Page 13 of Forbidden Mistress

Working in a sex club might prove more challenging than I thought it might. I take a deep breath and try to summon some strength and courage.

Ms. Lawrence stops at a door at the end of the hallway and turns to me. “You will be assigned to this room, and this room only. When you come for your shifts, this is where you will meet your host, Hart.”

I nod to show my understanding, glancing at the glossy black door. There’s no number on it or anything. “Oh, okay. Um…” I glance back down the hallway. “So just to be clear…I won’t be expected to participate in any of the…” I search for the right word, “...activities. Correct?”

Ms. Lawrence nods. “That’s correct. You will serve Hart as his assistant hostess. But no physical touch is required of you, both on the giving and receiving end. You’ll be assisting him in his activities but not participating unless you state your verbal consent to do so without being coerced in any way.”

I swallow, still a little doubtful. I mean this is a sex club, and I guess I technically work here now. I filled out all the paperwork. But the second someone touches me, I’m out the door. I don’t need a job that badly.

“Is there any kind of dress code?” I ask.

“That is for your host to decide,” she says.

I nod once. I have my boundaries, and I resolve to hold firm to those. No nudity, no touching and absolutely nothing degrading.

Turning back to the door, she knocks once. When there’s no response, she opens the door, then steps aside, allowing me to walk past her, into the room. As I step over the threshold, I’m expecting…well, I don’t know what I’m expecting exactly, but the room is empty, and I release the breath that had been trapped in my lungs.

Why am I so relieved?

“Have a seat. Hart should be here shortly. There’s an in-house phone on the wall in case of any problem whatsoever.” Ms. Lawrence says before leaving, clicking the door shut behind her.

I take a split second to glance around the dimly lit room. I’m in a bedroom, I guess. There’s a beautiful wooden four-poster and curtained bed raised on a platform in the center of the room. Nearby there is a single chair and a large gilded mirror mounted on the ceiling. There’s another mirror that spans the entire length of the back wall. On the adjacent wall, there’s another door, a small marble sink, and a large mahogany wardrobe. All in all, for such a large room, it’s fairly sparsely furnished. Elegant, but definitely minimal.

I’m standing there for several minutes before a door on the westward-facing wall opens and a dark figure steps inside the room with me. My breath catches in my throat, and on instinct, my entire body tenses up.

It’s him. Lucien.

At the masquerade, he wore a Green Man mask. Today, he’s wearing a full-face stag mask that covers his entire face, framed by antlers and all.

He’s wearing black slacks, a black belt, dress shoes, and nothing else. His chest is bare, and fuck, he’s beautiful, perfectly sculpted. He has a large tattoo covering his muscular shoulder, bicep, and part of his chest that depicts a stag with intricate Celtic knotwork as part of its face and antlers. It’s incredibly detailed and beautiful.

Instinctively, and without immediately realizing what I’m doing, I touch the necklace that rests at the base of my throat, right where my collarbones meet. It’s cold and heavy there and bears more than a passing resemblance to that tattoo.

I step forward, my heels clicking on the black marble floor. “Lucien?”

He says nothing. Just stares at me for a second, then undoes his buckle and unthreads it from his pants, pulling it free with a flourish.

Oh. Kay.

Oh, wait, Ms. Lawrence did say we had to use pseudonyms here. Maybe that’s the reason he’s being so weird, because I called him by his name instead of by his pseudonym?

I swallow, fear rushing through my veins. Ms. Lawrence said I wouldn’t be expected to do anything physical, and I suddenly wonder if he got that memo. He’s eyeing me like a lion sizes up a piece of fresh steak.

We stand for several seconds like that, staring at each other. My gaze is locked on him, heart hammering in fight-or-flight mode. Like predator and prey. I don’t dare say anything else lest I put my foot in my mouth again. Just when I’ve convinced myself to bolt for the door, it opens of its own volition, and a gorgeous dark-haired woman walks through wearing a white bunny costume—complete with whiskered mask capped by floppy ears, white thigh-high stockings, a skimpy leotard, and white fuzzy heels. She’s about the same height, build and coloring as me. Her curves are incredible, and she owns the space with all the confidence I wish I had.

She struts in and closes the door behind her, not even sparing me a glance. She’s completely focused on the man dominating the room around him. As she passes me, I notice something in her hand. A black leather whip. Lucien—or rather, Hart—steps toward her, and the woman meets him halfway. He’s facing me, and I can see her back as she kneels in front of him, holding out the whip on her open palms, like she’s presenting him with a gift.

What. The. Fuck?

I watch, riveted to the scene as he takes the whip from her hands and commands, “Stand. Turn around,” in that thick, British accent I remember from the masquerade.

Without a word, the woman does as instructed.

“Good girl,” he says in a deep voice that slithers through my veins. “Now, bend over the bed.”

Again, without a word, she ascends the two steps to the top of platform and lowers her torso onto the mattress, bending at the waist, so that her ass is exposed to him. He steps up to her and reaches down to smooth his hand over the smooth globes. “You were late,” he says sternly.

Her quivering tone comes a second later, though I can’t tell if it’s from fear or anticipation. “I apologize, Master.”

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