by Chloe Cox
What was a sub if she didn’t like a little controlled misery?
There had been a time when Simone thought that she might get to have what Charlene and Luke were sharing in the doorway now. Those long kisses, the embrace, the connection. There was such confidence in the way they talked to each other. They knew they were in it for life.
Simone had lost that fantasy when she’d lost Holt. And that was for the best, because it had been a fantasy. They weren’t romantically compatible like that, not long term. Holt didn’t like the mess of Simone’s life, and Simone liked to be a little more forgiving. The pressure of being so perfect that she deserved that fantasy definitely hadn’t been good for her.
But now…she wasn’t thinking about fantasy. Not anymore. She was thinking about the reality of soft leather, cold metal, and Holt’s hard hand on her backside.
And there was a blank contract waiting for her signature. If she could handle it.
“Are we all done?” Olivia asked, checking her watch. “I’ve got a sitter, but…”
The gentle nudge was all Simone needed to shoot to her feet. “You’re right. No rest for the wicked. Thanks for taking the time to talk with me.”
Olivia gave her a squeeze. “Any time.”
Simone felt weirdly ok and steady on her feet as she left the club. The only downside was she definitely knew why she felt that way, but she decided to ignore that for the rest of the day.
Of course, “deciding to” was way different than “actually managing to do the impossible.”
Especially because the rest of her day was basically a hot garbage fire.
She checked in with Michelle at the Bonhomie Communications office first. They’d gotten a sign for their new building, and it was misspelled. Michelle had tried to squeeze the missing letter in with black sharpie, but that worked about as well as you’d expect.
Yet the sign was not the biggest disaster at Simone’s office that day. That dubious honor went to the broken pipe in the acupuncturist’s office on the second floor. Simone had actually seen all the drippy bits oozing out of the roof before she’d even realized that they were still missing a very expensive fancy sign.
And then there was that damn reporter.
“Come on,” she growled, punching the phone number in again and smashing the receiver to her ear.
The phone rang three times before going to the answering machine. Simone hung up without leaving a message. Cave Johnson was a reporter for a local fashion magazine called B. That was it, just B. Its circulation wasn’t enormous, but that was almost by design. The thing was ridiculously influential. She’d already left a bunch of messages for him about scheduling for a profile of the club, and he’d gone radio silent. Which was worrisome.
Michelle poked her head into the office. “I heard a bang. Did something in the ceiling break again?” She cringed at the drippy line making its way down the wall.
“No, that was me with the phone,” Simone said. She used the edge of a Kleenex to dab at the corners of her eyes. Why couldn’t her eyes glow or shoot laser beams or something when she got angry? That would be at least useful. She grinned—no, it would be intimidating as hell. She could probably just stare at Alan Crennel’s nose for a few minutes and then she’d never have to deal with him again.
Simone looked up at her expectant and wonderful employee, and snapped her head back into the game.
“I don’t suppose you’ve heard from Cave lately?”
“Not since that last phone meeting,” Michelle said.
“We need him to pull through on that article,” Simone said, almost to the universe at large. “If he doesn’t have a post up before the Love for Life event, we will be a teensy bit screwed.”
“He will,” Michelle said, and her certainty was kind of sweet. “He promised. I’ll drop a line to his editor and check in—I’m sure something else is going on.”
Saintly beautiful Michelle scurried out to take care of that, but Simone still didn’t relax.
She couldn’t think of a whole lot of reasons that the reporter wouldn’t respond to calls about a story he’d been super excited about just a few weeks before.
In fact, the only thing that kept popping up in her mind were those freaking texts from King Scumbag himself, Alan Crennel.
Ugh. Her stomach lurched as her body tensed up, which was a weird and terrible combination. She could only imagine the kinds of things Crennel might tell a reporter, especially one that was supposed to be doing a story on Club Volare and how it was, in fact, a wonderful place and definitely not an unsafe den of inequity that put submissives in the hospital, which was the rumor Crennel himself started after Simone did, technically, end up in a hospital.
Because she’d had gotten so drunk that she needed her stomach pumped. On her own. Nowhere near the club.
She would probably never get over the shame of that night. She sort of hoped she didn’t, actually.
Of course, she was probably just being paranoid about Crennel. The creep knew he could harass her without fear of retaliation, since no one that she cared about knew that Simone had ever even met Alan Crennel, and she intended to keep it that way. But if he went after the club again it would be a different story. He’d had visits from both Gavin and Luke in the past that he probably did not want to repeat in the future. So.
So she was just being paranoid. Probably.
Which was what she kept telling herself as she gripped the steering wheel of her car like she was about to drag race the entire cast of The Fast and the Furious. It didn’t help. Not enough. She could feel the pressure building up. Something needed to give—and there was no sign of Cave Johnson, plumbing repairs, or a typo correction service, so that meant she’d need another kind of outlet.
And goddamnit, but her body had a definite opinion on what that should be. Her orders—her orders—were to go to Club Volare and meet Holt for dinner. It was time to make a decision.
And then her phone pinged the “unknown text message” alert that she’d gotten to know so well.
“I won’t be ignored, sweetheart.”
Simone took a couple of deep breaths, and then she made a decision. She didn’t know much, but she did know one thing.
She was damn tired of being afraid.
7
Holt got his meeting with Gavin later that afternoon, in the club’s lounge, once he wasn’t pissed off anymore. Well, less pissed off, anyway. He wasn’t seeing red, and that was a distinct improvement. Just the mere implication that Simone should have another Dom had been enough to make Holt need to lay the smack down on his brand-new anger problem.
He redirected that anger where it belonged. Not on Gavin, who was just trying to help, in his own know-it-all Dom way, but on someone who’d never helped anyone in his entire life.
“Alan Crennel,” Holt said, slapping a manila envelope on the bar between them.
Gavin slid it over, flipped it open. “This is a file on Sinsations. You’ve got outside surveillance photos.”
“We’ve been investigating them. Nothing public yet—just sniffing around for evidence that we can build a case on. We’ve got an informant that says Sinsations could be worse than we thought.”
“Do I want to ask how this gets worse?” Gavin asked, flipping through the pages. He already knew that they didn’t have a drink limit at Sinsations. At best, it was stupid and unsafe to let people engage in any kind of BDSM play while intoxicated. At worst, it was exploitive. Holt had definite opinions on which one of those described Alan Crennel.
“Drugs on top of the alcohol,” Holt said. “I could maybe get a warrant for that, if he wasn’t protected. But I can’t confirm those rumors about Crennel selling hidden-camera footage from scenes. I need probable cause for that.”
Gavin rubbed his jaw thoughtfully, flipping the folder closed again. “There’s got to be a way to get you what you need.”
“I’ll figure it out,” Holt said. Then he stood up. “And I’ll update you when I have something. But f
or now this meeting is over.”
Because Simone Delavigne had just walked in the door, right on time for their dinner.
Gavin took one look at the expression on Holt’s face, and nodded. He knew he’d be on the shit list for a little while, and probably the most dangerous place to be in the world at that moment was between Holt and his sub.
No. Not his sub.
Yet.
Gavin faded into some other room as Simone walked toward him. She looked pissed off, wound up, tense. But determined. She wore another one of those tight wrap-around skirts that managed to be totally modest and yet leave nothing to Holt’s imagination. He’d have been shocked if she was wearing underwear under that skirt. The only reason he knew that she was wearing a bra was because a strap peeked out, but the material wasn’t thick enough to keep her nipples from thrusting through the silk. Yet it was all so put-together. Not a hair out of place, not an uneven hem.
Which was why he was surprised to see, as she got closer, that Simone was also falling to pieces.
He could see it in the way she stepped a little too quickly to be graceful. She cocked her slender neck at an angle, taut with muscle. She wasn’t blinking. Her fingers balled into fists, when they weren’t picking at her skirt.
The most distinct of all the signs was the fact that her cheeks were flushed. It looked like she was ready to flee, fight, or fuck.
Holt knew what he would prefer. His cock stiffened in his slacks as he envisioned Simone bent over the desk, her ass pressed against him, her spine arching as he stroked her from neck to ass.
It had been too damn long.
“Um,” she said, her big blue eyes going a little fuzzy as they locked on his. “Hi. I’m here.”
Holt looked her up and down one more time and resisted the urge to push her up against the wall and kiss her until she melted all over his hand. He wanted her every which way from Sunday, and then twice on Sunday, just because he could. But it would have to wait. He would find out what was bothering her first, and fix it.
“Dining room,” he said gruffly. Club Volare’s newest addition was a fully staffed members-only dining room, for general purposes, but also for date nights that might not be safe for the general public. He’d made a reservation, even though it would be sparsely populated this early. “After you.”
Simone had stopped breathing as she’d stared at him. Now she started again. Relieved.
“This isn’t a regular conversation,” he said. “We’re not doing it in a regular place.”
They were words of reassurance—and of warning. And they had the desire effect. With satisfaction, Holt watched a thrill race up Simone’s back at the same time her shoulders visibly relaxed.
He followed her into the dining room, holding the door and then her chair as she settled in. There were a few more people than he’d anticipated, but he’d picked a table in one of the alcoves that afforded the illusion of privacy—they’d be mostly out of sight of any other diners, unless one wanted to get nosy, but not out of earshot. Perfectly balanced between seclusion and display.
Simone noticed. The flush on her cheeks deepened.
Holt drank in the sight of her in as he smoothed his coat and sat down across from her. Every muscle in his body was balanced on the point between relaxation and tension, poised to pounce. To claim. He forced himself to take a deep breath as his cock swelled at the sight of that flush spreading down Simone’s chest, and focused.
Yes, she was upset. Something had happened. He already knew what her decision was, but he didn’t know what had propelled her here, feeling like this. He decided to give her some immediate relief.
And make a point.
“Pour the water,” he ordered. There was always a decanter of water waiting on each table.
A stupid order, simple. But Simone instinctively rose, her movements graceful now, relaxed. She bent over so that the neckline of her top fell, revealing the sweet swell of her breasts, still flushed, and began to pour. His glass was half full before she realized what he’d done.
She didn’t miss a beat. Just twisted the decanter a quarter turn as his glass filled, avoiding any unsightly drips, put the decanter down, and returned to her seat.
He watched her nipples harden, just from that simple bit of service. From knowing he could still command her.
Time to stop fucking around.
“You’re here to say yes,” he said. It came out more like a growl.
Simone blinked, not bothering to hide the startled expression on her face. Christ, he’d missed seeing that.
“You have the contract with you,” he went on.
Simone swallowed, still staring at him. “Yes,” she said.
“Then tell me what happened,” he said. “What’s about to make you cry?”
This time, she paused. He could see she wanted to. She wanted to tell him. She wanted that old ease of Dom and sub. She wanted to let him take care of her.
“No,” she said.
And she was staring at him hard. Pleadingly. Asking him not to make this harder.
Holt took a moment. He hadn’t expected that. It was always jarring when a sub did something unexpected, but with Simone it was worse. It reminded him how badly he’d screwed up before.
So he studied her, his mind telling his heart, which wanted to wrap his arms around her until she forgot that anything bad ever happened in the world, and his cock, which wanted to fuck her until she forgot her own name, to shut the hell up and let her talk. He gave her space.
Simone swallowed. “I can’t,” she said. “Because if this is going to work, it has to be different. We’re not back together, Holt.”
He kept his face blank. This wasn’t about him. Not yet. He needed to hear the rest.
“We can’t be,” Simone went on, her voice barely shaking. “So I need privacy. We weren’t—aren’t—compatible like that, as I demonstrated rather dramatically the first time around. So this time it’s just BDSM. Just play. No romance, no white picket fences, no attachment or expectations. Um, except exclusivity. But that’s it. Those are my terms.”
She sat back and breathed heavily, as though that had taken a lot out of her. It probably had.
It had definitely knocked the wind right out of him.
Holt didn’t show it, of course. And he didn’t go to pieces. He was a Dom, after all. He watched her, and thought.
He didn’t like this. It was wrong. He loved her still, hadn’t ever stopped loving her, and he wanted to love her all over again. He didn’t like this kind of messy middle ground. But he’d be a bad Dom if he couldn’t see that this was something serious.
And he’d be a worse man if he didn’t recognize some truth in what she’d said. He’d always known clearly what was right and what was wrong, thanks to a messed up childhood, and now that he was a grown man he liked that clarity. It made his job easier. And it had made it easier to do the right thing when Simone had fallen off the wagon, and break up with her. He would never have been able to convince himself that there was some soft middle ground that would have let him justify letting that slide, because there wasn’t any.
But in the months since then, he’d wondered if it also hadn’t made him harsh. Too harsh. Too likely to push too far, too fast, because he saw clearly, where most people saw unnecessary shades of gray.
He didn’t like it. But he still saw clearly. And he could see what Simone needed.
Simone could barely breathe as she watched Holt across the table. She could hear every wisp of conversation across the dining room, could see every bit of dust dancing in the light, could smell…
God. She could smell him. Male musk and a hint of soap. That did not help.
Laying out her terms had been difficult, sitting here in front of him. Wanting him. Knowing he’d already shown her the kind of power he held over her.
From the second she’d seen him in the lounge, turning towards her like some kind of sex god in a bespoke suit, she’d been wet. Her brain turned to jelly, and all th
e stress of the day had practically evaporated, as though it had all happened to someone else, while tension coiled in her core. She’d seen the bulge in his suit jacket that suggested the presence of a gun, and she’d forgotten how much that excited her, weirdly.
It was sort of what she needed. Controlled danger. Stress. And release.
She’d watched him carefully when she told him her terms. She’d never been able to read him as well as he could read her, but she thought she’d seen something. It had almost looked like…disappointment? But that couldn’t be right.
And now, as he was watching her, it was turning to something more like amusement.
“Any other conditions?” he said, his gravelly voice roiling over her. His tone held the edge of potential. It turned her on like a freaking lightswitch.
But Simone was almost glad to have one more. Holt’s confidence—his arrogance—knowing that she was here to say yes, in a way…well, it was sexy as hell, but it was also infuriating. And she bet he didn’t see this one coming.
“Yes,” she said. “One more condition. No kissing.”
All hints of amusement vanished from Holt’s face. Now he looked disappointed.
Well, that was why she needed that rule. Because the way he kissed her…it did things to her. It always had. And it never stopped. Hungry, devouring kisses stolen in corners, slow, greedy kisses after a scene, claiming kisses whenever she deserved—or needed—it.
She felt vaguely silly about it, but she felt vaguely silly about all of this, so whatever.
“The Julia Roberts rule,” she said, and smiled, trying to make a joke out of it.
Because she really didn’t know if he would go for it. Holt wasn’t someone who did things half-assed. He wouldn’t like having limits on how he could top her. If she were being honest, neither did Simone. But that was part of being a functional adult, right? Sometimes you had to do what you needed, not what you wanted. And Simone needed the release of Holt’s Domination without the kisses that she knew would melt all of her inner resistance.
She couldn’t risk falling in love—in fantasy—with someone who wouldn’t want her, the real her, again.
