Touch Me Not Read online

  EVERNIGHT PUBLISHING ®

  www.evernightpublishing.com

  Copyright© 2018 Jen Katemi

  ISBN: 978-1-77339-754-2

  Cover Artist: Jay Aheer

  Editor: Karyn White

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  WARNING: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and places are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  TOUCH ME NOT

  Naughty Fairy Tales

  Jen Katemi

  Copyright © 2018

  Chapter One

  Alexei

  What is it with these suburban princesses, constantly making their way into the city at night looking for danger and excitement? On their terms, of course. Always high maintenance, usually low self-esteem, and not the faintest inkling of what a man like me might find attractive. They’re here just long enough to appease their curiosity, and then they’re home again, tucked up safe in their cozy beds where the big bad wolves of this world can’t get them. Wolves like me. Princes of Pleasure. Kings of Pain.

  The latest two hovering near the door don’t look old enough to be out this late, but I know they must be over twenty-one. Club Plaisir is members-only, and definitely adults-only, and applications are thoroughly scrutinized. The nature of what goes on here means we have to be discreet, and all of my staff have a knack for spotting fake IDs and unsuitable applicants. No one underage. Ever. No exceptions. That’s my number one rule.

  Despite the fact that both newcomers have clearly been caught unawares by this evening’s heavy spring downpour outside, the dark-haired one on the left has a confident set to her shoulders as she stares around the room at the half-naked clientele. She shakes out her wet hair and sprays rain droplets over everyone in the vicinity, though no one seems to notice in the sweat and heat of the club. She’s definitely been here before, or somewhere similar. She has the demeanor of someone who can look out for herself.

  By comparison, the slightly-built blonde by her side looks like a startled deer in the headlights. A wet, bedraggled deer who seems as if she’d be more at home in a sun-drenched field of flowers than a dark, inner-city sex club pulsing with music and undulating bodies. She’s definitely never been here before. I’d remember. There’s something about her—an air of fragility, perhaps—that piques my interest, and even though she’s the exact opposite of what I look for in a woman, my cock twitches in a visceral response to her innocence.

  Fuck!

  I need my women hard and experienced. I need them to like it rough. I’m an expert at providing my partners with equal parts pleasure and pain.

  I wouldn’t even know where to start with a woman who likes it subtle.

  From my vantage point up here on the raised landing above the lounge and dance floor, I can read the curiosity mixed with apprehension as she glances wide-eyed around the room. Her teeth, even and white, tease that plump bottom lip in a way that sends another unwanted message straight to my dick. No. She’s not for the likes of me.

  I’d love to know her thoughts as she studies the action around her. Does it meet her expectations of what a sex club might look like? What did she expect, before she strolled in our front door? It’s Friday, generally our busiest night of the week, and tonight is no exception. Some patrons haven’t bothered to head upstairs to the private rooms before starting in on their foreplay. Though, to be honest, most of the hard-core action happens out back in the play area, or downstairs in the superbly equipped dungeons. That’s my usual haunt.

  There’s always a degree of nakedness, out here in the bar area. Some touching, maybe a bit of finger or mouth action, perhaps a bit of role-play. Nothing beyond vanilla, at least not from tonight’s unusually tame crowd, but I guess if you haven’t been to a club like ours before, it could still be pretty confronting.

  After a moment, Blondie folds her arms across her middle in a gesture that looks self-protective, and my cock twitch develops further, until there’s a heavy heat between my legs and I’m reminded of what it was like to be young and not in full control of my libido.

  Annoyance blooms in my chest, and my brows come down in a scowl. Fuck this. What the hell is wrong with me tonight? I’m always in control. I’m known for it in this industry. My hands clench briefly on the shiny metal railing, and I glare down at the two offending women. Rationally, I know it’s not their fault, but it’s as if Blondie’s very presence is causing my body to malfunction. Thirty-five years old and I might as well be fifteen, the way I’m reacting.

  As if the woman can sense my aggravation, she lifts her chin like she’s scenting the breeze, and again I’m reminded of a delicate woodland creature. She suddenly raises her face, looking straight at me. My heart feels like it skips a beat and then restarts with a painful thud. What the hell? My black leather pants with the silver chain loop belt are designed to be skin-tight, but not this tight. Now I have a fucking hard-on. And it won’t cooperate and go back down.

  Her eyes widen briefly, and her lips part as if she, too, experiences the same odd body sensation when our gazes meet. Something in the depths of her expression flashes bright and then disappears just as fast. So fast I can’t interpret what it is. Maybe it’s her innocence, so rare in a place like Club Plaisir. Our specialty for a large portion of the club’s more elite clientele is straddling the line between pain and desire. Crossing from one side of that line to the other and back again, in a controlled and professional environment. A beacon of innocence, even one packaged as prettily as Blondie, has no place on that delicately balanced tightrope of pleasure and pain.

  Why is she here? And why the fuck will my body not respond to my brain’s demand to behave?

  I spy one of my hosts heading their way, and my antenna instantly goes on full alert. Harris. He’s good at what he does, especially with newbies to the lifestyle, but there’s something about Blondie that screams fragile, and I can’t imagine even Harris will be subtle enough for a woman like her. I can’t stomach the thought of him anywhere near her.

  I’m already descending the stairs two at a time when I realize I don’t want anyone from Plaisir near this woman. I find myself standing in front of her before my brain catches up with my physical action, and when my breath hitches unexpectedly in my throat I tell myself it’s simply that I’m out of shape from rushing down the stairs.

  Sure. That’s it. You’re out of shape. I grit my teeth, trying to ignore the sarcastic voice in my brain that knows it’s my job to stay in shape.

  When I shake my head at Harris the action is more violent than intended, and he recoils a step before raising a surprised set of brows. His glance darts between me and the blonde and back again. I jerk my head for a second time, and after a moment of awkward silence, he nods and fades slowly back into the crowd.

  I turn my attention back to our visitor. Up close she seems like physical perfection. Pale skin, lightly freckled across the nose, and hair so white, despite its disheveled wetness, that I want to hoist up the hem of her short black dress and check her cunt to see if that hair color is natural. Her eyes, which exuded innocence from my previous vantage point upstairs, are a clear ice blue. It’s an uplifting shade that screams an invite to dive right in to their cool, refreshing depths.

  Her mouth is full and deliciously pink, and an image of her pussy lips suddenly fills my mind. Is she equally as plump and pink below? Is there a slick wetness that adds a sheen to her cunt, a sheen I could reach out and collect on the tip of my tongue? What would she
taste like, this fragile-looking young woman? What would she say if I knelt down right this minute and buried my face, my mouth, and my eager tongue deep into the apex between her thighs? How would she react if I sucked and licked at her juicy clit, coaxing the pea-shaped nub right out from its resting place at the top of her slit? Would she moan or scream if I bit her there, hard, until she, too, understood how to cross that line from pleasure into pain and back again?

  I don’t understand where these thoughts are coming from. I don’t fuck the patrons. Not in that way. My interactions are purely for business, my clients needing a specialized form of bondage restraint and punishment that almost never involves sexual intercourse.

  I think I’m doing well hiding my lust-filled musings, but something alien flares in her gaze as she stares back at me, almost as if she can read every lewd thought in my head. Sudden lascivious curiosity, not naiveté, animates her features, and displeasure has my fists clenching tight. Is she really just another suburban princess, here to prove how cool she is by daring to enter Plaisir?

  My reaction is ridiculous. If she’s innocent then she has no right to be here in a place as debauched as this and I’ll be sending her home momentarily. But if she’s not, then I should be relieved, not fighting the urge to turn away in disappointment. My mouth twists, and I force myself to don the polite mask of club host and to curb the irritation that I know has no basis in reason.

  “You don’t belong here, sweetheart.” I begin my little speech designed to get her to leave, but a droplet of rain water off her hair distracts my attention when it meanders down her cheek. Without thinking, I reach out to catch the bead with my fingertip. She jerks backward when I connect with her skin, a violent shiver coursing through her body. I snatch back my hand. What was that? Surely that reaction couldn’t be in response to my touch? I reach for her again, testing to see what happens, and she cringes, avoiding my touch altogether this time.

  Well, well. Is she afraid she’ll catch something awful from the big bad Dom? I continue my speech, but this time I don’t bother to hide my annoyance. “Time to run along back home to your family in the ‘burbs, little princess. You can’t handle the kind of play on offer here at Plaisir. And besides, you’re way too young to be out this late.”

  Yeah, ‘cos you so want her to leave. An image of her pale body splayed in an artistic pose in a suspension harness reignites my unwilling desire. She glances down as if acquiescing to my dominance and the tension holding my shoulders tight loosens a touch, but then her head tilts slightly to one side and I realize she’s actually studying my still visible erection.

  Fuck. Me. The tension surges right back up to uncomfortable. A hiss of exasperation escapes before I can contain it, and she raises her gaze once more to mine, but again there’s a flash of something in those mysterious blue depths. It’s quickly hidden, but this time I manage to identify it. Desire.

  Her narrowed eyes are no longer quite so helpless-seeming, and my heart skips a beat. Again. Who in fuck’s name is this woman? And why am I reacting so strongly to her presence?

  “I don’t live in the ‘burbs’. I live in an apartment in the city.” Her voice is soft and clear, but with an acerbic edge that denotes I’ve pissed her off a little. The thought makes me grin, until she adds, “And I’m a fully paid member of Plaisir, well over age. Twenty-five, in fact. So by my reckoning, I have as much right to be here as you do. Sir.” That final word is thrown out with a touch of disdain, and it would have ratcheted up my annoyance even further, had the tip of her tongue not immediately darted out to moisten her slightly open lips.

  Damn, girl! She catches my reluctant interest and does it again, slowly and deliberately. Suspicion firms. This one is maybe not quite as innocent as she appears.

  “Fully paid?” How? We’re an invitation-only club. “When did you—”

  “Today. I applied three months ago at the invitation of Madame, and received the acceptance email this morning. I paid my dues immediately. Not that it’s any of your business.”

  I grin, but it’s probably showing more cruelty than mirth because her friend notes my expression and tugs at Blondie’s arm. “Mia, don’t. This is the club own—”

  “I don’t care who this is, Sara. I have as much right to be here as anyone else in the room.” She gestures, and I involuntarily follow her graceful hand movement. Like a goddamn puppy. I grit my teeth and turn back, more than ready to send her packing. Then something she’s said penetrates and I frown slightly. “Wait. Madame? She’s the one who invited you to apply?”

  What the hell? That doesn’t make sense. Masha, always known as Madame here in the club, is my business partner. She’s also the closest thing I’ve ever known to a mother. Masha has an uncanny sense of who to accept—and more importantly, who to reject—from club membership. We receive countless applications every week, the type of people who apply varying from genuine to crackpot and all points in between. Madame and I made the decision early on to keep the clientele list private and exclusive, the activities discreet, and the membership fee out of reach of the average Joe. Club Plaisir has a quality reputation, and we’ve worked damn hard to keep it that way.

  Why would Masha accept a woman who is clearly not suited to this lifestyle?

  I realize my teeth are beginning to clench and work my jaw to loosen it. “How do you know Madame?”

  “I met her in the park. The Royal Botanic Gardens, to be exact.”

  The park? An image of Mia dancing around among a riot of colorful flowers, a flaxen-haired free spirit filled with joy, pops into my head and won’t go away.

  “I was sitting near the banks of the Yarra, staring at the river and crying.”

  Okay, so maybe strike out that bit about jumping with joy amongst the flowers. “You were … crying?”

  “Mm hmm. And Madame just seemed to appear beside me out of nowhere.”

  Her words instantly dredge up a memory from many years ago. One I try hard not to think about, these days. But right now, staring into Mia’s large blue eyes, the floodgate of memory opens and I can’t stop the thoughts that tumble out.

  Me, at fourteen, standing on the bridge in the grey light just before dawn, with the swirling brown waters of the Yarra River flowing a few meters below me. Me, biting my lip to keep in the tears, because real men don’t cry. Clenching my fists on the railing, to prevent myself from climbing over and just letting myself be carried away by the current. So easy, to let go. So tempting. Away from the fear. Away from the guilt and self-hatred. Away from the pain. Away from the seedy reality of life—if you can call it that—as a rent boy on the streets of Melbourne.

  I remember that struggle as if it were yesterday. Live. Die. In that particular moment it didn’t matter which. Life was too hard. Death beckoned as the easier option. Until Madame materialized, seemingly out of thin air, and laid a gentle hand over one of mine on the railing. Just like that, between one second and the next, a kernel of light and hope entered my constant darkness.

  To this day, I still don’t really know where she came from, or why she appeared in that spot at that particular time. Whatever the reason, she was my savior in that moment, and has been so every day since. Whatever secret magic she wields is beyond my understanding, but without her intervention, I damn sure would not be alive today.

  And now it seems Madame also appeared to Mia out of nowhere. If my adoptive mother felt it necessary to touch this tiny blonde woman with the same gentle magic that saved my life, Mia must have far bigger underlying issues than appears on the surface.

  Mia has continued speaking while I trip unwillingly down memory lane. Finally, I tune back in. “…was so kind. We’ve met many times since then, and talked so much, I almost feel as if we’re friends. We both love the peace that the gardens and the river can bring.”

  “Um, I didn’t realize Madame liked, well … gardens.” Masha and I are night people. Our job and our livelihood are contained in this club that we created together. We normally sleep duri
ng the daylight hours. When did my mother take up walking in the park? To say I’m nonplussed is an understatement. It’s as if Masha has a whole other life that I never even knew about. I mean, shit. Walking in the park?

  “Madame offered a rather … unique solution to my problem, and I finally have some hope.”

  Hope. “Right.” I clear my throat. She’s thrown me a little. Well, okay, a lot. And I don’t like it. I try to bring the conversation back a step or two, to somewhere I might be able to take control once again. “So, as your friend tried to point out earlier, I am the owner of this establishment. At least, the co-owner, together with Madame. And that, I think, makes your membership very much my business, Mia.”

  She’s startled, I can tell, but she smooths it over with a quick smile. “Then you must be Alexei, her son. You’re the one I came here to meet, actually. She said you’re probably the one best qualified to assist with my particular … issue. The only one, in fact, who might be able to … help.”

  “Well, I…” Have no fucking clue what to say. It really doesn’t matter what her issue is. I only have one area of specialty, and I can’t go there with this cute little princess. We’re worlds apart, and it needs to stay that way.

  Chapter Two

  What the fuck was Masha thinking? This industry is murky, and even after my adoptive mother took me in off the streets and gave me the chance of a better life, it has taken me places I never dreamed of. My life experience has exposed dark spaces in my soul that, for some odd reason, I don’t want Mia to find. The thought of taking her downstairs to my personal dungeon suite sends a faint shudder through my system. To have her fragile body splayed out on my bondage bed, looped and cuffed and completely at the mercy of whatever whim takes my fancy… Okay, so my cock might like that idea. A lot. But my brain doesn’t. There is nothing in my arsenal of knowledge that I want to share with such a woman.