Just One Night, Volumes 1-3 Read online

  Glancing at the computer on the far right side of my desk, I contemplate replying to one of the many still unanswered responses to my ad. Surely, a night with another woman will free me from the tight grip of Alyson’s allure.

  Determined, I promptly swivel my chair around toward the computer, click the email icon on my desktop, and proceed to scroll through my messages.

  No… no… Hell no… Ah… Chantal… Perfect.

  ALYSON

  Dressed in a very flattering pale pink dress and ultra-high, fuck-me beige stiletto, I gingerly walk into ‘The Dungeon,’ trying my best not to fall flat on my face in this impossibly tight dress and these sexy but incredibly uncomfortable heels.

  The shit we women go through.

  Shaking my head at the thought, I stroll to the elevator, my heart thumping just as fast and hard as it does every time I return to the sex god’s playground. The anticipation of seeing him again thrills me and causes my pussy to contract, just from the mere memory of feeling him inside me.

  The elevator pings, indicating that I have arrived, and I step out and begin the long walk to the lone door at the end of the hallway.

  This is it, I think, as I reach the door, and, with a shaky hand, open it. He’s either going to tell me to kick rocks and send me home or he’ll accept the proposal I plan to offer him. I haven’t given much thought to how I’ll make my offer exactly, but, in keeping with how I first ended up here at the club, I’m going to wing it.

  How hard can it be to seduce him?

  Before I can ponder it further, I find myself standing in front of the same woman, the hostess, manning the reception desk.

  “Ah, Ms. Lane. I trust that you have been enjoying your time here thus far,” she acknowledges, as I hand her my useless driver’s license—New Yorkers really have no need of them given the bountiful number of subway stations and the many taxi cabs roaming the streets in search of their next fares.

  “I have, thank you,” I acknowledge simply, not wanting to prolong our conversation.

  Scanning the room briefly, I frown when I notice that Blake is nowhere in sight.

  Has he decided not to come here tonight? Tonight of all nights?

  “Here you are, Ms. Lane,” the hostess says, as she hands back my license, after she’s done swiping it into her computer system.

  I place my license back into my clutch before beginning to roam through the room, just as I’ve done each and every night I’ve been here. But this time, I don’t feel the heated and alluring stare of Mr. Blake Hanson upon me, as I make my way through the crowded room, attempting to appear as aloof as possible.

  Stopping in front of one of the exhibits, I gape, wide-eyed, as a sweaty, potbellied man laps away at a tightly restrained brunette. She seems to be enjoying his… what the hell can I call it… oral skills?

  Bile rises in my throat, and I know that I should probably look away, but it’s just one of those things that make you want to poke out your eyes with the first available sharp object, but for some incomprehensible reason, you just can’t seem to tear your eyes away. Gross!

  Shuddering, I move on to the next exhibit, and this one is more pleasant… more erotic, and appropriate, well sort of.

  A tall, slender, blonde woman, dressed completely in shiny leather stands before another woman, who is stretched out over a table on her stomach. Her legs are widespread and the woman standing over her holds a long paddle in her hand. It appears to be made of leather, but I can’t really tell.

  I smile shyly, as I peer at their intimate exchange, knowing precisely what the tall woman will do next. I’ve seen this done in the videos I watched, prior to my date with Blake.

  I wonder if Blake has one of those paddles. Oh, maybe we can role play. I’ll be the high school girl trying to get into a frat party and he can punish me for crashing it. I groan at the thought, remembering how it felt when he spanked me.

  Who am I turning into? I wonder, flushing, as I watch the tall blonde stroke the back of her submissive.

  “Hello. Lane, isn’t it?” I hear, over my shoulder, the voice pulling me out of my thoughts and away from watching the display before me.

  Abruptly, I turn, finding myself flush up against a wall of hard, solid muscle.

  Graceful as ever… I scold myself for my clumsiness.

  “Oh… Shit… Sorry,” I stutter, embarrassed, my hands still spread up against his hard chest.

  God, he’s so firm.

  “No apologies needed,” he replies, in an amused tone. It’s only then that I look up at him, my brows furrowed when I suddenly find myself face-to-face with Blake’s chiseled jaw, his smooth, sexy face, and his intense gray eyes, which are fixated on me.

  You’ve got to be fucking kidding.

  Startled, I crane my neck up, examining his eyes and the blank look on his face. He clearly wasn’t looking at me with his familiar, yearning gaze, the one I’ve come to enjoy each time he sought me out at the club. I was sure he had come to believe that he had been imagining my presence, since I’d disappear from view just as quickly as I appeared.

  Has the game turned him off? I wonder, as I quickly push the thought away.

  It doesn’t matter. I’m not someone he can pretend he doesn’t know, especially after the fact that he had returned to my apartment. We were strangers still, but he had seen me at my most intimate and vulnerable, and he managed to bring out something in me that I hadn’t even know was there.

  Anger instantly flares up within me and before I can stop myself, I find my hands pushing me off his chest and sending him tilting backwards unexpectedly.

  “Something wrong?” he asks, once he regains his balance, and it takes everything within me not to push him back even harder.

  How fucking dare he?

  It’s one thing for him to leave my bed without so much as a note, not to mention the fact that he hasn’t even sent me a text message or email since then; not even so much as a thank you, although, I probably would have taken offense had he done so, but regardless, that isn’t the point.

  But for him to stand here, in front of me, acting so damn formal, as though our night together meant nothing to him, just pisses me off.

  His lips turn up at the corners, a smile itching to break free, and it only increases my anger, my blood now boiling at an all-time high. With my balled fist at my side, I lean close to him again before speaking, “You think you can just fuck me and then pretend we are strangers the next time you see me?” I demand, my voice stern enough to make my point, but low enough not to draw any unnecessary attention.

  “Whoa, there… I think you have this all wrong.”

  Damn fucking straight. I should be kicking the shit out of you, not wasting my time talking to you! You… prick!

  BLAKE

  An incoming text from Jaxon annoys me. Apparently, my sub for the evening arrived AT her home fifteen minutes after Jaxon arrived to pick her up. He then had to wait around downstairs as she got herself ready, putting Jaxon behind schedule.

  Tardiness is one thing that grates on my nerves. I will have to reprimand her for her blatant disregard of both my instructions and my time.

  I’ve been trying my best to look forward to meeting this Chantal woman. Her picture and the short conversation we had made it clear to me that she was a very petite woman.

  She isn’t my usual type, which usually runs to curvy brunettes, but I want something different tonight. I need to cleanse my palette of Alyson once and for all.

  Alyson.

  The enduring thorn in my side. A sweet, alluring thorn, which has sunk deep within my flesh. No matter how much I try to dig her out from where she’s taken root, she only seems to dig in more deeply.

  “Mr. Hanson.”

  I turn to find Jaxon striding purposefully toward me, a stern, annoyed look on his usually expressionless face.

  Fuck. Chantal must be one hell of a handful.

  “Jaxon, thank you. I will inform you when we’re through.”

  Judgi
ng by the state of the woman standing behind Jaxon, that won’t be too long from now.

  She’s wearing a green camisole and tight jeans that are cuffed at the ankle, exposing her silver ankle bracelet and a small butterfly tattoo. She keeps her head low, a clear indicator that she is no newbie to this lifestyle, but the stench of alcohol wafting from her lips is not lost on me.

  Drunk. She’s fucking drunk. And she has ignored instructions on what to wear for our evening. Jeans! She’s fucking wearing jeans.

  The venomous look on my face is not lost on Jaxon and he promptly shakes his head, silently agreeing that I have made a huge error in picking this woman.

  “If I may, sir,” he says, as he leans in closer, so as not to allow the blonde woman to hear him. “Judging by the rather lengthy phone call I overheard Ms. Addison have in the car, she recently lost her job. Apparently, she went out to blow off some steam before she remembered anything about her plans with you for this evening,” he whispers.

  I understand what he’s was trying to do. He wants me to show this woman a little mercy for her insubordination but anger surges within me at the sight of her flushed cheeks, her nervous twitch, and the god-awful smell of cheap beer emanating from herm, which is all I can focus on.

  “How fucking dare you?”

  Both Jaxon and I turn instantly at the shrieking scream we can hear coming from across the room, but our view is obstructed by the patrons of the club who are gyrating away on the dance floor. I can’t see the source of the screaming from where I am standing, but that voice seems eerily familiar.

  When I hear no more screaming, I dismiss this distraction. Having Chantal to deal with, I turn to her. Her head has remained low, and she is nervously shifting from one foot to the other.

  She should be nervous after the stunt she pulled tonight, I think to myself, as I eye her suspiciously.

  Jaxon turns away with a brisk nod of his head, leaving me to address the very drunk Chantal.

  “Come.”

  Striding towards the elevator, I don’t bother turning to see if she’s following along behind me. Being as experienced as she is, she must know that her actions tonight have angered me.

  Maybe the little wench has had that in mind all along.

  It certainly isn’t the first time a sub has disobeyed my orders in hope of earning a little punishment.

  Stepping inside the elevator, I don’t bother to address her, keeping my eyes fixed firmly in front of me as she takes her place to my right, standing two steps behind me.

  When the elevator sounds our arrival, I proceed to the door of my suite, with Chantal wobbling behind me at an annoying leisurely pace.

  “Inside. Bedroom. Clothes off. Kneel in front of the bed,” I demand, as I open the door.

  ALYSON

  “Look, Ms. Lane. I really think you need to calm down. You’re causing a scene.”

  Fuck if I care! Let them see! Let them all see!

  “How fucking dare you?” I shriek, as I slowly amble toward him, watching as he eyes me cautiously with each step I take. “What makes you think that you can just fuck me and then pretend that you don’t know me?” I growl through gritted teeth, my voice laced with venom.

  In my entire life, I’ve never been made to feel as cheap and as worthless as he is making me feel tonight. I know that he only wanted one night with me, but I never expected this, having him to treat me like a common hooker.

  You shouldn’t have come back here. Who do you think you’re kidding? You aren’t a sub. Fuck, you only had your first orgasm a week ago.

  “I didn’t…I mean…I’m not him,” he groans, his eyes wide with trepidation. Drawing a breath, he continues, “I’m not Blake, Ms. Lane, I’m Derrick.”

  What the?

  I jerk at his words, unsure whether or not I’ve heard him correctly over the erotic sounds of the music playing in the background.

  Derrick?

  “What are you talking about?”

  Derrick lowers his hands, and it’s then that I realize he had raised them in a gesture of surrender, possibly right after I screamed at him. He runs his hand through his hair, and for the first time, I notice the difference.

  His hair is shorter and has streaks of amber running through it. His nose is straighter, but his jaw is a bit more rounded than Blake’s square one. His skin is also smooth like Blake’s, but it’s a shade lighter.

  Stunned, I gasp, as he slowly shakes his head.

  “You see it now, don’t you?” he chuckles, and I instantly want to die of embarrassment.

  Fuck me sideways. He has a twin.

  “But…you looked…I mean…how was I to… I’m sorry,” I stutter, as I stand before him, silently wishing that the floor beneath my feet would open up and swallow me whole.

  I’ve just embarrassed myself in front of Blake’s brother. How the hell am I going to explain this? And why the heck am I so upset? Blake isn’t some random boyfriend who I have any kind of claim on. He was just…what exactly?

  Blake is an amazing fuck, who has you so hooked that you’re acting like an addict.

  I push the thought out of my head. My behavior has been completely irrational since I first met Blake. Showing up at the club, wearing these tight dresses in the hope that I might get a rise out of him and for what? What has it gotten me?

  Tears pool at the corners of my eyes; the reality of how far off-center I’ve been this past week twists at my insides. This isn’t me. It’s never been me.

  “Hey,” Derrick whispers, as he slowly cups my face within the palm of his hand. “Don’t sweat it. You’re not the first woman to damn near assault me, mistaking me for my brother,” he teases, trying to calm the crazy woman who just attacked him verbally.

  I smile despite myself, not wanting to further this awkward moment.

  “Let’s get you a drink and a chair,” he offers softly, his hand leaving my face to wrap around one of my shoulders.

  Still unable to say a word, I mindlessly follow him, not sure whether or not I should just bolt from this place. The exhibits, the grinding, the sensual music coming over the speakers, all seem to amplify the reality that I’ve been ignoring since my first night at the club, since my first night with him.

  It was your only night, Lane.

  Inwardly rolling my eyes at myself, I take the chair that Derrick offers me when we reach a table in one of the more secluded sections of the bar.

  “So, what are we drinking? Beer, wine or hard liquor?”

  I raise my eyes from the dark wooden table, but my words are still stuck in my parched throat. He stares at me, awaiting my response and when that doesn’t happen, he rises to his feet and saunters off.

  “Hard liquor it is,” he mumbles under his breath, as he leaves and it’s only then that I release the breath I didn’t even realize that I’ve been holding.

  What the hell am I doing?

  BLAKE

  Chantal ambles into the bedroom after briefly looking around, no doubt in search of said bedroom. I didn’t even bother to point her in the right direction, my mind instead preoccupied, as she peers into each room along the hallway, without uttering a single word. No rebuttal, no sighing, not a sound, as would any true sub. It’s apparent that she is indeed an authentic submissive, despite her blatant disregard of my instructions about her attire and my order that she be ready on time.

  She isn’t any different than most of the women I’ve brought to my suite, and yet I can’t help but feel tension in the air as I saunter over to bar to pour myself a glass of scotch. Her presence in my suite annoys me, although I can’t understand why it would. Yes, she disobeyed a direct order, but in reality, this should excite me rather than annoy me.

  I need to exert my control over her, punish her for her actions, and normally, just the thought of doing so would excite me, but not tonight, not since fucking Alyson.

  What the fuck is Alyson doing to me?

  She isn’t even at the club, and yet her presence lingers, both downstairs an
d in my suite. It almost feels wrong to bring another woman to my suite, and I simply cannot wrap my mind around it at all.

  Taking a large swig of my freshly poured drink, I feel the burn of it as it travels down my throat. Remembering Chantal, I finish my drink and place the glass down before heading over to the bedroom.

  Time to forget Alyson once and for all.

  “I understand that you’ve had a rough night,” I say to Chantal, the second I enter the room, not bothering to look over at her as she kneels at the foot of my bed. Instead, I slowly unbutton the cuffs of my linen shirt, making my way to the chest that holds my necessary tools.

  Opening it, I remove the first thing I find, a paddle, and, feeling completely uninspired, I move to stand behind her. Her head is bent low, and her hands are clasped behind her back, as she sits back on her heels.

  “My instructions were clear, were they not?” I ask, my voice devoid of any emotion, as I peer down at her petite frame.

  “Permission to speak, Sir?” she says softly, her breathlessness revealing both her desire and her acknowledgement of my detachment.

  Has this been her plan all along?

  “Permission granted,” I grunt in response, eager to hear her speak, although I know that regardless of what she has to say, it won’t matter much to me. Nothing she says, short of her safe word, will change what is about to happen here tonight.

  “Sir, I apologize for disobeying you, Sir. I understand that I must be punished for my behavior.”

  She doesn’t explain further and I roll my eyes, mostly at myself, for expecting anything more from this woman.

  What the hell is wrong with me?

  “Stand up.”

  She does as she is told, eagerly rising to her feet, expectantly awaiting her punishment; but as she stands before me with her head bowed down, her breasts perked high, and her nipples elongated by her excitement, all I can picture is Alyson.

  “Fuck!” I groan loudly, before again running my free hand through my hair. Chantal, startled by my outburst, quickly glances up at me, her brows raised in confusion, and I can’t help but feel that this is wrong, totally fucking wrong.