Orchid Club Page 9

  This time there was no doubt that everyone turned to look at her when the attendants opened the ballroom doors. She was fashionably late by design. She had no intention of sneaking in before most people arrived. She was planning to make an entrance. Though members were carefully vetted, and strict secrecy maintained, it couldn’t be ignored that the people in this room were some of the world’s rich and powerful.

  Those who didn’t understand the lifestyle might think that because she was submissive in the club it meant anyone here who had business dealings with her in the outside world would be able to take advantage of her. That kind of thinking showed a basic lack of understanding as to what BDSM was, and would prevent that individual from ever being invited to one of the events.

  What was a problem was having a drunken fight with her ex at a bar that resulted in her getting kicked out. That showed a lack of decorum that was unbecoming. And the best way to counteract last night’s abhorrent behavior was to make sure everyone saw her tonight—saw her calm, in control, and elegantly submitting to the very man she’d been fighting with the night before.

  She’d had three lovely outfits planned for this event, but she’d decided to go a different way for tonight. Rather than another formal fetwear ensemble, she’d pulled an evening gown from her closet. It was a white, off-the-shoulder sheath that had been one of three gowns in the Beauvalot spring collection several years ago. Originally the neckline was a modest drape, but she’d modified it after her bath while giving her deep conditioning hair treatment time to soak in. Now the gown had a deep V-neck that exposed the midline of her body all the way to her navel. The stitching along the newly cut edges wasn’t perfect, but Bernard Beauvalot, her great-uncle and the man who’d been creative director of the fashion house for nearly forty years before his death, had been the one to teach her to sew. He’d insisted all the Beauvalot family members learn how to at least stitch a seam and hem a pant, and at one time she’d been able to make a decent pattern, though she’d lost the skill through disuse.

  An antique brooch, fastened just above her breasts, held the new neckline together. Without it, the dress would fall open and most likely slither to the floor. Beneath the dress she was naked except for a gold waist chain.

  Her hair—glossy from the treatment and softly curled—was piled up on top of her head with a few strands falling around her bare neck and shoulders. The entire thing was secured with a single two-prong antique hair ornament. Figuring out how to twist and anchor everything so she could secure it with the pretty little starburst patterned gold-and-onyx accessory had taken far longer than she’d hoped, and she’d forgone dinner in favor of making sure there would be a suitably dramatic moment when Solomon pulled the pin from her hair and it tumbled down. And she knew he’d do it, because Solomon liked her hair loose.

  Barefoot, and making sure not to limp, Vivienne walked through the crowd, which parted for her. She kept her chin up, her shoulders relaxed and back. Celeste would have been proud.

  Then he was there, a tall, handsome man stepping out of the crowd, planting himself firmly in her path. He was once more wearing most of a tuxedo. No jacket, and the bowtie was draped around his neck, the lack of creases evidence that it had never been tied. He’d pulled his dark hair back in a queue, and his eyes were beautifully blue.

  Solomon.

  A murmur swept through the onlookers, heads swiveling to look between them.

  Vivienne kept walking. The undamaged corner of Solomon’s mouth twitched, and he gave a slight shake of his head, as if to say he knew what she was doing and found it amusing.

  Her own lips started to curl. When she was only a meter from him she slowed, then stopped, drawing out the moment. He looked heavenward, but he was still smiling.

  Vivienne took a final deliberate step, bringing herself within touching distance, and then, with all the grace she could muster, sank slowly to her knees. There were audible gasps from a few people.

  She kept her head up, but lowered her gaze to the top of his shiny dress shoes.

  “Master Carter.” She spoke in English, since that was the language she’d used when she first learned to submit, and made sure to speak loudly enough that those closest could hear.

  “Vivienne.” He trailed his fingers along the line of her jaw.

  Her eyes fluttered closed. Everything in her went quiet and still in that moment.

  The onlookers didn’t matter. What she was wearing didn’t matter.

  All that mattered was him.

  His touch was like coming home after a long absence.

  Vivienne swallowed hard, fighting down the knot of feelings in her throat. His thumb pressed her lower lip. She opened her mouth and touched the tip of her tongue to his thumb.

  Solomon made a noise that was both aroused and pleased. His hand dropped from her face, but she kept her eyes closed.

  “I’ve been waiting for you,” Solomon said.

  “And I’m sorry to have kept you waiting, Master Carter.”

  “Never apologize for that.” Unexpectedly, he switched to French. “You, Vivienne Deschamps, are always worth waiting for.”

  Her eyes flew open and she tipped her head back, looking up at his face. Solomon’s expression was unreadable.

  “Solo—”

  He raised a brow. “You might want to reconsider whatever you’re about to say. The scene I’ve planned isn’t going to be easy.”

  She had to take a breath and remind herself that tonight was about their chemistry, not about their past. He’d been the one to make that rule.

  And yet those words, and the way he’d looked at her…

  “I never asked you to be easy,” she replied.

  “Good.” His hand slid into her hair. A second later there was a tug and her hair tumbled free around her shoulders.

  Vivienne ducked her head to hide her smile.

  He ran the back of his hand over her cheek, then held out that same hand, palm up. She placed her right hand in his.

  Solomon raised her to her feet. They were close enough that if she inhaled deeply her breasts would brush his chest.

  “We’ll use the stoplight method,” he informed her, stumbling a little over the French term for stoplight—le feu d’arrêt.

  “Very American of you.”

  “But,” he continued, “I want you to have a second safe word. If you don’t normally use stoplight, you might not say ‘red’ when you need to. What word do you normally use?”

  Vivienne considered lying, but there was no place for lies once the power exchange had begun. She’d initiated it the moment she’d knelt before him.

  “Denver,” she replied.

  Solomon’s shoulders stiffened. “Your regular safe word is Denver?” He was back to speaking English.

  “Yes.” She focused on the third button down on his shirt, but she could feel him examining her expression.

  “Sir,” he said finally, still in English. “You will call me ‘Sir’ or ‘Master Carter.’ Earlier you started to call me by my given name. Don’t do it again.”

  She winced. An amateur mistake that was unworthy of her. “My apologies, Master Carter.”

  “You’re forgiven. Don’t give me a reason to punish you. I already have plans for your ass. Adding a punishment on top of that will guarantee you don’t sit down tomorrow.”

  Vivienne’s nipples hardened. “An intriguing proposition, Sir.”

  He leaned in, his breath fanning against her temple. “I will do wicked things to you,” he whispered.

  “And I need you to do them,” she replied. “I need you to touch me. To hurt me. To master me, Sir.” The dark words, spoken in the mere centimeters that separated them, came from the black core of her need.

  Vivienne gasped as Solomon’s hands shot out. One went to the small of her back, grabbing a handful of her dress, the fabric pulling tight around her ass and hips. The other hand slid around her neck, under her hair, fingers tangling at the nape. His thumb pressed up under her chin, ti
lting her face up to his.

  Then his lips came down on hers, a kiss that meant everything, yet she knew it had to mean nothing.

  Home. This was home.

  No, this was the goodbye kiss they’d never had.

  Solomon’s tongue swept into her mouth, sliding along the back of her teeth. It was intimate and possessive, and the feelings that had been swelling inside her fell away to be replaced by a single urge so strong that it was like a compulsion.

  Submit. Submit to him.

  On the heels of that was another feeling. Desire.

  She wanted this man with an all-consuming passion that burned hot enough to make her forget the pain of their past. The past mattered only because it meant they could skip the preliminaries. They didn’t have to take time learning one another. Their bodies remembered what their minds had tried to forget. He knew how to kiss her, how to touch her.

  And she knew how to submit to him.

  Vivienne slid her arms behind her back, fingers brushing the hand fisted in her dress. He released the fabric then grabbed her wrists, holding both in his big, strong hand, and pressing them hard into the small of her back.

  He forced her to arch, her body off balance but held still by her head cradled in his hand.

  He finally broke the kiss, lifting his face but not far, so that their panting breaths mingled. Their gazes met, held.

  Something passed between them, an understanding of how truly dangerous this was, because that kiss had proven that it was very unlikely that they would make it through these two nights without opening old emotional wounds…

  …or inflicting new ones.

  Vivienne was on the verge of turning and walking away. She was sober and despite the arousal his presence and kiss had caused, her sense of self-preservation was sounding alarm bells in her mind.

  The tension was broken when someone started to clap.

  Solomon and Vivienne both turned their heads to look at the woman—who’d been with the group she’d watched in the dressing room—enthusiastically clapping. She was pretty, with long dark hair loose around her shoulders and the sheer caramel-colored dress she wore. Her dark-haired Dom was grinning as he wrapped his arms around her from behind, flattening her arms and bringing an abrupt end to the clapping.

  “Oh. We’re not supposed to clap?” the woman asked in an American accent.

  Solomon straightened, raising Vivienne too. He released her wrists, but kept his hand at the back of her neck. His thumb idly stroked the skin under her ear, and Vivienne couldn’t suppress the little shiver that worked its way down her body.

  “No, my sweet. They weren’t deliberately putting on a show.” The other man looked at Solomon and raised a brow. “But it was a good show. Enjoy your evening, Solomon.” He looked to Vivienne. “Mademoiselle Deschamps.”

  “You just don’t see dramatic kisses like that in real life,” the woman said.

  “Nolen,” Solomon barked. “Go away. And take her with you.”

  James Nolen chuckled, and if he or his submissive were upset by the pissy tone of Solomon’s words, they didn’t show it.

  James—who looked vaguely familiar, so she’d most likely seen him at other events—was the man Solomon had come to see. The man whom Solomon wanted to warn against falling in love with his submissive.

  Which meant that the woman he held was not only his submissive, but his lover, perhaps his fiancée.

  Vivienne closed her eyes, as if that could also block out her jealousy.

  The woman’s claps had broken the tension of the moment, and those who’d been watching turned to other activities.

  Solomon gently squeezed the back of her neck, and she opened her eyes.

  “Time for our first scene.”

  Chapter 8

  BDSM furniture, from spanking benches to St. Andrew’s crosses and everything in between, occupied the perimeter of the ballroom, in the space between the columns and the walls, where once matrons would have sat, keeping an eye on unmarried couples as they danced and flirted under the glass ceiling. She’d expected him to start off with some impact play—a good spanking or light flogging—but Solomon surprised her. Instead of taking her to one of the open spanking benches, he led her to the center of the dance floor.

  He’d rolled his eyes when she’d made her deliberately dramatic entrance, but it was soon clear that he had a similar idea about making a show of their scene tonight, to counteract some of the negative stigma they’d accumulated last night.

  A large black mat—a meter and a half square—had been laid out. The pad was thicker than a yoga mat, but not quite as bulky as a wrestling mat. It was thick enough that a sub could kneel for hours.

  Was that what he’d do? Command her to kneel and then ignore her?

  Vivienne’s stomach went tight at the thought. There were some people who played that way, but she wasn’t one of them. Solomon wasn’t either. Or he hadn’t been.

  “In the center,” he commanded.

  Stomach clenched, Vivienne stepped into the center of the mat, hands loose at her sides, chin up but gaze down. In her peripheral vision she watched as Solomon walked to one of the columns, picking up a small black duffle bag. Before stalking back to her, he toed off his shoes and got rid of his socks, returning as barefoot as she was. Some Doms, Dommes, and Masters believed in a strict dress code and would never remove their shoes, as to be barefoot was a sign of being submissive.

  Solomon was anything but submissive. He was, however, conscientious. If she had to guess, she’d say he’d taken off his shoes to make sure he didn’t hurt her by stepping on her bare feet, given that she was already injured.

  Duffle bag in hand, he walked back to her, setting the bag on the hardwood and then stepping onto the mat. “How is your foot?”

  “Good, Sir. I have a bandage on it.”

  “Let me see.” He held out his arm at waist height.

  Vivienne braced her hands on his arm, then bent her right knee, showing him the bottom of her foot. She had a bandage over the cut, and a small square of moleskin on top of that to protect the cut as she walked around barefoot.

  “You could have worn flats.”

  “Thank you, Sir.”

  “Foot down.”

  She set her foot on the mat and reluctantly released his arm. Solomon stuck his hands in his pockets. It wasn’t a nervous or hesitant gesture. He looked relaxed and in command. Seeing that allowed her to relax too, the tight muscles in her stomach loosening.

  His cheek twitched in a small smile as he started to circle her.

  Vivienne shook her hair back over her shoulders and kept her head up, letting him look his fill. She knew how she looked—she’d practiced in the mirror—but that didn’t stop a small tendril of self-doubt from sneaking through.

  That doubt was all part of the game, part of the scene. Right now she was being assessed, not for her intelligence or net worth, but for her worthiness as a submissive. He was looking her over to decide how he would use her for his own pleasure.

  She shivered, her nipples painfully tight. Even her shallow breaths were enough to cause the fabric of her dress to slide against the hard peaks of her breasts and provide a delicious stimulation.

  He circled her again, and she felt his gaze lingering on her nipples. “Cold?” His tone was neutral.

  “No, Sir.” If he thought she’d lie, then he’d forgotten who she was. Vivienne wasn’t ashamed of her sexual proclivities. “I find what you are doing arousing.”

  “And what am I doing?”

  She smiled. “You’re doing whatever you want, Master Carter. As is your right.”

  He snorted. “Smart answer. Safe answer.”

  “Safe, Sir?”

  “What I wanted to know, what I was really asking, is what about this moment you find arousing.”

  “All of it, Sir.”

  “Be more specific.”

  She inhaled, held the air, and then exhaled slowly. It was either that or say something bratty about him nee
ding to hurry up. “I enjoy being made to feel like an object.”

  Solomon stopped behind her. She couldn’t see him, but she felt the heat of his body as he closed in on her. His breath fanned over her bare shoulder, then his lips brushed her earlobe. “No, you don’t.”

  Vivienne’s nails dug into her palms as a wave of heat swept over her from where his lips had brushed. “You ask my opinion and then tell me I’m wrong, Sir?”

  “You like it when I make you feel like a sultan’s prize concubine.” He grabbed her wrists, squeezing just enough to let her feel his strength. “A woman like you…no man would dare use you as a footstool.” His hands started to glide up her arms.

  “Men have tried,” she said softly.

  His hands, on her biceps, stopped moving. “Who?”

  There was rage in his voice, a dark promise of retribution. A knight ready to defend his lady.

  No, Vivienne, you are not his lady, he is not your knight, and you are a thousand kinds of fool.

  “It doesn’t matter, Sir.” She forced herself to laugh. “I did not let them. I guess you’re right.”

  “I am right.”

  Now her laugh was genuine. The arrogance of a Dom was truly a thing to behold.

  His hands finished their path north. He toyed with the draped sleeves of her dress, which wrapped around her upper arms. He tugged experimentally, pulling the right sleeve down to her elbow.

  “Take your arm out,” he ordered.

  Vivienne slid first her right, then left arm free of the sleeves. She was acutely aware that the only thing holding the dress up was the brooch. She kept her breathing steady, an increasingly difficult task when he once more grabbed her wrists, this time gliding his hands all the way up and over her shoulders.

  His fingers danced up the sides of her neck, and then with a gentle nudge he made her bend her head to the left, exposing the right side of her throat. There was something primal about it—baring her neck before a male who was larger and stronger than her, undeniably a predator.

  She shivered, and knew that he could see the gooseflesh on her chest.