Dom-Com

by Adriana Anders

Genres: Contemporary Romance; Romantic Comedy; Workplace Romance

Synopsis

An experienced Dom and a baby sub must keep their kink-lives a secret after discovering they've just become office mates and professional rivals in this super-steamy contemporary romcom, perfect for fans of Lana Ferguson and Tessa Bailey.

Release date: January 27, 2026

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Print pages: 352

Sample

I CAN’T POSSIBLY DO another walk-by. At some point, I’ve got to just bite the bullet, march up to the door, and go inside.

Half a block away, I work up the courage and scrub my clammy palms down my thighs. Be Mimi in Rent, I think, the way I always do when I need to kick my butt in gear. Forget regret and just move on. Okay. This is it.

I eye the building as I make my final approach. It’s pretty. Red brick. Originally a warehouse, I’d guess, like most of its neighbors, with lots of big windows, mostly dark now. The comedy club on the ground floor is open for Friday-night business, judging from the sickly green cast of its neon sign and the stink of cheap beer.

Where I’m headed—if I can make myself take that final step—is in the basement. Off the Cuff, it’s called, though there’s no visible sign. I like the name. It feels right in a way I can’t entirely describe. Sexy, but also not too serious. Like maybe if I get the giggles my first night, they won’t run me out of town and cross my name off the permanent, forever, etched-in-stone kinky person list.

I concentrate hard on taking one step after another, regretting the stilettos I finally chose. Yes, they’re cute, but limping into a BDSM club for the first time with a blister and a sprained ankle isn’t exactly the look I’m going for.

I’m maybe five yards away when I catch the eye of the bouncer standing in the alcove between the comedy club’s plate glass window and Off the Cuff’s wholly unremarkable front door. She’s wearing all black with the requisite earpiece and that bland, vigilant look I remember from the few times my friends and I ventured out to dance in college. Before I met Brendan and became—

Nope. Not thinking about the ex tonight. Tonight is for me. My night. There’s no room for thoughts of Brendan and the way he’d steel himself before going down, like a man headed into a burning building instead of a guy about to give oral sex to his girlfriend.

No room for thoughts of work and how the new mystery consultant—Grant Bowman—is dragging us all back into the office on Monday, after three years of doing fine working from home.

Just thinking about it is giving me anxiety.

Three years of never once having to remove old tuna fish sandwiches from the break room fridge or telling Dani down in graphics that roasting lamb in an Instant Pot on her desk isn’t workplace-appropriate or figuring out how to politely let Stinky Phil know that he’s got to leave his shoes on in the office or risk general mutiny.

Three years of work-from-home bliss brought to a screeching halt by Grant Bowman, the executive consultant ostensibly brought in to “help us transition back to the office,” which is one hell of a vicious cycle if you ask me.

I’ve got a real bad feeling about the man. Like that indescribable, life-changing, Something wicked this way comes bad.

It’s half the reason I’m here tonight. To let off steam and face my fears and just bite the bullet and do this one thing I’ve dreamed of for so long.

So that’s it. No thinking about exes or the office or checking the family chat or asking Dad for the umpteenth time if he’s taken his meds. None of it.

In fact, there will be no thinking allowed at all beyond this point. Nothing but me and this Friday-night foray into my fantasy world.

A car honks a few feet away, and I look up, startled to see that I’ve reached the door. The bouncer leans against the wall, staring at me with a look that says she knows exactly why I’m here.

To be dominated by a stranger. And maybe even to do some sexy stuff while I’m at it.

Oh no. What was I thinking? I can’t do this.

Doing my best to pretend I stopped randomly, I tap my phone and walk on, opening apps like I mean it. Nothing to see here. Just a busy woman in a trench coat, tiny little dress, and killer heels, being busy, busy, busy. Not even a little interested in what’s happening beyond that sleek silver door.

A group of fratty guys charge past, smelling like booze and AXE body spray. One of them bumps my shoulder, and my phone flies from my hand to land on the cobblestones directly in front of the club. My indignant yelp is eaten up by a wave of bro laughter, and of course—of course—Siri chooses that moment to scream at the top of her lungs, “I’m sorry, Rae. I didn’t quite catch that. Do you mean Pops and Stuff on Broad Street or Off the Cuff on Cary Street?”

Busted.

Resisting the urge to bolt, I pick up the phone with as much grace as the heels and too-short dress allow.

“Done scoping us out?” One side of the bouncer’s mouth kicks up to make her look only slightly less stoic. She’s got Ilona Maher’s tall, wide, intimidating stance. A woman used to being obeyed.

I shiver. “Guess so.”

“Your recon skills could use some work.”

“Yeah. I figured.” I scuff one heel to the sidewalk, feeling exactly like a little kid caught doing something naughty.

“You already registered?”

“Yes.”

“Name?”

“Jensen.”

She pulls out a phone, checks something, and nods. “Need to take a few more laps or—”

“I’m good.”

“All right.”

When she doesn’t immediately move, I experience a moment’s panic that I overlooked a secret passcode or the complex handshake that everyone in the fetish world must learn in order to get into their clubs. After a beat, she shifts over to press a finger against a keypad.

The door opens. A sliver of warm light spills onto the cobblestones.

“I’m Harlow. She/her.” She twists to hold the door for me, in the process baring a black BDSM triskelion tattoo inked into the skin behind her right ear. Not just a bouncer then. Maybe a member too. “Welcome to Off the Cuff.” She grins, momentarily dropping the bouncer persona. “Unless you were actually looking for Pops and Stuff.”

Snorting, I step past her and wait for the door to close with a solid finality before leaning against it and just breathing.

It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust to the light, which is low, though nowhere near as dark as I’d imagined. I expected a moody, industrial vibe or a gothic vampire’s den with reds and blacks. Definitely not the warm gray painted brick walls or these artfully tarnished sconces casting an almost-natural light over the wide hardwood steps.

Slowly, I make my way down, expecting the floor to shake under my feet with some heavy bass and an occasional scream or two rising from the dungeon’s depths. If nothing else, I brace myself for a smell.

When I get to the bottom, I look around and decide that this place isn’t seedy or gross at all. It’s really nice. It smells expensive, like something floral and spicy.

There’s a little seating area with a sofa and two big chairs upholstered in a warm cognac, inviting me to come in and get cozy. Beyond it is a desk, where a very pale-skinned platinum blonde sits, wearing a patterned bustier and one of those tiny hats with a veil. A fascinator, I think it’s called. “You joining us tonight?”

“Yes.” I move in, noting the low, tasteful thrum of music, electronic but somehow vintage-sounding. A dark, sensuous tango. “I um, registered for a guest night? And paid online. It’s…” Crap, am I supposed to give my real name? “Uh… Jensen.”

“Rae! I’m Mistress Daff.” She stands up, clapping. “So, so excited to meet you. I did your intake.” She towers at least a foot and a half above me, her thick, perfectly shaped eyebrows animated as she talks. “We’ve got so many Doms in tonight, my friend. It’s a veritable smorgasbord up in here.”

“Really?” My nerves ramp up, buzzing through to the tips of my fingers.

“You’ll have the pick of the litter,” she says with a low giggle.

I blink, feeling almost outside of my body for a second as I imagine what that would look like. Doms everywhere. Big ones, little ones, mean ones, nice ones. On a rock. In a sock. With a—

Whoa. Simmer down, Jensen.

“You know it’s Dom/sub speed dating this evening, right?”

“Oh, wow. No. I didn’t.”

“Ah. Well, you’re in for a treat. Come on, lovely. Let’s get you squared away.”

I hand over my phone—which isn’t allowed inside—along with my jacket and purse. I don’t get a tag or a number in return. This club, apparently, is too posh for that.

“Your intake says you’re a sub, cis, looking for men. Has that changed?”

“Oh, yeah. I mean, no change.”

“Pronouns?” Daff asks.

“Oh. Um. She/her is fine. And you?”

She shows me the back of her hand, where it says She/her in red. “Want a stamp?”

“Sure.”

I watch as she presses the ink to my skin, excitement fizzing through me like bubbles.

“If you could just sign this waiver?”

The slight shake to my hand makes my regular signature look like a five-year-old’s. Oh well. No one’s seeing that anyway. One big selling point on the club’s website is how cutting-edge their security apparently is, both physical and online. My identity is safe here.

“What do we call you?”

“I don’t know.” Oh, right. I need a kink name. Something that represents me, but I don’t even know who I am at this point. “I hadn’t planned on anything. I’m just curious, you know?”

“Newbie sub… Alice? Like Wonderland? Or just, like Ray? Ray of Sunshine? Or, oh, hey, how about Little Miss Sunshine? No, no, no, I got it. Sunny! That works, right?”

“Sunny,” I repeat under my breath, feeling a little less like a fraud under Daff’s care. “I like that.”

“Here you go, lovely.” She hands me a matte black name tag. In silver, she’s written:

SUNNY–SUB

MEN

BE NICE, I’M NEW.

“Oh, here’s a copy of the checklist you filled out on our website. In case you decide to share it during speed dating. Sometimes helps to know right away if someone’s a match.”

“Oh, great idea.” The club provided eight pages of wants and maybes and hell, nos to go through before I could even sign up for tonight. I look down at the list, my eyes snagging on Blindfold (yes), skipping to Breast Bondage (maybe), Cages (hard no), Collars (maybe), and then on down to Spanking (yes) before I meet Daff’s gaze again.

“Alrighty then. Come on, Sunny.” She pushes through a heavy steel door. “Let’s find you the Dom of your dreams.”

“HOW’S IT LOOKING BACK there?” asks Lucas, aka Tank, as I crouch to shove the tools behind the bar.

“It’ll survive the night,” I say, ever the optimist.

“That good, huh?”

“I took care of the leak. For now. But we can’t get the private playrooms up and running again until we replace the plumber’s mess.” Which isn’t in my damn budget. Standing with a groan, I stretch my back and wash my hands at the bar sink. This is why I hate subcontracting, and so often end up doing things myself. At least I know it’ll be done right.

He gives me a sidelong glance. “You want me to fire the guy who did the work?”

I snort. Lucas is the closest thing I’ve ever met to a human teddy bear. Firing people just isn’t in his wheelhouse. Thankfully, with someone like me around, he never has to be the bad guy. Unless he’s playing, of course. In which case, being the bad guy is exactly his thing. “My building, my responsibility.”

“Thanks, man. We talking a lot of work?” The look I give him makes him flinch. “Shit. I know being a landlord wasn’t the plan.”

And yet somehow, here I am, property manager and fix-it man to three different businesses. Definitely not what I envisioned when I bought this building. I’d planned to buy, renovate, and sell. Short-term, low commitment. Just the way I like things.

I grab a beer before glancing up at my friend, who’s standing there, arms folded, legs wide, looking even more tanklike than usual in his uniform of matte leather pants and tight black muscle shirt. “Geez, Lucas, how much time you been putting in at the gym?”

He shrugs one massive shoulder. “Been working a ton outside.”

“Doing what? Crushing rocks?”

“Just some yard work.”

I pull hard on the beer and cast an eye over the club, which is pretty busy for this early on a Friday night. Every seat appears to be occupied, and there’s not a familiar face in the bunch. “What’s with the crowd?”

“Can’t you guess?” Lucas’s smile widens. “Wasn’t this your idea?”

On second look, I notice the group has broken into miniclusters of two, leaning in to each other, face-to-face, chatting animatedly. “You didn’t.”

“What?”

“Dom/sub speed dating?”

“Bingo.”

“My idea?” I snort. “I recall saying something like, ‘Whatever you do, please no speed dating.’” Just the concept annoys me. When it comes to kink, I believe in taking the time and doing things right. Speediness is the literal opposite of what a scene should look like. But, as Lucas has reminded me more than once, the club’s success could very well hinge on thinking outside the box. Which is precisely why he and Harlow are in charge of events. I’m just the landlord. “Pull in any new members?”

“Quite a few.”

At least there’s that.

“You stickin’ around to play tonight? Zelda was askin’ about you.”

I say, “Nope,” but what I really mean is hell no. Zelda wants a relationship, a collar, and a Dom to call her own, and that is not me. Which Lucas very well knows. Everyone here knows it. Play, Don’t Stay is my motto.

I suppress a yawn, already planning my exit, when my gaze is drawn toward the front door as it opens. In comes a shaft of mellow light from the anteroom, then Daff, and behind her…

“Oh, hello.” Lucas’s head tilts at an interested angle. “Would you look at that.”

I am looking. I can’t stop looking. Can’t breathe, actually, for the handful of seconds it takes my mind to catch up to my eyes. The woman who’s just walked in is fascinating, though I can’t say exactly why. I’d call her cute if it weren’t for the slightly too-strong nose bisecting her face with its sharp edge. That nose takes the big eyes, round cheeks, and plush lips and makes them arresting, even beautiful. A classical painting instead of a manga cartoon. Something about the way she walks, and that body, all soft looking and round with pale, freckled skin, has me perking up for the first time in ages.

“I’ll go say hi.” Lucas’s thick brows do a little dance.

“Don’t bother.”

“Why not?”

“That woman’s not into what you dole out.”

“Oh, please. You can’t read that from here.” He breaks into a grin. “I better go find out,” he says, taking off. I’ll give it to the guy. Never wastes time.

I, on the other hand, trudge around the bar and turn my back to the room. Because yeah, the newcomer’s absolutely stunning—and I mean that literally as well as figuratively given how I lost my breath when she came in—but between this place, my other properties, and the new project I’m starting on Monday, I don’t have time for distractions.

And that woman would absolutely be a distraction.

I’d bet anything she’s a sub, though. No, I couldn’t see her name tag from that distance, but I’m getting a vibe. Sometimes you just know.

I can’t help but watch over my shoulder as Lucas reaches her side, puts his hand out for a fist bump, and chats her up, all easy smiles. She hands him a few sheets of paper—probably the standard club questionnaire. After a quick scan, he throws me a disappointed look and a subtle shrug. My breath quickens. Dammit, I was right.

Lucas, ever the ingratiating sadist, walks her to a table, pulls out a chair, and after a minute’s discussion, comes my way.

“Sunny does not, alas, wish to be treated like a filthy slut by a man twice her size. You’re in luck, though, because she does wish to be dominated.” He steps behind the bar and reaches for a glass. “This is her first kink event, and she’s nervous.” He pops a champagne bottle with a practiced flourish. “Celebratory bubbles.” The wink he gives me as he pours is equal parts friendly and lascivious. “On you.”

“I’ll pay, but I’m not walking that over there.”

“Oh?” His thick brows flick up. “You scared of a fresh, brand-spanking-new, bright-eyed little subby-sub?”

“Scared, no. Wary, yes.”

“Oooooh, that’s right. The General doesn’t do newbies.”

“They require time, attention, care…”

“Not to mention commitment. God forbid.” Humming his disapproval, Lucas swans back to her table, where he places the glass in front of her with exaggerated care before pointing my way.

The dick.

Rather than lead Sunny on, I turn my back to the room again and pick up my beer, surprised to find it empty.

The music changes, slow and sensuous replaced with something more upbeat. Behind me, a whip cracks, making me tense up before I force my shoulders to relax again.

“Allllll right, kinksters. Doms, get up and move on to your next lucky partner!” Lucas is having a blast with this speed-dating thing.

Which is exactly why I thank god every day for my business partners. If I’d been the one to open this place instead of Lucas and Harlow, the club would be a big, utilitarian black box. No bells or whistles. None of the fancy paint colors or plush velvet furniture. No shockingly expensive baroque murals painted by avant-garde artists or hidden lighting to warm and soften bodies and turn sexy into sultry.

They’re right, as always. And like Lucas said, if gimmicks like speed dating are what it takes, then speed dating is what they’ll do. Along with auctions, leather nights, burlesque shows, costume parties, and whatever other extraneous crap keeps membership growing.

The fact is that the club isn’t really mine. I’m a silent partner, an investor with a personal interest in its continued existence.

I agree that the club is important. This community is important, and these people will do whatever it takes to keep the club alive and thriving. Including hosting kinky bachelorette parties or, in my case, giving them the space rent-free until they turn a profit.

Which had better be soon. Because between this place and the company moving in upstairs, I’m not making a goddamn dime.

With a sigh, I stretch over the counter and snag another beer from the cooler, knock the cap off against the edge of the glowing wood bar I salvaged and refinished myself, and do my best to ignore the question-and-answer session happening between some lucky Dom and that fascinating little sub at the table right behind me.

“GOOD MEETING YOU, SUNNY.” My seventh or eighth Dom of the night slides me a business card as he shakes my hand, and then clasps it in both of his. Very, very heartfelt. “Let me know if your place of employment’s ever in the market for a new printer/copier.”

Right. Okay, then.

With a nod and a smile, I wave goodbye as Master… Frank, was it?… moves on to the next table. I then cross another number off my little cheat sheet. He was fine. Nice. Just not what I had pictured.

None of this is what I imagined when I left home tonight.

I mean, the space is amazing, and there are more than a few interesting people, including Tank, the really handsome guy who’s leading tonight’s event, whip in hand. He seems nice, friendly, smiley, but then his name tag says that he’s a Daddy and a sadist, and that’s not what I’m looking for. Bossy, yes. Mean? No, thank you. I get enough of that in the real world.

Then there’s the brooding man standing at the bar in his dark pants and crisp button-down shirt, sleeves rolled up to show thick, veined forearms and impatient, long-fingered hands. His dark hair curls a little long around his ears and his nape. It looks soft and thick. His face, though youngish, is sort of craggy and worn. Like he’s lived. He’s seen things. And he’s maybe a little pissed about it all.

His eyes meet mine, and I quickly turn away, only to find myself sneaking glances at him a few seconds later. He’s interesting. More than interesting, actually. Intriguing, intense, mysterious.

Funny how, all night, with every Dom I’ve sat with, I’ve barely been able to muster a meh, but somehow this man gives all the adjectives.

Annoyed. I add that to the list when our eyes meet again.

Maybe he’s just bored.

Which I get. I’d expected a whole lot more excitement when I gathered up the courage to come here tonight. Not quite people hanging naked from the rafters, getting whipped and flogged, but something close to it.

Although there is a definite buzz in the air.

I cast a quick look around. There are a few vinyl- and leather-clad folks not involved in the speed dating, lurking in the corners on sofas or in clusters around funky pieces of furniture. That bench over there, for instance, is that really a sculptural table, or is it meant for something painfully sexy? Right now, a couple’s cuddling on a sofa beside it, their drinks resting atop its shiny surface, but I can picture myself stretched over it, ass in the air, ready for a spanking or—

“You’re cute.”

I look up as my newest speed date takes a seat across from me. “Oh, thanks.”

Daddy Brice, his name tag says. Okay, another Daddy.

I’ve met three sadists, a couple of new Doms who, like me, are maybe a little out of their depth. One guy—Sincaid?—who said all the right things, but just, I don’t know, smelled wrong or something. He was also a Primal Dom, which I’d never heard of. The whole time he described his fantasy of chasing a submissive through the woods and having his way with her on the ground, I pictured gnats and mosquitos and just how bad poison ivy would feel on my nether regions. Huge no. Then there was Master Ev, dressed head to toe in leather, whose ideal partner would submit to him 24/7. I can almost see the appeal. I mean, making decisions is exhausting. But nope. There was Pedro, the rope guy, who was attractive and seemed pretty fun. Maybe I could do the suspension thing if it’s low-key and doesn’t put too much pressure on my knees or cut off my circulation or hurt in any way at all. Oh, then there was Thor, who called me dear even though I’m pretty sure I’m ten years his elder.

This new man’s nice looking in a straitlaced, older-dentist way. His wire-rimmed glasses don’t exactly go with his mesh top and tight, squeaky vinyl pants, but that’s okay. A Dom’s a Dom, right?

Wrong.

Yeah. I’m learning very quickly that there are a few things the romance novels—not to mention my favorite kinky subreddit—have gotten wrong. First off: most Doms are not sexy. Or smooth. Or even, if I’m being honest, very dominant.

Maybe he’ll—

“You a good girl who wants to kneel for Daddy?” He rifles through the list I put face down on the table.

“Not today.” I slap a hand on my list and tug it away from him.

He tugs back. “Come on. Let’s see it.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Awwww, look at you, all rosy-cheeked. You a shy, sweet girl who wants her big Daddy to—”

“You’re done,” says a deep voice. I look up in time to see Broody Bar Guy grab Nasty Dentist Daddy by the spiked collar of his leather jacket. “Out.”

Right away, bodies converge. Massive Tank, a sexy couple from one of the dark corners, Daff from the front desk. Then Harlow, the bouncer from upstairs, swoops in and drags him off single-handedly, which is a level of badassery I absolutely aspire to.

Well, then. That removal—quick and painless—certainly speaks of a well-run establishment.

Broody Bar Guy returns, sets my checklist face down on the table, and smooths it out. “I’m sorry about that.”

“Wasn’t your fault,” I reply.

“That man shouldn’t have been here.” He watches me carefully.

“It’s okay.”

“No. A good Dom doesn’t impose his will like that. The club should have vetted him better.”

I blink up at him, noting the hint of hair just visible at the open V of his collar and the sharp angle of his jawline, shadowed by dark stubble. Above it, his face is deadly serious.

“What, um…?” My voice is embarrassingly squeaky. “What is the hallmark of a real Dom?”

“First off, Doms set up ground rules. Make sure they’re on the same page as the sub. A good Dom asks questions and pays attention. Listens to the sub. They’d let you call the shots.” The sharply etched lines between his brows deepen as he leans in. “You, for example, don’t want to be hurt.”

My mouth drops open. How could he possibly know that?

“You saw my checklist?” I lift the now-crumpled pages.

“I wouldn’t read that without your consent.”

“What would you do? With my consent.”

“Maybe a little role play. A little dirty talk.” Somehow, he’s a step closer, his face lower. “Got the feeling you want to be told what to do.” A quick twist of his lips. “And I heard what you told the last guy.”

“Which part?”

His mouth loosens into something close to a grin. “Well, not the part about color copies in your workplace.”

I huff out a laugh. “Were you eavesdropping?”

“I tried not to listen, believe me. Couldn’t help but hear the part where you want someone to take care of you.”

Oh. Did I really say that? I guess I must have. “I didn’t mean, you know, financially. Like that Sugar Daddy from earlier was into.”

“Oh, I know.” His voice is a warm whisper. “You meant take care of your pleasure.”

He’s squatting beside me now, our faces close. He smells like beer with maybe cedar and cloves and hints of something metallic. I want to bottle that scent, spray it all over my sheets, and roll in it.

“Are you a Dom?” I whisper.

Like a rocket, he’s up and about three feet back.

“I’m not in the market for a sub.”

I stand. “Oh… oh, sorry. I just. You seem to know all the things, and I thought—”

“Doms up,” Tank bellows. “Say bye-bye to your current subs and head to the right!”

Someone approaches my table, looks at me, at Broody Bar Guy, and moves on.

“You scared the next Dom away, Gen,” Tank yells from a couple of tables off. “Looks like you owe the woman her speed date.”

For what must be a good fifteen seconds, Broody Bar Guy seriously considers hot-footing it out of here. I’m sure of it. Finally, with a sigh, he casts a narrow-eyed glare at our MC and holds out my chair.

“Honestly, I could use a break anyway.” I stay standing. “Carry on.”

“Carry on?”

“Yep. I’m good. No need to play Dom with me.”

A hint of humor warms his eyes. “Come on.” He sweeps a hand at the chair. “Give me a chance to b. . .