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He must’ve taken lessons, kissed many women, or simply had some special gift when it came to the art of kissing, because the man could kiss like nobody’s business. Perhaps his dominant side made him a better kisser than the men she’d kissed before him. But Dmitri didn’t just kiss her; he stole the kiss right out of her mouth.
At the slow heat pooling low in her belly, Presley shook her head, clearing her thoughts. If she kept thinking about his incredible mouth, she’d end up a giant mess of arousal, and right now she had enough to worry about, including standing in a BDSM dungeon.
She scanned the large open room, which consisted of the entire bottom level of the mansion. It held none of the Victorian elements she’d seen upstairs, except the hardwood floors. In the center of the room, chandeliers rested over black leather couches, paired with coffee tables.
Along the flagstone walls, sconces cast the room in a soft romantic glow, and against the far wall was a large glass fridge holding nonalcoholic beverages. Next to it, cherrywood lockers had names written on plaques in gold calligraphy. Her gaze landed on Dmitri’s name and images soared through her mind of what was contained in that locker.
Soft and seductive music played through the dungeon, an African tribal soundtrack, and low pounding on drums and chimes of bells carried vibrations through her. Though the sexually charged room was hard to ignore, her body didn’t react, she was so overwhelmed with nervousness.
The room wasn’t entirely dark, but the lighting was low, more like wha
t she had seen in a typical dance club. However, what made the place entirely different was the BDSM equipment, situated a good distance away, with spotlights beaming down on the stations. Minutes ago, Presley had watched a Dom clean one of the spanking benches with disinfectant after the last submissive was removed. That in itself separated this place from a normal dance club.
Presley looked away from the spanking bench to the current show in front of her. A shapely brunette was strapped to a wooden X, and she was bound at the ankles, calves, thighs, waist, arms, and wrists with tan rope. Master Miles, with his huge frame and stern dark eyes, circled around the submissive, studying her so intently that Presley’s cheeks flushed.
How would that feel? To be examined so closely and exposed for all to see?
She shivered, liking the suggestion, but the scene itself bothered her and increased her heart rate. Clothespins pinched the woman’s nipples, as well as being strategically placed along her vagina. A gleam of sweat created a sheen glimmering on her body; her lips parted; and her face flamed in color, matching the rest of her body.
Master Miles held a flogger in his hand, swaying it back and forth before he sent those leather tails onto the woman’s sex, removing two of the clothespins with the hit. A shriek followed, loud enough to make Presley flinch and turn away. A hot flash soared across her so fast that her head spun and her stomach became woozy.
What was she doing here?
She was a sweet girl from Apple Valley who didn’t do kinky things, and she didn’t belong in a BDSM dungeon. These people were all so experienced and confident, seemingly enjoying watching Master Miles make that poor woman scream. Presley didn’t want to scream out in pain or have clothespins ripped from her body.
Oh God . . .
Reading about BDSM and imagining it were nothing like the reality. Every station was in use, screams blending with loud erotic moans, and a sudden coldness hit her core.
Flogging, spanking, oral sex . . . and fucking; people were fucking in front of her. Sweat dripped down her spine, and her insides clenched with a need to vomit. Arousal and intrigue had led her there, but her blood turned to ice. “I can’t do this,” she snapped to herself.
She scanned the room, looking for the door she’d entered through, and it seemed to have disappeared. Rushing past the couches in the center of the room, she noticed a couple of men sitting on them with women tucked in to their sides, laughing about something Presley couldn’t hear. She glanced to her right and spotted the fridge and the lockers, so, based on what she remembered, the exit had to be on the other side.
Without a hitch to her step, she made a beeline for the door but noted a crowd had gathered in the far left corner. When she reached the group, she stopped dead in her tracks, hoping—praying—that she was imagining the view before her. But there wasn’t a hope in hell that her mind could conjure something like this.
Cora had been gagged with a red ball in her mouth and a leather strap around her head, and she was totally wrapped up in ropes. Her back was against the stone wall, her legs were spread wide open, and her vagina was on full display. On her chest, held tight with the rope, was a note that read, SPANK ME.
Heaviness formed in Presley’s stomach, and as Doms one by one walked up to Cora and walloped her with the flat of their hands, her stomach churned in fear. Some hit along Cora’s thighs, a couple right on her calves, and a few lifted her up and hit her bottom.
Cora flinched against the rope holding her hostage. She was drenched in sweat, and her normally perfect hair stuck to her forehead. Tears filled Presley’s eyes as she noticed that Cora’s cheeks were bright red and her limbs trembled.
A sudden warm hand spread across Presley’s back, and she started, shoving the hand off. “Don’t touch me.”
Master Dmitri frowned. “Let’s try that again.”
With gentle but reassuring hands, he turned her around, then he pressed his hand on her lower back. Heat burned from his touch to travel up her spine. Oddly enough, the sheer force of the sizzle spread like wildfire across her body and settled the race of her heartbeat, easing her panic. She stared up into his face, and the strength of his gaze comforted her.
He smiled softly. “That’s a better way to greet someone.” He gestured to Cora. “Does this scene bother you?”
Presley wrapped her arms around herself, not wanting to look at Cora again. “It’s horrible.”
“Is it?” Master Dmitri stepped in behind her, placing his hands on her hips, and her tight muscles loosened, which was odd. Shouldn’t she be tense in his arms, not melting like warm chocolate drizzled over strawberries?
He pushed her forward with his thighs, forcing her toward Cora. “Look at her face, doll.”
Presley studied her friend—even if she’d rather not—and caught sight of Cora’s hooded eyelids. Her lips around the gag were relaxed, not struggling. Cora sucked in shallow breaths through her nose, as if she could hardly contain herself. “She doesn’t seem to mind this.”
He wrapped his arms around her waist, placing his mouth next to her ear. “It appears that Cora has a fondness for being restrained in public and spanked by many hands, as you can see.” He nudged her head to the right with his cheek. “Look over there. Do you see Master Aidan watching to make sure she’s all right?”
