Cherise Sinclair - Club Shadowlands

“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.