Table of Contents
Blurb
Acknowledgments
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
More from Ryan Loveless
About the Author
By Ryan Loveless
Visit Dreamspinner Press
Copyright
A Cordial Agreement
By Ryan Loveless
Can a wealthy but frustrated CEO and a guilt-ridden stripper find what they need in a consensual, nonsexual whipping boy arrangement?
Billionaire mogul Grant Jessup, fifty-three, buries his sexual tastes and the reasons behind them—the stresses of his business empire and family. In contrast, Jim Sieber understands the regret that makes him seek pain and penance. As an asexual averse to erotic touch, Jim sets strict boundaries. But as the relationship evolves, Grant struggles to respect them, and both men realize for their association to continue and perhaps grow into real feelings, they’ll have to explore new ways to satisfy each other.
Acknowledgments
THANK YOU to Kara F., CJane Elliott, and Carolyn Gray for everything you did to make this story better and for your encouragement. Thank you to my editors at Dreamspinner—Tricia, Rose, Jason, Katie, and Liv—for helping me improve.
Chapter One
JIM SIEBER kept his attention on the television in front of him, pretending to be engrossed in the telenovela playing. He didn’t need to be fluent in Spanish to know Ricardo was in deep shit with Sofia. Occasionally he caught a glimpse of the bartender in his peripheral vision and doubled down on his TV viewing. Behind him, a steady slap of leather against bare skin pulled a rich, throaty holler from a man. Jim sat at the corner of the bar, loosely surrounding his double whiskey with his long fingers. He sensed a few stares, but people left him alone. He’d figured they would after his first time when a man had snaked his hand around Jim’s neck and called him boy. Jim had twisted the man’s thumb so far back he’d almost broken it. “Not your boy,” Jim had said, after he’d forced the man to his knees in pain. Evidently, word had gotten around. No one had approached since.
It was his own damn fault. He didn’t know why he’d come to an S&M club if he wasn’t going to get involved. He hadn’t come to watch. Hell, he wasn’t watching, not anything except the telenovela. The beatings going on behind him could have been happening on another planet. But he had to stop himself from flinching with every stroke he heard, and curled his fingers into his glass with every scream. He’d come here because he’d wondered if pain would make him forget. No, not forget. He’d come here because he’d wondered if pain would absolve him. Sure, he could have tried boxing or started a bar fight, but he didn’t want to be arrested, and his boss got huffy about facial injuries. A respectable S&M club had seemed like his best option. Except for the red flag that Jim hadn’t considered, and which had stopped him from taking action. As the subs walked past after their sessions, hugged against their Doms, he knew why he could never do that. Aftercare involved touching. It might turn sexual. Jim’s skin prickled at the thought, a march of ants that he couldn’t shake off.
So he stared at the television and talked to no one.
“Hey. Hey!” Jim jumped and blinked. The bartender was talking to him. He thumbed to a set of stairs leading up to a balcony and a single door. “Boss wants to see ya.”
“Boss?” Jim asked.
“Wouldn’t keep her waiting,” the bartender said.
Jim looked around, expecting to find some muscle waiting to haul him up, but he saw a clear path to the stairs. “Okay.” He considered his glass.
“I’ll keep it for you, if you want it later.” The bartender pulled it off the bar. So that settled it. Jim headed for the stairs. At the top, he knocked. The door flew open. A woman with an olive complexion and straight black hair reaching to the middle of her back beckoned him in. He’d expected leather, lace, and high heels. She wore smart black slacks and a maroon shirt tailored to hug her waist and not strain at her bust. The amount of cleavage on view from the two open buttonholes would have been acceptable in any corporate boardroom. Instead of heels, she wore what looked like bedroom slippers. Not the sexy kind, either. More like the “home alone with a Harlequin novel and a mug of hot chocolate” kind. He relaxed instantly. The image reminded him of many pleasant nights spent with his mother when he was a child. With almost nothing between her feet and the floor, the top of her head barely reached Jim’s nipples. As soon as she closed the door, the sounds from downstairs disappeared.
“Soundproofing?” Jim asked.
The woman smiled and extended her hand. “I couldn’t concentrate without it. I’m Tanya Wyatt. You can call me Tanya or Miss Wyatt, whichever you’re more comfortable with.”
“Jim Sieber.” He left the implication that she could likewise call him whatever she wished unsaid. They shook hands.
“Come sit down, Mr. Sieber. Take the seat of your choice.”
He followed her back to her desk. As she sat in her chair, he noticed his options—a straight-backed wooden chair or a pillow on the floor. He chose the chair. If Miss Wyatt noticed his fraction of a second of hesitation, she didn’t comment.
She folded her hands and made a serious expression.
He waited.
“Mr. Sieber, when a new person comes to the club and doesn’t engage in activities, whether that is actively, voyeuristically, or simply socially, for a week, we understand. This is a new experience for them, and we appreciate their need to acclimate at their own pace. Some people can take two or three weeks before they are ready to take the next step.”
Jim’s throat tightened. “So?”
“You have been coming for nine weeks, and aside from nearly breaking Henry’s hand, you haven’t spoken to anyone.”
“So, you called me up here because I haven’t made any friends?”
“I’ll put this bluntly. My staff and clients are starting to wonder if you’re police. Are you the police, Mr. Sieber?”
“No, ma’am, I’m not.”
“Then what can I do to help you achieve your goals here? Because unless you’re here to improve your Spanish, I’m guessing that you’re not getting what you need out of your visits.”
Jim wished he’d brought his drink along. He stared down at his hands, which had subconsciously assumed the position like they were gripping a glass. “It’s hard to explain.”
“I want to help you.”
On the cusp of voicing his needs, he felt stupid. “I should go. I’m sorry. I won’t come back.”
“Truffle?” Miss Wyatt asked. Jim blinked in surprise as she opened a box on her desk and offered a tray of cocoa-dusted chocolate drops to him.
“Thank you.” He took one and popped it in his mouth before he could think about it.
As he chewed, she spoke. “People come here for a variety of reasons. They aren’t all what you might suspect. So, if you’re thinking that you’re out of place because your reasons don’t match what you believe they should, believe me when I tell you that you are wrong. Look at me.” She gestured at herself. “I’m a heterosexual woman who owns and operates an exclusively male S&M club. What are my motivations? Why do I do this? I bet they aren’t what you think.”
Jim wasn’t sure if she wanted an answer. He stopped chewing to let the chocolate dissolve on his tongue.
“Delectable, isn’t it? A good friend goes to Belgium on business. He always brings me a box. He’s a considerate man. We won’t talk about his personal life.” She offered a bland smile that Jim interpreted as “I’m sure you know what
I mean.”
“Is he a client here?” Jim asked.
“He’s a dear friend.” She smiled again. “Another?”
Jim shook his head. “No, thank you.”
“I’ll have one.” She closed her eyes as she chewed. Jim watched her jaw and throat move. She didn’t seem to be putting on a show. For a moment, he wondered if she’d forgotten him.
“I, um, I’m not sure I’m comfortable here.”
Miss Wyatt opened her eyes with the laziness of a cat waking. “In the office or in the club?”
“Here.” Jim gestured, taking in everything. “Everything’s so sexual. If you knew what I do for a living, you’d think I’m weird to say that, but….”
“But sexual is not what you want from your experience here,” she finished.
He nodded.
“So what do you want? Pain? You said not sexual, so I assume you don’t want pleasure?”
“Sex isn’t pleasurable for me.” He cringed. He hadn’t meant to share that.
“Mr. Sieber, if you’ve suffered a trauma and you’re here to work through it, I have to advise you against this. I can direct you to other resources—”
“I wasn’t traumatized. I’m not interested in sex. I don’t like… being touched like that. It makes me uncomfortable.” That put it mildly.
“Well. You might be the first asexual we’ve had here that I know of.”
“I don’t sign autographs.”
She laughed. “All right, you’ve explained why your goals aren’t sexual. Let’s talk about why you’re asking for pain. Are you a masochist?”
“No, ma’am.” He dug his heels into the carpet as she unraveled him.
“But you want to be hurt.”
She sounded sure. He glanced up, wondering if he should put up a front and demand to know why she’d jumped to that conclusion instead of asking if he sought to hurt someone. Her thoughtful expression shut him down. She looked ready to explain his life for him. And worse, she would be right.
“Yes,” he said, instead of the protest he’d halfheartedly intended. “I want to be hurt.” He said it aloud, slowly, to hear himself.
“Why?”
One look at Miss Wyatt told him she already knew why. She wanted him to say it.
“Because I deserve it.” He swallowed.
She kept eye contact and gave a small encouraging nod.
“Because I’m guilty of something and I… I want to be absolved.”
“Mr. Sieber, are you a fugitive?”
“No, nothing like that.” He realized what he sounded like, talking of guilt and absolution with such fervor.
He fell back in relief when her lips twitched into a smile. She reached across the desk. He grasped her hand.
“Mr. Sieber, I give you my word that I will match you to a client who will respect your boundaries. As for the absolution you desire, I’m afraid you’ll only find that if you’re willing to let yourself.”
“Thank you.” He began to shake with relief. He’d have what he needed soon. Everything would be okay.
“Now. Let’s go downstairs so I can introduce you properly to our bartender, Noel.” She pulled a pair of heels from beneath her desk and quickly swapped her slippers for them. “You have a lot of paperwork ahead of you, young man, and you’re going to need a soda to help your nerves.” He jumped when she touched his shoulder. “This is a big step.”
“I’m ready.” He stood up and walked to the door, where he waited for her. “Thank you, Miss Wyatt.”
Three Months Later:
TANYA WYATT never failed to add excitement to his day, so Grant Jessup had allowed himself a rare nonbusiness lunch when she’d invited him out. Of course Rory had scowled at him. His leaving meant she needed to cancel a meeting on his account, but it was a one-on-one and it involved spreadsheets. Frankly, Grant was glad to be free of it. He still had heartburn and acid reflux from the day before after two acidic meals, one featuring citrus and the other tomato sauce. It had worsened overnight.
A new box of chocolate truffles sat on the table between Grant and Tanya. Grant had dutifully handed them over upon arrival, kicking off a conversation about his most recent European business trip. Then, when the waitress carried away their entree plates, Tanya slipped the truffles into her bag. Recognizing the significance of the action, Grant glanced around for eavesdropping ears.
“So, what’s the occasion?” he asked.
“There’s a young man I want you to meet. He started coming into the club about five months ago. I haven’t been able to match him yet. He’s breathtaking but asexual. He only wants to be beaten, but the Doms I’ve paired him with get handsy. It’s counterproductive to his needs.”
“So you think I could keep my hands off him?”
“You have a considerable amount of restraint. You are possibly my last hope. Plus, given what you’re currently looking for, I think he’d be a good match for you as well.”
Grant considered it. “How attractive?”
“Greek god.”
“Mercury or Hercules?”
“Narcissus.”
Grant arched an eyebrow as his heart clenched with a mix of youthful guilt and nostalgia. Tanya had touched a nerve she couldn’t possibly know about. Unless… she’d been to Grant’s home. She could easily have seen the painting of Narcissus that hung in Melanie’s former office. Melanie had left it and a number of other paintings behind after the divorce. Tanya might have guessed it belonged to Grant.
“You’d trust me to work out my frustration on his ass? I know how protective you are of your clients’ bottoms, Tanya.”
“Oh, you won’t touch him until you and I have spent at least forty hours together and I’m positive you know how to recognize when your temper isn’t in check.”
Grant gave a light snort. “Please. I didn’t get this rich by losing my cool.”
“That’s my point. You’re so good at hiding when you’re about to boil over that I wonder if you even know when you’ve reached the point before it’s too late. I’m not about to put a whip or any other implement in your hand before you’ve proven yourself to me, especially considering your reasons for doing this. You can keep your temper in business interactions, but you’re talking about family.”
Grant sighed. He didn’t care for Tanya’s methods, but he respected them, and if this plan worked out, it would meet a need he’d been looking to fill for a few years. “Fair enough. I suppose you’ll want to start this training the usual way.”
“Naturally.”
“You know, I think it’s hilarious how you’re protective of everyone’s ass but mine.”
“Darling, no Dom gets in my club without getting whipped by Miss Wyatt. You know that. If you can’t take it, there’s no reason I should let you dish it out.”
He sniffed. “I don’t see why one needs to give repeated proof. You’re a perverted woman.”
She grinned. “If you made yourself more of a regular, I wouldn’t have to keep reassuring myself.”
“Come on, Tanya. I can’t exactly be seen there, no matter how discreet you insist everyone is. My family is already in the tabloids more than I’d like.”
“I know. So, I’ll see you at mine at ten tonight?”
“Fine.” He dug into his pocket for a pillbox and pulled out an omeprazole tablet. “When do I meet this young man?”
“Heartburn or ulcer?” Tanya asked. She nodded at the tablet as Grant put it into his mouth and swallowed with a bit of water. It wouldn’t be as effective with food already in his stomach, but it was better than not taking it.
“Heartburn, but ulcer is around the corner I’m sure.”
“What does the doctor say?”
“Says I have too much stress in my life and I need to cut back.”
“Are you going to listen to him?”
He smiled. “Why do you think I take so many trips to Europe?”
“Grant, I know you take pride in your job, but—”
“It’s not a
job. It’s a career. It’s the family business that I built on my father’s framework, so whatever you’re about to say, stop.”
Tanya put her hand up and changed the subject back. “He works at a strip club in upper Manhattan. I don’t want you to meet him yet, but you can send one of your spies to check him out.”
“And by ‘spy’ you mean Rory?”
She smiled. “I do. See you tonight, babe.”
Grant sighed, already anticipating the pain in his ass the evening would be.
Chapter Two
“MR. JESSUP? Mr. Sieber is here.” Rory’s bright, cautious voice emerged crisp and clear through the intercom feature on the desk phone. Grant stilled his pen over the page of budget reports he was reviewing.
“Bring him in at three. He’s early.”
“Will do.” At twenty-four years old, Rory wasn’t as formal as Grant liked, but she excelled at her job and he trusted her so much that he’d asked her to scout Mr. Sieber, so he let it slide. Besides, if he enforced too much professionalism, she might lose her greatest skill: the ability to tell him when he was full of shit and help him deal with stress. Tanya was right—when it came to keeping a cool head, there was a difference between business and family. His gaze landed on a photo of his son, Bennett.
Mr. Sieber probably wondered why the CEO and owner of a multibillion-dollar multimedia conglomerate wanted to speak with him. Grant had requested that Tanya not give his name as a potential partner to Mr. Sieber until after their first meeting—which meant Mr. Sieber didn’t know why he’d been asked to come. And yet he’d shown up, early even. Grant focused on the photo Rory had snapped during her recon trip to Mr. Sieber’s strip club; a tall, muscular man stood center stage, shirt off. The definition of the abs suggested hours in a gym, and his arms backed up that theory. Mr. Sieber looked at the men in front of him with a smile that didn’t touch the glare in his eyes. Brown hair fell loose around his face, almost down to his shoulders, and softened the angles of his cheekbones, though nothing could reduce that intense gaze.
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