Page 6 of Tormented Dreams

Plus, he'd be lying if he said he didn't find her more than a little bit attractive, and his libido was alive and kicking, so no one who saw how hard his dick was - again - was going to believe that! He'd already had to cross his legs to stop himself coming over like a horny perv.

Her hair was a warm honey colour and it settled into a natural style with a slight curl, just above her shoulders. Her breasts were a nice handful. Not too big, not too small, as he'd discovered at the hospital, and her voice had a low, throaty tone, which was, nevertheless, perfectly assured.

And his head was bombarded with visions of her on her knees in front of him, arms bound behind her back so that her beautiful breasts thrust forward, and with her pretty pink lipped mouth open and ready to receive his cock.

He had to stop himself from groaning out loud at the mental pictures he was creating, so he covered his reaction with action, leaning forward and taking an exclusive Club Risqué businesscard from the silver monogrammed case he kept locked in his desk drawer.

Scribbling something on the back, he offered Grace a business card for the second time in as many days.

"Here, take this," he prompted. "The dungeon is open from Thursday to Saturday, and I am usually there after 9 pm on Fridays and Saturdays unless an emergency comes up. As long as I'm present at the club, you will be granted entry even if I'm not with you, as long as you present this card. That way, you don't have to commit to anything, and you have plenty of time to consider your options."

"I don't know what to say," Grace murmured, rising to her feet as Xavier did the same, hoping that his trousers weren't tenting too noticeably.

"You don't have to say anything." He smiled, flashing a rare dimple and white teeth that looked all the brighter against his tanned complexion. "Just thank me by keeping yourself safe and not putting yourself in a position where you're forced to visit the ER again."

CHAPTER FIVE

Grace paced the living room of her elegant, understated apartment the following Saturday, card in hand, alternately staring at it and tapping it against her lips as she padded almost silently over her solid oak floor in her bare feet.

The same thoughts had been whirling around her head for the past five days. She couldn't deny her intrigue—with Dr. Xavier Diaz, as much as with Club Risqué itself. Maybe more!

What sort of Dom was he? Yes, that was the big question that everything kept coming back to. Sure, she was attracted to him, and maybe the strength of that attraction was enough for her to scene with him a time or two. But the truth was, Grace wanted to settle down. Her body clock was ticking, and at thirty-nine, she felt—hell, she knew—she was running out of time to do anything about it.

The big problem? She was a fairly hard-core masochist. She'd been with too many men who didn't understand her preferences. Men who had viewed her as flawed or perverted or sick, even Doms who had believed they could change her. Heck, shewasn't sure she understood it herself, considering her career and what she stood for in the ongoing fight against oppression and subjugation. It was simply the way she was wired.

What she did know, however, was that she needed someone who accepted her the way she was, kink and all, and who could feed into her own mind set. Xavier Diaz had seemed to take her whip marks completely in his stride, and that in itself intrigued her. She hadn't picked up any judgement from him, but that didn't necessarily mean anything beyond the fact that he was a good Dom.

Grace cursed the realisation that she was teasing herself with him. Building him up into the things she wanted him to be rather than what he really was. And that was a dangerous game when what she really needed was a serious sadist.

An unattached sadist, somewhere close to her own age, who wanted to settle down and have a family… Yeah, she was doomed!

Letting out a heavy sigh and running her free hand through her thick, wavy hair, Grace decided, if that really were the case, then she might as well enjoy herself while she had the chance. And what better way than to visit Club Risqué and check out whether the local club was worth the hefty membership fee for the luxury of visiting a venue on her doorstep? Although it was certainly true that she'd reap some of that back in both travel costs and time, as well as in the aftercare she was missing out on right now.

So, really, what was there to lose? She might even find out a little bit more about the delicious Dr. Diaz and whether her fantasies came anywhere close to reality.

With her mind made up, Grace went into her bedroom—the purple boudoir as she liked to think of it, since it was decorated in layers of her favourite deep lilac shades—and pondered what to wear.

Stripping off, she eyed herself critically in the full-length mirror on her wardrobe door. Slim and fit, she was looking damn good for her age. While her breasts might have started to sag ever so slightly, a few character lines adorned her face, and she might not be a spring chicken anymore, she reckoned she could still give the younger generation a good run for their money. Besides, what she lacked in youth, she damn well made up for in experience. And in the hard core sadomasochistic circles in which she thrived, that, at least, meant something.

Nevertheless, her taste in clothes, even fetish wear, ran closer to conservative than non-existent. She was definitely too old for some of the dirty, flirty outfits the younger generation got away with and she accepted that gracefully. If she tried, she'd just end up looking like mutton dressed up as lamb, and that was a place she refused to go, even if it was a mindset more psychological than physical.

Donning a sexy lace thong, Grace wiggled into a black shift dress with a deep vee back. She'd been going braless for the past couple of weeks so that she didn't aggravate the lacerations now they were finally healing nicely, and she was thankful her breasts were still perky enough for her to get away with it. Besides, low back, no bra always drove the men wild, she thought with a satisfied smile as she sat on the bed and pulled on a pair of plain black heels with a distinctive red sole.

Fluffing her hair, Grace kept her makeup light except for the fire engine red lipstick she favoured. With a last look in the mirror, she was ready to go.

Turning and looking over her shoulder so she could see herself from behind, she peered at the whip marks which adorned her back, framed by the fabric of her dress which hung in a loose, liquid fall that highlighted the dimples just above her buttocks.

It was a pity they weren't quite healed, so she wouldn't be able to play, but she wore the marks with a certain pride. They said a lot about who she was without her having to provide a commentary.

Besides, tonight was about scoping the place out, not looking for a suitable sadist. Well, that wasn't exactly true. You could bet your last bank note she'd be taking an interested perusal of any prospective candidates. The very idea had her insides tingling…almost as much as the thought of seeing the delectable doctor again.

CHAPTER SIX

Xavier walked through the creatively lit dungeon at Club Risqué and tried not to tease himself with the idea that Grace Miller might turn up at the club tonight. She hadn't last night, after all, and surely, if she were keen to do so, she would have done it at the earliest opportunity.

He had looked for her the previous evening then berated himself for doing so, since the unexpectedly strong disappointment ended up spoiling his night as a result. He was determined not to do the same again tonight.

Hell! Why was he so interested in whether or not the woman was going to turn up anyway? He barely knew her and had made the invitation in a gesture of good faith. A no strings gesture, at that, so he had no business trying to make anything else out of the situation.

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