“What?”
“You’re wrong. Naomi is nothing like you.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, first off, she’s Japanese.”
Why hadn’t Ronin told her that?
Because Ronin doesn’t tell you much.
“Do you want to wear the clothes or not?” he asked.
“It’s not like I have a choice.” She headed to the elevator. “Let’s go.”
Knox curled his hand around her biceps, stopping her. “The storage room is off-limits. I’ll grab a few things and bring them to you.”
She bit back her sarcastic comment about actually being allowed to choose her own clothing and returned to pacing in front of the window.
What should she expect at this club? Would she see members getting whipped and spanked? Would there be lewd sex acts? What qualified as lewd in a sex club anyway?
And where did bondage master Ronin fit in? If she was disgusted or scared by what she witnessed, would she ever speak to him again?
Or maybe you’re more worried it won’t disgust you at all.
But what woman wouldn’t freak the f**k out if her lover brought out a coil of rope and demanded, “On your knees, hands behind you”?
Amery rested her head against the glass. She was so confused about all of this. Would tonight clear it up or further muddy the waters?
The elevator doors opened. Knox approached her, holding out half a dozen hangers enshrined in plastic dry cleaners bags.
“I brought a variety. You are a guest tonight, so that will create some interest. But I’d suggest understated clothing if you don’t want to stand out.” He offered her that same slight bow she was used to from Ronin and left the room.
Amery stripped to her bra and panties in Ronin’s bedroom. She snagged the black leather miniskirt from the first bag. She hated that it fit her like a dream. Had Ronin seen Naomi in this skirt? Had he slid his hands beneath the hem and cupped Naomi’s ass?
Stop it.
But the image wouldn’t go away, now that she had a better idea what Naomi looked like—probably exotic in that Japanese geisha way—so she nixed the skirt.
The second dress was one piece; not leather, not rubber, but somewhere in between. Composed of funky cutouts that left her midriff exposed and a sweetheart neckline, it might’ve been okay except for the rings on either side of the neck that were probably meant for a leash.
Definitely the no pile for that one.
The next number was hot pink rubber. Amery couldn’t figure out how the hell to get it on, so it hit the discard pile.
The last item was a pair of leather pants. She worried she’d have to grease her legs to squeeze her thighs into them, but they molded to her contours as if they were made for her. Glancing at her ass in the mirror, she grinned. Her butt looked fantastic.
The shirt selection left a lot to be desired—either see-through or midriff. She eyed her lacy black bra. Although it wasn’t any more revealing than a swimsuit top, she couldn’t waltz into this club wearing leather pants and her bra.
On a whim she opened Ronin’s closet. She flipped through the dozen white dress shirts until she found one in the back that looked smaller than the rest. She slipped it on and Ronin’s scent washed over her. She closed her eyes against the pang of longing. How could she miss him so deeply when at the same time she felt she didn’t know him?
She stepped in front of the full-length mirror. The shirt was too big. Grabbing the ends, she tied a knot at her waist. Her black bra peeking through was a little trashy, but a better choice than a rubber dress with her ass cheeks hanging out.
Amery wandered out of Ronin’s room and Knox looked up from his cell phone. “That’ll work.”
“Good. So we what . . . just go? You’re driving us?”
Knox shook his head. “Ronin is sending a car. It’ll be about fifteen minutes.”
“Oh. Okay.” She headed for the bar and made herself a dirty girl lemonade—vanilla vodka, Chambord, triple sec, sour mix, and Diet Sprite. She looked at Knox when he perched on a barstool. “Can I get you something?”
“No. I don’t drink on club nights. I’d take ice for my water, though.”
Amery dropped cubes in a glass and slid it in front of him. “Maybe you’d better fill me in on sex club etiquette.”
“You’re a guest, so rule one is observation only. In scenes where there are whips or paddles and you hear the submissive saying no, understand that’s part of the game. There are members who like getting pain and others who like giving it. Do not intervene.”
She sipped her drink. “Is Ronin one of the types who like to give pain?”
“Not directly. He has several bondage suspensions that end up being painful enough to be called punishment.”
“Bondage suspensions,” she repeated. “As in hanging a person from the ceiling by a rope?”
“By a series of ropes.”
“You’ll tell me to direct my questions to Ronin, but what is he like in his public persona as rope master Ronin when people are watching his every move? Especially since he has the strict ‘no observation’ rule in the dojo?”
Knox looked uncomfortable. “Ronin is a f**king master with ropes. He’s artistic and sensual, unlike some other so-called rope experts, who’ve turned shibari and kinbaku into weird performance art. He’s in high demand as a teacher. So the nights he schedules a demo at the club, it’s usually packed.”
She wanted to ask if Ronin had sex with his models, or if he had sex with certain people at the club because . . . hello, it was a kinky sex club. Why would he be a member if he didn’t want the free sex benefits? “Are you a master with ropes too?”
“I’m better than average because Ronin has mentored me. I don’t teach but I do practice. My area of expertise in the club is different than his.”
“What is your area of expertise?”
Hard blue eyes hooked hers. “Pain. Some members want it and they come to me to dish it out.”
Yikes.
“Ronin asked me to ask you if you’ll make time for him after the demonstration ends.”
“Make time where? At the club?” In front of everyone?
“Either at the club or here, since you’re leaving your things here.”
“Can we see how it goes first?”
Knox frowned.
“I’m afraid to say yes because . . . what if I can’t handle what I see? Not only Ronin’s part, but the rest of the club stuff?”