Master of Hearts: A Domination And Submission Romance Anthology

by Erika Masten

  She looks at herself in the mirror again. She’s attractive enough with her coppery curls and wide brown eyes, but she has always wished she could be prettier and taller. But being pretty is not going to cut it with Mr. Channing Crawford, the CEO of Crawford, Peterson and Fulham Inc. As far as she knows, Mr. Crawford hasn’t even looked at any woman in the company. Rumors might have abounded that he was gay had it not been for his extreme alpha male masculinity and the way he seems to suck all the air out of a room.

  Nope. This is all going to be based on merit. Maybe she needs the extra fifty million dollars after all.

  You can do it, girl.

  She plucks her purse off the sink and makes herself walk out of the restroom. Her legs are slightly wobbly as she strides to the elevators. The CEO’s office is on the top floor. Even after five years in the company, her encounters with Channing Crawford have been thankfully brief and limited to boardrooms and town hall meetings.

  She doesn’t wish for broader contact. The man is frankly intimidating.

  The light on top of one of the elevators comes on, and the doors slide open. Susan makes to step in, and freezes when she sees Leonard Drake inside.

  Leonard smiles craftily. He is a tall black man with a full head of straight black hair. He is always impeccably dressed and he doesn’t walk – he glides like a shark.

  “Going up?” he says.

  She wonders if it’s a metaphor. She debates whether or not to postpone this appointment with Channing Crawford to another time. But you don’t postpone appointments with Channing Crawford. You don’t get a second chance.

  She steels herself and lifts her chin up.

  “As a matter of fact, yes,” she says.

  She walks into the elevator with an air of confidence that she does not feel. Gotta keep those hands from trembling. She presses the button to the top floor, aware that Leonard is sizing her every move.

  “Oh,” he says in a silky voice, “going to the CEO’s office?”

  “What’s it to you?”

  “I’ve just been there.”

  Oh? Susan pricks up her ears. She will not give Leonard the satisfaction of turning her head to address him, however.

  Leonard goes on, “Let’s just say the VP job is pretty much wrapped up.”

  “Nothing is ever wrapped up until it’s over,” she says acidly.

  Internally, she’s going damn damn damn in dismay. What uproariously stellar interview did Leonard give Channing Crawford? What new projects did he promise to deliver if he were to get that VP post? Leonard is an upstanding member of his church community, and he has a lot of contacts channeling in from that way.

  As for her, she hasn’t gone to church since grade school.

  Damn.

  She wonders if it’s too late to court a parish.

  The elevator reaches the twentieth floor and Leonard gets off.

  “Good luck,” he says, grinning. “You’re gonna need it. Lots of it.”

  She glares balefully at him as he turns tail and walks off. The elevator doors hiss shut again, and it’s up, up, up to top.

  If only.

  Her nerves are jangling when the doors slide open to reveal a wide passageway. At the end of it is the CEO’s office. It takes up almost the entire floor.

  Susan steps out. She is wearing red heels, and they sink into the blue and cream carpet. Her blouse is red silk and her skirt is a pencil-silhouetted tartan. She looks every inch the powerhouse professional, or so she hopes.

  Her steps are strident until she gets closer and closer to the office, and then she falters.

  Why oh why am I so nervous?

  Relax, you’ve got the goods. So what if Leonard gets the job? At least you’ve given it your best shot.

  But I don’t want him to get the job! He’s never going to let me live it down!

  Straightening her back with new resolve, she resumes her gait to the CEO’s office.

  Ms. Radcliffe, the forty-something year old Executive Assistant who has been with the company since its inception, looks up.

  “Right on time, Ms. Chalmers.” She smiles.

  “Please call me Susan.” Never hurts to get on the Executive Assistant’s side.

  “Go right in. He’s waiting for you.” Ms. Radcliffe jerks her head. “Good luck.”

  “Thank you.”

  Her nerve bundles are starting to fire up again. Susan swallows, grips both her fists, composes herself and heads in.

  And almost stumbles.

  The man sitting behind the large mahogany desk has always unsettled her, and even more so now. Channing Crawford is in his late thirties and he radiates a magnetic aura of great power. He doesn’t look his age though. He looks younger, possibly because he is so fit.

  He is handsome – almost unspeakably so. His blue eyes are sparkling and vivid in a well-chiseled face. He has marvelous bone structure – a structure she can well imagine on ancient Greek kings and war frescoes. His dark hair is razor shorn into a buzz cut, and his body is bulked up and magnificent under his dark suit. His lips have a determined and ruthless streak to them.

  She can’t look away from his eyes. Her knees begin to wobble again.

  Damn. Now you remember why you take great pains to avoid meeting this man.

  Not helping are the rumors of how he found his fortune. It isn’t a matter of luck or investment, though those came much later. Channing Crawford, William Peterson and Derek Fulham were Iraqi war veterans – battle-scarred and hardened army officers who had been decorated for many acts of valor. In Iraq, they had found hoarded gold bullion and claimed their share of the spoils.

  The rumors speculated that the way they found the gold was not without bloodshed. Iraqi warlords were involved, even organized crime. There were whispers of a bloody raid, the detonation of an entire citadel and a chase across the desert.

  Of course, no one could ever confirm what happened. Only Channing Crawford, William Peterson and Derek Fulham knew exactly what went down, and they weren’t telling.

  With this gold, they came back to America and founded the company. William Peterson was killed in a surfboarding accident (also raising suspicions) and Derek Fulham sold his shares to Channing two years later. Now Channing Crawford holds the share majority in a company that has capital investments as far as China, Bolivia and the Middle East.

  Susan can now feel the weight of speculative history emanating from this magnificent specimen of a man – mixed with a thrilling splash of mystery and danger. It’s as if she’s face to face with a drug lord, not a CEO of a much-admired company.

  This is a mistake. She shouldn’t have come here.

  Then she thinks of Leonard Drake in this very room, facing Channing Crawford down. Her mouth sets into a determined line. If you can’t bear to be in the same room as Channing Crawford, then you have no business being a VP of this company.

  Channing says, “Yes? Susan Chalmers, isn’t it? You wanted to see me?”

  Direct and right to the point. No pleasantries required.

  Susan swallows.

  “Yes, Mr. Crawford. I came to see you about the Vice-President’s job. I’m going to tell you why I think I deserve it.”

  Before she can lose her nerve, she rushes into her well-rehearsed spiel about her list of accomplishments within the company. And yes, it’s a long list. As she states each achievement and contract she has brought in by rote – without once referring to any piece of paper – her voice grows steadier and her back becomes straighter.

  Why, she thinks proudly, I do deserve this job.

  Channing Crawford listens to her monologue with an intense look in his blazing blue eyes. When she finally finishes, he says, “Impressive, Susan.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Crawford.” She has been standing all this while, and now her knees have a sudden urge to buckle.

  He intuits this and gestures to one of the chairs in front of his desk. “Sit.”

  “Thank you.” She seats herself gratefully.

  She
is still a little terrified. Less so than when she first walked into the room, but it’s still there – an omnipresent, overpowering awe of him that sends palpable quakes down her torso and limbs.

  “How old are you, Susan?”

  “Twenty-nine this year.”

  “Isn’t that a little young to be VP?”

  “Age should not be a determinant, but merit, sir.”

  He nods. His eyes haven’t left hers. She feels herself being drawn into his blue, blue eyes – the windows upon windows of their depths. She doesn’t dare blink for fear of losing herself.

  He says, “And what would you do for this job?”

  “Anything, sir.”

  “Anything?” His deep voice takes on a dangerous timbre.

  “Yes.”

  She is aware she’s treading on dangerous territory now. Still, the offer is open-ended and questionable. Anything can mean working till twelve midnight every office day and coming in on weekends and holidays. Anything can mean chasing another three hundred million dollar contract to the ends of the Earth.

  Anything is a speculative word . . . every bit as speculative as what really happened in that Iraqi desert.

  Is she dreaming or is there an appreciative gleam in his eyes?

  “Do you have a boyfriend, Susan?”

  Now the conversation is veering down a path she had not expected. Does she really have a boyfriend? Well, she’s technically dating Brad Thornbird, but they are not living together or anything. She isn’t even sure they are going anywhere with their relationship.

  “Yes, sir.” A bead of sweat trickles slowly down the back of her neck.

  His eyes slowly dip to her chest and focuses on her two jutting breasts. She has large breasts, and she can’t mask them with officious buttoned-up clothing. Oh my God, is Channing Crawford checking me out?

  “I have a proposition for you, Susan Chalmers,” he says calmly. His gaze rakes her face again.

  The gnawing apprehension bubbles over in her stomach.

  Oh what oh what is he going to ask me to do?

  He says, “I have seen you around and taken note of your progress in all these years.”

  You have? She’s astonished.

  “I believe you have the ruthless ambition to make things happen for yourself.”

  “I do, Mr. Crawford, I do.” This comes out in a bit of a rush.

  He leans back in his chair, and it creaks with protest.

  “You see, I have certain personal needs. I’m looking for the right woman to fulfill them, and I believe you have the characteristics to tend to my needs, Susan.”

  She can’t believe what she’s hearing. Her jaw drops.

  “Wh-what kind of needs, Mr. Crawford?”

  He steeples his hands. “Let’s just say I enjoy taking a strong-willed, ambitious woman like yourself and molding her into someone who will bend the knee and obey my every command. Are you that woman, Ms. Susan Chalmers?”

  The proposition dangles in front of her like a carrot on a stick.

  This can’t be happening, she thinks. This is surreal. Channing Crawford wants her in the physical sense? He who is unattainable and lives in the clouds, who is secretly desired by every woman in the company, only they are too afraid to even speak of it?

  Bend the knee.

  It sounds deliciously depraved . . . and yet tantalizing.

  Her terror surfaces again.

  “Wh-what’s in it for me, sir?”

  “I will be making a decision on the Vice-President post by Friday next week. Leonard Drake, a fine upstart individual with extremely impressive paper qualifications and a track record that dwarfs even yours, is your main contender – as you no doubt have acceded. He has promised to bring in the Buchanan contract by Thursday next week.”

  He lets this float in the tension-filled air between them.

  The Buchanan contract? Her spirits sink. The Buchanan contract is the Holy Grail of contracts – the biggest, most notoriously sought among them. Edward Buchanan is a recluse whose company is worth eighteen billion dollars.

  A recluse who donates generously to the church.

  “I see,” she says, the pit of her stomach caving in. How can she possibly compete with that?

  But that’s precisely the point.

  She can compete with it.

  Her voice is shaky as she says, “What would you require me to do, Mr. Crawford? And for how long?”

  “Let’s make it until Friday, Susan Chalmers. As for what I require . . . well, let’s just say you will do my every bidding . . . my every command.” His crystalline blue eyes bore probingly into hers.

  She licks her lips nervously. “And would those . . . requests . . . be sexual in nature, sir?”

  He waits a beat before answering, “Yes, for most part.”

  A deep, complex emotion courses through her – strangely filled with equal parts fear, desire and conflict.

  He adds, “I should warn you that there will be pain along with pleasure. You will be possibly be subjected to practices foreign to your nature. I would require your absolute compliance. Once you have agreed, refusal of any of the requests is not an option.”

  She breathes sharply. Her heart is beating very fast against the curvature of her ribs.

  Refusal not an option? Just what does he have in store for her? She thinks of this volatile, dangerous man moving like a thief in Iraqi desert night, and she suddenly has an idea of what he can and will do.

  Her hands begin to tremble at the thought.

  She manages to say, “I would like to think about it, sir.”

  “Needless to say, I trust I’ll have your discretion over the matter.”

  “Yes, of course, sir.”

  “I’ll expect your answer first thing tomorrow morning.”

  She nods. She feels as though all the energy has been drained out of her.

  “That will be all, Susan Chalmers.”

  She knows she is being dismissed. She gets up. The back of her panties are soaked through with her pooled sweat.

  As she exits the CEO’s office, she can feel his eyes burning a hole in her back.

  2

  Susan goes back to her room, sits down and stares at her monitor without being able to register a single word onscreen. The meeting plays over and over again in her mind.

  You will do my every bidding . . . my every command.

  I should warn you that there will be pain along with pleasure. You will be possibly be subjected to practices foreign to your nature.

  Once you have agreed, refusal of any of the requests is not an option.

  Every word is like a hammer, a blow in the cavern of her skull.

  She has never been more petrified in her life. Her palms are slick with sweat as she grips the edge of her desk. She can’t even talk about this with anybody . . . well, not if she valued her job.

  She hears voices outside her door and looks up. Leonard Drake is showing a trio of visitors she does not recognize around the office. As they stop to admire a framed sales chart of the best year the company ever had, he takes the opportunity to poke his head in.

  “Ah, you’re back. So how did the meeting go?” He’s cordial, almost chatty. Very unlike his usual demeanor.

  “It went well, thank you for asking,” she says smoothly.

  He grins. “Well, I’d better be getting back to showing our guests the boardroom. This is the Buchanan acquisitions team. Can’t stress enough the importance of getting their account.”

  He leaves, the Buchanan team in tow.

  She’s flummoxed.

  So fast?

  The way the Buchanan acquisition team is chatting to Leonard – amiably, laughing as though they are old friends – is nothing short of appalling. The implications are obvious. She can already see the glistening ink on the contract sheets where they will sign, effectively adding half a billion dollars to the company’s revenue and Leonard’s spreadsheet. She can also see the Human Resource statement slip calculating Leonard’s com
mission on this.

  And she can clearly visualize ‘LEONARD DRAKE, VICE-PRESIDENT’ in gold letters on the door of the new, much larger office he will occupy, all the way up in the floor just below the CEO’s room.

  She stares out of the door at their retreating backs, her mind turning cartwheels.

  A short musical tone from her docked laptop alerts her. Incoming email. She checks her Inbox. It’s bradthornbird@yahoo.com .

  Frowning, she clicks it open.

  It says: “Hi babe, can’t make it for dinner tonite. Somethin came up.”

  Her mouth flattens. Brad is always doing this – cancelling at the last minute and leaving her in a lurch to make plans of her own.

  She looks at her palms. Her flesh is indented with her fingernails. Her head feels as though it’s been laundered in some super spin cycle of a washing machine.

  You already know what you’re going to do.

  So do it.

  3

  For the second time that day, she walks into the CEO’s office. Ms. Radcliff is standing up behind her desk and reaching for her purse.

  “Susan,” she says in surprise. “It’s lunchtime. Aren’t you going out?”

  “I just have something to say to Mr. Crawford. It’s regarding a suggestion he made this morning,” Susan says. The blood rushes in her ears and makes all sorts of turbine-like noises. She can hardly hear herself speak.

  “Of course. Just let me buzz Mr. Crawford. He’s not used to sudden interruptions.”

  “Tell him it’s urgent.”

  Ms. Radcliffe puts down her purse and punches a button on her phone. “Mr. Crawford? Susan Chalmers here to see you. She says it’s urgent. Yes, twice in one day, it must be important.” She laughs.

  Susan watches this exchange. She envies the seemingly comfortable camaraderie between Ms. Radcliffe and her boss. If only it were this easy –

  Ms. Radcliffe puts down the phone and smiles. “You can go right in.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Don’t keep him too long. He doesn’t usually take lunch, but it’s also his private hour, and so I wouldn’t want to take too much out of it if I were you.”