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While They Watch
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You don’t belong here…
Duchess isn’t a club for girls like you.
But I can train you…
Are you brave enough, pet?
This club caters to a very specific desire…
You belong to me, little one.
While They Watch is a sexy, new adult romance featuring an innocent former-musician struggling to find her place in the world after abandoning her dream of becoming a concert violinist. Fortunately, she meets a mysterious and dominating stranger who puts her back into the spotlight…but nothing could prepare her for his desired performance.
Warning: This novel is a taboo exploration of exhibitionism, light dominance, and the naughtiest of fantasies. The content may be too extreme/intense for some readers…
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“You don’t belong here.”
His voice cut against the thrumming cello of the jazz quartet.
The warning pulled me from the music and pinned me to my seat. My heart syncopated into a spikey, unsteady rhythm. The stranger spoke with a resonating authority, unbridled confidence, and sinfully sensual growl.
And for whatever reason, he focused on me.
Figured. I’d finally worked up enough courage to order a drink in this thoroughly unconscionable bar. His words rekindled my panic. He was right, but he didn’t have to know.
I smirked. “I don’t belong in a lot of places.”
Duchess, an exclusive fetish night-club, lingered at the top of the list, followed closely by locations like Syria and my mother’s house in Ironwood.
“Are you lost?” he asked.
In him? Very possibly. “Believe me, I’ve located all the emergency exits. The one over by the couple wearing half a cow’s worth of leather seems to be the quickest way out.”
And yet, my gaze traveled upstairs—to the white LEDs leading to a guarded door of the notorious second floor. A threaded curtain separated the VIPs from the public. Either a mercy or the only way Duchess—the hottest, most exclusive S&M club in Cherrywood Valley—could operate without earning half a dozen indecent exposure violations.
My peachtini was too light on the -tini to consider the shenanigans happening on that second floor. Even the curtain’s material looked too ritzy for my wallet. I was as out of place in Duchess as I was in Pottery Barn.
The stranger didn’t leave. Instead, he claimed the barstool to my right.
I should have bolted, but he smelled of spice, and I was a glutton for punishment. Not a good trait to have in a club like this.
His shoulder grazed against mine, and I reached for my drink, teeth clamping down on the straw before I said something idiotic. Did people say hello in places like this, or did they introduce themselves with hard limits?
Hi, I’m a light-spanking, no ball-gag, Aquarius. I’m allergic to soy and don’t like people touching my tushy.
Maybe they had a shorthand for this?
Or maybe the stranger was right, I didn’t belong here, and the two friends who might have helped me survive the indignity of this evening were forty-five-freaking-minutes late.
No calls. No texts. Leave it to Rose and Martini to trap me in the one bar that served leather conditioner alongside thirty dollar mixed drinks.
The stranger stretched his long legs under the bar—black shoes, black slacks tailor fitted to his build. He was much taller than me, but that was no surprise. I got carded at the door. Three times. A place like this needed a you must this tall to ride sign at the entrance.
Thoughts like that wouldn’t help me survive the night.
Neither would warming the instant my eyes drifted over his legs to the crest of his pants.
He noticed, and I contemplating drowning in what remained of my cocktail. The last thing I needed was to look like some sort of hungry crotch-wench in this sort of club.
I drew my gaze up. His shirt was a safer place to stare, except the crimson material stretched neatly over a chest harder than the rock sitting in my stomach.
I thought the guys in these places were supposed to be decrepit? An early retiree in the midst of a mid-life crisis, brandishing a clearance-rack leash from PetSmart.
Wow—were my sources wrong.
The handsome stranger hummed in amusement. “Are you having fun?”
My heel slipped off the stool. I caught myself before my chin collided with the bar. He steadied me, grasping my elbow within his strong hand. A million goose bumps followed.
He expected an answer. And a voice like that—a melody more appealing than anything the jazz ensemble played—deserved an answer.
Unfortunately, my throat closed over a chunk of sticky peach lodged somewhere between my tongue and the last shred of my dignity. A sexy half-cough, half-chortle might have sounded great, but I decided silence was the best recourse for the only girl wearing a cotton sundress in the ocean of second-skin leather skirts.
A demure nod. A quick clearing of my throat. A guzzle of the peachtini.
And there was the -tini. Great. My bones melted and puddled on the imported floor tile.
“Are you meeting someone here, or were you brave enough to come on your own?”
“Um…” Awkwardness didn’t steal my words. That was all him.
He’d be a god if I wasn’t so sure only the devil hid in places like these.
My stranger was older than I’d thought. Late thirties, but no gray in his dark hair. He wore it long, almost chin length, pulled back into a half ponytail framing his stubble-dusted jaw. Strong. His chin angled hard, like every other part of him. Chiseled, though good job on the sculptor for managing to flake any stone away from his diamond hard muscles.
His complexion looked dark. Mediterranean? I always wanted to take a trip to Europe, and he was my instant-vacation without even a cursory glance or grope from the TSA.