Casey's Choice Read online

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  Buying sexy lingerie was a thrill, but Casey felt nervy while she dressed on Friday evening. She did her hair up in a fancy French braid style similar to what Sofia had going on in the café, and paid to have makeup done at Sephora, including facial sculpting that hid her freckles, heightened her cheekbones, and slimmed her face. With the heavy evening eyes—smoky and sexy—and the dark red lipstick, she looked unlike herself. She added dangling silver earrings, a gift from her mother at her PhD graduation, and turned her head to watch them catch the light.

  Casey had always been proud of her figure and knew she was considered pretty. But tonight, seeing her reflection dressed in the tight black dress and heels, all made up like a glamour queen, she felt a flutter of excitement. The woman looking back at her from the mirror was a different creature, someone confident, bold, and even magazine-cover worthy. She didn’t look like regular Casey, who wore jeans and a ponytail when possible, and who often had her head buried in a book about art history. No, this girl was—Sofia. Fancy, sophisticated, worldly Sofia, with a brand-name makeup modeling contract.

  “Hi,” she practiced, making her voice soft and trying for the faint accent she’d heard in Sofia’s voice. “I’m Sofia Maria Madigan. I’ve been referred here by Kelsie.”

  She cleared her throat and said it again, dropping the accent, feeling her heartbeat quicken. She couldn’t carry off an accent, so better to just let it go. Could she really do this? Echo was right—it was a bad idea in many ways. But in others, it was the most novel and creative thing she’d done in a long time, and the part of her that longed for something different and exotic took her out the door and into a cab to the exclusive Lake Shore Drive address near Lake Michigan.

  In the private elevator to the thirty-fourth floor, she thought she might hyperventilate, and when the doors rolled open at the penthouse suite, she gazed at the chandeliers and gold-framed mirrors in the entryway. A man in a tuxedo stood by two wide gold doors, attentive and still.

  Casey stood tall and walked with as much elegance as she could muster, and when she reached the man, she took the crumpled invitation and envelope from her clutch. She wasn’t sure if she should say anything, and when the man held out his hand, she extended hers and gave him the documents, hoping her fingers weren’t trembling. Her anxiety ratcheted into high gear when he frowned, turned, and spoke into his earpiece in French.

  The doors opened, interrupting her mental machinations, and before her, without warning, stood the most handsome man she’d ever seen. She gasped, because he was quite literally the man of her dreams. It was no joke—every time she fantasized about her perfect hero, he looked like this, exactly like this. He was tall with broad shoulders, a chiseled jaw, thick brown hair, and green eyes. His chin had a slight dimple that she wanted to touch. His skin was smooth, slightly tan, his eyelashes thick and black. Her heart hammered, and for a split second she wasn’t sure where she was, whether she was awake or dreaming, and half expected to look around and find herself on the couch back in her apartment, after falling asleep to the Late Show.

  He moved with a muscular grace and a muted power. He took the papers from the doorman and Casey noticed his strong fingers, his broad palms. She sucked in a breath. Thoughts from videos and books flowed through her mind.

  You’ve been very disobedient, and I’m going to have to punish you now. Take off your panties and lie down over my lap. I’m only going to spank you longer if you delay, you know. There’s no getting out of this. It’s best if you just cooperate with your discipline.

  She felt a surge of arousal in her core, a trail of sparks that made her whole body heat up. Those eyes were predatory, primal, and the gaze he laid on her was hot and lazy, an invitation and a challenge at once. She couldn’t look away; didn’t want to look away. She took a step closer without even realizing it, flushed, put her hand to her face. But she kept her eyes locked on his, feeling her pulse pound in her wrists and neck. She wondered if he could see it.

  The man raised one eyebrow and looked at her, then at the invitation. “And you are?” His voice was rich and deep.

  She cleared her throat and summoned her best Sofia. “Good evening. I’m Sofia Maria Madigan. I was referred here by Kelsie Blair.” She smiled, careful to keep it small and controlled and was pleased that her voice didn’t crack.

  “Sofia.” He eyed her and looked at the invitation, crumpled; the envelope with a water stain and a slight grease mark.

  “I wasn’t going to come,” Casey explained, keeping her voice low. “Then I changed my mind.”

  He wrinkled his brow and gave her a long look, as if assessing something. He frowned, and Casey’s heart sank. But then he smiled, a wicked, dangerous smile, and something inside Casey melted. She felt like swooning into his arms, leaning into his chest, wrapping her legs around his waist. She wanted to touch those lips.

  “Sofia—Maria—Madigan,” he said, handing back her invitation. “Welcome to Dominion.” When he leaned in to kiss her cheek, she made a small squeak and sucked in her breath, dizzy from his expensive cologne and the feel of his lips on her face, soft, gentle. He had the slightest hint of stubble on his cheek, and after the kiss, he pressed his cheek to hers for a second, and the rough touch made her tingle.

  “Sofia,” he said, taking her arm in a grip that was easy but possessive. “I’m Hunter, your host. Let me show you around.”

  “Yes, please, I would like that,” murmured Casey, trying to sound as Sofia-like as possible. His arm was like steel under the suit, and she gripped him harder than necessary, enjoying the feel of his warmth under the fabric. He slid his hand down to grip hers, and the feel of his fingers encircling hers was instantly erotic.

  His eyes searched her face. “You are very sure?” A small smile played on his lips. “That this is for you?”

  Chapter Two

  Casey nodded vehemently, then forced herself to relax. “Yes,” she responded, returning his smile.

  He shrugged and murmured something under his breath. The man at the door said something in an undertone in French and Hunter chuckled, shook his head. Then he turned to Casey. “All right, then. Perhaps your friend told you a little about us?” he said, as they entered a foyer. Marble tiles underfoot looked too beautiful for feet, and the walls were hung with art, luminous with unobtrusive lighting.

  “Just a little,” answered Casey, distracted by a painting on the nearby wall. “Is that—a Monet?” Her voice rose and she hurried over to examine it. “Not a replica.” She moved to stand in front of the picture next to it. “And a John Singer Sargent?” She turned to Hunter, eyes glittering. “My God, this is fantastic. How can you not want to just stand here all day?” She caught her breath and looked across the foyer, and then stumbled on her heels to get there. “Another Monet. This one just came on the public market, am I right?”

  She stepped forward, inch by inch, until the flurry of small brushstrokes looked like a topographic relief map, then pulled back until the picture morphed into itself. “Bassin aux nymphéas, les rosiers,” she murmured. “I always thought of that viney arch as a secret passageway that could lead to someplace magical, you know?”

  “Did you.” His voice was guarded.

  “Hunter! Is this—yours?” She gestured around.

  Hunter had a quizzical smile on his face, and as he watched her, he crossed his arms over his chest. “Sofia,” he chided. “One of the rules of our club is that we don’t ask personal questions about the host’s home.” His voice was easy, but there was hint of something below the surface that made Casey tense up.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “But I saw pictures of this in a textbook. I answered questions about it on an exam. And it’s here.” She turned to him, then swiveled back to the painting. “It’s a rush, you know? It’s like learning about an—extinct animal, or something, and then you see one in a forest. I can tell you how he studied the light as it varied by day and by month, about his life, but I’d never seen this for real.”
She frowned, swallowed. “Odd that people can devote so many years, really, learning about things they might never see in person.”

  Hunter stepped up to stand beside her and she could feel the warmth from his body, although they were not touching. “And to a collector, being able to obtain something like this is the ultimate rush,” he added. “Knowing that you own something so rare, so unique and sought-after, something so studied and desired, that it’s yours! Imagine that feeling.”

  But his eyes were on her, not the painting. Casey flushed. “I imagine,” she managed, “it would be a thrill like no other. Like owning history in your own hands. Even touching the frame would almost be like transporting yourself to another place. Maybe the closest thing we can have to time travel. Do you suppose that’s why people like owning old things?”

  Hunter tilted his head. “I believe that everyone, rich or poor, educated or not, is intrinsically drawn to objects that represent timeless beauty in a society. It’s power, self-worth. It’s the next best thing to being immortal, I suppose, to hold something that has retained its value throughout the ages.”

  Casey walked up to a Vermeer and he followed. “My God. Another one I never thought to see in person. He did so few. May I touch the frame?” She darted a look at Hunter. His head was so close to hers, and she could feel his breath on her neck. It was too close for polite company, but of course, this was not polite company, not exactly: It was a high-class sex and BDSM club. Although she was standing here discussing art instead of watching naked people fuck—

  He leaned down and whispered into her ear, “You may.” She could hear the smile in his tone, and she felt a line of sparks travel from his lips down through her body, but before she could step forward, he arrested her with his eyes and added, “This time. Next time you want to touch, there will be a price to pay.” He turned her chin with one finger to look into her eyes. “Yes?”

  Casey gasped at his tone, at the intensity of his gaze, at the meaning implicit in his words. “Yes,” she breathed, forgetting all about the painting, wanting nothing but to feel his lips on her mouth, to find out what the price was to touch his magnificent body. His scent was tantalizing.

  He released her. “Then, please, enjoy.” He stepped back to watch as Casey reached out a hand and stroked the frame.

  Even though her body thrummed with sexual energy, she couldn’t help but feel a renewed interest in the painting. She let her finger rest on the edge of the wood, and commented, “Maybe the artist touched right here. And now here I am, touching it in the same spot. It’s like we’re meeting, through a window. What do you suppose he thought about in that moment?”

  Hunter stood next to her and touched the frame on the other side. “I’ve wondered that myself,” he said, his voice holding a spark of interest. “Did he have any concept of how popular and sought-after his works would be in the future? Any idea of how people would bid over his paintings at auctions in London, that thieves would work miracles of technology to steal his pieces, that forgers would study his technique for years to replicate his lines?”

  Casey met his eyes. “How could he have? Near the end of his life, he was poor. Struggling to care for a family. Who could survive such a daily struggle and still have time to spin fantasies about a future that couldn’t help him eat that night?” She pondered the work. “Still, I hope he did. At least once. I hope he had some dim glimpse of how startling and original his work was, how brand new and timeless at once, how he was the harbinger for an entire generation of artists across the world. Maybe he did know about his talent, saw it. When he went down the stinking, crowded street to the butcher and saw rough hands dripping with blood, when he sat in his rough home conserving paint and feeling despair, maybe that dream was what sustained him and gave him the courage to keep going.”

  Hunter turned. “Perhaps it’s painted into the work with every single stroke of the brush, his secret desires written here for all who can read the script.”

  “You could spend a lifetime on the translation. Many do.” Casey touched the frame again. Pieces like this didn’t come through her gallery; Monica was successful and managed millions of dollars in annual sales, but nothing as extraordinary as something like this, a famous work that changed hands only on the world’s largest stages—Sotheby’s, Christie’s.

  “You’re—different from what I expected.” His brow wrinkled. “Not at all like you came across on the application. I thought—” He shook his head. “I know you model, but—you’re not a writer, are you? An artist?”

  Casey blinked. She had no idea what Sofia did, apart from modeling, so she tried to turn the question around. “I understand you did some thorough research,” she commented. “Perhaps you can tell me.” She crossed her arms, hoping her nerves didn’t show.

  “Touché,” said Hunter with a smile. “The background check is for our safety, of course, not to be unnecessarily nosy.”

  Nodding, Casey stepped back from the picture. “Are you a writer?” she asked, sure he was not. If she had to guess, someone who could afford this lifestyle in his early thirties must be involved in something financial, possibly supplemented by inherited wealth and privilege.

  “No.” Hunter smiled. “Art class is dismissed, Sofia. Are you ready to move on?” He raised one eyebrow, and Casey flushed and took his arm without argument, deferring to his authority without question.

  “That was short for a master class,” she retorted.

  “The real master class is about to start,” he murmured, making her blush. “The one you came here for. The one where you see art created right in front of your eyes. If you stay, you’ll see the experts teach it, one body of work at a time.”

  “Touché,” she said, using his tone.

  “You are new to domination and submission, to BDSM play.” His eyes were so beautiful. Sea glass, she thought. Malachite, verdigris. Celadonite. Things the Romans used to make their paints; things rare and difficult to obtain.

  “Yes.” She focused on his words. “I am.”

  “Have you researched at all?”

  She nodded. “Yes.”

  He smiled. “Tell me what you learned.”

  She reddened. “Tell you…?”

  “Teach me something.” He let go of her arm and put his hands in his jacket pockets. “Show me the extent of your knowledge, Sofia. No, don’t look away. I want to see your eyes while you speak, please.”

  Casey forced her eyes back to his and felt her whole body heat up. “Well, what I’ve learned. I don’t—” She looked at her shoes.

  “Sofia. There are rules to the games we play together in this place. One is that you follow commands of the masters, such as myself, as long as they are not onerous or against your character. I assume that looking into my eyes does not offend your moral compass?” He smiled, but his voice was stern. “Can you look at me and survive, Sofia?”

  “I—I can. Yes.” She met his gaze and something sparked in his eyes.

  He smiled again. “Good. When I speak to you, I expect you to listen. If I ask you to look at me, you do it. If I ask you to look at the floor, you do that. Understand?” He touched her chin, his eyes questioning her.

  She nodded. “Yes.”

  “Sir.” His voice was low. “You will address me as Sir while we are in the club, unless we are speaking informally.”

  “What if we meet in public?” She wanted to touch his face. His cheekbones looked made for her fingertips.

  “If we ever happen to meet outside this club, then I will tell you what to call me at that time. Once we pass that set of doors, I’m Sir.” He pointed ahead of them, to a second set of doors. “Try it now.”

  She nodded, heartbeat accelerating. “Yes, Hunter. Sir. I mean, are people going to make me do…? I mean, I’m new to this, and I wanted to come here and see things, but Kelsie said—she said that there was a safeword, mercy, and that people didn’t have to do anything—”

  She felt sweat break out on her brow and looked back to the doors, pa
st the artwork. The paintings were safety for her; she understood art, she could talk it, she lived and breathed it. But if she went through that next set of doors, she’d be adrift in a strange new world. She swallowed hard. “Maybe I shouldn’t be here,” she muttered. Now that she was standing in front of this man, she realized how wrong it was to impersonate the real Sofia. She felt like a fraud.

  “Don’t be scared,” he said, his voice soothing. “Kelsie is right. You may use the club safeword at any time—no questions, no repercussions. Red – it stops anything, any time. Yes? However, the whole point of this place is to do things that people enjoy, want, need… and to do it with skill and passion, so that a safeword is not necessary. Consent is key here. Nothing will ever be done to you without your consent. And likewise, you must receive consent before doing anything to others.”

  “Even if for some reason I needed to use it for—to not look at you?” Casey felt her face redden, and he chuckled.

  “If looking at my face is a hardship for you, Sofia, then I certainly expect you to tell me.”

  “I mean, it’s not. I was just asking. Just to make sure. I mean, it’s a small thing, but I don’t want to do things against my will here, and—”

  “Nothing ever against your will.” His voice was firm. “But the people here enjoy playing by these rules, being submissive in even these small ways to the master and mistresses of the house. Being here means you find it fun, enticing, titillating to obey the conventions we create. To live, even for a time, in this alternate universe where we call each other Sir and Mistress, where we kneel when asked, where we look and look away when told to do so.”

  “I’ve never had to live by rules like that, before, though.” Casey’s voice was defiant.

  “You have. At a five-star restaurant, you speak politely to the waiter, and you gesture in a subtle yet specific way when you want the check. You wait to order, you understand that drinks come before dinner, and you allow the server to pull your chair out and hand you a menu. You tip a certain percentage. You arrange your napkin on your lap. And you don’t do these things because you’re forced to; not exactly. It’s part of the whole experience of modern fine dining, and you accept, even enjoy the little rituals that are part of the evening out. Yes?”