He smirked. “It’s a real thing. Though usually without the associated murder and mayhem.”
Huh. For the life of me, I couldn’t picture stuffy old St. Louis as the venue for a bunch of rich people wearing capes and Mardi Gras masks while using naked slaves as furniture.
Shriners parades? Sure.
Elk Lodges? Absolutely.
Whips and leather bondage gear? Well... I supposed the occasional downtown showings of The Rocky Horror Picture Show still managed to pull a respectable turnout. Presumably, that meant someone, somewhere was doing a decent business in corsets and fishnet stockings.
“Forget about the existence of faeries or demons,” I said. “Apparently there’s a whole ‘nother world hiding right under my nose that I knew nothing about.”
“Several, probably,” Rans agreed in a dry tone. “Anyway, I did a little poking around, and the local organization is called St. Louis Silk and Leather—SL2 for short. They have a good reputation—no walk-ins at private events. Getting accepted requires sponsorship by a current member in good standing, and the Code of Conduct provides adequate protection for everyone who comes to play.”
I was still having difficulty wrapping my mind around this concept. “Okay... couple of things, here. Firstly, I’m having trouble picturing leather-clad kinksters hammering out membership agreements and legal codes of conduct for a sex club. Secondly, if membership requires a sponsor, how would we even get in? And please don’t say Guthrie’s a member, because as much as I like the guy, that’s a mental image I don’t really need.”
“If Guthrie’s a member, I’m unaware of it,” Rans said with tempered amusement. “But who needs a sponsor when you’ve got these?”
His eyes burned briefly with inner light, and I felt the press of his will against mine. As a demon crossbreed, I had some defense against the power of his vampiric gaze, but most humans didn’t. If he told someone they were sponsoring us, then I guessed we’d have a sponsor after all.
“That’s cheating, but all right,” I allowed.
He flashed a dangerous smile. “If you’re not cheating, you’re not trying. Isn’t that the saying? And as to your other question, it’s the only way to get around the outdated morality laws in most parts of the U.S.”
“Morality laws?” I echoed. “What, like the no alcohol sales on Sunday thing?”
“More like the no charging money for sex thing, in this case.” He quirked an eyebrow. “Although fetish clubs rarely allow alcohol, either. Not only does it increase the chances of someone deciding to act like a twat; it also brings down more governmental oversight than your average BDSM practitioner wants to deal with.”
I shook my head in amazement. “So instead, they make it a nice, legal members’ only club—”
“And once the annual membership fees are paid, it’s arguably none of the government’s business what they get up to behind closed doors at their private events—especially since no money is changing hands at the venue.”
“Wow,” I said, intrigued despite myself. Then I remembered that the entire thrust of this conversation was about teaching me to feed from other people, and my heart sank. “So, you want to take me to one of these events so I can learn to siphon energy off of random people who happen to be horny and nearby. And I’m guessing you wanted me to learn not to siphon from you first, so my body wouldn’t just take the easiest option whenever you’re around.”
He shrugged. “More or less. I suspect that my being around you when you’re dolled up in fetish gear and not wanting to shag you would be something of a tall order.”
And, damn it, if he would just stop saying ambiguous shit like that...
“I’m never certain if you’re trying to come on to me, or if you’re the most shameless man-slut I’ve ever met,” I muttered.
He gave me an odd look. “If you haven’t figured it out by now, luv, I’m not quite sure what to tell you.”
I chewed the inside of my cheek. I could ask. I could come right out and demand he tell me why he was doing all this. I could have my answer in thirty seconds or less.
I wavered on the cusp of dragging it out of him, once and for all. Then, I imagined that cultured voice telling me how I was a sweet girl, but surely I could understand that there could never be anything serious between us... and I wussed out. Like always.
I’d heard every imaginable variation of that speech, and it still hurt each and every time.
“If we’re doing this, I want to be the Domme,” I blurted instead.
He stared at me for a beat. I’d managed to surprise him.
“Do you, now?” he asked, almost managing to hide his amusement. “Any other little tidbits about your predilections that you’d care to share with me?”
I colored. “No.” When he was silent, watching me expectantly, I finally said, “Look, trashy BDSM romance novels are a starving sex demon’s best friends, all right? What can I say? I’m well-read.”
He raised his hands in mock surrender. “Not judging. At least, not unless your entire knowledge of the lifestyle is based on Fifty Shades.”
“I couldn’t even get through the first book,” I assured him. “Though if we’re seriously going to do this, you’d better clue me in on the differences between fantasy and reality when it comes to sex clubs. And maybe get me a copy of that Code of Conduct document, just to be safe.”
“Happy to,” he said. Then, a slow smile spread over his features. A dangerous one. “First things first, though. Tomorrow, you and I are going shopping.”
SEVEN
SURPRISE, SURPRISE—WHEN a sexually adventurous vampire drags you out for shopping after outlining a plan to take St. Louis’ kink scene by storm, you don’t come home with a bag full of new t-shirts and white cotton underwear. In fact, there wasn’t a stitch of white to be found anywhere in our purchases. Or a stitch of
