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Did it sting? Was it a thud feeling? With the way her body jolted—the still picture somehow captured movement in a magical way—it had to have been quite the impact. Liz wondered what sort of mark it would have left. Would it have been a welt or just a red mark?

An open hand spanking and a paddle had to be two different sensations. While she’d experienced the former plenty of times, the latter nope. She’d witnessed plenty of reactions to both, and they were never the same. Not to mention the sounds were anything but similar.

The more she stared, the more questions came to mind, and the more her body heated as she speculated what it would have felt like to have been the person on that bench. The pain, the helplessness. The inability to move while someone struck her with a paddle in public—she inhaled audibly as she squeezed her own ass, digging her fingers in.

Unable to pull her eyes off the image, she built the narrative in her head. She imagined this unknown dominant, this unnamed man disciplining her for some unknown discretion and it made her squeeze her thighs together, desperate for friction. Her nipples pebbled against the thin fabric of her tank top, begging for attention. Her core heated—swirling with need for this imaginary dominant she conjured in her mind.

She’d never been paddled before, but seeing that image—fuck, she wanted to be.

Chapter 11

Dash

Two weeks later

The muffled sound of the party down the hall outside of Clark’s office annoyed Dash more than it tempted him to go out and join. He and Clark had spent the last three weeks with the club secretary and accountants ensuring all their businesses appeared above the board. Their tax filings were straight, and no one would be caught with their pants down.

As far as their non-aboveboard activities, they had two contracts left outstanding. Mooky, a club Enforcer, was closing a job in Florida. He’d be on the road tomorrow. Apparently, the guy liked to ride his bike to his jobs regardless of the distance. Far be it from Dash to deny anyone a long ride.

“What’s up with prospects and hang arounds?” Dash asked as he thumbed through some files.

Odin’s Fury, Montana had a decent tech guy who did background checks for all the chapters. They wanted to know everything they could about who they considered letting into the club.

Clark scrubbed his hands up and down his face. “Dale’s too green.” He said of the tall, skinny guy who looked like he’d never be able to get his bike up if he laid it down. “Been at it three months. He’s at the door, he handles that okay. I can’t bring him in on anything more serious just yet.”

“Cut him?” Dash suggested. Not everyone had what it took to be a biker.

Clark sighed. “You hear that.” He pointed to the door. “I have a full fucking clubhouse. We spent a fuck ton on booze. You walk through, and it ain’t just tits and patches out there. There are guys interested.” He shook his head. “Something’s going on.”

Dash took out a cigarette as he considered it. Sitting back in the chair, he rested the smoke on his lip and didn’t light it. Most men who came to something like this wanted in on it. It was one thing to visit the bar and drink with bikers. Going to a strip club owned by bikers, most didn’t know, but when you went to their clubhouse, there was definite interest in taking it a step further than just pretending to be a badass. Something didn’t smell right. He’d have to think on it.

“What about the big guy?” he asked.

“Marine vet.” Clark nodded. “Chuckie. Solid. Met him at the Harley dealership. Five months now, not a problem.”

“Whiskey’s coming in today,” Dash said as he lit his cigarette, letting the first few puffs hit him as he tilted his head back. “Gonna pretend to be a hang around, no colors.”

“How’s that gonna work?” Clark asked.

Pulling the butt between his fingers, Dash blew smoke rings. “Prospect from Montana has to bring us some stuff. He’s gonna have his ‘friend’ from Ohio meet up with him for a party at the clubhouse.”

Clark nodded. “How long is Monty loaning him out?”

“Until the job is done, brother.”

It wasn’t a bad clubhouse. It wasn’t a bad club. Most of the men were devoted to the patch. The few that were hesitant were closer to getting on board with each change Clark made. There were more jobs, more contracts, more money, and plenty of pussy. Best of all, they didn’t have to deal with the volatile world of drugs. What more could these guys want? Yet, they seemed to keep it to themselves. They weren’t bringing in fresh blood.

The two of them sat there in relative silence, save for what went on beyond the office, content, it seemed, with their own thoughts. Except for the recruitment problem, the Ohio chapter was well on its way to stability. All Dash had to do was help pick his replacement and he could go home.

“We should go out there.” Clark broke into his thoughts.

“Yeah,” Dash agreed. “Gotta get my ‘stuff’ from my prospect.” In truth, the prospect did actually have things for him. He’d have extra clothes, along with Dash’s toy bag. He’d almost forgotten he’d requested that bag.

“What the fuck are you so happy about?” Clark asked at the door.

“Huh?” Dash asked, taking the cigarette from his lips.

“You look like the damn Cheshire cat with that smile on your face.”

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