Page 28 of Dare to Love Again

Master Tristan, the sixth and final dominant on her list, was a tall, lean, handsome-as-sin lady-killer with twinkling blue eyes, and shoulder-length sandy-blond hair, who looked a lot like Brad Pitt in hisLegend of the Falldays. She’d had to wait until he finished his DM shift in the main playroom to speak with him.

He was one of the club masters, a title given to well-respected, experienced dominants, both male and female, who took on added responsibilities in the club and were leaders in their BDSM community. Most sat on either the membership committee or advisory council, some mentored new doms or taught classes, and most took their turn as dungeon monitors. The possibility that Master Tristan might say yes both thrilled and terrified Esme, but in the end, he declined like all the others.

“Sorry, princess,” he told her in a low, growly voice. “You’re lovely and the idea of playing with you is tempting, but I prefer a sub whose interest in me is more than a pathway to membership.”

Disheartened and on the verge of tears, Esme trudged toward the exit. Out of options, she resigned herself to losing her membership and never setting foot in the club again. Instead of leaving immediately, she made a detour and headed for the bar, hoping to numb the pain of her battered ego with a stiff drink.

By her calculations, the club owed her a backlog of drinks, at least two per night for the past twelve weeks. She planned to drink her fill and make up for her teetotaling ways before ordering an Uber ride home.

She slid onto a stool with shoulders slumped and her head hung low. Where did she go from here?

“It’s about time you graced my bar, little girl.”

The unexpected, big booming voice made Esme jump. She quickly regained her composure and looked up at the big, burly, barrel-chested man, shocked she hadn’t heard him approach.

“What gives?” the bartender asked as he leaned his elbows on the bar, his eyes scanning her up and down as if assessing her worthiness to be in the club. “You a teetotaler or something?”

“No, sir. I’ll have a vodka gimlet, no ice. And since I’m obviously not playing tonight, make it a double.”

“You got a way home?” he asked sharply.

“I’ll Uber.”

“Don’t trust ’em. Heard all sorts of wild tales.”

“That’s how I got here, sir.”

“Hmph.” He turned and reached up to the top shelf and pulled down a bottle of Grey Goose.

“The cheap stuff is fine,” she told him. “I’m not picky.”

He jerked and made an affronted face like she’d spit on him. “Now I know you haven’t been to my bar. Look around you, subbie. Decadence doesn’t cut corners, and I don’t do cheap drinks.”

“I’m sure she meant nothing by it, Master Samson,” a woman taking the stool beside her told the bartender.

He grunted again and slid her drink in front of her then moved away to serve a few other new arrivals.

“Don’t mind him. He’s been the bar manager since the place opened and prides himself on stocking only the best. Most of his customers expect it, too.”

The pretty blonde offered her hand, her lively blue eyes gleaming with interest. “I’m Val.”

“Master Eric’s Val?”

“That would be me,” she said with a smile. “My reputation precedes me it seems. All good, I hope.”

“Your husband gave me your business card.”

Her smooth brows slammed together in a frown. “I know. He told me you might call.”

She hadn’t, and both of them knew it.

Esme looked away and sucked back half her drink then shuddered. Maybe a double wasn’t a good idea.

“Despite his high-handed ways, Eric means well, Esmerelda. He takes an interest in everyone here at the club, but he seemed especially concerned about you. Losing a spouse can be devastating; I know that firsthand. That’s all he shared, however. Anymore is for you to say.”

“It’s Esme.”

“Pardon?”