Bound to Accept (22 page)

And there it is—right below the Saint
Andrew's Society, and the Andrews Hotel is the listing for St.
Andrew's Cross. It's in the Tenderloin. Not a place you want to be
after dark.

I jot down the address and their
opening hours: 11:00 P.M.—4:30 A.M. every Thursday, Friday, and
Saturday night.

I shove the post-it note with the
address in the book beside my bed, and clear my browser history.
Then I close the laptop and curl up in bed, and wait for Tristan to
get back.

I'm not sure why he wouldn't take me
with him, but I'm going to find out. I'm going to learn about BDSM
from someone who isn't Tristan, and I'm going to learn the truth
about what he's hiding from me.

Epilogue

I'm wearing jeans and a
sweatshirt, with the hood pulled over my face to keep out both the
chill and the unwanted stares. Part of me knows that I'm being a
little stupid—no, more than a little stupid, a
lot
stupid—but most of me doesn't
care.

It's cool, but not cold. There's a low
fog rolling in from the bay, encircling the city in its moody
embrace. I can't even see the stars, and the neon lights have a
frosty halo from the beads of moisture in the air.

The growing intensity of my
relationship with Tristan is just too overwhelming. In fact, now
that I think about it, what we have is a lot like how he described
the effect of a taser on bare skin to me, and why he didn't want to
use one with his painslut ex-girlfriend—it's too much sensation,
too fast, too intense, and the overwhelming sensations combined
just put me into a position where I can't say “no.”

My fucking painslut heart.

St. Andrew's is right beside a strip
club. Through the grimy window, I can see women dancing in costumes
only slightly less tame than the things I wore for Tristan,
grinding around a pole, receiving money and glazed-over leers from
men with too much alcohol and too little passion in their
blood.

I think I might like to try that
sometime. Dancing for someone while I take my clothes off. Seeing
the desire in their eyes as I move my body. There's a lot of power
and freedom in movement.

Maybe not in public,
though.

A large, intimidating-looking black
man is standing outside St. Andrew's. He has one gold ring in his
left ear and biceps the size of hams. When he looks at me, I
realize his eyes are a surprising gray.

“
I would like to come in,
please,” I say.

The bouncer does not look impressed.
After glancing around behind me, as though to make sure that I'm
alone, he says, “You over eighteen?”

I flash my ID. He looks it
over.

“
Forty bucks a
head.”

I slip him two twenties, which he
shoves into a steel lock box welded into the wall behind
him.

“
Rules are on the wall of
the entrance hall.” His arms are already folded again, his eyes
turned back to the street. “Make sure you read 'em. You run the
risk of getting kicked out otherwise—no refund.”

Then he points at my jeans and
hoodie.

“
Can't wear that on the
floor.”

I like how he only brought that up
after he took my money. “I brought a change of clothes.”

He nods, but doesn't say anything
else.

I guess that is the extent of his
helpful advice.

The foyer smells like my high school
gym—a little dusty, a little rubbery, though everything looks quite
clean. There's a row of lockers along one row, along with a sign
that says: PERSONAL ITEMS LEFT IN LOCKERS OVERNIGHT WILL BE THROWN
AWAY—MANAGEMENT.

I can hear the distant pounding of a
baseline cranked up high. It seems to be coming in from a door
along the far wall. A tall, black X-shape on the door—a St.
Andrew's Cross—seems to indicate that this is the club
entrance.

I shuck off my clothes,
balling them up into one of the lockers, which I set with a code. I
change into the silk and lace negligee I bought for Tristan's and
my first time having sex. A month ago, I would have balked at the
thought of perfect strangers being able to see my nipples. Now, I
no longer care. In fact…if I'm being perfectly honest, the idea
excites me a little. I fold a towel over my arm and tweak each
nipple to make them perkier. I hope they look. I hope they
stare.

But I can't bring myself to open the
door. Not yet. I'm filled with the same apprehension I felt before
knocking on Tristan's door to play for the first time.

If I open this door everything will
change forever. There will be no going back from here on
out.

Do I dare disturb the
universe?

I stare at the heavy steel
door, and my heart beats an unsteady rhythm in my throat.
This is the second time I've felt like this—this
raw, this alive. The first time was when I went to play with
Tristan.

It's not too
late
, the quiet, reasonable voice in my
head says consolingly.
You could change
out of this ridiculous outfit, put on your street clothes, and go
home. You'll be out 40 dollars, but at least you'll have your
pride.

But I already know that I'm not going
to do that.

Because if I
do
turn back, I know
that I'm probably not going to return to St. Andrew's. I'll be too
embarrassed.

And I will look back on that single
moment of cowardice and regret it for the rest of my
life.

I take a deep breath, and push open
the door—

And step out into a whole new
world.

Acknowledgements

As always, there are so many people to
thank. BOUND TO ATTRACT has a slightly longer list, because it is a
bit out of my depth, and I really had to do a lot of research on
the subjects discussed herein.

• Lynxie—my wonderful beta. I actually
  got a lot of beta requests for this book, and while it was
  difficult to decide, I ultimately came to the conclusion that she
  would be the best fit. She didn't just help with the grammar, she
  also helped with the research, and I feel as though I can honestly
  say that the book would not be nearly as polished if not for her
  guidance.
  

• Loki—she is responsible for the name
  of the BDSM club, St. Andrew's Cross.
  

• Louisa—my cover designer. I think she
  did a wonderful job. The soft pastel colors and lovely typeface
  make the book look so classy.
  

• Everyone else who has encouraged me
  one way or another in this effort. Thank you. :)