Dom-Com

Chapter One Rae

CHAPTER ONE

Rae

I CAN’T POSSIBLY DO another walk-by. At some point, I’ve got to just bite the bullet, march up to the door, and go inside.

Half a block away, I work up the courage and scrub my clammy palms down my thighs. Be Mimi in Rent, I think, the way I always do when I need to kick my butt in gear. Forget regret and just move on. Okay. This is it.

I eye the building as I make my final approach.

It’s pretty. Red brick. Originally a warehouse, I’d guess, like most of its neighbors, with lots of big windows, mostly dark now.

The comedy club on the ground floor is open for Friday-night business, judging from the sickly green cast of its neon sign and the stink of cheap beer.

Where I’m headed—if I can make myself take that final step—is in the basement.

Off the Cuff, it’s called, though there’s no visible sign.

I like the name. It feels right in a way I can’t entirely describe.

Sexy, but also not too serious. Like maybe if I get the giggles my first night, they won’t run me out of town and cross my name off the permanent, forever, etched-in-stone kinky person list.

I concentrate hard on taking one step after another, regretting the stilettos I finally chose. Yes, they’re cute, but limping into a BDSM club for the first time with a blister and a sprained ankle isn’t exactly the look I’m going for.

I’m maybe five yards away when I catch the eye of the bouncer standing in the alcove between the comedy club’s plate glass window and Off the Cuff’s wholly unremarkable front door.

She’s wearing all black with the requisite earpiece and that bland, vigilant look I remember from the few times my friends and I ventured out to dance in college. Before I met Brendan and became—

Nope. Not thinking about the ex tonight. Tonight is for me. My night. There’s no room for thoughts of Brendan and the way he’d steel himself before going down, like a man headed into a burning building instead of a guy about to give oral sex to his girlfriend.

No room for thoughts of work and how the new mystery consultant—Grant Bowman—is dragging us all back into the office on Monday, after three years of doing fine working from home.

Just thinking about it is giving me anxiety.

Three years of never once having to remove old tuna fish sandwiches from the break room fridge or telling Dani down in graphics that roasting lamb in an Instant Pot on her desk isn’t workplace-appropriate or figuring out how to politely let Stinky Phil know that he’s got to leave his shoes on in the office or risk general mutiny.

Three years of work-from-home bliss brought to a screeching halt by Grant Bowman, the executive consultant ostensibly brought in to “help us transition back to the office,” which is one hell of a vicious cycle if you ask me.

I’ve got a real bad feeling about the man. Like that indescribable, life-changing, Something wicked this way comes bad.

It’s half the reason I’m here tonight. To let off steam and face my fears and just bite the bullet and do this one thing I’ve dreamed of for so long.

So that’s it. No thinking about exes or the office or checking the family chat or asking Dad for the umpteenth time if he’s taken his meds. None of it.

In fact, there will be no thinking allowed at all beyond this point. Nothing but me and this Friday-night foray into my fantasy world.

A car honks a few feet away, and I look up, startled to see that I’ve reached the door. The bouncer leans against the wall, staring at me with a look that says she knows exactly why I’m here.

To be dominated by a stranger. And maybe even to do some sexy stuff while I’m at it.

Oh no. What was I thinking? I can’t do this.

Doing my best to pretend I stopped randomly, I tap my phone and walk on, opening apps like I mean it. Nothing to see here. Just a busy woman in a trench coat, tiny little dress, and killer heels, being busy, busy, busy. Not even a little interested in what’s happening beyond that sleek silver door.

A group of fratty guys charge past, smelling like booze and AXE body spray.

One of them bumps my shoulder, and my phone flies from my hand to land on the cobblestones directly in front of the club.

My indignant yelp is eaten up by a wave of bro laughter, and of course—of course—Siri chooses that moment to scream at the top of her lungs, “I’m sorry, Rae.

I didn’t quite catch that. Do you mean Pops and Stuff on Broad Street or Off the Cuff on Cary Street? ”

Busted.

Resisting the urge to bolt, I pick up the phone with as much grace as the heels and too-short dress allow.

“Done scoping us out?” One side of the bouncer’s mouth kicks up to make her look only slightly less stoic. She’s got Ilona Maher’s tall, wide, intimidating stance. A woman used to being obeyed.

I shiver. “Guess so.”

“Your recon skills could use some work.”

“Yeah. I figured.” I scuff one heel to the sidewalk, feeling exactly like a little kid caught doing something naughty.

“You already registered?”

“Yes.”

“Name?”

“Jensen.”

She pulls out a phone, checks something, and nods. “Need to take a few more laps or—”

“I’m good.”

“All right.”

When she doesn’t immediately move, I experience a moment’s panic that I overlooked a secret passcode or the complex handshake that everyone in the fetish world must learn in order to get into their clubs. After a beat, she shifts over to press a finger against a keypad.

The door opens. A sliver of warm light spills onto the cobblestones.

“I’m Harlow. She/her.” She twists to hold the door for me, in the process baring a black BDSM triskelion tattoo inked into the skin behind her right ear.

Not just a bouncer then. Maybe a member too.

“Welcome to Off the Cuff.” She grins, momentarily dropping the bouncer persona.

“Unless you were actually looking for Pops and Stuff.”

Snorting, I step past her and wait for the door to close with a solid finality before leaning against it and just breathing.

It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust to the light, which is low, though nowhere near as dark as I’d imagined.

I expected a moody, industrial vibe or a gothic vampire’s den with reds and blacks.

Definitely not the warm gray painted brick walls or these artfully tarnished sconces casting an almost-natural light over the wide hardwood steps.

Slowly, I make my way down, expecting the floor to shake under my feet with some heavy bass and an occasional scream or two rising from the dungeon’s depths. If nothing else, I brace myself for a smell.

When I get to the bottom, I look around and decide that this place isn’t seedy or gross at all. It’s really nice. It smells expensive, like something floral and spicy.

There’s a little seating area with a sofa and two big chairs upholstered in a warm cognac, inviting me to come in and get cozy.

Beyond it is a desk, where a very pale-skinned platinum blonde sits, wearing a patterned bustier and one of those tiny hats with a veil.

A fascinator, I think it’s called. “You joining us tonight?”

“Yes.” I move in, noting the low, tasteful thrum of music, electronic but somehow vintage-sounding. A dark, sensuous tango. “I um, registered for a guest night? And paid online. It’s…” Crap, am I supposed to give my real name? “Uh… Jensen.”

“Rae! I’m Mistress Daff.” She stands up, clapping. “So, so excited to meet you. I did your intake.” She towers at least a foot and a half above me, her thick, perfectly shaped eyebrows animated as she talks. “We’ve got so many Doms in tonight, my friend. It’s a veritable smorgasbord up in here.”

“Really?” My nerves ramp up, buzzing through to the tips of my fingers.

“You’ll have the pick of the litter,” she says with a low giggle.

I blink, feeling almost outside of my body for a second as I imagine what that would look like. Doms everywhere. Big ones, little ones, mean ones, nice ones. On a rock. In a sock. With a—

Whoa. Simmer down, Jensen.

“You know it’s Dom/sub speed dating this evening, right?”

“Oh, wow. No. I didn’t.”

“Ah. Well, you’re in for a treat. Come on, lovely. Let’s get you squared away.”

I hand over my phone—which isn’t allowed inside—along with my jacket and purse. I don’t get a tag or a number in return. This club, apparently, is too posh for that.

“Your intake says you’re a sub, cis, looking for men. Has that changed?”

“Oh, yeah. I mean, no change.”

“Pronouns?” Daff asks.

“Oh. Um. She/her is fine. And you?”

She shows me the back of her hand, where it says She/her in red. “Want a stamp?”

“Sure.”

I watch as she presses the ink to my skin, excitement fizzing through me like bubbles.

“If you could just sign this waiver?”

The slight shake to my hand makes my regular signature look like a five-year-old’s. Oh well. No one’s seeing that anyway. One big selling point on the club’s website is how cutting-edge their security apparently is, both physical and online. My identity is safe here.

“What do we call you?”

“I don’t know.” Oh, right. I need a kink name. Something that represents me, but I don’t even know who I am at this point. “I hadn’t planned on anything. I’m just curious, you know?”

“Newbie sub… Alice? Like Wonderland? Or just, like Ray? Ray of Sunshine? Or, oh, hey, how about Little Miss Sunshine? No, no, no, I got it. Sunny! That works, right?”

“Sunny,” I repeat under my breath, feeling a little less like a fraud under Daff’s care. “I like that.”

“Here you go, lovely.” She hands me a matte black name tag. In silver, she’s written:

SUNNY–SUB

MEN

BE NICE, I’M NEW.

“Oh, here’s a copy of the checklist you filled out on our website. In case you decide to share it during speed dating. Sometimes helps to know right away if someone’s a match.”

“Oh, great idea.” The club provided eight pages of wants and maybes and hell, nos to go through before I could even sign up for tonight.

I look down at the list, my eyes snagging on Blindfold (yes), skipping to Breast Bondage (maybe), Cages (hard no), Collars (maybe), and then on down to Spanking (yes) before I meet Daff’s gaze again.

“Alrighty then. Come on, Sunny.” She pushes through a heavy steel door. “Let’s find you the Dom of your dreams.”