Dirtiest Desires (Steamiest Short Stories)

The house smells faintly of dust. It's obvious no one has lived here in a long time. The hallway walls are bare and the click of my heels echoes in the stillness when I pause.

"Klaus..." My voice wavers before I can stop it. "What is this place?"

He doesn't answer. He just walks.

Slow, calculated steps that make my pulse throb behind my ribs as I follow behind him.

Then we reach a door at the end of the hall.

He twists the knob, hits the switch on the wall and red light fills the room, casting everything in a deep low glow that sinks under my skin. What I see inside makes my jaw slacken.

Shelves. Drawers. Racks. Wall hooks. Rows upon rows of gear. All filled and neatly arranged. The kind of bondage equipment that looks expensive and carefully chosen.

A thick leather whip hangs from a shiny hook, catching the light like wet silver.

Things I've only seen in movies or overheard in dressing rooms.

There's a padded bench bolted to the floor. A sleek metal column lined with loops and clasps and heavy wooden frame in the corner.

Heat flashes through my cheeks and all the way down my body. My thighs press together instinctively, too tight and obvious, but I can't stop myself.

Klaus stands silently behind me.

I don't need to look to know he's smirking.

"You're staring," he murmurs.

My mouth works but nothing comes out.

Of course I'm staring.

This is insane.

He steps closer, the warmth of his body reaching me before he does. His breath brushes the side of my neck. "Not surprised," he says, voice low. "You probably see things like this every week, don't you?"

The words hit harder than they should.

"No," I scoff. "I don't-"

He cuts me off with a soft, amused sound. He doesn't believe me. Or he doesn't care.

People always assume they know me. That stripping means I live in the dark corners of every fantasy. That I'm wild, reckless and experienced in every dirty thing imagined.

But I've never stepped foot in a room like this.

I swallow hard and force myself to speak. "Klaus, you don't get to just... pull people from work and bring them into your-" I gesture weakly at the room. "BDSM dungeon."

He chuckles. Actually chuckles. Like I'm adorable for even trying.

He doesn't touch me at first, he just leans in close enough that his nose grazes the side of my throat. The breath he drags in makes me shudder, knees threatening to fold.

He's smelling me.

"Klaus..." My voice disappears on his name.

He lifts a hand and takes my chin between his fingers, tilting my face up to his. His eyes burn under the red light, hunger etched through every inch of his expression.

"I don't pull just anyone into my 'dungeon'," he says softly. "Only a select few who deserve to be punished."

My pulse stutters.

"And lucky you," he adds, lips brushing the edge of a smile. "It's your turn."

Before I can react, he spins me gently but firmly, positioning me in front of a heavy-looking chair. The cuffs clink as he works the key, freeing my wrists. The sudden release makes them feel bare.

He places his hands on my shoulders and guides me down into the seat.

My breath catches.

"Klaus-"

"Shh." His tone leaves no room for anything. "Rules."

He squats in front of me, his face level with my trembling thighs. His hands rest on the armrests, trapping me without even touching my skin.

"You don't speak unless I ask you to."

A tremor rolls through me.

"If it's too much, you say Code Red."

My chest tightens.

"If you want more, you say Code Green."

I nod, wide-eyed.

Then he adds, quiet enough that it feels like confession, "Don't worry, you'll like everything I do to you. I won't be gentle though."

My pulse goes wild.

He rises slowly, towering over me. "Do you understand?"

I nod too fast against my better judgement.

His eyes flare with something dark and satisfied. "Good girl."

God. The way he says that...

He stands, lifts one finger and lets it glide down the center of my chest. My breath catches on impact.

"You have no idea," he murmurs, "how long I've been wrestling with myself. With my morals. Even now."

His finger trails lower, stopping just above the fabric of my barely-there dress. I swear my heart trips over itself.

"It's all your fault," he says, voice rougher now. "The way you look at me. The way you push me. The way you make me want to ruin you."

A flush climb my spine and my legs give a small, uncontrollable quiver.

"But tonight..." He leans in, lips brushing my ear without touching. "Tonight I won't hold back."

'Ruin you.'

His words echo, dark and possessive, but instead of fear, a dizzying excitement ignites in my chest.

It hits me then, a cold, sharp realization that this isn't an arrest. Neither is it about drugs. He built this moment on purpose, and somehow the thought of that should scare me.

But it doesn't.

It pulls me in like gravity.

"Take it off," he commands, stepping back. His voice is a low rumble, stripped of any pretense of politeness.

I blink, staring up at him. "My... my dress?"

"Do you see another piece of clothing covering you, girl?" His tone is flat and demanding. "Now."

I swallow. My hands go to the tiny zipper at my side, fumbling. My fingers are shaking so badly I can barely grip the metal.

Why am I obeying? Why am I not running for the door?

Because leaving this red-lit room... escaping this man who is looking at me like I am his deepest, filthiest secret, feels like a betrayal.

The fabric slides down my hips, pooling at my feet. The cold air of the room hits my skin, sending shivers that make my nipples pebble.

I'm sitting in my silver underwear, shaky, and utterly focused on the man in front of me.

He doesn't look me over. His eyes stay locked on mine, assessing and controlling.

"Get up," he instructs, his voice a wire pulling taut. "And lie down on the bench. Head toward the wall."