn’t just spit the cube back into the glass. Suddenly the idea of pulling off this farce felt like a hundred different kinds of crazy. She set her glass down, careful not to tip the darn thing on her lap and really cause a scene.

Might help if she concentrated on observing the S & L members in attendance tonight. And refrain from mentally revisiting the blistering glare of
that man
in the outer office. His eyes had remained locked on her. No smile. No what the hell are you doing back? Just unwavering firepower that delved into her and wouldn’t let go. And of course, she’d refused to be the first one to look away. Oh no, she just had to go and stare right back.

What was he doing here tonight? He said he managed the place. Wasn’t he part of the day crew? Never in a million years had she expected to meet the unforgettable stare of the guy who capably undressed her with a single glance. Twice in one day. Shoulders as broad as a mountain and dark midnight-blue eyes, the color of a raging storm at sea. It wasn’t enough that he possessed chiseled good looks, but the shadow of beard stubble along his jaw made him seem dominating and ultra-serious.

That type of man should come with a warning label. He was the epitome of tall, dark, and don’t-fuck-with-me.
Stomach flutter
.

Mr. Penrose had assured her that no one would know she was here conducting research. Well no one else other than his partner Mr. McLemore. Initially for the sake of her project, she was supposed to remain under the radar. Fat chance if
that man
came barging into the bar area. He might question her and draw attention to her quest to be unobtrusive.

Since she had zero options except to succeed, if she happened to run into
Dark and Determined
, she’d have to shut him down. She worked too hard to chuck her project. Not when the hardest part was done. She received the official approval from her professor. Not to mention the time—and courage—she’d expended, convincing Mr. Penrose her research was above-board. He gave her a provisional go-ahead with one requirement. All she had to do was secure his partner’s authorization.

Last hoop and she was on her mark. Ready to meet the man who didn’t put up with nonsense and here she sat, nervously glancing around the club, waiting for Mr. McLemore to materialize.

The main floor was beautifully decorated in subtle dark woods and vermillion accents. High ceilings and twinkling chandeliers contrasted with the luxurious, oxblood-colored leather furniture. The music was low and seductive, and the members were dressed, some in suggestive outfits, but nothing garish or sleazy. All she had to do was be patient and act as though she belonged. She knew the score. Eventually, she’d find a few doms and subs to talk with, and then her first night would be over. She planned on coming back two or three times a week for the next three months; by then, she should have ample connections forged to get people to open up and talk candidly. Collect oodles of primary source research for her project.

“Here you go, sugar.” The bartender winked, setting her drink down. He was cute in that blond-athletic-type of way, and made smiling easier when her face felt frozen from a case of nerves.

“Appreciate it.” She laid a twenty on the bar. “Do you know where Mr. McLemore is?”

“Brandon?” He jerked his chin. “Right over there.”

She swung her glance over her shoulder.
Oh dear God!
Mr. Domination and Determination in the flesh! Unrelenting glare and all. Only now his expression was ten times less inviting. He stood there arms akimbo, his gaze scorching a hole in her as though she didn’t belong—he could probably spot a fake a mile away. He’d more than likely lay into her for leaving when he’d called for her to wait. Not her best exit on record.

As if on cue, he crossed the floor and walked a beeline in her direction. This time she couldn’t get up and exit, doing a full on sprint to her car—even though she felt like running. Mr. Penrose had warned her to keep her chin up, and now his advice made perfect sense. If Mr. McLemore asked about her earlier visit, she’d explain that was part of gathering baseline research and just tell the truth. She doubted he’d openly discuss her research project. All she had to do was act cordial, professional, and get him to agree.

The closer McLemore came the deeper he frowned. Mr. Penrose had repeatedly warned her, Brandon McLemore was more bark than bite—uh, that tidbit was seriously in question.

Cue the countdown. 3-2-1.

If she was the first to break the ice, it would give her a chance to explain about her running off earlier.

“Hello, Mr. McLemore,” she greeted him warmly but with an efficient undertone.

His unwavering eyes widened incrementally, but other than that, he didn’t look impressed.

“Evening,” he replied curtly and she fell oddly silent under his unblinking stare “Didn’t we meet earlier today? Outside in the parking lot?”

“About that...” She swallowed hard, trying to get her head together.

“You just took off and had me wondering.” A muscle twitched along his carved jaw.

“Sorry to dash off. I didn’t realize, you were—”

He quipped, “More than
a hired hand
?”

“No. I had an appointment.” Wonderful.
He thinks I’m shallow.

“Well, if you aren’t going to
dash
out the door, maybe we can get through a simple introduction. Obviously, you know who I am. Mind telling me your name for starters?” His words sounded courteous but the smolder in his eyes had yet to simmer down. Especially when his gaze drifted to her chest.

He might be a little put out by how she hightailed it away earlier, but she wasn’t about to let some man—business owner or not—size her up. He wasn’t the first cowboy she’d had the pleasure to redirect. Growing up on a horse farm overrun with ranch hands, she’d learned how to snap a guy out of his obvious fascination with her breasts.

“Excuse me, but my eyes are up here.”

His eyes rebounded to hers and he snorted like one of the champion stallions her father bred. She’d ridden plenty growing up, and that included walking away after being thrown not once, but enough times to recognize a beast about to buck.

But instead of going hot under the collar in a blink, amusement filled McLemore’s confident gaze. “Then answer the question. Or I can always give you a club name.” He leaned closer, taunting her, and his eyes traveled to her lips. “One only we would share.”

Her skin heated and she was on the verge of nodding, or possibly drooling. She rolled her bottom lip between her teeth, filled with a sense of longing that sizzled under her skin into existence. With his unwavering gaze, he watched her like she was his subject and he was the one with the research project.

Her heart thudded in her chest. “My name is Mia.”