Chapter 13
Ford
My phone lights up, and I glance over to find Drake’s name flashing across the screen. Reaching for the device, I flip it over on the glass conference room table, before returning my attention to the CFO of Crawford Enterprises.
His voice is becoming harder to focus on the longer he drones on about quarterly financials and payroll.
I’m having difficulty concentrating on anything other than my upcoming meeting with Genevieve—Allison?
—tonight. I’ve sacrificed sleep and work to research the shit she sent me.
While that answered some of my blooming questions, it did nothing to quell my thirst to know more about her.
Though, I suspect that getting the answers to those questions is going to be more challenging than an internet search.
“We need a few signatures from you before you go, sir.”
Sir.
Genevieve has ruined that word for me. While it doesn’t have my dick twitching when coming from the mouth of my CFO, I can’t help but remember the way it sounded falling from vastly different lips. Lips that have haunted my thoughts like a restless apparition.
When I’m in the car, I instruct James to take me to Genevieve’s building and call Drake back. He answers on the first ring.
“We need to meet…as soon as possible,” he states without preamble.
My blood turns cold. “Ten, my place.”
Drake pauses for a moment, then asks, “Do you have an…appointment tonight?”
“Yes.” My nerves are on edge, and I reach for the Glock I keep beneath my seat.
“Ford.” Drake sounds concerned, and nothing unsettles that man. I’ve seen him walk fearlessly into a firefight, taking out eight gunmen in the middle of a bust gone wrong. “You need to be careful, really fucking careful. She’s pissed off the wrong people.”
“I’ll see you tonight,” I tell him before hanging up. Immediately, I untuck my dress shirt and stuff my gun into the back of my shirt before re-tucking it, deciding to ditch the suit jacket entirely this evening.
When James drops me off, I instruct him to wait for me. Drake’s call has me on edge, and no fucking way am I sending away my getaway car.
Following the instructions, I enter the lobby, ignoring the muscled security men milling about, and punch in the temporary access code.
This time, when the elevator doors part, my throat goes dry as filthy thoughts infiltrate my mind. I find Genevieve lounging on the couch, clad in a fitted, short black dress with gold buttons down the front, her long, tanned legs on display, accentuated by her shiny black stilettos.
I imagine touching her, exploring her as I smooth a hand up her thigh, gliding the pads of my fingertips over every inch of her flesh while I run my tongue down her sternum.
I want to know her, and I can’t quite decipher the exact reason for this quickly growing obsession, but it’s undeniable at this point.
A martini, darkish and cloudy with four olives, resides in her hand like she’s been here waiting for me for a while, but I know for a fact that I’m on time. When she twists her neck in my direction, her glossy red lips spread into an inviting yet seductive smile.
It’s not until I step fully into the room that I notice the other woman sipping a martini of her own, this one crystal clear with one olive.
“Good evening, Superman,” Genevieve purrs. “Why don’t you grab yourself a drink and join us.”
Making my way to the bar, I pour myself a scotch. Leaning against the counter, I cross my ankles and face the two beautiful women in the room, though Genevieve is the one I can’t peel my eyes from.
She smiles at me and chimes, “Clark, this is Sloane. She’s graciously agreed to attend this lesson, and if things go well, she’ll become your submissive.”
Become your submissive. No, thanks.
It’s not as if Sloane isn’t attractive; she is, with her long honey-colored hair cascading down her back in loose waves and soft, feminine features. She’s just not the one I want.
“It’s nice to meet you, Sir,” Sloane states, her voice silky and smooth.
My jaw flexes as I grind my molars and nod. Without thinking, I order, “Don’t call me that.” I can’t bear to hear that word from Sloane when the only person I do want to hear it from sits a few feet away.
“Oh, my apologies.” She smiles politely, meekly, before asking, “What would you prefer to be called?”
Shifting my attention back to the blonde on the couch, I meet Genevieve’s gaze.
For a split second, something unreadable consumes her features, but it disappears before I can make sense of it.
A congenial smile touches the madam’s lips as she explains, “Honorifics seem like a good place to start. Clark, how would you like to be addressed?”
“Do I have options?” I ask, taking a sip of Genevieve’s top-shelf scotch.
“You are free to choose whatever you like. Some common options are Master, Owner, Mister, Daddy. Though, I’ve met some Doms who prefer their own name or even things like King, Commander, or Your Highness. It’s entirely up to you.”
Rubbing a hand across my jaw, I think through those options. Not Daddy, and definitely not Owner. I’m not interested in feeling like I own anyone, even here. I can also eliminate King and Your fucking Highness. Finally, I announce, “Clark, just call me Clark.”
I’d prefer to use my real name, but I’ve already done enough damage to this op. The more I can distance myself from Ford Crawford, the better.
Both women nod, and Sloane murmurs demurely, “Yes, Clark.”
“Now that we have that out of the way,” Genevieve remarks, dragging the cocktail pick speared into the four green olives through her opaque cocktail. “I think we should go over the importance of safe words. Did you research the color system?”
“Yes. Red for stop immediately, yellow means she’s uncomfortable and I should back off or ease up, green indicates that she’s comfortable continuing.”
The smile Genevieve flashes me tells me she’s pleased, and satisfaction rolls through me. I wonder if this is how Henry feels when she looks at him that way.
“Perfect. The word liar is also used interchangeably with red in this establishment.” I read that safe word in the original paperwork, and when I nod in understanding, she goes on.
“Since BDSM is a power-exchange, requiring trust, it’s important that you understand that when you engage with a sub, you’re assuming responsibility for that submissive’s body, mind, and spirit.
She’s placing her wellbeing, which includes both her mental and physical health, in your hands, trusting you entirely not to abuse the power she’s giving you.
She’s relying on you to treat her with respect and care for her both during and after a scene. ”
Perhaps I grasp what Genevieve is saying so completely because it’s exactly what I want from her. I crave her trust, desperate for her to give me her mind and body. I’m dying for her to want to place herself in my custody, giving me the ultimate authority over her—if only for a few moments.
I nod. “I accept that responsibility.”
The apples of Genevieve’s cheeks round as a smile pulls at her luscious lips. Her focus leaves me as she addresses the other woman in the room. “Sloane, would you be amenable to a demonstration?”
Sloane moves to the bar, setting her half-consumed martini on the counter and stepping out of her sundress, leaving her in nothing but a lacy bra and panties. Her toned, attractive body moves to the center of the room as she falls to her knees.
“We won’t be engaging in anything that will have you needing your safe word now,” Genevieve declares, morphing into Madam Allison before my very eyes as she approaches the sub on the floor. “Nonetheless, I’d like you to tell Clark what your safe word is.”
Sloane’s eyes are on the floor; her head bowed, with the backs of her hands resting atop her bare thighs as she assumes the very pose Genevieve’s brunette assistant instructed me to be in.
“Liar or red, Clark,” Sloane states, her voice taking on a new layer of reverence that wasn’t present earlier.
Genevieve looks at me then, fire in her eyes as she orders, “Come here.”