Ben was contemplating sub choices when a flash of red caught his eye. He swiveled on his barstool to watch the siren in the silk kimono saunter through the room.
Oh hell yeah, his night had just improved tenfold.
She perched on the edge of her barstool, every inch of her so prim and proper Ben’s fingers itched to muss her up.
After he watched her for a few minutes, he asked Murphy, “Who is the hot number in red with Layla?”
“Her name is Angel.”
“Angel,” rolled off his tongue. Perfect name for her. Sipping his beer, he focused entirely on her. Lush body, lush mouth. Great smile. Expressive eyes. She was off-the-scale sexy in his opinion. So why the hell was the woman wearing a wig? Not a subtle one, but a sleekly styled black wig, the last inch of hair dyed candy-apple red. Was she trying to look dangerous? Hip? Naughty?
Be interesting to coax the truth from her. Some very interesting extraction techniques popped into Ben’s head.
She must’ve sensed him staring at her because she turned and met his gaze head on. Their eyes remained locked for several long moments as Ben waited for her to lower her gaze—as he was accustomed. But she returned his intense eye-fuck full bore until Layla demanded her attention.
Holy shit. Dismissive wasn’t a reaction Ben usually got, especially not in here. And that intrigued the hell out of him. Casually, he said to Murphy, “Introduce me to her.”
Murphy sighed. “She’s not for you.”
“Why not? Has she already picked someone for tonight?”
Ben faced Murphy. “Then exactly what’s the problem?”
A devious smile appeared. “She’s not here as a sub.”
“She’s a guest?” Ben frowned.
“She’s here as special entertainment?” That’d explain her wacky get-up. Some clubs in bigger cities had themed nights where members dressed up. Cody and Trace had threatened to try it at the Rawhide, but Ben secretly didn’t believe that’d fly in Gillette, Wyoming. Then again, he hadn’t been around to voice his opinion in the last month.
“No,” Murphy said. “And she’s not here to bartend, waitress or clean the bar.”
Which left one other possibility but Ben couldn’t wrap his head around it. “She’s here as a…Domme?” After Murphy nodded, Ben’s jaw dropped. “No. Fucking. Way. A Domme. In the Rawhide.”
“And you know she’s had experience as a Domme?”
The woman’s defiant stare-down notwithstanding, Ben demanded, “How much?”
That hard look entered Murphy’s eyes. “I’ve told you as much as I can, Bennett—” he emphasized Ben’s preferred official club title, “—the rest you’ll have to get from her. And you know the rules since you had a heavy hand establishing them, so tread lightly. I have no issue throwing your ass out if you think you’re above the rules.”
As designated club head master, Murphy screened all applicants thoroughly. He kept the club balanced with the ratio of Doms to subs. He ran the club with an iron fist and a closed mouth. Which sucked balls right now, because Ben wanted to know everything about this supposed Domme.
Of course the goddamn rules came back to bite him in the ass the one time he needed to break one. Besides the first rule—everything that happened in the Rawhide Club was consensual—and the second rule—complete confidentiality and discretion among all members inside and outside the club—there was a third rule that stated—the members who wanted to publicly or privately play decided their own roles within the club: dominant, submissive or switch. Each designation had its own power and demanded its own respect.
But then again…the fourth rule—you pay, you play—meant if she came to the club on a regular night, then she was expected to participate.
Oh hell yeah. He could totally push that rule if it came down to it.
“I don’t like the gleam in your eye,” Murphy half-snarled.
How could Murphy see that? Because Ben couldn’t take his eyes off the intriguing Angel. Hot damn. The sensual way she moved screamed of a submissive enticing a Dom, not a confident Domme luring an entranced sub.
“Bennett?” Murphy prompted. “Are you even listening to me?”
Ben drained his beer. “I wanna play with her.”