Chapter 10
Genevieve
This can’t be happening.
When the completed forms hit my inbox, I had every intention of offering this client one of my other girls. Then, I read through his submission.
Typically, Marcus is the one who receives the intake forms and files them away, except for the secrets. Those have a one-time code that only I can access, and they disappear once I’ve read them. Since I rarely take on new clients anymore, I chose to read through Clark’s forms myself.
The answers, and the raw honesty within some of them, had a feline curiosity curling inside me.
Based on his replies, I knew he was a top or a Dom, or at the very least a switch who leaned toward dominant.
His interests directly contradicted his declaration that he was a submissive.
His answers gave him away as someone who was new to this lifestyle and, fuck, I have a soft spot for newbies.
We all start somewhere, and I enjoy helping someone explore themselves and their interests. That alone had me intrigued enough to accept a meeting.
Then, I read his secret, and that sealed the deal for me. Who gives a secret like that? Normally, I would’ve balked and rejected the submission, but something about its truthfulness had me hitting accept instead.
Now, I have regrets. So many regrets.
I thought I’d be opening the door to an unsure, timorous man looking to explore himself wholly. Instead, I found myself a liar. Fortunately for him, he’s in good company.
When I scanned the background check Marcus did for Clark Campbell, that I’d ordered simply for the hell of it, I read over a file so extensive that it had me questioning if I was actually given a fake name.
Now that the truth is on his knees for me in the center of the room, a different, more potent variety of panic is sizzling to life in my gut.
It’s not the same concern that prickles the back of my neck when I think one of my employees is engaging with a dangerous client.
This kind of troubled unease is far more ominous.
It’s a version of alarm that I’ve only encountered a few times. It’s the reason I created my dossier, never use my real name, and charge what I do.
When the elevator doors close, leaving us alone, I study the attractive man kneeling before me.
He’s beautiful, gorgeous even. Handsome in its finest form with perfect bone structure, complete with a chiseled jawline that stone sculptures would envy and cheekbones that hail an eastern European heritage somewhere along the line.
His lips are just pouty enough for me to crave a taste, but not quite feminine in nature. But it’s his eyes I can’t look away from. The endless blue of the sky, his irises hold his dreams, and right now, I need to see his desires.
“Look at me,” I demand in my Domme voice, sensual and commanding.
Slowly, his head tilts back until sparkling sapphires hit me like a bolt to the chest.
Fuck.
His hands twitch in their resting position, and I can tell he’s fighting this stance, fighting this position, fighting himself.
Seeing him this way feels wrong, unnatural, like watching a lion bow to a house cat. Still, he claims to want to submit, and I may as well have a little fun before I dismiss him, because there’s not a chance in hell that I’m taking him on as a client.
“So,” I begin, holding his gaze for a moment, staring into the blue blaze of his eyes. “You’re a submissive?”
He nods, and I click my tongue, shaking my head. “Use your words.”
His pretty throat bobs, and I shut down the impulse to run my tongue over his Adam’s apple. Voice gruff, he finally grumbles, “Yes.”
A smile spreads over my painted lips. “Try again, Superman.”
His eyebrows hike to his hairline. “Superman?”
I laugh then, the sugary sound filling the air. “Clark Campbell? Really? Why didn’t you simply use Clark Kent?”
He does vaguely look a bit like Superman, so if anything, it sort of fits, though I still find it ridiculous.
Choosing not to comment, he simply sighs, shifting on his knees. I’m sure he’s uncomfortable in this position, but I make him hold it for a little longer.
“Yes, what,” I prompt, circling back to my earlier correction, carrying an air of authority.
“Yes, I’m a submissive.”
I shake my head, but decide to take mercy on the Dom cosplaying as a sub. “Yes, Madam Allison,” I correct.
Defiance flashes in his eyes for a moment, but he says nothing. Silence stretches between us as I sink into one of the side chairs in the seating area, spinning it so that I face him. Crossing my legs, I soak up the sight of this powerful man.
Without permission, he asks, “So, what happens now? You order me to eat you out?”
My lips curl gently, my expression promising the kiss of punishment. “Topping from the bottom, are we?”
Ignoring me, he presses, “I’m good at it, you know.”
I arch an eyebrow, and he clarifies confidently, without a drop of timidness. “Eating pussy.”
Arousal swirls in my stomach, and my smile deepens as the promise of seduction, liberation, and discipline slides across my face. “A confident thing, aren’t you?”
“I’ll be anything you want me to be.”
Damn, this man.
Laughing, I shake my head. “Get up. I’m not taking you on as a client, Clark.”
He frowns, climbing to his feet, folding his arms over his broad chest. “Why not?”
Getting up, I move to the bar, reaching for the bottle of blended scotch and amaretto, whipping up two Godfather cocktails, each over a block of ice.
My inventory of clients is nothing but a list of liars, but something about adding this particular liar to that roster feels riskier than usual.
Something I can’t quite put my finger on.
Still, the appeal is there. Like a bear emerging from hibernation, he’s reawakened my submissive instincts and now they’re in overdrive.
“Because you’re not a submissive.” My red fingernail polish glints in the low lighting of the room as I pass him a glass before sinking onto the center cushion of the couch, crossing my legs at the knees.
He blinks at me before taking the chair still facing the couch, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees.
Dipping his chin, he stares into his drink for a moment, and when he finally lifts his head, a scowl is fixed on his face, his jaw ticking.
“Yes, I am,” he grits out. “This is what I want.”
I smile as a small scoff bursts from my throat like a butterfly springing free of its cocoon. “It’s not. You’re topping from the bottom, so you’re either a brat or you’re not a submissive.”
His nostrils flare briefly before he insists, “Yes, I am.”
I huff another laugh. “Trust me, I’ve been doing this for long enough to spot a liar.”
And what a liar you are.
We’re all liars; some of us are simply better at it than others. I pray he reads my declaration as the warning it’s meant to be.
Repositioning himself, he settles back in his seat. Skirting that altogether, he comes at this conversation from a different angle. “Henry says you’re a switch.”
Fucking Henry. I knew I should’ve ditched all my old clients and started fresh, but I didn’t. Henry knew me from a time when I was a true switch, but now I’m simply Madam Allison.
“I am,” I answer honestly, the ice in my crystal tumbler clinking softly as I take a sip of my cocktail.
“So, we can switch? Maybe you’re right. Maybe we can try—”
“No,” I snap, cutting him off. Taking a breath, I moderate my voice. “We can’t. I don’t submit at work.” I have no idea why I phrased it like that, considering I don’t submit anywhere.
“But you do in your personal life?” he presses, and I don’t like that.
Narrowing my eyes, I ensure that my voice is as firm as possible. “Not there either.”
My words zip through the air with a certain finality, and Ford drops his gaze.
He stares into his glass for a moment, or maybe he’s looking at his polished dress shoes.
It’s hard to tell. Eventually, he drags his head up, intensely scrutinizing me, a domineering glint in his eye that has me desperate to collapse onto the floor and beg him to allow me to please him.
“If you’re a switch, then perhaps I am, too.”
I level him with a flat look that takes more effort than it should as I’m suddenly the one feeling as though they’re topping from the bottom. “You’re not. You’re a Dom.”
“How do you know?”
“Experience.” My tone is bored, my patience beginning to wane.
He changes tactics yet again. I suspect that he’s good at his job; negotiating deals, ensuring that he signs favorable contracts. “I paid the price—the entire price. I want in.”
I shift, unfolding my legs and spreading them. Leaning forward, with my elbows on my knees, I mimic his power pose from earlier. I watch as his gaze dips to my cleavage and the top of my embroidered leather bustier peeking out from beneath my sheer black blouse, before flicking back to my eyes.
Smirking internally, I keep my face impassive as I grind out, “Fine.” Lips pursed, I explain, “I’ll set you up with one of my girls.”
Without missing a goddamn beat, he says, “On one condition.” He smirks then, his dimple popping, the expression a death sentence for my panties. “You teach me how to be a Dom.”