Andrea suppressed a stab of envy. “No, I don't know. Someday maybe I will.” But if she found someone she liked and wanted to date outside of this fancy place, could he overlook her background?
“You will. And in the meantime, you'll learn a lot. All the Masters give us some of their time.”
As Heather sped toward the bar to return her tray, Andrea frowned. Just how many Masters were there? And how did a person identify them?
Later that night, as Andrea stood between two bar stools, waiting for Master Cullen to take her drink orders, she couldn't stop smiling. She owed Antonio big-time for getting her in as a trainee. If she were here just as a member, she'd sit on a bar stool, hoping someone would approach her, yet terrified they would, and she'd have to come up with something to say. Instead she had things to do, stuff to keep her hands busy, and everyone seeing her trainee cuffs treated her like she belonged here.
As the death metal of Agonize pounded out from the dance floor, her hips swayed in time with the hard bass beat. The Dom paddling a sub tied to a nearby spanking bench kept the same cadence…as did the sub's groans a belated second later.
At the adjacent station, an older Domme in a tailored business suit and wicked stiletto heels used a thin cane, but not with any rhythm Andrea could detect. Whack. A pause. Whack. A longer pause. Then the Domme walked to the sub's other side, waited, and struck again. The gray-haired sub on the cross had bowed his head and locked his jaws. His muscles tightened over and over as he waited for each blow.
Andrea tilted her head. Apparently suspense proved as effective as an actual blow. The Domme paused to run her hand across the thin parallel lines the cane had caused. As the man groaned, she bent to stroke his cheek and whisper in his ear, her affection obvious.
“They've been married just over twenty years.” Cullen's deep voice sounded behind Andrea. “He presented her with that cane as an anniversary present.”
“Awww, that's sweet. Nothing says 'I love you' like a well-made implement of pain.”
His roar of laughter made satisfaction well inside her, and she grinned and turned.
He leaned an arm on the bar—his damn forearm was bigger than her biceps—and looked down at her. “How are you doing, love?”
“I'm good, Señor.” Every cell in her body seemed to yearn toward him. Touch me again, again, again. She took a step back and pushed him the tiny piece of paper she used for the drink orders. Lacking an apron, she had dropped the pencil stub into her cleavage and tucked a pad of paper under the overly tight skirt band. Since the membership fee included drinks, she didn't have to worry about carrying money.
“You look good. I've been admiring your skirt.”
The one he'd made her wear, the cabrón. She grinned, unable to stay mad in the face of his good humor. Hard to imagine that she'd actually wondered if he ever smiled. The man was a natural bartender; people made trips to the bar just to talk to him. He joked with the men and teased the women. He also flirted with the other trainees, and Andrea tried not to let that bother her. Besides, all the trainees probably fell for him, like with Stockholm syndrome or something.
Or maybe like a woman and her gynecologist. As his comment about tying her legs open ran through her mind, heat surged into her face, and she looked away.
Unexpectedly his big hand cupped her cheek, tilting her face until she stared right into his penetrating eyes. “Now, what was that thought?”
How did he shut that easygoing nature off and turn into this…Dom? She tried to pull away, but the man sitting beside her set his foot on the bar stool to her left and penned her against the bar. Unable to escape, she scowled at the stranger.
“Subs answer questions put to them.” The man's low voice had almost the same punch of power as Master Cullen's…as Señor's.
Trapped. She looked at Master Cullen, felt the hardness of his hand against her face, and her insides went liquid. “I was thinking I…well, that I like you and I blamed Stockholm syndrome.”
Amusement flickered across his face, but he didn't release her. “Considering how red you are, I think there's something else.”
A girl could get to hate Doms. “And about how women fall for their gynecologists.”
“That's a leap,” the man next to her muttered, putting his leg back down.
“Oh, not really,” Señor murmured, his gaze still holding hers, and she could see he knew exactly how she'd made that leap. “But since you're so fond of gynecologists, I may adapt my plans.”
He pulled back, and when his hand left her face, she had to grip the bar, as if he'd taken her strength with him.
His eyes glinted with laughter. “I don't think I showed you the theme rooms where Austin is working?”
She shook her head. He knew full well he hadn't.
“One of the rooms is a medical setup complete with an exam table. With stirrups.”
Jesús, María, y José. The thought of lying naked on a table…of Señor setting her bare feet into the cold metal stirrups. Of looking at her down there. Heat sizzled through her so hard and fast that she almost fell.
The man beside her gripped her arm. “Steady, chiquita,” he murmured.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
When she looked at Señor, his eyes were intent on her face, and the crease in his cheek deepened as he said, “Definitely a plan.”
He picked up her drink ticket and strolled down the bar. Such a big man. The tight leathers showed off his hard leg muscles. All muscle with not a speck of fat on him anywhere.
And a man beside her still held her arm as she drooled over Master Cullen. Oops. She turned. “Um. Thank you, sir.”
About six feet tall. His chest and arms bulged with muscles like a powerlifter. Dark brown eyes, black hair, and he had her coloring. “I'm Raoul. And you are Andrea, our new trainee?”
Our. “Are—” Was she allowed to ask anything? She smothered the question, then stood there looking stupid. “Yes. I am.”
His brows drew together, and he didn't release her arm. “What did you want to ask?”
Another overly perceptive Dom. At the downtown clubs, the men didn't always comprehend her meaning even when spelled out; here she didn't even have to talk. Why did that seem a bit scary?
She took a breath and answered, “Señor said I needed to obey the Shadowlands Masters, but I haven't met them. How can I tell who is who?”
“Very good question,” he said and let her arm go. He didn't appear offended in the least, and she relaxed. “And you're not the first trainee who ran into problems with not knowing. In fact, last fall, we had one presumptuous Dom who dubbed himself a Shadowlands Master. Now we often politely refer to someone as Master Whatever, and a Dom can order his own sub to call master, king, sire, or anything else he wants. But technically, in the Shadowlands, Master is an honorary title and has to be earned and voted upon.”
“I see. Thank you, Master.”
He blinked, and then laughed. “No, gatita. If you call me 'Master' without my name, it sounds as if you belong to me. Use Master Raoul or Sir.”
“Oh. Um, thank you, Sir.”
“No problem.” His dark eyes turned serious. “I look forward to the day you call someone your 'Master.'”
The thought sent a thrill—an uneasy thrill—through her. Master.
Change the subject. “So what happened to the Dom who called himself a Master?”
“Oh, he had his membership revoked. But Z didn't like having the subs confused, so he makes us wear these.” He slapped an elastic armband of gold rings that circled his biceps. “Dungeon monitors wear gold-trimmed leather vests, trainees wear gold-colored leather cuffs, and now Masters wear gold armbands. Do you see a trend here?”
She laughed at his rueful question. “I, for one, appreciate it. Thank you for the information.” And she'd keep a wary eye out for golden bands.
Chapter Five
Later in the evening, Cullen walked over to Nolan. “Can you tend the bar for a bit? Raoul's late—he had to drive a panicky sub home—and I need to release the second-shift trainees and oversee a scene with the new trainee.”
His friend scowled at a mouthy Dom who sat at the end of the bar. “Don't know if I can take the noise.”
“Hell, if you walk down there, he'll shut up.” Although Nolan had mellowed after taking Beth as a sub, the scarred-up master still looked like he'd rather gut a member than serve them.
“Well…” Nolan frowned down at his slender redhead, obviously wondering what to do with her. He rarely left her unaccompanied.
“She can help if you want or just hang out behind the bar.” Cullen shook his head. “Considering how many women you used to share, you're damned territorial now.”
“Some women you don't want to share.” Nolan slid a hand into Beth's loosened corset to cup a small breast. The sub's fair skin reddened.
“Ah-huh.” Sure made for boring parties. His friends had turned into little old women, all right. Hell, Dan had already married his sub and forced Cullen to be best man. Looked like Z and Nolan would soon follow. How many times would he have to rent a fucking tux? “She's ruined you, buddy.”
“I don't think so,” Nolan said softly, kissing the top of Beth's head. “But, all right; I'll babysit your fucking bar.”