After the section on the cancellation policy and communication protocols (sexting was allowed, photos were not) came the list of likes and dislikes.
“Oh. My. God,” he groaned and dropped his head in his hands. “What the fuck is a Gates of Hell?”
Rope bondage. Prison scene. Shibari. He didn’t know what two-thirds of the items were and the rest just fucking blew his mind. Whatever they were, his cock was ready to try all of them out. It was practically bursting from his pants as if it wanted to read the list itself.
“Marco. Dinner’s ready.” The patter of Abby’s footsteps drew near.
“Fuck.” He slid the fancy folder under the ink blotter and covered the contract with his arms. “I’ll be right there.”
Her cute little face appeared in the doorway. “Are you working?”
“Kinda of. Just some L&I paperwork.”
Poor girl. She had idea her brother was such a pervert.
“You need to take it easy. In fact, you don’t look so well. Are you getting sick? Your forehead is all sweaty.”
“Yes! No. I mean, I’m not sick-sick, just tired. I think I’ll turn in early.”
“Oh. Okay. I’ll leave the stew in the crockpot in case you get hungry later.”
“Thanks. Oh, and Abby? Thanks for everything. The cooking, cleaning. All of it. I really do appreciate it.”
“You’re welcome.” She rocked back on her heels with a delighted smile.
He reached for his wallet and pulled out all of the cash inside. “Here. Call your friends and go have some fun. Within reason. Enjoy being young while you can.”
“Really? Wow. I think I like sick Marco.” She took the money from his hand. “What about you? Are you ever going to have any fun while you’re not yet ancient?”
The papers under his arms seemed to catch fire and burn his skin. “I’m working on that.”
“Goodnight.” She mussed the top of his hair. “Call me if you need anything.”
“Will do.”
He waited for the sound of the door closing behind her before reaching for his computer. As the fan whirled and the tower booted up, he dialed the number on the letter into his cellphone. His thumbs hovered over the keys as nerves and excitement played tag in his gut.
Abby’s words rang in his ears. One word, really. Ancient.
Time was passing him by. His body wasn’t springing back as it once had. All too soon he was going to wake up old and weary with nothing but memories of dark alleys, courtrooms and Coulter’s wisecracks to warm his bones.
God, how depressing.
In his hands the phone vibrated with a text from his team. They had intel on Smithwick’s return.
What the hell was he doing? He was weeks away from closing the biggest case of his life. Every second of his day should be devoted to nailing down details in Smithwick’s takedown. Nothing else was supposed to matter but seeing that asshole’s dynasty turn into ashes.
Contract. Phone. Contract. Phone. Back and forth his eyes danced. What to do? What to do?
“Fuck it,” he bit out and typed out his response then hit “send”. Never before had such a tiny word affect him so greatly.
* * * * *
Marco reached for the burnished gold handle on the door to Tutala only to drop his hand within millimeters of the shiny surface. Where was the unusual bout of indecisiveness coming from? He was the captain. He gave orders. He made life-and-death decisions all of the time. He had made this decision. All he had to do was go inside.
And have his life change forever.
In the past, he had always trusted his instincts, and right then they were wide awake and flashing their red and blues. He had two choices, pull over or try to outrun ‘em. Did he have the guts to walk across that threshold?
A couple appeared on the opposite side of the glass door and stared at him with puzzled frowns. He flashed him a weak grin and opened the door to allow them to pass.
“Stop being a chicken-shit and get your ass inside,” he muttered under his breath.
Once inside the entry, he paused and waited for lightning to strike or the blare of trumpets to herald the monumental accomplishment. Nope. Nothing but the soft strands of Mozart or some other dead composer filtering through the sound system and the fresh-faced hostess standing at the ready with an armful of menus.
“Can I help you, sir?”
“No, thank you. I’m meeting someone in the bar.”
She gestured in that direction with an open palm. “Then have a good evening.”
“Thanks.”
Tutala was one of the premier restaurants in the city, catering to both the über-rich and upper-middle-class set with its modern, clean décor and French-influenced menu. There was an air of sophistication one felt upon entering, a sense of style that inspired you to be on your best behavior. Quite opposite of The Cavern, which infused one with the sense of letting loose. Since both establishments were owned by the Kilsgaards, he found the dichotomy amusing.
At this time of night, the bar was filled with the suit-and-tie crowd, schmoosing each other with the next big investment opportunity. Marco straightened the lapels of his black sport coat one more time and smoothed the front of his white dress shirt for good measure. Earlier when he had dressed and shaved, he felt as if he were getting ready for junior prom, only this time he was a thousand times more nervous. Back then he knew the night was going to end with a heavy make-out session and perhaps a chance at second base. After the research he did on that list Mistress Jasmina had sent him, he hadn’t clue as to what this evening would bring.
A quartet of men who had been vacating their table parted, revealing Jasmine sitting at a corner table. The bolt of lightning he had expected when he entered struck and stopped him dead in his tracks. The room faded like in those cheesy chick flicks and the din of clinking silverware and inane conversation faded away to a dull roar.
She sat like a queen with her shoulders back, hands in her lap and her head held high, delicately perched atop her slim neck. Her dark hair was in a low ponytail with the smooth ends sweeping along the pale column of her skin to curl against the curve of her breast. The sleeveless black cocktail dress she wore was cut in a deep V, exposing a generous amount of cleavage. Man, he couldn’t wait to get his hands on that milky-white skin, or his mouth, or to bury his face between those soft mounds and fall into the scent of her flesh. God, he could almost taste her.
Damn, he mentally cursed as his cock kicked. He knew he should have taped the thing to his thigh. How was he supposed to concentrate with all of the blood in his body shooting straight to his groin? All she had to do was be in the same room and he was ready to blow. What was going to happen when she finally touched him?
A grin tugged at his lips as he realized that soon, he was going to find out.
With one solid step after another, he made his way to her table, all the while reminding himself to be cool. He wasn’t a hormonal teenager or a bumbling virgin. He was a man. A total badass. He could handle one petite woman.
As he drew near, she broke off her conversation with the pretty redhead who stood near her table and looked up at him with that look he dubbed the princess face. Her lips remained in a straight line, but her big brown eyes lit up with joy. She liked what she saw, but damn if she was going to let you know.
The redhead, who was the bar’s manager, turned to follow Jasmine’s line of sight and propped her hand on her hip when she saw him standing there.
“Marco,” Ari said in that annoyed, you-are-my-nemesis way she always did when they crossed paths. She still hadn’t completely forgiven him for tricking her into confirming that her boyfriend was the vigilante he had been tasked to hunt down. The girl could hold quite a grudge.
“Ariel,” he replied, knowing how much she just loved her given name. “You look nice tonight. Lavender is your color.”
“Always the charmer.” She shook her head with a sigh. “Bale isn’t here tonight.”
“I’m not here to see
Bale.”
“Oh.” Then she noticed how his eyes kept sliding to Jasmine and those incredible lips. Her eyes rounded and she gasped. “Oh!”
The giggle she hid behind her hand confirmed that she had an excellent idea of who Jasmine was and why he would be meeting with her. His face grew hot, but he refused to let embarrassment lower his head. Jasmine was watching and the last thing he wanted was to appear like a stammering fool.
Ari caught her breath and batted her lashes. “Can I get you anything, Marco?”
“Stella will be nice.”
“Coming right up. Anything else?” She looked towards Jasmine.
“I’m fine, thank you.”
“Then I’ll bright back. And thanks for those links, Jasmine. I’ll let you know how it goes.”
“I’d love to hear it.”
Marco waited for Ari to depart, then pulled out the chair to Jasmine’s left. He moved to take a seat then paused. Was he “on” now? Was he supposed to wait until he was invited to sit? Or was he just standing there, looking like a big dork?
He decided to err on the side of caution and wait for her to make the first move. The longer he stood, the broader her smile grew until she nodded at the chair. “Relax, Captain. Please, have a seat.”
He released a small sigh and sat down. “You look absolutely stunning.”
“Thank you. You’re looking quite handsome yourself. I like a man who makes an effort in his appearance. I’ve always found you to be a very good-looking man.”
Appreciation warmed her gaze and she reached for her glass of wine. The plump pillows of her lips were painted a deep red, and when she pulled the glass away, a perfect imprint of her lips remained on the glass. Immediately he began to ache, desperate to see that color smeared on certain parts of his body.
“Captain, are you all right?”
“Truthfully, Doc, I don’t know. Shit.” He swiped a hand down his face. “I mean, ma’am, or Mistress. Hell, I don’t even know what to call you.”
“Jasmine is fine, for now.”
A server appeared by their side and set a chalice of beer on a napkin before him. He murmured thanks and before the liquid had a chance to settle in the glass, he snatched it up and took several healthy swallows. The brew was cold and burned a bit as it slid down his throat. Jasmine watched him with that princess look on her face, making him wish his chair were equipped with rocket packs to fly him out of there before he made a bigger ass of himself. God, why didn’t he just turn in his man-card now?
Or he could stop being a pussy and come clean.
He set the glass on the table and leaned forward. “Jasmine, can I be honest here?”
“Please do. Lying or concealing your thoughts and feelings will not work in a relationship like this.”
“Good. Good.” His thumbs tapped a staccato beat on the tabletop. “The truth is, I have no idea what I’m doing here. I’m a very focused guy. My work is everything to me, and yet I can’t stop thinking about you, about Mistress Jasmina. I’m the guy that gives orders, not takes them. In fact, I hate being told what to do. But for some reason, when I see you, I want to fall at your feet and do whatever you wish. I don’t understand.”
In an instant the princess look was replaced with one of compassion and her posture softened. Mistress Jasmina disappeared and Dr. Jovanovich was there, sliding her chair closer and placing her hand over his.
The heat of her palm against the back of his hand made his breath catch at the same time his heart rate slowed behind his ribs. Magic was in her touch and he gripped her fingers to capture the calming sensation.
“What you’re experiencing is perfectly normal. Even in this day and age, society tries to dictate what is considered strength and what is weak. What is male and what is female, and the reality is that it’s different for everyone. Being a submissive is not a sign of weakness. And being a submissive does not mean you are any less manly. Believe me, Captain. You are all man, and once I get my hands on you, you will never question just how much of a man you are.”
Her fingers tightened around his and he felt his lips curl to match her smile. “I didn’t really get what you meant when you said it wasn’t about sex. Then I saw you with that whip and got more confused. I should have been horrified to see that guy humiliated that way.”
“But you weren’t.”
“No. I don’t know what I was, exactly, but I was…” Fascinated. Turned-on. Shocked. All of the above and more. “I don’t know how to explain it.”
“You and I work in a similar field. People rely on our leadership, our ability to maintain in control during chaotic situations, to make life-or-death decisions every day. To live with that level of stress day in and day out takes a toll on the human spirit. No one can sustain that lifestyle forever. So to compensate, a person will turn to different vices to find a balance. Some may choose exercise, or they may turn to alcohol or drugs or begin overeating. As I said, it’s different for every person. In our case, I refocus my need for control in another direction, and your subconscious seeks to disengage altogether. I think you’ll find that if you feed that need to give up your control, when it comes time to step back into that leadership role, you will be able to do so from a fresh perspective and with the knowledge that you will have a haven to step away from the madness. Sometimes that thought alone brings people great comfort.”
What she said made so much sense, he felt the angst of the last few days dissipate. The sensation almost made him giddy and a chuckle burst from his lips. He sandwiched her hand between his. “So you’re saying I’m not crazy?”
“Did you really think you were?”
“Sometimes. But I guess it would be a sign of craziness if I didn’t question my reactions.”
“I suppose so.” Her lashes fluttered in that distinctly feminine way that was sexy without being cutesy.
“So what made you become Mistress Jasmina?”
She glanced away and her tongue flicked over her lips as she reached for her wine. The pace with which she lifted the glass and took a slow sip made him wonder if he already hit upon a delicate topic.
Just as he wondered if she was going to answer the question, she spoke, “I come from a very old-school family. Eastern European. The men ruled the castle, women were—are—expected to stay home and raise the children. I fought against that tradition in the ways a young girl does. Staying out late, going to college, moving out on my own the moment I was old enough. But I never thought of myself as dominant. I had boyfriends, lovers, nothing really serious. And while the sex was never bad, it wasn’t spectacular. The relationships just fizzled out and whenever the parting came, I was never crushed by it.
“I was in my first year of residency, and a man came in with symptoms of cardiac arrest. We went to work on him immediately. He made it through surgery magnificently; all was looking well. But he died in recovery. No reason. No medical explanation. It was as if he had given up the will to live. And that made me angry. I did everything right to save his life, yet in the end, I really didn’t have any control over the final outcome. When I got home that night, I took my frustration out on my then boyfriend. I wanted to forget. I wanted it rough. I wanted to take back control, and I used his pleasure, his responses to regain that control. It was the best orgasm of my life.”
“And Mistress Jasmina was born,” he said, enraptured by the way her eyes lost focus as she remembered the journey.
“Not quite.” A bittersweet wistfulness flicked across her face. “I knew I had stumbled upon something, but I didn’t know what it was. So I did some research. Secretly went to clubs to observe. And I found a Master who was willing to take me on as a protégé. Then Mistress Jasmina was born.”
“And what of the boyfriend?”
“He went away. He wanted to be the one to wield the whip and didn’t understand why that wasn’t going to happen. I don’t blame him since I was trying to make sense of everything as well. After that, I have come to realize full-time boyfriends and being a
Mistress don’t mix.”
“What happened with your last sub. Army?”
Again she reached for the wine. “There were several things, but the most important was the realization that he was looking for more in a Mistress than I was willing to grant him.”
A spark of curiosity jolted his senses. “Like what?”
She gazed off into the distance. Her eyes flashed and her brow furrowed, and he wondered if she was crafting an answer or figuring out a way to dodge the question.
A short, indrawn breath preceded her answer. “The Dom/sub relationship can take many forms. Some subs require twenty-four-hour guidance, some couples marry, while others are looking for a shorter-term commitment. Personally, I don’t have the time or patience to care for a live-in submissive. It wouldn’t be fair to him when I know a lot of time I will be called away. Army was much like you. A new sub who knew he had a submissive nature but didn’t know how to feed it. I agreed to train him, and we worked well together. But he wants more. He needs more than the attention I can provide, and he deserves to find the Mistress who can feed that need. So I’m helping him with his quest.”
Part of him was relieved to know the split was amicable, while a stab of disappointment poked him in the chest. Several times she mentioned the word training, as if her role was to break in new recruits and then send them out into the world. He didn’t like the thought of her sending him on to another Mistress or having another sub take his place, although what was he expecting?
He liked what he saw in Jasmine. A lot. And he wasn’t opposed to getting to know her on a more personal level. Well, more personal than just sex, anyway. But she was right. Neither of them had time for a serious relationship, and once he had a taste of this entire BDSM lifestyle, he might discover that it was not for him after all. Hell, even the contract stipulated a trial period for just such a situation.
He cleared his throat and reached for his own glass. “I said it once and I’ll say it again. He’s lucky to have a friend like you.”
Only at The Cavern Page 8
