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  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Acknowledgments

  Enraptured

  Chapter One

  There were no surprises, no kinks left unturned. Roman Chase had seen and done it all before—and he’d gone even farther with some of the things he’d done in Tokyo. The day Roman came back from Japan, two thoughts were firmly planted in his mind.

  One: he had no choice but to get over Elisabeth. She was married to Trevor, and that was it. Full stop. Instead of mourning that fact, he would find someone—or, if he needed to, train a woman to be—as masochistic as Elisabeth to satisfy his sexual needs.

  Two: he would never fall in love again, because the resulting emotional pain was worse than anything he’d wish on his worst enemy.

  No, pain was best when it was external, where he could see it. The stripe of red across a lover’s back from a leather whip, her bottom warm and pink from his hand, a small bruise on her hip where he’d gripped her too tightly as they fucked. That was good pain. He liked that pain, loved it.

  The pain that made him leave the room after Marc proposed to Lauren, the feeling that tore him up inside—that was not good pain. He had to make it stop. But it had been a month, and the heartache lingered.

  Since returning from Tokyo, he felt out of his element with his friends in New York. Not that it had been a long trip—he was never gone more than a few weeks when he traveled for the Brooks Wilde Chase Fund. But this time, he’d left New York to clear his head, only to return and discover he was the last man standing. Or rather, the last bachelor among the BAD Boys.

  BAD as in Billionaire Arrogant Doms. That’s what Roman and his two best friends and business partners at the hedge fund were nicknamed at the club. Trevor Brooks and Marc Wilde weren’t arrogant, though. Billionaires, yes. Dominant, yes. Like him. But he had a suspicion that the arrogant part of the acronym was given for him alone.

  Maybe he had a right to be arrogant, though. When a submissive needed to be trained, whether for herself or for her own Dom, Roman was one of the best. Even when he was in Tokyo trying to escape New York he got calls requesting his expertise. And, arrogant son-of-a-bitch that he was, he had to answer.

  He sat in their booth at WhipperSnapper, the BDSM club they frequented, and watched everything happening around him without interest.

  It was getting crowded in their booth, the one that was always exclusively reserved for them. Used to just be Roman, Trevor, and Marc—and Mistress Lauren, who not too long ago was Marc’s other best friend.

  But he wasn’t sure whether to call her Mistress Lauren anymore. The formidable, beautiful redhead was now Marc’s submissive, and fiancée. Roman watched them across the table, talking to each other as if nothing had changed, when everything had. The way their eyes shone with that new puppy love glow gave them away. Well, that and the sparkly rock on her ring finger.

  Trevor of course had Elisabeth, and Elisabeth had a diamond and wedding band to match. Her collar was a gold chain, as subtle as Trevor himself. And then there was just Roman. Alone, as always. Why should things change now?

  The booth where he once felt most at home now made him feel like he was being pushed out, no matter how many seats were left open. He was the fifth wheel.

  Roman sipped his lemonade, wishing WhipperSnapper served alcohol. But no, it was a dry club to keep things from getting out of hand. Everything was safe, sane, and consensual. They had a dungeon master walking around in a neon traffic vest monitoring scenes between members. Everyone used safewords, specifically the stoplight system. Red to stop, yellow to slow down, green to go.

  Very different from Kabukicho, the red-light district in Shinjuku, Tokyo, where he’d gone when business was over and it was time to find a companion to play with. Things were a little wilder there, and money could buy anything. That’s what he needed from a woman to be happy lately. Anything. No limits. No holds barred. A vision of the beautiful Japanese woman he’d spent hours tying up flashed through his mind. She’d earned her money that night.

  Elisabeth, back when he had trained her, fuck . . . she’d always been green to go. She loved pain, flourished under it, and under him. But she’d picked Trevor over Roman. Married Trevor. And Roman had gone all the way to Japan to get over it. His excuse that their new Japanese acquisition needed help was a good one, and he’d saved their investors a few million, so it wasn’t like the trip was just a pity party. But the problem with going away to avoid his issues was that wherever he went, there he was.

  “Roman,” Marc said, startling him out of his reverie. “Help me out on this one.”

  Roman looked up at them through the lock of brown hair that had fallen into his eyes, not bothering to push it away.

  “Rohhhh-maaaaan,” Elisabeth called, as if he were far away and not sitting mere feet from her. “Are you with us?”

  “My apologies,” he said, without even attempting to sound sorry. “I was back in Tokyo for a moment, thinking about shibari.”

  “Japanese rope bondage,” Lauren explained to Elisabeth, who nodded with interest.

  Elisabeth seemed to be having a hard time finding the right balance between being Roman’s friend and not giving him the wrong idea. Even as she looked at him now, she snuggled in closer to Trevor.

  “It was fucking hot,” Roman acknowledged succinctly. Maybe it was a good thing there was no booze here. Alcohol loosened lips, and he wasn’t in the mood to talk. Not tonight.

  Maybe not tomorrow night either.

  He needed something new. Someone new, perhaps. Someone to play with. But the crowd was filled with regulars he had already Dommed, and the new girls who looked ready for action were already with partners.

  “Tiff’s not here,” Lauren said, filling him in on whatever they’d been chatting about. “So I have no good female sub to Domme, and Marc won’t let me Domme a male sub.” She pouted and Marc shook his head.

  “I don’t think she should keep scening with Tiff, either,” Marc said, looking at Roman. “It’s bad enough that she’s my secretary, which at some point is bound to get weird. She’s also made it clear that she has a major crush on Mistress Lauren. If Lauren feels the need to Domme, she needs to find another girl.”

  Roman shrugged. “What’s the problem, Lauren? He’s your Dom, what he says goes. You of all people should get that.”

  “Oh, I get it all right,” Lauren said. “The question is who, then?”

  Elisabeth looked at Trevor. “Oh, can she top me? Pretty please, sir?”

  Trevor laughed. “I’ve got quite the night planned for us, don’t worry. You won’t leave here without getting your licks.”

  Elisabeth grinned. “Sorry Lauren, I tried.”

  “There’s no one here tonight. I’ve been scanning the room,” Roman finally admitted. “And not for Lauren.”

  “All right, so we’re on the market for a sub. What type do you think will work for us?” Marc asked him. “I still
want her to be submissive to me, even if she’s topping someone else.”

  Roman sat back and thought of the right way to phrase his advice. “I think it’s good to acknowledge that Lauren has dominant traits you’ll never train out of her, nor should you want to. It’s part of who she is, and why you two have been friends for so long.”

  “Fact.” Lauren chimed in. “Sorry, Roman. Go ahead.”

  “But I’m going to assume, Marc, that you’re still having some trouble getting Lauren to fully submit to you, or this wouldn’t even be an issue. So my suggestion is that you pick another girl to be her sub. The only caveat—you need to pick a straight girl who is new to the lifestyle, so that Lauren can experience for herself the frustration of training someone who isn’t interested in submitting to her.”

  “Holy shit, man,” Trevor said, his arm still firmly around Elisabeth. The wedding band on his left hand glinted in the low light. “That’s genius.”

  Roman shrugged. Trevor had said the same thing when Roman had told him how to turn Elisabeth, who used to disobey and play the brat in the hopes of getting punished, from a masochistic girl into his willing submissive. It was all based on Pavlov’s theory of classical conditioning. With Trevor’s blessing, Roman trained Elisabeth to enjoy submitting by giving her what she wanted—erotic pain—whenever she obeyed, and ignoring her when she disobeyed.

  Before long she associated submission with pain-pleasure and no longer needed to brat to get what she needed. Then he used intermittent punishments to keep her on her toes. Elisabeth never knew when she obeyed him if she’d get the pain she desired or not. It ended up making her into a wonderful submissive—for Trevor.

  Roman shook his head. Doesn’t matter that she chose Trevor. It’s over with. “Yeah, I’m a fucking genius. We know.” He got up and left the booth, his instinct to leave the moment his emotions intrude taking over. “I’m getting a drink.”

  Now he stood at the so-called bar instead of sitting at the booth, and once again, changing locations hadn’t changed how he felt. Wherever I go, there I am.

  Jessica Vaughn smiled brightly at the young man in a black leather collar as she handed him his change for his soda. He set it back on the bar for her as a tip.

  “Thank you,” she said, and put the money in the front pocket of her apron. It was black latex and had WhipperSnapper’s logo emblazoned on the front, right across her breasts, leading most customers’ gazes to go there first. And next to it, of course, was her nametag. She wasn’t required to wear one, but she wanted people at the club to shout something other than “Hey!” when they wanted a drink. It was much more refreshing to hear them shout “Jessica!”

  Hearing her name made her feel like she belonged at the BDSM club, even though she’d never actually tried anything under the whole bondage-domination-submission-sadomasochism umbrella. But she wouldn’t be working there if it didn’t intrigue her.

  The BAD Boys’ booth was full tonight. She couldn’t help looking over at them frequently, not that they noticed. It was just . . . ah, Roman Chase. Ever since he’d introduced himself to her when she first started working at the club, ever since she’d heard all the delicious, kinky rumors about him . . .

  Jessica flushed at the thought. Not like she’d ever done anything kinky in her life. But in her fantasies, hell yeah. In her imagination, Roman didn’t just occasionally order a lemonade at the bar from her, he owned her. He spanked her, and collared her, and . . . whatever the hell people did when they owned someone. That’s what she wanted. At least, that’s what she fantasized about when she was alone, falling asleep on her futon after a long night on her feet.

  She dared another peek over at the booth, but he wasn’t there. Turning her head to scan the room, she saw he was actually approaching the bar from the side.

  Yay!

  But another customer got to her first, so she couldn’t rush to serve Roman like she usually did. There was always that silly hope that he’d see that she had a major crush on him and invite her to play. But, that had never happened, so . . . whatever. It would remain her wicked little secret. Besides, what would he say if she just told him?

  Oh hi, Mr. Chase, I’m the broke bartender and you’re way out of my league, but do you want to teach me some of that domination stuff you’re so good at? That would go over really well. She’d probably get fired.

  So, instead of declaring her unrequited lust for Roman, she fetched a chocolate cookie for the next customer. “Nine dollars, please.”

  “Nine dollars? Are you kidding me?” the older man groaned, despite the fact that the exorbitant price list was written for anyone to read in neon chalk on a sign above her head.

  “Sorry, sir. I hear ya. If I bought that cookie I’d be eating my hourly paycheck, so I don’t even know if they’re worth the price. But I don’t make the prices,” she said. “Or . . . or the cookies.”

  “Holy mother of God,” Roman said from down the bar, his deep voice reverberating through her. “I will buy your fucking cookie so I can get my drink.” He waved a bill in his hand.

  Jessica rushed over to him, grateful for a chance to see him again up close. The most notorious of the notorious BAD Boys. She’d been given the rundown on the regulars from Andrew, the previous bartender, when she was hired.

  Apparently Andrew left the job so he could focus more fully on his new Master, Gregory, who used to be Elisabeth Anderson’s Dom, until Elisabeth was sent to Trevor Brooks and became his sub, and then his wife. There was a lot to keep straight. She’d seriously considered writing it all down, but instead she just watched their booth from her place behind the bar whenever business was slow. They looked so happy, that bunch.

  Except maybe for Roman—he was more the strong, silent type. He made Jessica feel all jittery and weird—in a good way, definitely. She wanted to be able to offer him more than a dumb cookie, but it was probably a good thing the bar didn’t serve alcohol, because she didn’t know how to mix a cocktail to save her life. That and she was only twenty, so it would be illegal.

  “Hi! I’m so sorry, sir,” she said, and looked at the bill in his hand. A one-hundred-dollar bill. “I didn’t mean to keep you waiting.”

  “Hey,” the old guy who ordered the cookie yelled. “I was first.”

  Roman handed her the bill. “Go ahead, tell the man the cookie’s on me so he’ll shut up. I would also like to buy you a cookie, so you can tell me if it’s worth nine dollars.”

  “Okay. Thank you sir.” She laughed. He was buying her a cookie? How . . . unexpected. And awesome. “Oh, what can I get for you, Mr. Chase?”

  “A lemonade, please. Jessica.”

  The way he said her name sounded like he wanted to show her that he knew it. She smiled appreciatively. Before the other dude could flip out on her, she went back over to him.

  “Mr. Chase is buying your cookie, sir,” she said, and he looked down the bar in surprise.

  “Thank you,” the older man said, tipping an imaginary hat to Roman. Roman nodded silently as the man walked off, back to whatever he was doing. Never could tell in a place like WhipperSnapper. She’d seen folks come in and spend the whole night people-watching, while others walked in and immediately found their playmate. Since the Saint Andrew’s Cross was on the wall near the table and booth area, she got to see a lot of subs getting flogged—or more—by their Dominants.

  They seemed to really get off on it even when they looked as if they were trying to get away, their bodies twisting in the restraints. But they’d always say they were “green.” The whole safeword thing was a big deal at the club.

  Jessica handed Roman his lemonade and his change. “Here you go, sir. Sorry about the wait.”

  He placed the money back on the bar and slid it toward her. “Where’s your cookie?”

  Her stomach flip-flopped. She was so distracted by how insanely good-looking he was that she’d forgotten he’d o
ffered to buy her a cookie.

  “Oh, you don’t have to do that, sir.”

  “I insist. Unless you don’t like cookies?”

  He was so handsome. How did a man get to be that good-looking? And she was kind of hungry. She placed nine dollars in the register and took a cookie for herself.

  “Thank you, sir. That’s very sweet.”

  He smirked, like there was some hidden joke she didn’t know about. Suddenly her mouth was dry. When she tried to hand him back the rest of his change, he cocked his head to the side.

  “How many more times am I going to have to hand you this money? It’s yours. Take it.”

  “Thank you,” she whispered. It was a very big tip for a lemonade and a couple of cookies. “I think I’m going to buy myself a lemonade to go with this cookie, then.” She grinned at him but he put his hand over hers when she reached for the register.

  “No, you will not,” he said.

  “Oh, okay. No drinking on the job.” She smiled nervously at her own silly joke.

  “I meant, if you’d like a lemonade, it’s on me.” He handed her a five-dollar bill.

  So he did carry bills smaller than a hundred. But he’d just given her almost eighty dollars as a tip on top of the cookies. Still, Roman Chase was not the sort of man to argue with, so she just took the five and put it in the register.

  “Very well . . . thank you, Mr. Chase.”

  He stayed at the bar as she poured herself a lemonade, spilling a bit in her haste. She could see him out of the corner of her eye, and she forced herself not to curse under her breath as she cleaned up the mess. Something about him made her so nervous, and not just the fact that he was so hot and so rich. He was . . . intimidating.

  How could a man who’d just bought her a cookie and lemonade be intimidating? But he was. Not for any particular reason she could put her finger on. Just . . . something about him. Kinda scary, but not creepy. Just intimidating, even though he’d never been anything but a gentleman to her, in real life at least. He’d done some very ungentle things to her in her imagination.