Page 19 of Healing the Heart

“What’s Eric planning to do about that?”

“He’s got a few events planned later this month. You should find you a permanent sub. You’re not getting any younger.”

“Thanks for the observation. Jet lag adds ten years, so I’m told.” His attempt to deflect failed.

“I’m serious. It’s been what, four or five years since—”

“No offense, old friend, but I’m not in the mood for relationship advice. That’s not why I sit at the bar.”

He took a step back, throwing his hands up in surrender. “Okay, but don’t say I didn’t warn you. Unless you don’t mind switching teams or being the third, fourth, or fifth wheel, you’ll be disappointed. When I left the dungeon about an hour ago, subspace was nearly empty.”

“Thanks for the heads-up,” he said over his shoulder as he strode for the dungeon entrance.

Despite nearly twenty hours of sound sleep, he felt the fatigue in his bones with every step. Yeah, staying home would have been the smart thing to do. And the result would be the same—getting intimate with his right palm—and he wouldn’t have had to drive a half hour to do it.

NO MATTER HOW MANYtimes he’d been here or how many years under his belt as a dominant, whenever he walked into the dungeon, he always had the same visceral reaction. As he pushed open the heavy doors, a rush of excitement coursed through his veins. It had been a month since he last set foot in this sanctuary of desire, and he could already feel the familiar pull as his dominant instincts awakened.

His eyes adjusted to the dimly lit room. The flickering wall sconces casting dancing shadows on the walls were in contrast to the ceiling spotlights illuminating the stations in a beam of light. The top in any scene could dim them with a floor switch, but few chose to do so. You couldn’t flog what you couldn’t see. And what red-blooded dom worth his or her salt didn’t enjoy seeing his partner’s reaction, from the rise and fall of their chest, tothe color change of their skin, whether flushed with excitement or from a flogger. Even better, when sex was part of the scene, to watch the quivering, wet, glistening, and sometimes puckered holes they were fucking?

As he moved deeper into the cavernous room, he could barely hear the music over the symphony of moans, gasps, thwacks, slaps, and whooshes that served as a backdrop to the erotic scenes.

A quick glance at the subbie couches proved Samson’s warning true. They were empty except for a bare-chested male who looked to be in negotiations with Mistress Jillian. He didn’t recognize the twenty-something sub, but he was in for either the night of his life or a rude awakening with the domme whose reputation for strictness and little mercy was legendary in the club. His protective instincts rose to the surface, but he tamped them down. If he didn’t like her brand of dominance, he could shout red to the rafters. If he did, the sub would likely walk out of here, or, knowing Jillian, crawl out with a huge smile on his face.

As he walked the circuit, the scent of leather and sweat, mixed with faint hints of soap and body wash, enveloped him, mingling with the heady aroma of arousal. It was a scent he knew intimately, one that had become etched into his memory over the years. The combination of leather and desire was intoxicating, a potent aphrodisiac that never failed to awaken his senses.

He recalled the days before Eric’s directive—no heavy perfumes and colognes. Some members had asthma or allergies, others were sensitive, but the combination of upward of a thousand different scents released by heated skin was too much for just about everyone, and people complained.

Noah’s gaze swept the room, his attention drawn to the submissives tightly bound and on display. As a doctor, he found the human body fascinating. As a man, the beauty of the femaleform captivated him, in all its variations. But as a dominant, he had a particular fondness for softness and curves, which were immensely pleasurable to bind, spank, and have pressed intimately against him.

As he strolled, he stayed on the lookout for glossy, caramel-kissed brown hair and rounded curves. Before he flew out, only days after the incident, he called to check on Fiona, but she didn’t answer and never returned his call. He’d worried about her, recalling her tear-streaked cheeks and heartrending cries of fear and pain, and her terrified shouts of “red.”

She’d said never again. If that was her decision, he laid the blame squarely at Jordan’s feet. His hands curled into fists, his desire to get in a few more punches still simmering below the surface.

He stopped to watch a threesome. The man, obviously the dominant, had bound two submissive women, naked, inside a frame, facing one another. Pressed together from breasts to thighs, the strap around their waists keeping them that way. Noah heard the telltale buzz of a wand. Correction, wands—between their spread legs—one for each pussy. The open-mouthed kisses they shared muffled their cries of pleasure as their dom, who circled them constantly, expertly employed a dragon’s tongue.

In his almost twenty years as a dom, Noah had tried out everything he used on a submissive. He believed a dom shouldn’t dish it out until he experienced it. The suede lash could crack like a whip and bite like one too. The memory of its fiery kiss searing his skin was still vivid years later. He’d endured it rather than reveling in it as these two subs did. Receiving wasn’t his thing, but he was grateful he found enough submissive women for whom it was.

After thirty minutes, with nothing and no one appealing to him, he returned to the lounge for a beer, his second. Maybe athird, which would make the playroom and any sub that caught his eye off-limits. He just wasn’t in the mood. Unless it was a curvy little brunette with a delectable round ass and beautiful but shuttered brown eyes.

There was a story there. More than a prick of a dom who’d taken things way too far. Maybe one day he’d hear it from her. Not today though. There was no sign of Fiona, and he was just too damn tired.

Instead of a seat at the bar, and more grilling from Sam, he joined a group of his friends in the lounge. Except for Axyl Tavares, a Rossi man from San Antonio who had been helping routinely of late, it was all couples. Eric and Val, Keiran and Esme, and Flynn Dalton, a SEALs commander from Coronado, who had his cute-as-a-button petite wife cuddled up in his lap. Judging by the drowsy, contented smile on her face, they had already enjoyed the amenities of the playroom.

“Good to have you back, Doc,” Keiran exclaimed warmly in greeting. “Did your mission go well?”

“It went as planned,” he replied. “The well part remains to be seen. Most of the kids have months of rehab ahead of them before we can call our efforts a success.”

“I admire you,” the Rossi director said, his voice filled with genuine admiration. “Not everyone would give so unselfishly of their time.”

Like his encounter with Sam at the bar, he felt awkward at the praise. He never thought twice of giving back when he had such abundance. Not knowing quite what to say, he quickly changed the subject.

He looked at Val, asking what had been nagging at him for weeks. “How’s Fiona?”

She shrugged, her smile turning into a bit of a pout. “I wouldn’t know. She has returned none of my calls since ending her membership.”

Axyl who’d been watching a rather amorous couple on the dance floor, refocused on the conversation at the mention of her. He sat up at attention and exclaimed, “The hell you say! Fiona quit the club?”

“How do you know Fiona? You’re from Texas,” Noah asked more sharply than he intended, drawing curious looks from both Eric and Keiran.

---