Inside, the clubroom took up the entire bottom floor. The oblong bar of dark wood where she sat held ownership of the center of the room. A long table of munchies occupied one back corner and a small dance floor, the other. The light from wrought-iron sconces flickered over the equipment near the walls: St. Andrew's crosses, spanking benches, sawhorses, and stockades. Each within a more brightly lit, roped-off area. Rich leather couches and chairs created sitting areas where people could watch the scenes or just talk.

Everything in the place shouted rich, rich, rich and made her feel like she might get dirt on something.

The thud of footsteps sounded in the silent bar, and Master Cullen appeared on the stairs in the far corner. As he crossed the room toward her, she studied him, and her fingers tightened on her glass. Some men moved like cats, some like soldiers, some like they'd never mastered walking, but she'd never seen his style before. Not in a man…

Last year when hiking in Colorado, she'd witnessed a mountain avalanche. Carrying everything away in its path, the avalanche hadn't been graceful, but all that power had been stunningly beautiful.

She took a hefty swallow of her drink as he drew closer. In faded leathers and boots, he sure wasn't a clotheshorse like Antonio, and he was sure a lot bigger. The brown leather pants clung to long legs, and his vest opened over a thickly muscled chest. His neck was corded, his arms solid. A gold band circled one darkly tanned biceps. His face… She frowned. All rough lines and craggy bones, he looked like a hard-edged Boromir from Lord of the Rings.

His mouth was set in a firm line. And didn't that just figure she'd end up with Boromir? At least Aragorn had a sense of humor.

He stopped in front of her, and she looked up and even farther up, feeling like a tiny hobbit seeing a troll for the first time. No man had ever towered over her like this or made her feel so unsettled. Did short women feel like this? She started to stand—never let them see you vulnerable—and he set his hand on her shoulder, keeping her in place. Easily.

She swallowed against the heat that swept through her.

His eyes crinkled slightly as if he could see the effect he'd had on her. “Your papers said you'd been in a couple of the Tampa clubs before—and we'll discuss your experiences at a later time—but I was curious. Did any of the subs mistake you for a Domme?”

Oh, did they ever. In one place, a man in a chain harness had dropped to his knees, saying “This one begs the honor of—” Andrea grimaced. Just because she stood a good five feet ten and had some—okay, lots—of muscle didn't mean she was a femdom. It just meant she owned a cleaning agency and spent her days working hard. “They did. Um, yes, Sir.”

“I'm not surprised.”

“But—”

He held a finger up for silence, and a bit surprised at herself, she obeyed. Without asking, he unzipped her biker jacket and gave her a hard look when she squirmed. She wore only a bra beneath it.

“Little subs should never wear more clothing than Doms,” he said absently. His knuckles grazed the bare skin below her bra, and she jerked, earning another stern look.

He moved closer, gripping her nape, holding her still. His other hand removed the clips keeping her hair on top of her head. He tossed them on the bar. “You look and dress and act like the stereotype of a Domme.”

Her hair fell down, the uncontrollably curly strands brushing against her neck and shoulders. He finger-combed it out, leaving it messy. Tousled. “A trainee here must look like the very epitome of a submissive. You're an example to the other subs in your attire and demeanor. In your obedience.”

Oh, great. She usually had trouble obeying—well, maybe not with this Dom, but with others—but she'd do it. “Yes, Sir.”

“Better. That sounds like a sub. Now let's make you look like one.” He dropped some fabric into her hands. “Master Z keeps an assortment of play clothes in the private rooms upstairs. You'll wear this tonight.”

Grasping her upper arms, he lifted her off the bar stool. “Change. And leave those kick-ass boots off.” Apparently he could smile after all, at least a bit. Sure didn't help much.

She glanced around, spotted the restroom sign, and started in that direction.

“No, Andrea. Right here.”

In front of him? “Oh, Dios mío,” she whispered. Embarrassment swept through her, heating her face and neck. Glancing over, she realized he half expected her to refuse, and he wouldn't particularly care if she did. Antonio had warned her the trainee boss had sworn up a blue streak at taking her on.

She shut her eyes and pulled in a breath. I knew I'd be asked to do stuff like this, so why is it so difficult? Difficult and yet…exciting.

She didn't look at him as she struggled to get the jacket sleeves over her cuffs. Her biker jacket dropped to the floor, and she picked up what she hoped was a shirt. No such luck. He'd given her a black latex minidress, low cut with thin shoulder straps. Her pants wouldn't work, and her bra would have to go too.

He leaned against the bar, his sea green eyes disconcertingly light in his tanned face, and crossed his arms over his chest. Waiting to see what she'd do, no doubt.

Would he kick her out if she turned her back to him? She couldn't risk it. She bent and unzipped her boots, toed them off, then wiggled and peeled out of the latex pants, smelling the baby powder she'd used to get them on. As she draped them over a chair, sweat trickled down the hollow of her spine.

“The thong can stay,” he said.

She gritted her teeth and removed her bra. Chingalo, but she needed that bra. Her cantaloupe-sized breasts needed support.

Almost naked. Standing in the middle of a bar. And he sure was no gentleman since he hadn't looked away. Why did this make her feel so terrified?

But she knew… The air moving over her naked skin felt far too much like…then. She could almost hear her shirt rip, feel the chain link fence cold against her back. Her schoolbooks had lain in the mud until the high school boys had kicked them out of the way. Carlos had grabbed her bared breast, and she'd punched his bony chin, crying as her fingers broke. Even as they backed off, the culeros had stared at her naked breasts, jeering, calling her a big, ugly puta. Puta.

Her spine stiffened. “You enjoying this?” she asked Carlos and his friends. “You want me to turn in a circle for you?”

“Excuse me?”

She blinked, and the stubbled grass of the empty lot melted into a hardwood floor. The club. She'd said that stuff to Master Cullen… When she looked at him, saw his mouth tight, his face cold, she closed her eyes in horror. What had she done? Would a hasty apology—

“You're new, Andrea. Normally we wouldn't accept a trainee without more experience, but as you know, Antonio didn't give me a choice.” His voice echoed in the bar, deep and cold, like a cave lake. “I'm going to give you three choices and your first taste of Shadowlands discipline.

One: you may serve the members tonight wearing just what you have on now. Two: you may select a paddle from the wall, bend over a bar stool, and receive five swats. Three: you may leave.”

He didn't move. His expression didn't change as he waited for her answer.

And she hated him with every cell in her body. Maybe even more because she'd brought this on herself.

Pretty crummy choices. Walk around naked all night? Dios, no. The skimpy dress would be bad enough.

Leave? Give up and go home? That's what he wanted. No.

Be paddled? Papa had never spanked her, but this couldn't hurt worse than the bruises he'd given her, trying to toughen her up. She wet her lips, tried to speak despite her dry mouth. “I'll take the swats.”

“Then bring me a paddle.”

Forcing her shoulders back, she marched across the huge room, feeling his eyes on her. Humiliation vied with the disconcerting warmth of being naked in front of a man…this man. She'd wondered about instant domination. Well, now she knew. He had it in spades.

She reached the wall and stopped. Various “toys” hung between the scene areas. Iron bars to pull legs apart, leather straps, cuffs, rope. And whips and floggers and paddles. She moved closer to a selection of paddles. Giant-sized down to small and rectangular. One had holes in it. How did a person choose? She rubbed her clammy hands together. When Papa taught her karate, he'd said a woman's punch hurt more because the force impacted a smaller area. So, in this case, bigger might serve her better. She grabbed the largest paddle.

Walking back across the room, she felt her full breasts bounce and realized her nipples blatantly poked out…as if she were turned-on. The air-conditioning wasn't on yet, so she couldn't say the room's temperature caused her reaction. Yes, admit it, Andrea—this intimidating, mean Dom turns you on.

His gaze ran across her, lingered on her breasts, and a crease appeared in his cheek. Her nipples tightened until they ached.

When she handed him the monster-sized paddle, he actually smiled. “Good choice.” He pointed to the back of a nearby couch, amusement obvious in his voice. “Assume the position.”

Biting her lip, she moved to the couch and bent, resting her stomach on the high back.

“Farther. Balance yourself on your hands.”

Damn him, wasn't this horrible enough? She squirmed until her mound pressed against the cool leather. Her feet dangled in the air, and she braced her forearms against the cushions.