Elite (Elite Doms of Washington Book 1)

by Elizabeth SaFleur

  She arched into his hand, her body betraying her mind, still stunned by his harsh treatment and the bewilderment over how aroused she’d become.

  His hand snaked between her legs, and he inserted a finger inside, roughly but easily. She inhaled sharply.

  He dipped his head so their foreheads connected. “If you are not interested in—”

  “No, I am.” Christiana placed her hands on either side of his head. “I want to be with you. I-I . . . .” Words stuck in her throat, and her eyes pricked. I know what it’s like to wonder where someone is. If they’ll ever come back.

  “Good.”

  She barely caught herself with shaky arms when he pushed her facedown into the comforter. His zipper sounded and pants hit the floor. A loud clunk of a shoe falling. Shirttails brushed the back of her thighs when Jonathan pulled her hips up. He parted her knees.

  Pearls zinged out of the jewelry box on her bedside table, and cool beads touched her back. Jonathan trailed them up her spine and around to her face. “These are important to you.”

  “They were my mom’s.”

  “Up on your knees and palms together.”

  Jonathan slowly wound the long white strands around each of her wrists, their length wrapping around several times. He continued coiling them up the back of her hands to her fingertips until they were pearl-bound in prayer pose. He slipped a final loop around an index and middle finger.

  “Hold them there.” He pushed her face and bound hands down to the mattress, pulled her hips back until his cock nestled in the cleft of her ass. He caressed her cheek. “Fuck, I can’t wait to own every part of you, Christiana.”

  She didn’t try to rise up, her face afire against the bedcover, self-conscious but edgy with lust, pearls digging into her sternum.

  He pressed the thick head of his cock into her wet opening and held it there, stretching her. He moved an inch into her and pulled away, teasing and tempting her entrance with possession.

  An overbearing need for him to be inside overtook her senses. She pushed her hips backward, trying to capture his fullness.

  His hands stopped her advance.

  “Not until I say so.” Jonathan held a hip with one hand and ran his fingers over her stinging ass. The signal was clear. He was in charge.

  In the corner of her eye, she watched fabric float by. He’d taken off his shirt.

  Jonathan reached around her waist and spread her labia with his fingers, finding her clit. His fingers caressed and circled, making her unbearably wet. His manliness lording over her smaller frame reminded her of his power and his virility. She’d never felt so female as when the hairs on his taut abdomen brushed her back.

  “Please, Jonathan.” She spread her knees more, chest heaving as she panted. The pearls clicked as they resettled under her breasts.

  He placed a warm kiss to her flushed skin, his erection resting on her cleft. “What do you want, Christiana?”

  “You.”

  “What will you do when you get me?”

  “Whatever you want.”

  He withdrew his taunting fingers from her nerve center. “Yes, because I will take care of you.” She heard something like rubber snapping. A condom?

  “Please. I need you—”

  “You do need me, and, you’re going to get me.”

  He thrust his cock inside her, stretching and filling every millimeter of her inner parts. She tried to push back, so she sat on his legs, her only focus to drive him farther inside. She needed his rock-hard cock, deeper. She needed.

  Jonathan, sheathed tightly inside her nirvana, nearly let her take control. Fuck, she was going to kill him. He grunted and pressed her upper body back down to the mattress.

  He strained to withhold his release. She folded forward, impaled on his aching cock, and his mind searched for words, lost in his lust for the slender body stretched before him.

  “Christiana. Still.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Tell me you’re mine.” It was too soon for such a declaration, but her pussy muscles clenched around his shaft, unleashed his most base dominance. Each woman felt unique and special. Yet Christiana’s channel presented a valley of lushness that some god had designed for his pleasure. She gloved his thick length so sweetly his mind would never win the battle over sensation. He wanted to own this woman.

  “I’m yours.” Puffs of air accompanied each word from her sweet lips.

  His eyes grazed her pinkened backside, propped up for his pleasure. A series of detonations fired in his head. Her pose taunted his cock, now aching to bury himself in her ass. Jonathan dug his fingers into her hips. They would leave bruises, marks of his impending ownership of all her untouched parts.

  With a carnal grunt Jonathan pulled back and then hilted himself.

  Wild and unconstrained, he began fucking her. Her core grew slicker, hugged him tightly even though he ravaged her insides. His cock seemed filled with new nerve endings threatening to consume his rational thought.

  Her submissive pose wouldn’t permit him to continue much longer. He spun, quickly reaching that peak where senses overcome and time suspends. His world narrowed to her heat squeezing him.

  Christiana’s squeals cracked the blank space, breaking his focus on his own pleasure to pull his awareness back to her body. Her contractions massaged his torment, and hot liquid gushed around his cock. He released and flooded the condom with his own fluid.

  Jonathan unclenched his hold on her hips. She fell flat to the bed, and he laid himself half-way across her prostrate body, careful not to crush her slender frame. His arms folded around her, all words and thoughts drained.

  Wisps of damp blond hair across Christiana’s face fluttered from her quickened breath.

  As they lay together, letting their heated skin cool, his mind crept back into focus. He should say something, but nothing came. He shouldn’t be here, half mad with lust over a woman who never left his mind. Christ, it’s been one week.

  And he’d broken a cardinal rule. He’d disciplined her under anger. He should have walked away. But his usual finesse had retreated in the face of his primal needs. His mind had spun too many tales, imaginings that Christiana would somehow get away.

  Jonathan hadn’t laid such an animalistic claim on a woman ever. He knew Christiana could own him if he wasn’t careful. She was woman incarnate, presenting him with treasure he’d never refuse.

  “Jonathan?” Her voice, soft and hesitant, broke through the silence.

  “Yes, baby.”

  “I am yours. I promise.”

  “I know.” He nestled closer to cover as much of her warm, satiny skin as he could reach.

  He had to regain his composure, and stick to the blueprint he’d written for their time together. He couldn’t let emotion get the better of him. Work the plan, he told himself. He’d regain control. He’d count on his strategy. It always worked before. And never again would he let his temper overcome him.

  Christiana stirred, and he brushed hair from her cheek. So soft. He murmured assurances in her ear until her breathing slowed. She soon fell asleep.

  In the stillness only broken by a car passing on the highway behind her house and her gentle breath, he made a vow. He wasn’t a praying man, but he made a promise to the heavens. I swear I won’t destroy the very thing I can’t get enough of—her innocence.

  16

  Christiana winced when The Oak Room’s kitchen door smacked her on the butt. A quick pat of her apron pocket assured her phone lay nestled safely inside. She hadn’t quite processed that Jonathan had spanked her like a little girl.

  Jonathan’s turn from passion to unyielding taskmaster back to passion left her dazed. But she’d learned something about him last night. He seemed to need her, which was so strange given how needy she felt around him.

  Memories of the night slipped and rearranged themselves strangely. She’d been a worn-out dishrag after he took her so ruthlessly last night, her knees giving way as she came intensely in response
to his pummeling from behind. Then Jonathan’s soothing voice filled the space. He praised her as he rubbed her back. Pearls unwound from her wrists. The hall closet had squeaked and then cool lotion, like the aloe vera she used on sunburns, was rubbed into her tanned ass.

  When the thick dark wave of sleep overtook her mind, she dreamt. Fragments surfaced. Avery laughed and offered her a glass of red champagne. Poison. Mrs. DeCord took it from her and downed it in one gulp. She’d smiled at Christiana.

  Christiana had woken with a sticky towel between her legs, a man’s arm draped over her ribs and a vivid mental picture of what had gone on in The Oak’s Jefferson Suite a few short weeks ago. Before leaving that morning, he’d kissed her until her lips were bruised, which did nothing to stop her mind from spinning.

  She’d have to look up the term sexual Dominant on her phone when she got home. She certainly couldn’t do such a thing at work.

  She admonished herself for not Googling the term the second she got home from that first weekend together. Jonathan clearly liked rough sex, and she wasn’t sure how much rougher it would develop under this “power dynamic” he talked about. She didn’t want to be caught off guard even if she did like how he moved her around with such confidence. His heady craving for her infused her with a strange power—like a delicious cyclone spinning uncontrollably inside.

  Christiana went to work clearing a booth littered with reminders of a family’s presence, complete with coffee cups stacked by bored children and red wine stains on the linen. At least it wasn’t room service duty. She didn’t think she could handle seeing Mrs. DeCord. The socialite might deflate her strange—and unexpected—high.

  “Snow, snap out of it,” Brian said. “We’ve got big crowds coming in. Let’s motivate.”

  Christiana picked up the tray of dirty dishes and headed to the kitchen. She nearly threw it at a surprised Henrick when her phone vibrated alongside her hip. She fumbled a little bringing it to her ear.

  “Christiana.”

  Her knees almost gave out. No one said her name the way Jonathan could.

  “Hi,” she said softly.

  “You’re running yourself ragged, aren’t you? We’ll have to introduce more recreation into your life.”

  “Have something in mind?”

  He laughed. “Be careful what you wish for. Are you okay?”

  “Fine,” she said, warmed by his concern.

  “I leave for Rhode Island this afternoon. Meeting with constituents. The usual. No one as interesting as you.”

  His voice penetrated every molecule of her body, and moisture pooled between her legs. She needed to sit down, but her sore ass protested the thought.

  “I’ll pick you up on Friday,” he said.

  “Um, I can’t leave until Saturday morning. My manager says I have to work.” Would this merit another spanking?

  He sighed. “Saturday, eight a.m. Take care of yourself ‘til then.” He ended the call abruptly.

  Mark closed the office door and turned to Jonathan, his face grave.

  “Who’s been following me for the last few days?” Jonathan asked.

  “We’re not sure, sir. The car’s plates aren’t traceable. The records are listed as private.”

  Mark folded his arms behind his back, an automatic signal from his military background that he required orders. Jonathan and Mark understood one another perfectly. Plausible deniability was crucial to their arrangement.

  Jonathan deliberated for a few seconds. He had to know who’d been following him before he took Christiana back to Charlottesville. If he gave the word, Mark would call on favors and could open any records.

  “Can you crack them?”

  Mark shifted his feet. “Yes, but I didn’t know how far you wanted me to take it.”

  “Do what you need to do. Discreetly, of course.”

  “As always, sir.”

  “Let’s go. I’m ready for the airport.”

  He hadn’t been to Rhode Island in over a week, and he couldn’t dodge any more speeches in his home state. Making a quick trip home also would distance himself from his stalker, not to mention Christiana, who was quickly eating into his daily concentration. Saturday couldn’t come soon enough.

  Christiana waited just inside the timeworn wooden door of Ireland’s Four Provinces, letting her eyes adjust to the dim light. She scanned the room for her father’s familiar form.

  She’d had to beg Brian to let her leave work early, then cursed the whole way to the Irish bar for losing a night of tips and wages and earning a black mark on her work record.

  The nearly empty room smelled of stale beer and dust. A bartender rinsed glasses behind the long, worn wooden bar, and a man shuffled through papers at a table by the door. Her father, slumped on a stool, fiddled with a shot glass.

  When he had called, his words didn’t make sense, but included something about a “fucking bureaucrat forgetting how to pour.” He’d been cut off by the manager and wanted Christiana to clear it up, as if she had bartender clout.

  She took the seat next to him. “Dad, you just get back?”

  “Chrissy, my Chrisseeeee. Tell ‘em I’m fine.” His slumped posture and glazed eyes said otherwise. The bartender threw Christiana a sympathetic look and whispered “Been here a while.”

  “I’ve got this.” She looped her arm around her father. “Let’s go Dad.”

  Peter pushed himself off the stool and slumped into Christiana’s arms like a flounder.

  The bartender hopped over the end of the bar and reached out for the other side of the man.

  Christiana mouthed, “Sorry,” over her father’s hanging head.

  He gave her a weary smile. “No problem, miss.” He’d surely seen worse.

  Peter shuddered, a spasm of recognition that he was being led away from the bar. “Chrissy, you’re so like your mom.”

  She tried not to grimace as the stench of stale liquor wafted over her face. “Gee, thanks, Dad.”

  By the time she and the bartender got him into the front seat of her car, his head bobbed up and down, fighting sleep.

  “Can I do anything else?” The guy seemed too young to be a bartender, more like a college student himself.

  “No, thanks. Really, I appreciate your help.”

  “I’m sorry to tell you this, but he can’t come back.”

  Christiana looked up over the hood at him. Why was she surprised?

  “I mean, this is the third time and—”

  “No, don’t worry. Like you said, it isn’t like this hasn’t happened before.” She forced out a huffed laugh as she opened her door and slipped inside. Her father’s head hung down in a dead sleep. What did Jonathan say about discipline? Maybe it was time for her father to receive some. If her dad was still out of it when they got home, she’d leave him in the car.

  “Anyone tailing?” Jonathan didn’t look up from his phone, as he deleted two e-mail messages from Yvette. Too many damned e-mails. Carson had messaged she’d acquiesced to a coffee meeting, and Yvette later reported him “adequate.” Jonathan chuckled to himself. Carson would serve her needs soon, and, in fact, probably better than he ever could.

  “Mark?”

  “No, sir.” Mark pulled into the drop-off area in front of Reagan International Airport. “Wait. Don’t get out.”

  Jonathan snapped his head up to glimpse a black sedan with government tags creep by. Hundreds of such cars rolled through Washington’s closest airport. Still, the way it slowed had been suspicious.

  “Is that our man?” Jonathan asked.

  “Hard to tell.”

  “Well, try to catch up with him. See what you can find.”

  Jonathan swung his long legs out of the sedan and slammed the door shut as Mark pulled away, cutting off a taxi, earning a horn blare of outrage.

  Jonathan headed into the crush of humanity. Even though he had to fly commercial, it was better than risking the black sedan following him all the way to Rhode Island or later to Covil Sereia. Few peopl
e knew about his Charlottesville home. He intended to keep it that way.

  Christiana scrolled through her phone, viewing pages of Google references to Jonathan Brond. The mystery of his life scratched at her insides like poison ivy. She needed answers, though she wasn’t sure of all the questions. She finally had time to explore, having the night off unexpectedly, thanks to her father. Her Dad had passed out in his room down the hall. He wouldn’t bother her until morning.

  The small screen filled with pictures of Jonathan at fundraisers, giving speeches, and standing in crowds in front of the capitol building. Shots with other women flew across her phone screen—more than a few.

  She wondered how many of them signed his NDAs, got the chance to sit on his deck in the mountains or slip between his bedcovers? A bolt of envy arrowed through her heart. She couldn’t imagine any woman fighting a craving to lie down for him. Was she a freak to yearn for his rough hands and commands to open for him? Hell, right now she inched her knees apart under the simple memory of his warm palm coming down on her tender backside.

  How many other women did he spank like a child?

  Christiana reminded herself of their exclusive arrangement and struggled to stem her rising jealousy.

  At the bottom of a long list of image thumbnails, Christiana found one lone picture of him as a boy, standing next to a dark-haired woman, identified as his mother. Even through the low resolution of the screen, her eyes smiled a deep green, like Jonathan’s. His hair shone almost white in contrast to his tan. Adorable. Then she found more pictures of him with a different older woman with short hair swept into a bob, simply identified as Mrs. James Brond.

  Jonathan’s bio was typical: education, committee posts, and bills he sought to pass.

  Christiana typed in sexual dominance, but her phone chirped before anything downloaded. Shit, I didn’t call the dishwasher guy—or Avery. Avery’s barrage of text messages had grown increasingly nasty, accusing Christiana of avoiding her. Her accusations were true. Yet if Avery knew why, the occasional mean text messages would turn into an avalanche burying Christiana alive. She’d better answer this one.