Clubwhore (Devil's Renegade MC #1)(32)

“It would,” I admit, nodding and even giving him my best puppy-dog eyes.

“When I was in college, I shared an apartment with a girl who was a lot like you.” I hold my hand up to stop him.

“Wait. You went to college?” I’m dumbfounded with the knowledge, and I may have just insulted him. He raises his brows amused.

“You want me to continue or not?”

“Of course. What did you major in?” His jaw tightens as he looks at me no longer amused, but annoyed.

“Discipline.” Oh… His eyes narrow, and suddenly I no longer want to interrupt him. After a few moments, a very pleased look crosses his face—no doubt due to my silence—and he continues. “She had a temper. She’d pick fights with me, but I always ignored her. One day, I finally had enough. So I spanked her. The rest is history.”

“Um, hardly. What happened after that? Did you keep doing it? Did you do other stuff?” I’m firing off questions left and right. And he’s ignoring them all.

“That’s enough about me. It’s time we talk about you.” He grabs something from the counter then pushes it across the table at me. “Eat.” I look down at the steaming oatmeal and smile. It even has the little blueberries I love.

“Is there anything you’re not comfortable with?”

I shake my head. This oatmeal is fantastic.

“I didn’t think so,” he mumbles. I’m vaguely aware of him watching me eat. I didn’t realize how hungry I was. He must have, though—there’s enough oatmeal here to feed a small village.

“Mario.”

At the mention of his name, I lose my appetite. Damn good thing I was nearly finished. I keep my eyes on my spoon as I swirl what’s left of my breakfast around the bowl. “What about him?”

“What did he do to you?” His question pisses me off. I don’t know why, but dammit…it does.

“Emotionally? Physically? What is it exactly that you’re asking?” He ignores my tone, and gives me a blank look. “I couldn’t please him. Nothing was ever good enough. I was never good enough. And he never let me forget it.”

“So why did you stay?” I shoot him a look. I can feel the blood in my veins beginning to boil. My ears are hot. My nostrils are flaring. He’s pissing me off. And he knows it.

“That’s not fair and you know it,” I warn. My anger isn’t an act just to get him to lash out at me—it’s genuine.

“Seems fair enough to me. He was a piece of shit. But you stayed. Why?”

“You know why.” I’m spitting through my teeth. I’m not intimidated by his presence, or the fact that I’m wrapped in a sheet, sitting at a table, inside a house I’ve never been in.

I’m still seething in the silence when he smiles. “What you’re feeling? We call that anger.” Well, no shit.

“I’m very aware of what anger feels like.”

“No, you’re not. You force anger to get what you want. This,” he motions with his hand at me, “this is the reaction of someone who is pissed because they actually have a reason to be. And I bet you have no ulterior motive either. You don’t want me to reciprocate the anger and hit you. You want me to shut up and drop the subject.”

On the inside, I’m a little stunned. I try not to show it, but by the cocky look in his eyes, he can see right through me. I fucking loathe reverse psychology. I never fall for it. Well, I haven’t before now.

“How do you know all this? I mean, spanking your college roommate hardly qualifies you to aid in my rehabilitation.” I hold my fingers up to quote the word.

He silently appraises me a moment. A deep sadness flashes in his eyes, but he conceals it and tightens his jaw. “I majored in physiological psychology. My roommate’s condition inspired me. I wanted to learn the human mind. Understand the reasoning behind pain addiction. I dropped out after two semesters, but I continued to study it on my own.”

“Why?”

He shrugs. “I was intrigued. Can we get back on topic?” I nod, fully aware that the subject is dropped and he won’t be talking about it again.

“You may have it easy at the clubhouse, but in the real world, there are jerks just like Mario who will take advantage of you. I’m not gonna let that happen.”

I have questions swimming through my head, but I don’t let them surface. I’ve always been an in-the-moment kinda girl. To hell with the future. I want right now. I’ve never had anything good happen to me. So I’m gonna take this opportunity and run with it.

Closing the distance between us, he takes my chin in his fingers and gently forces me to meet his eyes. They’re burning with raw, primal dominance. “There are other ways to cope, Love. I’m going to teach you how to find that release, and I’m not going to do it with my fist. I’m going to show you your true worth.” His voice dips, as he pierces me with his striking, green-eyed stare. “As long as we’re here, you belong to me. I’m your Bryce and you’re my Love. No dominant. No submissive. Just us. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

There’s no hesitation on my part. No second guessing. No deliberating. No other option. Not just because he said so, but because I want to be.

I need to be.

I am…his.



Fifteen minutes later, I’m in the shower. Why? Because he told me to shower, dry my hair then meet him in the living room. The need for control isn’t foreign to me. I have freedom at the clubhouse, but I rarely use it. I function much better when I know exactly what I need to do—serve beer, be polite and provide pleasure to the club in any manner they desire.

Simple.

There’s not one person in particular who yields power over me, they do it as a whole. But here, there are no patches. There’s no bar or other people to entertain. It’s just me and Bryce. On my own, I wouldn’t last three days before I found myself wandering the streets aimlessly in search of someone to tell me what to do. I don’t have that fear now, because I’m not alone. I don’t have to think. I do as I’m told, and my reward is as simple as feeling alive.

As I start the tedious process of drying my long hair, I wonder what it will be like with him over the next several days.

Will he put me in a cage?

Keep me tied up?

Force me to do grotesque things to him?

Make me eat from the floor?

The list is endless, really. My previous experience with Mario has all these scenarios coming to mind. I doubt Bryce is as sadistic as Mario was, but at one time, I thought Mario was a good guy too.

You’d think after the torture he put me through, I would be scared to embark on this journey with Bryce. But as awful as it was, sometimes I find myself missing it. Some people are just naturally submissive. I guess I’m one of those people.





“I don’t have any clothes,” I tell Bryce, already slipping into that submissive role by dropping my eyes and speaking in a soft, pleasant voice.

“Look at me, Delilah.” He’s relaxed on the couch, flipping through a magazine. He’s fully dressed now in jeans and a black Henley. The material clings to the large muscles on his arms, but hangs loose around his waist.

“Stop.” I frown in confusion. “You’re a grown woman. Stop pretending to be something you’re not. Treat me like you would if we were at the clubhouse.”

I feel a tinge of disappointment, and it must show. His face softens as he leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “I want you to be who you are. Act how you feel. Not how you think I expect you to act. You need to learn how to function on your own. I can’t teach you that if you’re one way with me, and another with everyone else.”

You belong to me… Wasn’t that what he said?

“I’m not sure what you expect from me,” I admit, feeling warmth spread through me when his lips twitch at the bitchiness in my tone.

“Do you want a dominant, Delilah? Do you want me to tell you when you can eat, sleep, shower and come?”

“Yes.” His lip twitches again.

“I’m not a dominant.”

I roll my eyes. “Then what the fuck are you? Why are we here?”

He seems to be throwing my question around in his head. When he answers, he avoids meeting my eyes. “I’m a guy interested in a girl. We’re here because there are too many distractions at the clubhouse.”

I can’t help it. I smile at his admission. “You have a crush on me,” I tease, raising my brows. But the joke is on me, ’cause my belly is swarming with butterflies. He likes me…

Shaking his head, he lets out a breath of laughter. I think he’s slightly embarrassed. Is it possible? Nope. He’s just amused. “I have you something to wear on the bed. Put it on.” He’s yet to meet my eyes, and I wonder if the look I see is guilt. Probably because he’s lying…he wants to be my dominant as bad as I want him to be.

That “something to wear” is a bathrobe. It’s soft, thick and black. It’s so long it grazes the tops of my feet. On the floor next to the bed is a pair of matching slippers. There are no panties or bra, and I silently thank the heavens for gracing me with nice boobs that have minimal sagging.

“Okay, master,” I taunt, looking at him through the opened door. “I’m ready for you to have your way with me.”