Thank God for the one strength I had been blessed with.
I had an inherent sense of compassion toward anyone hurting or in trouble. It was an ingrained natural with me. Three years into being an advice columnist for The Metroplex Times, Ava’s Advice was still going strong, my live Facebook question and answer session, Wednesday’s Wrangle, doing great. Offering sympathy to coworkers and always willing to lend an ear had led me to a kickass career that I absolutely loved, earning me a comfortable salary and cozy corner office. All that said, something was still missing.
Life wasn’t meant to work this way.
Marrying Lance when Melli was only a little over a year old and falling into a traditional lifestyle and marriage, I was supposed to be raising babies, enjoying the job of a lifetime, curling up beside the man I loved at night talking about tomorrow, next week, ten years from now. Not divorced and sexually frustrated, not crying oceans of tears into my pillow over a situation I couldn’t do a damn thing about, not sitting up until all hours of the night, reading books other people would probably cringe over.
Bondage books. Books about kink, domination, submitting.
I had read dozens, some of them twice. I’d even discovered a website containing erotic hypnosis for women. The whole idea of a Master or Sir, of being bound, forced, controlled and punished, was mind-boggling. Arousing. I’d spent hours surfing the web, reading personal stories of submissives, women who thrived on pain, and even those who enjoyed being led around on a leash. Half a dozen BDSM clubs were all in a thirty-mile radius of my home, and I had read all about each of them. I’d speculated over visiting one of them more than once, all the while, knowing very well I never would.
Submission and dominant men were fascinating.
Something about that lifestyle … intrigued me deep down.
But fascinating and intriguing was all it would ever be. Reading and wondering would be the closest thing to kinkiness that someone like me would ever experience. I was a mother for God’s sake. I had dance lessons to attend, homework to assist with, a job and bills that needed tending.
A second grader with special needs.
****
Tage
“Did I say you could touch me?”
Same as minutes before, the attractive blonde reached for my face, anxious for more coddling. Desirous of my lips.
Respecting the importance of aftercare, I had given her cool water to drink, gently rubbed a soothing topical cream over the remnants of leather to delicate skin, covered her in a lightweight blanket to fight off any chills.
I’d done what any honorable dominant would.
Kissing, on the other hand, was a gesture way too intimate. I didn’t do it … ever. There had only been two that I had shared that experience with—both in my adolescent years.
With hands shoving through my hair, I climbed off the bed, breathless, offering the beautiful, young pain slut nothing more than a simple, thin-lipped smile.
“Will I see you again?” With eyes gleaming with lust, and nipples still peaking, she pushed the blanket to the side and flashed another glimpse of the trimmed, pale patch of hair between her brightly red thighs as I disposed of the condom and grabbed my pants. A small pang of guilt hit me as I tried recalling the woman’s name.
Cher? Sharon? Sherry?
“No, blondie.” I returned the riding crop to my leather bag. “You will not.”
Fuck. Where the hell did this guilt come from? She had pursued me, clearly knowing who I was. What I was.
At barely twenty-seven years old, I made no promises. Never had. Never would.
I didn’t allow emotion into the equation.
I played. Generated pain.
I reveled in watching fear flash in a woman’s eyes. And fucked—hard.
Empty, sadistic pleasure. Nothing more.
Chapter Three
Ava
I absolutely hated the fact that it was so difficult for me to tell anyone no. Times like the present were proof in the pudding that me and my sensitive side could sometimes be more of a curse than a blessing. Feeling totally out of my comfort zone, I did not want to do this.
Motherfuck!
With a pleading gaze covering his face, Adam stared at me, pushing fingers through his hair for the umpteenth time. Desirous of a favor—and yes, it was damned well a favor—the whites of his deep blue eyes were glassy and bloodshot, his face pale and unshaven. So far, I hadn’t agreed, but already knew it was only a matter of minutes.
“Why me? I don’t know a thing about security. I don’t even use my home alarm system. And I sure don’t know how to deal with executives from somewhere like Briand Security. Or anywhere else for that matter.” Sarcasm filled my tone. “Why not ask Milton? He could make conversation with a concrete wall.”
Dread clawed at my chest. I couldn’t imagine doing this, and furthermore, couldn’t believe Adam was actually asking me of all people. Facing the unknown businessman made my belly ache, my fists clench. Milton Hancock was a long-time sports writer responsible for all the coverage on college athletics, most definitely a big wheeler-dealer type. I knew he was absolutely capable, but was also well aware that he and Adam had butted heads a lot over the last few months.
Men and their mile-high egos.
I covered my giggle with a palm. Watching this powerhouse of a man guzzle Pepto-Bismol straight from the bottle would make anyone crack a smile, even while being irritated by his demands. He tossed the empty bottle in the trash.
“Fuck, I’d almost rather be puking than drinking this putrid-tasting shit. But Milton,” he added. “Jesus, Ava. Milton couldn’t wipe his own fucking ass without making a mess of it. You’ll do fine. Morgan is probably somewhere around your age, and all business. Just take a look at his presentation or whatever he’s brought, then flash one of those pretty smiles of yours, sign the contract, and be done with it. It shouldn’t take more than a few short minutes.”
Adam rubbed at his temple, then shot me a beseeching smile. Tall, dark, and handsome, even when he appeared to be seconds from dropping dead, he came across as almost pretty. Resembling someone etched in stone with his masculine jawline and perfect five o’clock shadow look, he was also bold and most likely dominant. But today, he was quite the opposite of his powerful controlling self. Once he recovered from this sick spell, he was most definitely in store for some ribbing. Payback was going to be a cruel bitch. Oh, was it damn well ever.
“Shit,” he said dryly. “I should have just handled this through the mail. It’s not like Morgan was ever going to tell me a damn thing about his sister anyway.”
“His sister? What does this have to do with his sister?”
Adam’s eyes brightened. “My lard ah mercy,” he murmured in an undertone. “It was years ago. I was still living out in Weatherford. I’d been taking live shots for a Memorial Day parade and stopped in Starbucks for some coffee. That’s when I saw the most beautiful, exotic-looking angel I’d ever laid eyes on. She was standing at the counter, fuming with anger and madder than a raging wet hen. She’d ordered some weird pumpkin kind of shit and couldn’t find her wallet, then spilled her drink while she was digging through a purse the size of Austin. I’d never seen such a red-hot temper in a woman before. Christ, she was beautiful.”
“And let me guess. You paid for her coffee, I presume, and she instantly fell knee-deep for your pretty face.”
Adam looked at me hard for a long minute. “Something like that … hmm. Fuck, all I know is that I liked the hell out of that woman. Thought she felt the same.” The look of regret in his expression struck deep in my heart. “Anyway,” he added with a chest-filled sigh, “she up and moved to the West Coast for a job, so that was that.”
A touch of softness filled Adam’s eyes. Perceiving his grief was totally understandable. I knew all too well about that was that. Nothing felt worse than being lured in with hopes of happiness, only to be let down and left with a broken heart in the end.
I’d been there. Done
that. Twice.
“Not only did she have the most amazing blue eyes and head of dark hair, but an accent that made you wanna slap yo momma. And those damn Swedish sayings she used to say. The woman was a rare thing of beauty.”
“Slap yo momma? Really?” I giggled at another one of his quirky quotes. He was known for them around the office, and they only added to his already dripping, mile-wide sex-appeal.
A glint of humor returned to his eyes. “Damn straight. The woman could bring a man to his proverbial knees.”
With looks, personality, and money, Adam could likely have most any woman he desired. Yet, I had never known of him to be in a relationship. As he never discussed his personal life or mentioned anyone he was seeing, or anything about his life outside the office for that matter, it was strange seeing him so out of sorts.
“Look, Ava. All kidding aside, if I wasn’t sick as fuck with this … man flu,” he shrugged, “you know I wouldn’t ask this of you, but there’s nobody else that I trust. And I’ve got to get out of here. Surely you don’t want me blowing groceries all over this guy. Getting my ass stomped by an ex-SEAL. My pride wounded.”
I couldn’t help it. For years, probably forever when it came down to it, I always had that motherly instinct. Wanting to calm the hurt. Heal the wounded. It was useless. That feeling had already kicked in. I couldn’t tell Adam no. And the man flu? Well, hell, who could possibly expect him to stay at work with something so horrific as that?
Shoving all my nerves and insecurities to the side, I returned my focus to the realization that Adam was still my boss, and the fact that he was asking for a favor. What else could I do but agree to his request? “Okay. Shit … shit, Adam,” I said with a half-giggle. “If you have the man flu, then yes, by all means you most definitely need to be in bed … or quite possibly the hospital,” I teased. “Give me the paperwork. Oh, and by the way … geewillikers? Should I be expecting ‘slap yo momma’ next?”
“Love that kid,” Adam responded with a gentleness to his tone. “Bring her by the office soon. Tell her Uncle Adam will teach her some more cool sayings.” Adam was soft spoken as he mentioned Melli, and I swallowed at the lump in my throat. For a quick instant, I was overcome with emotion, wishing for so many things—a cure, a small miracle, the impossible.
Sentiment churned deep inside me like billowing Texas storm clouds.
Some days were simply harder than others.
****
Tage
Though it was only a few minutes after ten in the morning, it felt more like mid-afternoon. The thick stack of folders in front of me was seemingly growing, instead of the opposite. But I wouldn’t complain. Not a damn word. Being knee-deep in work was something I was thankful for every day. I’d worked my ass off getting this business up and running. Looking over new and updated contracts was actually a fucking blessing.
Ordinarily, I checked all the accounts by way of a spreadsheet at the end of each month, but once a year I insisted going through actual contracts just to stay on top of things. Ex-military, I was strict when it came to rules and expectations with my employees, and anal about my business running smoothly. And honestly.
“Mr. Morgan.” Megan walked through the office door, her hands full. “Your mail, sir. And the last of the contracts.” My administrative assistant for the last three years still couldn’t look me in the eye.
Hell if I knew why.
After watching Nathan Morgan speak to his employees like they were second-class citizens unworthy of his presence, I’d made a vow when I started up my security company to treat all my hired hands as equals. Without them, I had nothing.
“Thank you, Megan. I guess,” I added teasingly, as she placed another stack of folders in front of me. The forty-something attractive brunette smiled, if you could really call it that. Since bringing on the highly-recommended assistant, I’d barely seen more than a crack of a grin. The woman was unrelenting, and as tough as an old pair of boots.
“Megan,” I said in a light tone, making sure she knew I was being nonchalant. “I’ll be leaving for the day shortly. There’s nothing pressing. Why don’t you take the rest of the afternoon off? Go buy yourself something pretty.”
With a sparkle in her pale green eyes, she replied, “That sounds great. I appreciate it, Mr. Morgan.”
Before she could get both feet through the office door, I pushed aside my dinging phone. “Megan, call me Tage. Please.”
“Okay, then. See you tomorrow, Tage.”
As if my personal assistant being flat ass terrified of me wasn’t bad enough, I had a meeting to attend in little over an hour that was nothing but a sheer waste of time. The last damn thing I felt like doing. Nevertheless, it was business, which always took precedence.
Briand Security was my company. My baby. I’d spent a long, hard year starting it from the ground up after returning from the service, opting for my middle name as a trade name. Providing residential and both small and large business security, as well as fire protection and other alarm monitoring services, the company was currently in the final months of its third year of business and stood fifth-largest in the U.S. security market. I was no millionaire. We weren’t on top yet. But soon, we would be. Determination and greed were the essences to success, and I had plenty of both. Failure was not an option.
Adam Matthews had called me personally, wanting to enhance his outdated control panel. While Davis Anderson, Briand’s Senior Vice President of National Account Sales, ordinarily handled all sales matters, Adam was an old friend of my sister Isabelle. I felt obligated to attend the meeting, but damned if I looked forward to it. There were a handful of other things I needed to be doing.
While latching my briefcase and swallowing the last drops of coffee in my cup, I shut my laptop, then headed down the hall to Davis’s office. He had insisted on driving, excited to show off his newest toy, a deep silver 1971 Plymouth Cuda he’d picked up at auction. Quite a classic car lover myself, I had one of my own, a very rare Tasco Turquoise 1960 Corvette. With only a little over four-hundred miles on the never-rained-on beauty, I had bid high, determined to walk away as its new owner. I’d learned to appreciate the classics watching automobile auctions on television as a kid, strangely enough, with my mother, who happened to be a huge lover of old cars. She still preferred driving her restored 1958 Mercedes 300SL over the newer E-Class parked in the garage.
Ten minutes later and exactly 1:15 PM by my watch, suit jacket smoothed, tie tightened to perfection, I sat beside my VP of Sales in the passenger’s restored Isis blue leather seat, while he drove, or more less crawled, toward the office of Adam Matthews, Senior Editor/General Manager for The Metroplex Times.
Traffic was its usual bitch of a self—aggravating as hell—one measly car at a time being allowed through the tied-off intersection. Why couldn’t road construction be handled in off hours? During the night, instead of the middle of the work day?
Dallas overcrowding and congestion pissed me the fuck off at times.
Plus, I damn well knew better. This guy couldn’t care less about updated control panels, couldn’t give an ounce of shit about the increase in monthly rates. He was interested in one thing—my sister. Little be known to him, I didn’t plan on giving up any information on Isabelle’s personal life now or any other time, and sure the hell didn’t intend on telling him she also mentioned his name every fucking time we shared words.
Adam Matthews led a lifestyle similar to my own, I suspected. I’d seen him around in the clubs a handful of times. No idea what kind of kink the guy got off on in his private life, I didn’t give a fuck, but something about his smugness just rubbed me the wrong way. Isabelle was a carbon copy of our mother. Beautiful, tall, genuine, and real. She was perfectly capable of handling her personal affairs on her own, but for reasons I couldn’t put a finger on, I just couldn’t condone her being involved with someone in the lifestyle. Though, in the back of my mind, I suspected she was already tangled up in her own similar way of life.
“I’d say you and The Lou are more than safe,” I uttered in an undertone, taking in the tight squeeze between the car door and concrete wall.
Five minutes later we were inside The Times’s reception area, being escorted into an attractively furnished conference room, where a setup of coffee, water, and sundry types of cookies rested in the middle of the rectangular table. With eyes glued to the young receptionist exiting the clear tempered glass door, Davis tugged at the collar of his shirt.
“Holy Christ, that sweet thing was cute. Did you see the fine ass on her? I’d love to taste a little piece of that heaven on earth.” Grinning with effortless conceit, and more than aware that the ladies loved him, Davis knew like the sky was blue that he was very capable of impressing the young woman.
“Shut the fuck up, Anderson,” I huffed, rubbing at the tension building in my neck. “Let’s just be done with this and get the hell out of here. There’s plenty of unscathed innocent victims in the city just waiting for someone like you to ruin them. Let this one be.” I stared down at a typical text message from my mother, my jaw tensing.
I love you, Tage. I miss you.
Andrea Morgan still insisted on living as Nathan Morgan’s doormat, something that still, after all these years, pulled hard at my heart. With exasperation kicking at my chest, I was seconds from typing in a short, repetitive response to the same message I received almost weekly, when the conference door swung open with a flash of feminine movement sweeping through. Even out of my peripheral vision, I recognized the pale silhouette, the delicate features, heart-stopping eyes, mass of long auburn waves, and that intoxicating smell of cherry with a hint of vanilla.
Intrigue Me Page 2
