Lean on me

Not an empty bar stool in sight. Suppressing a groan, Andrea Eriksson shifted her weight

to the other foot and wiggled her cramped toes. Whatever demon invented stiletto-heeled boots

should roast in hell.

Then again, some people would probably think the Tampa BDSM club was hell. A trickle

of sweat ran down her back under the biker jacket. It was definitely hot enough for hell.

She should have stayed home, taken a long bubble bath with music, turned on some Enya,

and enjoyed her cozy apartment. Her haven, far away from the slums, and rented with her own

money.

But no. She wanted to be here at this downtown BDSM club. Kind of. Unfortunately, she'd

already walked through the place twice, checking out the possible Doms. Only two had that

ultimately confident look of authentic Doms, and both had submissives with them already.

Sipping her Diet Coke, she gazed at the nearby scene where a gray-haired man in a suit

stood in front of a slender woman restrained on a St. Andrew's cross. He tapped a cane on his

leg, just standing and waiting while his sub quivered in expectation. The sub's eyes never left the

Dom.

A tremor ran through Andrea. He controlled the scene, himself, and his sub completely.

She wanted to be that sub, to be the one who'd given up control, who trusted someone enough to

do that.

“You like the scene?”

Andrea startled, and her drink sloshed over her hand. Shaking her fingers dry, she took a

step back from a Dom who'd eyed her earlier. “Uh. Hi. What did you ask?”

“Do you like to be spanked?”

Spanked. Held down. A big hand swatting her bare bottom. A heady anticipation ran up

her body, followed by caution. Over the past month, none of the scenes she'd done with Doms

had worked out. Please let this guy be better.

A few years younger than she, maybe early twenties, the Dom wore latex jeans and a black

T-shirt. He looked confident, but she didn't get any sense of the kind of absolute authority that

would demand her submission.

Is it really too much to ask for instant domination?

“Well…” she hedged. If she said yes, and he tried to order her around without being able

to pull it off, then she'd end up smarting off and defying him. She knew all too well how

embarrassing that got.

“Let's talk a bit.” He grasped her forearm.

She knocked his hand away and winced at his annoyed expression. “Sorry,” she said. “Too

much karate when I was young.” Why couldn't she get over these reactions? She wanted to submit, wanted someone to just take her over. The thought made her needy and hot, but this kind

of place—filled with guys on the make—brought back too many memories and brought out all

her defenses. Papa had trained her too well. Don't let them grab you. Don't let them corner you.

The best defense is a good offense.

“No problem. I make a lot of submissives nervous.” His chest puffed out.

Oh, Dios. Stuck on yourself a little?

Ignoring the way the Dom tried to hold her eyes, she glanced around the club. Tampa's

Goth contingent was well represented with heavy-handed makeup and bizarrely spiked hair.

Piercings and tattoos decorated the most unlikely and intimate places. Ouch. Farther toward the

back, people crowded around a flogging scene.

“I'd like to put you on a spanking bench,” he said. “I think you'll get off on it.”

She turned to him, hoping, wanting, to feel a sinking feeling inside, the funny something

that made her want to just say yes, and nothing happened. He wasn't the one for her. “Thank you,

but no.”

How did anyone ever find a good match in a place like this?

She gave the Dom a polite smile and walked out of the club. Antonio should show soon;

she might as well meet him outside.

Pulling her leather jacket closer against the depression creeping through her, she trudged to

her van in the nearby parking lot. A stone blocked her path, and she kicked it out of the way with

her stupid, painful boots. It just wasn't fair. Other women didn't have so much trouble finding a

Dom. And she'd watched some Doms that she'd turned down, and they handled other

submissives easily.

Maybe the problem is me.

The moist March air brushed against her face, bringing a tang of the sea with the usual

Tampa rush-hour fumes. Pacing back and forth, she watched two women enter the club. A

couple holding hands walked out. And finally, Antonio's red Camaro hummed into the parking

lot and slid into an empty space. Antonio popped out. “Hey, you. Why aren't you inside?”

A piece of trash caught her eye. She picked the paper up, crumpled it viciously, and threw

it in a nearby garbage can. “I didn't find anybody who”— who I would bow my head to—“who I

wanted to play with.”

“Fussy, fussy.” He frowned at her. A streetlight flickered indecisively, highlighting his

face like a strobe. “Poor chiquita. Why aren't you into an easier kink, maybe ménages or public

sex?”

“Darned if I know.” The night air had chilled, and Andrea hugged herself. “Why aren't you

all dominant so I wouldn't have to jump through hoops to meet someone? And you might be up

straight too. Straight would be good.”

She leaned beside him on the car, her arm brushing his companionably. Her best friend

since she could remember. At five, they'd gone on crusades with sticks as their swords, and a

battered tricycle from a dumpster as their horse. At fifteen, when he came out, she had wiped the

pavement with anyone who gave him grief. After he finished college, he'd moved here from

Miami, becoming an unofficial member of her huge family.

“I am who I am.” He grinned and tugged one of her curls. “But I still have trouble

believing you're submissive. You've never let anyone boss you around. Are you sure?"“'Fraid so.” After reading a romance with BDSM in it, she'd talked a boyfriend into trying

it. “Submitting is different in”—her face heated—“in…with sex. Going to bed with most guys is

as exciting as making love with—well, a brother or something. Blah, you know? Remember

when you realized you were gay? You said, 'This is why nothing worked for me before. I need

this.' Well, that's what it was like for me with BDSM. When someone tells me to do something

and can make it stick, I go all melty inside.”

He snorted. “And if they don't make it stick, you probably take them apart, Rambolita.”

“I just—”I just want to meet the right man, one who can give me that shiver deep down

inside. How can I ever fall in love with someone who doesn't make me feel that? “I… Well, it

doesn't matter, does it? I've tried everything—clubs and groups, and haven't found anyone. Not

even close.”

“Oh, don't give up yet.” Antonio lit a cigarette and studied the glowing end for a second.

“On that list of clubs you made, you eliminated one. The private club outside of town.”

“The Shadowlands, where the membership fee would require an entire year's salary and

my firstborn child? I can't do that.” The momentary hope died.

“Maybe you can.”

“Earth to Antonio… I own a cleaning business, not a Fortune 500 company.”

“I'm not senile.” He drew on his cigarette before explaining. “A guy there owes me a

favor.”

“Really?” A private club. More experienced people, more protection. She stared at

Antonio.

He stared back, lifting his eyebrows.

Dios, she hated needing others to have to help her, even Antonio. “He'd overlook a

membership fee?”

Antonio tossed the cigarette on the ground and stepped on it. “Not exactly. The guy is in

charge of the trainees, and they don't pay the fees. I'll try to have him to take you as one.” He

frowned at her. “But being a trainee might be a hell of a lot more intense than you want.”

It meant she would really be under orders and not able to pick and choose. Her mouth went

dry, but her chin went up. “Do it.”In the middle of setting up the bar, Cullen looked up at the sound of the clubroom door

opening. Right on.