"You may bathe before you leave." Megan was ridiculously relieved when her voice stayed level. Then she left the room, never looking back. She knew that if she did, if she saw his grey eyes gleaming with desire, with the need for more, she would have been lost.
He was a submissive, not her lover, and she needed to keep him firmly in his place.
She walked quickly down the hall and to the steps, ignoring those she usually chatted with. Janie smiled when Megan entered the bar area but she waved the bartender off; there was no after-drink tonight. Tears welled in her eyes as she finally made it to the door. God, she'd never realized how truly weak she was.
She could imagine her daddy laughing at her; hear that deep rolling voice telling her that a woman was always weak in the presence of a man, especially a man she wanted. Well, whether he believed it or not, her daddy hadn't raised a weak daughter, and Megan knew all she needed was to get home, get a shower and get a new perspective on what had just happened.
*
Gregori stayed on his knees until they ached, unable to move. His stomach cramped and his chest felt tight, and dammit, he'd sworn never to feel this way again. He … hurt.
Finally, he rose from the floor. His legs were numb from kneeling so long, his skin burned violently with every shift. He stumbled into the small bathroom area, and stopped in front of the mirror.
The light was dimmer in here, but still bright enough to see the long red stripes that lined his chest, the smear of blood over his nipple. Marks, her marks. They decorated is body, but they were engraved on his soul.
Moving slowly, he worked the plug free. He winced as it tugged raw, overworked muscles, then winced again at the baby blue color. His Mistress certainly knew how to knock a man down a peg, he reflected as he washed it clean. At least the damned thing hadn't been lavender. Or fucking pink.
Gregori shook his head. He knew what he was doing. He was avoiding. Refusing to acknowledge the pain, because he didn't know if he could handle it. He knew his attraction to Megan went beyond the normal lust between two adults. It even went beyond the normal dynamic between a Dom or Domme and their sub. Her eyes haunted his dreams, the sunlight making him yearn for her warmth; the shadows making him ache to comfort her.
He inhaled deeply, and her scent filled his head. The small bathroom was filled with it; magnolia, Southern and sweet. But more, her essence clung to him. His face was sticky with her cum; her taste coated his lips, like cinnamon, spicy and dark. He ran his tongue along his bottom lip, tasting her, feeling the smooth satin of her pussy against his tongue. She'd been so damn wet, her body pushing greedily against his mouth.
She hadn't cleaned him, hadn't cared for him in the aftermath, and that sliced at his soul. He'd been watching her forever, and never once had she left the after-care of her submissive to someone else.
She wanted him, dammit. He'd already known it, but now he had proof that his southern belle was just as needy for him as he was for her. Tonight had proven to him, beyond any argument or doubt, that she was the one; not just a Mistress, but his Mistress. It had also proven that she was afraid; afraid of losing control, afraid of losing herself. He didn't understand why; she hadn't let him in enough to understand. But he didn't have to know the why to understand that his Mistress was terrified.
Well, he was a patient man.
Megan was a Domme. She needed the give and take with a submissive every bit as much as he did. She would be back, and he would be ready to worship at her feet and allow her to use him to seek her pleasure.
Gregori was going to seduce her. There was no hurry. No rush. It was inconceivable to him that she could resist mastering him again, and he knew that each time she did it would just stoke the fire in her belly higher. With each stroke of her whip, he would show her that he was exactly what she was looking for. She could deny her feelings all she wanted but Gregori would win in the end. He already belonged to her, and he'd get her to accept it no matter how long it took.
Chapter Six
This time Megan didn't even try to stay away from the club. It wouldn't do any good. She'd still spend her time thinking about him, the awful tension would still build, so why bother?
No, better to climb back on the horse, so to speak, and prove to both of them that her little melt-down during their session had been an aberration. It hadn't meant anything.
So two nights after the Gregori Disaster, as she had come to think of it, Megan perched on a stool at the third-floor bar sipping a glass of Cotes du Luberon Cuvee Noe, and chatting with the bartender in between orders.
"I swear," the redhead grinned as she whipped up two Screaming Orgasms, "you are the only member of this club who'd know the Cotes even exists, let alone how to pronounce it."
Megan smiled, but her attention was on the open floor. "It does seem like Velvet Ice has an awfully refined wine list, for a club," she agreed as she swept her gaze over the open lounge areas and dance floor.
Janie moved off to deliver her orgasms to the far end of the bar, and to accept what looked like a sizable tip with a slow smile from under her lashes. When she moved back to Megan's side she wrinkled her nose before picking up the thread of their conversation.
"Well, it's certainly more refined in the last two years than it ever was before."
Megan looked at her friend with a raised eyebrow.
"After the first couple times you looked down that oh-so-refined nose at the wine list, big bad Brady let me do some research and pick out a few new vintages to try out on the third floor."
In spite of her restlessness, Megan couldn't contain a big smile.
"That is so sweet. I just knew Mr. Ryder cared." Janie sputtered out a laugh at Megan's wide-eyed innocent look.
DJ Wicked slid onto the stool next to Megan. She roved an appreciative eye over the man. He was definitely a sight to behold. Long, thick black hair, pulled back in an intricate braid, drew attention to the sensual line of his spine, visible through the tight white tank he wore. His golden skin and exotically slanted eyes proclaimed his Asian heritage, while his above average height and muscularity hinted at an Asian-American mix.
Whatever his origins, the man moved like flowing water. And he was a wizard with music and lights, creating such intensely sensual moods on the second and third floors that many club members deliberately timed their visits to the nights he was working.
"Mistress Megan." His voice was a soft tenor, so completely different from Gregori's bass rumble that it only highlighted what Megan was missing. Still, the slow smile he gave her, coupled with that naughty sideways look from amber eyes did provide the tiniest distraction.
"Master Wicked," she replied, giving him her best Miss America smile.
"Only DJ Wicked tonight, koishii."
Janie cleared her throat, and Megan looked up in surprise. The usually relentlessly cheerful bartender was looking less than cheerful and friendly at the moment.
"Can I get you something, DJ?" Janie's voice was cool, clipped, and more businesslike than Megan had ever heard it.
Hmmm. What was up with that?
"You know what I like, aikouka," he replied, turning that naughty smile on the fuming bartender.
"We don't serve chai or chamomile," she snapped back.
Curiouser and curiouser, Megan mused.
"That is a tragedy," Wicked murmured, leaning against the bar with an almost boneless grace. "Then I'll have to settle for mango nectar and soda."
"Ice?" Megan thought that if the man wanted ice, there was enough of it in Janie's tone to supply the whole darn bar.
"Of course, aikouka," he agreed.
Janie put his drink together quickly, and visibly deflated when he left the bar to flow back to the DJ booth.
"My goodness, darlin'. What was that?" Megan leaned in, thrilled to let someone else's drama take front and center.
"That was a man who doesn't know when to quit," Janie muttered, and then moved down the bar to focus on other customers.
Deprived of c
ompany, Megan recommenced checking out the options wandering the third floor tonight. She quickly passed over Trey. He'd been fine for a single night of play, but he lacked the intensity Megan was craving tonight. Besides, she made it a practice not to give her subs any repeats.
She'd almost given up when she saw him. The perfect distraction. He was tall, though not quite as tall as Gregori, and shared the Russian's dark hair and pale golden complexion. His eyes, from a distance, looked dark. Maybe the thick, studded dog-collar he wore was a trifle overdone, but the man was nasty enough looking to carry it off.
Without moving, Megan caught his eye, pointed, then beckoned. He lifted a brow, but moved obediently to stand before her.
"Is that how you greet a Mistress?" Megan let the magnolia slip into her voice, while keeping her tone cool. She knew the contrast made most men wild to either heat her up or cool her down.
The big bruiser lowered his eyes immediately, but his voice was insolent. "It's how I greet a woman who's made a move on me."
Megan's eyes narrowed.
"Oh, really?" The poor fool didn't know her, or he'd have recognized the doom in her voice.
"Yeah," he said. "Really."
His last word ended in a squeak, as Megan caught his balls in a grip that would turn coal to diamonds.
"You need to learn some manners, darlin'." He made a garbled sound, his eyes nearly crossing in pain. "Would you like for me to be the one to teach them to you?" She relaxed her grip enough that he could answer.
"If it pleases you, Mistress."
Megan smiled to herself. Now that answer was all she could have hoped for.
"Over there," she flipped her hand to indicate what looked like a sinuous bit of sculpture, but was actually a device with shallow indentations for the submissives knees that rose into a gently rounded chest support.
Mr. Attitude moved quickly to the device and dropped into a kneeling position. At Megan's nod, one of the club employees fastened him down, efficiently attaching Velcro cuffs to his wrists, ankles and neck so he was pressed tightly along every inch of the sculpture.
Then she sat back and watched him. For five minutes. Ten. He began to squirm, and Megan waited for the rush. For the sense of power and control.
It didn't come.
Finally, with a sigh, she finished her wine and wandered over to her mouthy submissive.
"Whatever shall I do about you?" she murmured. She walked slowly around him, trailing a nail over the bare length of his spine. He was well built, but he lacked Gregori's thick slabs of muscles. And it pissed her off beyond all words that she noticed.
"Whatever pleases you, Mistress," he hurried to reply.
"What's your name?" Megan turned to the club employee who was standing at the ready with a tray that held a short crop, a flogger and a butt plug.
"Snake, Mistress." A fraction of arrogance had crept back into the man's voice.
That spun Megan around with a choked laugh.
"Oh, dear Lord, you must be joking." Because if he wasn't, she just might laugh herself silly.
"No joke, Mistress. It's what everyone calls me." The arrogance was edging to belligerence, which Megan wouldn't allow.
"Well, darlin', I've never liked to run with the crowd, so I'm not gonna call you Snake." He gave her a resentful look as she continued. "Snake is your safe word. I'll be calling you slave." He looked ready to protest and Megan set her hands on her hips and looked down her nose at him. "Do you have a problem with that, slave?"
"No, ma'am," he finally muttered.
Megan bit back a sigh and picked up the crop. This was turning into much more work than it was worth.
*
Gregori spat out a curse in Russian and headed for the office door. He'd been watching her, his Mistress, for the last half hour or more, torn between irritation and longing. Longing had given way to pure irritation when she'd beckoned some meathead sub to her side. Irritation had given way to rage when she'd had him secured to the blossom sculpture.
He might have taken some satisfaction from the fact she'd chosen a sub that resembled him if he hadn't been so fucking pissed she'd chosen any man other than him in the first place.
She was just picking up a crop when he arrived at the public staging area. She must have seen him, or felt him, because she looked up immediately. Standing tall and proud, golden hair in an elegant up-sweep, she was his goddess.
His heart thumped hard before seeming to sink into his gut. Her eyes were clear and focused, the rich Caribbean blue cool and emotionless. He couldn't stop her, not in his role as Head of Security. Couldn't force the words past the boulder lodged in his chest in his role as her submissive. He couldn't do anything but watch and burn.
She tapped the crop lightly against her palm, still holding Gregori's gaze, then very deliberately turned her attention to the sub bound for her use.
The first strike of the crop whistled through the air, and the submissive choked out a high-pitched cry with the impact.
"Too much, slave?" Her voice dripped mimosa, and Gregori swore she sounded detached in a way he'd never heard before.
"No, Mistress," the slave responded, but he had a little waver in his voice.
The crop sang again, and again; and with each strike, the slave shrieked. Gregori felt each impact as if on his own flesh, or more accurately, as if on his soul. Each slice of the crop felt like a betrayal, and Gregori couldn't stop the low growl of rage he felt building in his chest.
With every second the submissive looked and sounded more frantic, and Megan looked more frustrated. On the fifth blow, she turned in disgust and dropped the crop on the waiting tray.
"Give me a cold cloth," she instructed the assistant on duty shortly, and the girl nodded and hurried off.
Gregori caught her arm as she rushed by.
"You'll be tending to him," he murmured. The girl nodded again with a small smile as Gregori stepped in front of Megan, blocking her retreat.
"I am so not in the mood for this, Sugar," she sighed tiredly.
"In the mood for what, Megan?" He knew there was a taunt in his voice, and he didn't even care. He owed no deference to a Mistress who would not claim him.
"In the mood for more of your games." She side-stepped, attempting to move past, but he wasn't letting her go that easily.
"This is so much more than a game, milaya," he insisted. "You'd realize that if you'd just stop running from what we could have together."
"That is the problem," she snapped, eyes flashing. "All we could ever have is a purely physical relationship." She glared pointedly at his hand on her arm. "How many times do I have to tell you that before you'll believe it?"
"Perhaps I need for you to prove it," he murmured, allowing his hand to trail down her arm, lingering at her fingertips before dropping to his side. "Prove to me that you can Domme me without emotion, Megan, and I'll walk away forever." Her eyes narrowed dangerously, sending a delicious little thrill directly to his dick.
"Fine," she gritted out. He had to smile at the sound of her irritation. Somehow that slow magnolia drawl and gritty anger just didn't seem to go together. "When is your next night off?"
Gregori couldn't believe she was giving in so easily. But then, his goddess had a will of iron under that satin exterior, so maybe she didn't think she was giving in at all.
"I'm off Friday night," he answered, wondering if she'd follow through.
"All right, Sug." She nodded decisively. "Be here Friday night. Ten o'clock." She stepped to the side again, and this time he allowed her to pass.
"I'll be counting the hours," he said softly to her back as she quickly swayed out of sight.
*
Friday Night
Megan could never turn down a challenge and that is exactly what Gregori had proposed: an out and out dare to Domme him without giving in to the desire that flared between them like fireworks. There was danger in calling his bluff; she knew herself well enough to know Gregori Lavinkia could easily become an addiction
. But that only made it more tempting.
Megan wanted Gregori, but she'd been completely sincere when she'd told him any relationship between them would be an either/or proposition. As a Domme she needed to call the shots. She didn't want to give over control, and that's exactly what happened when she made love. So, to protect herself, Megan had compartmentalized. She kept sex tame and vanilla—and infrequent—and saved her passion for Velvet Ice. She couldn't, wouldn't let the two merge. Keeping Gregori firmly in the cubbyhole of "submissive" was the only way she could think of to protect her heart.
Unfortunately, her body and mind were at war. Gregori tempted her like no one else ever had. The promise of fantasy of him fulfilling his duty as a submissive while in the bedroom ate at her. He had a reputation at the club as being orally gifted, and she could now testify that he'd earned it. Each stroke of his tongue between her thighs had sent her flying, short circuiting her brain. She'd wanted to see just how tight a fit it would be for that gorgeous, brutal cock when she took it into her aching pussy. She wanted to ride him into the ground, take him deeper and harder until they both collapsed in a sweaty heap on the floor. She wanted things that made her feel wild and out of control, and that scared her.
Scared or not, though, she was going to take Gregori up on his offer and prove to both of them she could handle him without losing control. If she kept it simple, nothing too fancy or complicated, she should be able to keep her focus where it belonged: on Gregori's complete surrender of power.
A shadow fell over her shoulder and moved down her side as Gregori knelt beside her. He wore nothing but a pair of black leather pants and a plain black collar. Megan fought to keep her breath even as she gazed at his naked torso. Damn, but he was a fine man. His body was large, bulky and his tight muscles were covered with the most velvety pale golden skin. The dark hair that decorated his chest looked silky. The most mouth-watering trail led the eye to the straining bulge his cock made in the soft black leather.
Velvet Submission Page 6
