Chapter 5
COLE
Islapped her out of reflex.
She took me by surprise, and she’s strong enough that her open-handed blow splashed like acid across my face. I responded with a lifetime of giving as good as I get, only catching myself at the last possible second.
And she liked it.
No.
She fucking loved it.
Kate moaned when I struck her. I don’t think she knows she made that sound, but the Dom part of my brain clocked it before she’d grabbed another breath.
Now she’s staring at me, confusion digging lines between her eyebrows. Her lips are barely parted. Her eyes are dilated, even more than the shadows beneath the streetlight can account for. Her face is flushed, her right cheek more than her left.
It doesn’t take a genius to recognize a true submissive.
She’s fierce, and she’s wild, and she thinks no man can tame her—I can see all that from her clothes, her makeup, and the frank audacity that left me mopping my face dry in a room full of gangsters.
I’m the Dom she needs.
Most women won’t get into a car with a man they met less than half an hour ago.
But most women don’t throw champagne into strangers’ faces.
They don’t plead with their abusive mothers in public courtyards until that stranger interrupts.
They don’t react to a slap from that stranger like he just delivered two dozen long-stem roses.
Kate waits for me to open the BMW’s door. After she climbs in, she folds her hands in her lap, pressing her skirt against her legs. The motion is small, barely worth noting, but I picture her thighs flexing, and my fingers grow tight on the door.
Her tiny nod, gesturing for me to close her in, should give me pause. She’s a princess, born and raised in the Irish mob. I don’t know a lot about Barry Lynch, but he’s a mob boss and I just slapped his daughter. If she wants, Kate Lynch can make my life very, very uncomfortable.
Which, of course, she’s already done, because my tuxedo trousers currently feel like they’re three sizes too small. I suck a deep breath between my teeth as I cross behind the car, only exhaling when I trigger the ignition.
This close to midnight, Boston’s streets are easy to drive. I make my way to the Langham, the luxury hotel where I always stay when business brings me to the high-tech corridor on Route 128.
Kate and I are supposed to use this time to talk. We should laugh about the wedding, compliment the catered food, mention friends we have in common. We should make it perfectly clear that neither of us does this sort of thing on a regular basis—hooking up with a stranger.
But Kate is looking out her window like she’s never seen a city before. Her breath is coming faster now. Her fingers brush her cheek like she’s trying to read a secret message printed in Braille.
And I’m doing my best to not take too much for granted. We’re going to a hotel suite, not my fully equipped Georgetown home. The headboard won’t offer a lot of options. There won’t be a footboard. I don’t travel with floggers or canes, with crops or paddles.
A valet is waiting when I pull up to the front door. He helps Kate out before he takes my key. “Welcome back, Mr. Wolf,” he says, professionally avoiding direct eye contact.
My room key frees the elevator to take us to the top floor.
I take advantage of the polished metal doors to study Kate.
Her arms are crossed over her chest as she refuses to meet my gaze.
Her face is pale now, cream dusted with cinnamon freckles, except for the berry wash my palm left behind.
Bruises darken her throat; her mother had a brutal grip.
The suite door closes behind us with a decisive click.
I cross to the counter of the kitchenette. Housekeeping has set out the Riedel glasses I prefer, along with an unopened bottle of WhistlePig rye.
Kate’s relief at the whiskey would be amusing, if it didn’t bear such an impact on the rest of our night.
“You have a choice,” I say. My words sound loud because I haven’t said a thing since I ordered her into the car. I’m actually speaking more quietly than usual.
Kate’s eyes narrow as if she suspects a trap. That’s how I prefer my subs—smart.
“Option A,” I say. “I’ll pour you a drink. We can sit by the window. Talk, if you want, or just take in the view. When your glass is empty, I’ll call a car to take you anywhere you want to go in the city.”
She doesn’t like that. Eying me levelly, she asks, “And Option B?”
“You accept this is the last decision you’ll make till dawn. No drink for you. I give you a safeword. You do what I say after that, to the letter. I punish you when you fail.”
“If,” she says. “If I fail.”
“You will be punished.”
I watch her swallow. She licks her lips. Kate Lynch is not a woman accustomed to following rules.
“I’ll take that drink,” she finally says. I hold my face still, refusing to show my disappointment. But she goes on: “And then you can give me my safeword.”
She gets a single shake of my head. “No. My subs must be sober. You have to be able to consent to everything we do.”
Another noisy swallow. Kate Lynch is also not a woman accustomed to losing negotiations.
“Your subs,” she finally says, emphasizing the plural. “So you do this often.”
She doesn’t need to know about the women I hire back in Georgetown, once a month like clockwork, like a barber or a gardener or the person who dusts the frames of the paintings I collect. “I’m doing this tonight,” I say. “If you’re willing.”
I know all the reasons I want her to say yes.
I want distraction from my disastrous business day, from the weeks—maybe months—it will take to salvage my professional reputation with that kill list floating around the dark web.
But a quick session in the shower with my own right hand could give me that sort of relief.
I want to see another flash of surprise on a face that isn’t accustomed to giving away much. I want to hear her moan again. I want to watch a born submissive discover her true self.
She looks at the whiskey. Looks out the window. Looks toward the door and the hall and the elevator that leads to the lobby.
And then she meets my gaze like we’re children in a staring contest. “Fine,” she says. “I’m staying.”
I’m stunned by the anaconda that slithers through my gut; it takes me a moment to recognize the emotion as relief. I thought she’d choose to leave. I really, truly wanted her to stay.
I blink once, then force my voice to sound lazy. Unconcerned. “Your safeword is red. Say it, and I’ll stop immediately.”
She nods like we’re sitting in a business meeting. She doesn’t believe she’ll ever need her safeword. She’s naive—like every woman who’s ever fallen for a con I’ve run.
But being a Dom isn’t some grift I learned from Shannon. I’ve worked hard to master my needs. To measure exactly how much discipline my subs can take.
“Your pause word is yellow. Say it when you’re reaching your limit. When you need to slow down.”
She twitches one hand, like she wants me to move on. Like all I’m doing is wasting her time.
“Your clear word is green,” I say. “You can take more. You want it. You’re fine.”
“So if I say green now, we can finally get started?”
“Is that truly the last question you want to ask tonight? Because after you say green, you’re mine to control.”
She looks straight at me. Her eyes are bright, as green as the signal she’s so eager to give. Her jaw is set. Without flinching, she says it: “Green.”
“Strip,” I answer.
She laughs.
I pounce like she’s a sheep in a pen. My fingers find the hinge of her jaw without trying, tightening enough to make her gasp. She tries to pull away, but her pupils betray her—they’re as wide as a heroin addict’s, pulsing faintly with every pump of her heart.
“I. Said. Strip.” I squeeze her jaw with each word, reinforcing my claim before I step back to watch her obey.
She glances at the overhead light. Flicks her gaze toward the window. I can see her thoughts as clearly as if she’s standing beneath cartoon word-balloons. Someone will see her. Someone will know.
We’re hundreds of feet above the city streets. No building is close enough for a peep show. But even if she were in a spotlight in the center of Boston Common, she only has one escape now—her safeword, whenever she chooses to use it.
Some subs think they’ll seduce me as they undress. They linger over each garment, offering pouty lips and sultry looks.
Others appeal to my power. They plead to keep on their bras. They beg me to leave them their panties.
Kate Lynch undresses like a robot.
She undoes two buttons on her mannish shirt, then yanks it over her head.
She unzips her skirt and shoves it past her hips, stepping out of the cloth puddle it makes on the floor.
The two hooks on her bra go like twist-ties on loaves of bread.
She slips both thumbs into the elastic waistband of her panties, shucking the cotton like she’s peeling an orange.
She stands before me naked, legs clamped together, hands clasped at her waist. Her tits are small—a more vain woman would have worn a padded bra. Her nipples, though, are a surprise. They’re as dark as her freckles and they’re already stiff, each as big as the nail on my little finger.
She’s shaved a perfect landing strip, pointing straight to her clit.
“Hands behind your head,” I say, more to time her reaction than because I care about her posture. Yet.
She doesn’t move.
“Behind your head,” I say, in a tone no sub should ignore.
Nothing.
“One,” I say.
I cross the room then, watching her watch me.
I take my time circling her body. I breathe in the scent of her shampoo, rosemary and mint.
I nuzzle her neck so I can hear her breath catch in her throat.
I bite her earlobe, hard, waiting to see if she’ll call yellow or red.
My dick twitches as if her silence is some sort of engraved invitation.