Despite his reputation, Penny is safe with him. Safer than with me. Once she sees me as I really am, she’ll see her trust was misplaced, as was her friendship.

    But, damn, friendship was the last thing I was thinking when she pressed herself up against me, her soft body curving into mine, the light, floral scent of her perfume filling my head, a year of fantasies coalescing into a burning need that completely overwhelmed me.

    I tug on my leather pants and pull a black cotton T-shirt over my head—a uniform of sorts that allows me to compartmentalize what happens here from the rest of my life. Except right now the rest of my life is waiting in room six for the bite of my whip.

    My cock hardens, solid as steel, pulsing with need. All I have to do is walk out that door to live out my deepest, darkest fantasy and my greatest fear. Craving takes hold of me, and I pull off my family ring and slam the locker door. I will have her. And then I will lose her and suffer a lifetime of regret.

    My boots thud on the marble floor as I make my way down the hallway. Damien spared no expense when he set up Club Sin in a bid to make it unlike any other BDSM club on the West Coast. From the marble tiles to the wooden furnishings and from the exotic lighting to the high-end equipment, he has created an environment that is decadent and sensual, intimidating and yet welcoming.

    “Master Jack!” Sylvia makes her way toward me, her blue eyes warm and bright. A masochist and my sometime play partner, Sylvia struggled to accept that I wasn’t interested in having a relationship despite the night we spent together. Still, I’m partly to blame. I had never fucked any of the women I played with at the club, and after I broke my rule for her, she jumped to the wrong conclusion. Even after I explained that I didn’t get involved with anyone—in or out of the club—she didn’t give up, and I had to end our play sessions for good because I didn’t want to lead her on. Since then she’s never missed an opportunity to let me know she’d like to go back to how things used to be—sometime play partners, casual friends.

    “Sylvia.” I frown, reminding her that shouting at a Dom in the corridor is an invitation to punishment. Which is probably why she did it.

    “Room three is free tonight.” She bows her head, and her thick, blond hair falls in waves over her cheeks. Slim and pretty, Sylvia has high, small breasts and an athletic build. Although she has more stamina than many of the other masochists in the club and is always in demand, physically she doesn’t do anything for me. I’m a big man, and I like a woman with curves. Full breasts, softly rounded hips, and an ass that I can hold on to are what I look for in a woman—or what I would look for if I were a normal man who could have a normal relationship.

    “I thought I made it clear that we weren’t playing together anymore.”

    She nibbles her bottom lip, and her shoulders drop. “I just thought…you’ve seemed really tense the last few days. I just wanted to help.”

    “You can help by finding someone else to play with so you’re not always looking to me.” I’m being harsh, but right now, all I want is Penny, and every minute I delay is another minute she might change her mind. “Master Damien is free,” I offer. “He had a rare cancellation. Tell him I sent you to see him.”

    Her face brightens. Damien isn’t a sadist, but he is a Master Dom and highly sought after in the club. “Thank you, sir.”

    “Have a good night.” I wait until she’s gone and push open the door to room six, forcing my gaze away from the couch where Penny sits, to make sure everything is in order. Damien and I created a playroom that looks like an upscale hotel. Modern and austere and decorated in black and white with red accents, with polished concrete floors and a beamed wooden ceiling, the room contains a small wet bar, a four-poster bed, and a bathroom with a shower. A padded table affixed to a cage sits on a thick red carpet, dominating the center of the room, and beside it is a black wooden St. Andrew’s Cross. Suspension equipment, pulleys, and ropes adorn the ceiling, and red accent lights highlight photographs of BDSM play around the walls.

    There is no comfort in this room. There is no peace. There is pain, and there is pleasure. Mutual gratification and nothing more.

    Except for the initial design, I’ve never thought much about the room, but when my gaze drops to Penny, wearing a pink blouse, her flowery skirt spread over her knees, a faint blush on her creamy skin, I am struck with the incongruity of the scene. She is a rose among thorns, a flower in the desert, beauty with the beast. If I could take her to another room, I would.

    “Stand up.”

    She stands. Right away, she stands. Without hesitation and despite the abruptness of my tone. She stands, and the Dominant in me growls with approval.

    Fuck, she’s beautiful. Curved where a woman should be curved, toned from all the workouts she does at the gym, sweetly self-conscious. And, if she was honest in the paperwork I reviewed while she waited, hiding a secret that I want to uncover.

    “Look at me.” She meets my gaze, her posture almost defiant, as if she knows I still want to send her away. Her courage and the curious vulnerability that shows in her eyes intrigue me. She needs something, but it shames her. She wants something badly enough to come to the club and yet she can’t voice what it is.

    Maybe it is that hidden contradiction that first drew me to her at the gym. Still, I never encouraged a relationship, never treated her as anything more than a friend, simply because I have nothing to offer a woman besides what I can give them in this room.

    Pain.

    Pain of every kind—whether it is the lash of my whip, the sting of my paddle, the burn of fire or wax, the stab of a violet wand, or simply the smack of my palm on bare flesh. I take my pleasure through their pain.

    “What are you looking for?”

    “I want to be hurt.” She twists the ring around her neck. Fuck. I hate that ring and her attachment to it. If she’s in this room, I want her to think only of me and not the man who gave it to her—a man who touched her and wasn’t me.