Inside the Lines: Without a Trace series, a contemporary erotic romance novel Read Online Free PDF Page B

about it.” She hands me my drink.
    “Thanks, Tice.” I’ve known Tice since she was a man, and I don’t take her words lightly even though they’re said with her flippant style. She’s shrewd, and she’s never been one to blow smoke.
    I head for the balcony, my nerves jangling at the thought of handing over my business plan and seeing if it can finagle the financial support I’ll need to get my idea off the ground. A haunting beat pumps through the space, the black walls with silver and muted magenta accents seeming to pulse with the vibe. One thing that most folks don’t know about sex clubs is that you can go and just watch. Many players enjoy the taboo of onlookers, and as long as you’re complimentary and not rude, your attention is often very welcome.
    From my favorite perch up top, I can look down on all the activity and choose what pleasure I wish to watch. In the far corner, someone engages in rope play. A slim Asian girl closes her eyes in obvious rapture as her master ties intricate knots around her naked body. When the craft is finished, the girl has ropes pinning her arms to her sides and forming a design over her breasts and torso. The ropes are attached to the ceiling, though she isn’t suspended. Her Dom draws two ends of rope between the girl’s legs and begins to pleasure her.
    Along the walls are alcoves with barred entrances, where people can perform a wealth of different activities. In one, a lover strikes her submissive into a frenzied orgasm using a rubber whip. Center stage is a caning already in progress. Not an activity of the faint of heart, it’s the true measure of a masochist. A man lies facedown on a padded table, similar to something you might see in a massage therapy room. His wrists are bound to the head of the table, and each ankle to a corner. A long, firm rattan cane forcefully strikes his back and buttocks in measured strokes. Each hit should be separate, spaced apart, so the sub can endure the pain. A sheen of sweat covers both the sub and his Dom, and I recognize both of them. Ethan, the man tied to the table, is a long-time friend, and his Dom is his wife. It’s as much work for her as a sadist as it is for Ethan, if not more so. She must watch his expressions, evaluate her pattern, make sure she gives him just enough pain, but not too much. And he can lose himself in it, focus on the bliss the pain offers, and disappear into the experience.
    When they are finished, Ethan’s back is covered in raw, red lines, but she did not break his skin, a true sign of a master. As he recovers, she presses a wet cloth to his face, kisses him passionately, and soon they’ll disappear into the crowd, probably leave to find a private place to fuck.
    I smile at their affection and remember Charles’s question. Is it too much to ask to find someone who not only gets you, but is willing to give of themselves to make you happy? Don’t get me wrong—I’m realistic. I know that there’s no perfect match. I also recognize that I need to be with someone who understands me , at my core. I’ve dated really nice guys; I’ve never lasted with someone who didn’t respect me. But they couldn’t understand what made me tick and what turned me on after the initial novelty had passed. I don’t need crazy scenes and intense setups to enjoy sex. But I do need to be in control, to be me.
    Some days, I’d give anything to be “vanilla,” like so many others.
    I work my way through two cranberry juices before I check the time on my phone. I should head home. The confusing thoughts in my head and recent moodiness that has overtaken me are exhausting. I’m mildly distracted by a threesome setting up on the center stage: crops, clamps, and clothes pins ensuring a very intense display, but I’ve had enough. As I slip off my stool, I land on a foot.
    “Oh, God, sorry. Are you okay?” I say as I turn to see a familiar face.
    Fin smiles down at me. “Aye, it’s all right. Ye’re a wee thing,