The thought was bittersweet because she really missed having someone to talk with in the evenings. And, sometimes, she wanted to be touched so badly she ached with it.
But loneliness was better than betrayal.
She didn’t need to love anyone or live with anyone. The risk wasn’t worth it. However, in this century, women could do hookups as easily as men could. Maybe she’d consider that…eventually.
After all, “fuck” started with the right letter.
Laughing under her breath, she studied her list.
Fitness. Doing well there. The jogging helped—and the weights. Too embarrassed to use the campus gym filled with young hard bodies, she’d bought elastic straps and weights and worked out at home. It was paying off. She bent her arm and actually saw her biceps flex.
Friends. Well, she had quite a few friendly colleagues. Real friends would be better. Still needed to work on this one.
Family. The children were doing well, although they still hoped she and Barry would get back together. There was nothing she could do about their wishes, except maybe tell them about the slaves and his drinking.
Should she ever reveal he’d hit her?
Just the thought was uncomfortable. A good parent didn’t destroy a child’s image of their father. Maybe telling the children the truth would be easier on her, but that didn’t make it right, especially since Barry would, hopefully, see the mess he was making and turn things around.
Finances. Better. An adjunct’s pay was dismal and less than what she’d earned teaching at the community college, but this fall, she’d be an official assistant professor.
Fun. Ouch. She worked. Worked some more. This goal needed attention.
Then the last goal: Friskiness. Total fail. She’d tried flirting but hadn’t really been interested in anyone.
Maybe if a guy had offered to spank her?
Amused at herself, she glanced toward the bedroom where there were two new toys in the bedstand. Toys didn’t spank either. They did deliver orgasms, at least.
Okay, maybe she needed to work harder on this goal, too.
Chapter Two
In his pickup, Ghost—or as his mother called him when he’d screwed up royally, Finlay Kamron Blackwood—rolled the windows down to savor the humid air of the Florida countryside. Pine and grass, and nearby wetlands added a sulphury hint.
Stretches of hardwoods and conifers vied with marshy areas. Red-winged blackbirds and yellowthroats perched on fence posts. Nice. It’d been too long since he’d escaped the city.
He frowned. How long had it been since he’d visited the club?
A month? Two? He’d been so busy recently it was a wonder he found time to breathe. Hell, he wouldn’t be here this Sunday if he hadn’t volunteered for the open house way back in the fall. He’d completely forgotten it until the calendar reminded him.
Turning, he drove through the iron gates that had been left open for this event. The setting sun reddened the graceful palm trees lining the long drive up to the stone mansion.
Once parked, he swung out of the pickup and glanced down to be sure the leg of his pants hadn’t hung up on his prosthetic. He didn’t particularly care, but no need to startle people who weren’t used to seeing a metal shaft where a lower leg should be.
After locking up, he strode up the sidewalk to the three-story building that stood alone in the wide acreage. Probably wise, considering this was the home of the notorious Shadowlands BDSM club.
Pulling open the heavy oak door, he walked inside and frowned. An unfamiliar security guard was at the reception desk in the entry room.
How long had it been since Ghost’s ass had been planted in that chair?
When he’d arrived in Tampa—damn, was it two years now?—a military buddy had needed someone to relieve him at his receptionist-slash-bouncer job here. Ghost had nearly refused. He’d left the West Coast for a reason, abandoning his past, his friends…and the lifestyle.
But Ben had needed time to pursue a Domme, and yeah, Ghost’d been bored after only a few months of retirement. Besides, sitting in the club’s entry wasn’t technically participating in BDSM.
Ben should have warned him about the owner, Zachary Grayson, known as Master Z. The renowned psychologist took far too much interest in his dungeon staff and the regulars.
Z had first manipulated Ghost into assisting in the dungeon, then pushed him into more activities, then made him a full member. Hell, Z and the members had even nailed Ghost with the title of Master.
Ghost grinned. The Machiavellian Shadowlands owner—the bastard—was a credit to the Green Berets, although Z had been with