Cherise Sinclair - Club Shadowlands

Just like her.

And he'd called her little one . She frowned. If another man labeled her that, she'd cut him down to size, so why had her insides melted when Sir did it? Oh, she was in deep trouble here.

After he disappeared into the crowd, she turned back to finish her drink. Trying to ignore the seductive music, she smiled at the two men who took seats beside her, exchanged introductions, and was soon in a heated conversation about tax laws.

One of the men, Gabe, had a presence about him almost like Sir. His confidence and the commanding look in his eyes gave her a funny sinking feeling inside.

The bartender's gaze had that effect on her too, she realized, as Cullen wandered back to their area. He shook his head at Gabe. “Uh-uh. Z's.”

Gabe frowned. “Now there's a pity. Well, Jessica, if you ever find yourself fancy-free, I'd enjoy getting to know you better.”

“I—” Unable to think of a proper rejoinder, Jessica nodded politely and watched Gabe walk away. She turned to Cullen. “What is this 'Z's' stuff? He's not my owner, dammit.”

His grin flickered so quickly she almost didn't see it. “No, love, he's not. I just thought I'd save Gabe some effort. I've seen you with Master Z; Gabe doesn't stand a chance.”

Jessica glared and turned her back on him. Like she was so obvious.

She wasn't, was she?

Of course not. Putting her chin up and Sir out of her mind, she smiled and opened conversations with the members around her. Strange conversations at times. One man had long chains fastened to his belt. In fishnet tops and latex shorts, two men, obviously gay—or would that be bi?—checked her out for a threesome. A woman, in skintight red latex and matching gloves to her elbows, owned a bookstore and was fun to talk with, but her heated gaze was disconcerting.

When the woman moved away, Jessica glanced around the room. Her nerves had settled. She should continue exploring since her tame world sure didn't include anything like this place. Why did she find some of this stuff so…arousing?

Uncomfortable as the admission was, she needed an answer. She'd never been one to hide her head in the sand, after all.

And this time she'd be prepared for jerks. She could also use Master Z's name as a conjuring tool: Don't mess with me or Master Z will make you disappear . Yeah, that might work.

Grinning, she slid off the bar stool and set out. She received two more propositions in the first twenty feet; one man was worth a second look. He had that same confidence—strength—as Master Z and Gabe. But somehow, Sir made every man in the room seem weak, unfinished. She thought of the way he looked at her—all his attention on her, not on the music or other people or planning his evening or even his next sentence. To be the focus of that intensity was heady.

And then, of course, came the question she really didn't want in her mind: What would it be like to have all that attention on her in bed?

She blinked and refocused her own attention to the here and now, not in visualizing Sir with his clothes off, with his big hands wrapped around her wrists and his mouth…

Argh. Stop. Look. Walk . At one of the well-lit stations, a person was tied on what must be that St. Andrew's cross the jerk had mentioned. This time the shackled person was a male whose female boss was whipping him in horrible places. Completely appalled, Jessica stared for a moment, pulling her legs together in reaction. No, she didn't want to watch this—no way. Hurrying past, she could only think, These people are crazy.

She passed two women talking together on a couch. The woman in a black catsuit was telling the other, “Your safe word is banana. Can you remember—”

And what would a safe word be?

The farther she got from the entrance, the more the lighting changed, growing ominous. Ah, some of the flickering wall sconces had red-tinted bulbs.

At the end of the room, open double doors led into a wide hallway. A lot of people were milling around in there, and the noises made Jessica's stomach twist: screams, the sound of a whip, begging. Too intense. She wasn't going down that hall.

Not that she could escape all the uncomfortable sounds. As she headed toward the other side of the room, high-pitched screams rose above the hum of conversation. In a roped-off area, a burly man with tattooed arms was whipping a little brunette tied on a sawhorse-like table. The poor woman was shrieking, “Stop! Stop, please, stop!” He didn't stop. People stood outside the ropes, not doing anything. Damn them .

Fury seared through her like wildfire. Her sister had been beaten like that during her marriage; Jessica had suspected abuse, but hadn't acted. She would this time.

Coming up behind the man, she grabbed the whip out of his hand. “You perverted asshole, let her up, or I'll show you what it feels like!”

The man's bulldog face flushed red, and he took one step forward, then stopped, hands closing into fists at his side. Turning to a spectator, he snapped out, “Fetch me a monitor.” Spinning back toward Jessica, he snatched at the whip.

Jessica punched him right in the face, knocking him down, shocking herself. Aside from karate classes in college, she'd never hit anyone. But, hey, the punch had worked.

The brief thrill disappeared as he slowly got to his feet. Very not good . Her mouth went dry. She backed up a step, her heart hammering against her ribs.

His eyes were maddened; his fist rose as he stepped forward.

“Stop.” Master Z's compelling voice. The man halted, and Jessica sucked in a relieved breath. Everyone turned as Sir strode into the roped-off area. He glanced at her then the man. “Explain, Master Smith.”

“We were in the middle of a scene, and this crazy woman comes roaring out of the crowd, screaming, grabs my whip, and damned if she didn't punch me.” Rubbing his reddened chin, the man's lips curved a little. “It's almost funny, but still, she ruined our scene.”

Master's Z's gaze turned to her and she winced at the grim look in his eyes. “Jessica, explain.”

“She was screaming and yelling, 'Stop, stop,' and he was whipping her. No one was doing anything.” Feeling like a child called on the carpet, she held out the whip. “I took it away from him.”

“What is your sub's safe word?” Sir asked the bully.

“Purple.”

“Did she use it or the club safe word?”

“Nah. She wasn't anywhere close. We been together three years, and she's only used it twice. I'm pretty careful that way, Z.”

“I know you are.” Master Z turned back to her, his brows together in a frown. “Did you actually read any of the rules that you signed?”

Jessica flushed, looked down. “Uh…no.”

“I'm sorry for that, and even sorrier that you will be punished for what you thought was a good deed.”

Her mouth dropped open. Punished? “But—”

“A scene is planned in advance, Jessica, and much anticipated. Furthermore, each sub has what we call a safe word, a word to use if they get too frightened or the pain is past what they can stand. The safe word is never, never stop .”

Jessica licked dry lips. “You're saying she didn't really want to be saved? She—but look at her back; she's all red.”

The people outside the rope laughed. “If I picked up a whip and started hitting you with it, yes, that would be abuse, and it would hurt.” Master Z took the whip from her hand. “However, when someone is aroused, within the context of a sexual moment, then the pain can heighten a person's responses and pleasure. These two both enjoy this activity. Their enjoyment—and the scene they'd planned—has been destroyed by you.”