Taken by the Dom

by Cassandra Dee

  He had me on pins and needles. My body was flushed and my thighs clenched together as I tried to stop the insistent pulsing of my pussy. Oh god. This was so wrong.

  So I bit my lower lip as he looked me over once more. At this point, escape from this office was necessary before I humiliated myself horribly.

  “I will do my best to do well here,” were my murmured words. “I promise you that, Master Thorn.”

  And the gleam in his blue eyes deepened.

  “You will do well here. Everyone does.” He tapped his large fingers on the desktop. “And what is this I hear about you playing with makeup? I can’t understand that. You’re a remarkably lovely young thing. Your auburn curls compliment your features wonderfully. And you’re not wearing a scrap of make-up. So why all the fuss over such a silly thing?”

  I flushed. I don’t have auburn curls. I have a messy rat’s nest, not something that sounded so glamorous. And yes, I wasn’t wearing any make-up because with red hair, I tend to look crazy with cosmetics. So ironically, I don’t wear much warpaint myself.

  “I don’t typically do myself,” was my dulcet murmur, acknowledging his comment. “But I love to help others. Especially those girls who might not have that great of a complexion or bone structure. I want us all to look pretty, whether we’re that way naturally or not.”

  Staring down at my shoes, I gave the tiled floor a little kick.

  “Dad doesn’t get it. Well, that’s not exactly true. He got it when my mother did it. But they don’t exactly have a great relationship, or any type of relationship anymore,” I amended. “So Pat doesn’t like it when I follow my dream.”

  And suddenly, my lips snapped shut. Why had I revealed this to a stranger? Why was I revealing my family troubles?

  But Master Thorn was still as a rock, blue eyes assessing. And then the big man leaned back, getting something out of a drawer. But he didn’t put it on the desk. Instead, he placed it on his lap and asked me, “Don’t you think you’re a bit young to be making career decisions? You’re only eighteen.”

  With a shrug, I answered.

  “Beauty is for everyone. You can always improve on nature, and being an aesthetician is all I’ve ever thought about.”

  He stopped, those blue eyes contemplating my curvy frame.

  “Because you haven’t been introduced to much, I suppose,” he said with a quirked eyebrow. Even that looked good. The black comma arched above his blue eyes, sculpted lips twitching at the edges. Was there anything that wasn’t perfect about the man?

  “I suppose that’s true,” I conceded. “But still, it is my passion. That has to mean something. Don’t you think?”

  “Passion?” His smile turned into a wry expression. “And what would a young thing like you know about passion?” His eyes ran over my frame once more, and I sizzled in response. Flames raced up my spine and my insides gushed, going loose and wet.

  But this wasn’t right.

  I had to act normal, like a school girl with her headmaster.

  Not like Sodom and Gomorrah personified, a Jezebel showing her all.

  So I took a deep breath and made my statement.

  “Maybe I don’t know passion the way you do, but I know I feel something for hair and make-up. Again, this is an art, what gets me going in the mornings. And I’ve felt this way for a long time now.”

  Those long fingers steepled, blue eyes assessing me once more.

  “Good,” he said simply. “Very good. You’re an innocent then.”

  Innocent?

  What did that mean?

  Suddenly, our conversation took on suggestive tones. He couldn’t possibly be asking if I’m a virgin, I thought to myself. But at the same time, there was a frisson in the air. The electricity sizzled between us, even as the Master sat stock still, blue eyes unfathomable.

  Because how could this be happening?

  I was a teenager. A high school kid. A girl who’d just entered adulthood.

  And he was the headmaster of a reform school. A grown man. Experienced. Charismatic. Deadly.

  Deadly ?

  What did that mean?

  But somehow, I knew it was true. Master Thorn had tricks up his sleeve, ideas and suggestions that would make me scream.

  And yet I wanted it.

  I wanted to find out what he had planned.

  What he was offering.

  No!

  This was wrong.

  I was being stupid.

  Sure, the man was hotter than a flaming supernova. Sure he was muscular, I could tell by how well his suit fit him, hugging those bulging biceps and showing off a glorious set of pecs. I knew there was a washboard stomach underneath that crisply starched white shirt too.

  But he wasn’t into me. I was just a dumb kid who’d argued with her overbearing father a bit too much. An idiot girl who couldn’t manage to make A’s in her classes no matter how hard I tried. No, Thorn couldn’t be looking at me with hunger in those blue eyes.

  Yet, it was definitely true. Call it feminine intuition, but as his eyes washed over me once more, the tingling started in my pussy again. I took a deep breath and prepared myself for what was about to happen.

  “What should I expect?” came my meek words. “What’s going to happen to me?”

  My question came out plaintively, like a mouse squeaking in the silent atmosphere. But Master Thorn was totally serious. Those blue eyes gleamed as his gaze roved over my curvy frame.

  “I am the only alpha here. I am the only one you need to worry about, Miss Evans. I am the only one you need to please. I demand cooperation from you. Absolute obedience. Do you understand me?”

  What ?

  Cooperation?

  Obedience?

  Where were we going with this?

  Was this some kind of weird BDSM dungeon?

  Because I understood him for sure. But my teenage hormonal brain was thinking that he wanted more than merely academic excellence from me.

  Could it be true?

  Or was I just dreaming?

  But rolling with the atmosphere, I nodded obediently, my answer breathy and complaint.

  “I think I understand you, Headmaster Thorn.”

  A sexy little grin moved over his lips as he brushed his hair back and leaned forwards a little.

  “I think you do understand me, Miss Evans. You can learn so much here if you will allow yourself to let go. You may find you have a passion for more than one thing as you live and learn at Forest Hills.”

  And oh god, but I was beginning to think he was right!

  Because this man had woken up a fiery vixen living dormant inside of me and she was demanding something hot and steamy. If I stayed at this institution, then I might actually end up as the troubled teen of my father’s nightmares. Because girls like me aren’t supposed to imagine being in bed with their headmaster. No, only bad girls did that.

  And I wasn’t a bad girl. Not even close. I just simply wanted to boost a person’s self-esteem by making them feel beautiful and attractive. Isn’t that a good thing? Shouldn’t I be applauded?

  But the present jerked me back to reality.

  “Is something wrong, Miss Evans?” the headmaster asked, one black brow arched. The way he said my name made me imagine how it would sound when we were in private. Locked in a room together, my wrists in chains.

  Oh god.

  This was so wrong.

  Quickly, I threw the perverted thoughts into my mental recycle bin.

  Shaking my head, my fists balled. It’s a nervous habit I’ve had since childhood. It’s why I don’t grow my nails long. Because every time anxiety rose to the fore, I’d grip my hands tightly until nails dug into my palm, painful and sometimes even drawing blood.

  But what Thorn said filled me with questions. It even made me anxious truth be told. Most of all, it filled the fiery vixen in me with hope. But it was a hope that needed to be shut down quickly.

  There was no way he was even remotely interested in me. I was sure t
here was a trophy wife waiting for him at their house and they had hot, steamy sex that lasted for days. So I bit my lip.

  “No, nothing’s wrong, Master.”

  “You look pale.”

  I fanned my flushed face awkwardly.

  “I’m just nervous about starting in a new school, that’s all.”

  He raised an eyebrow. Even skeptical looked good on this man.

  “Are you nervous about school or am I making you nervous?” came that amused drawl.

  His question caught me off-guard. But I caught myself, taking a deep breath.

  “No, Master. This place is just so new to me. I’m not used to it.”

  He chuckled.

  “But you will get used to it, sweetheart. I promise.”

  And the gleam in those blue eyes made me bold.

  “Do you have kids, Master Thorn? What made you choose this as your career? Not many men like you want to work with troubled girls.”

  Those blue eyes turned a brilliant shade of sapphire.

  “Sweetheart, if you want to fish for information about me, then just ask. No need to go about it in a sideways manner.”

  I flushed. It was impossible to pull the wool over this man’s eyes. But he continued, those sculpted lips pulling into an indulgent smile.

  “But for your information, I don’t have children, Miss Evans. I don’t have a wife either, in case you were wondering.”

  I bit my lip, clenching my fist tighter. I was playing a dangerous game with this man and he knew how to swim whereas I might drown.

  “Oh,” was my almost inaudible reply.

  “Oh,” he repeated, a lazy grin spreading over that handsome mien. The alpha must’ve found me amusing, seeing how much I squirmed under that heated gaze. “I’m not thinking about that kind of future for now, Miss Evans. My priority for now is molding the girls here. You. Because I expect more than just excellence from you.”

  What was he implying? What game was he playing? There was no way he could be interested. I was reading too much into his words. The man was the headmaster of a reform school, invested in enlightening young minds. He wasn’t the guy I should be having sex daydreams about. He was my teacher. My instructor. I should be treating him with utmost respect, not imagining him doing all sorts of X-rated things to me in private.

  “Here.” He spoke again, deep voice cutting through my rain of inappropriate thoughts. And in his hands, was something gray and nondescript. I took it from him, puzzled.

  It was a gray jumpsuit, baggy and prison-like.

  “Really?” I gasped, turning shocked eyes his way.

  Am I supposed to wear this?

  It was so unflattering!

  We weren’t inmates. We were troubled girls. So what was up with the prison garb?

  But Thorn tilted his head to the side, blue eyes glinting.

  “Your uniform, of course.” A wry smile made its way on his lips. “Every girl in Forest Hills wears them. It’s the standard.”

  My eyes scanned the clothing as I shook out the fabric. Ugh. Just awful. The jumpsuit was bland and dull, with a shirt pocket on the right side and what must be the logo of the school printed on it. Wearing it would do nothing for my curvy figure. It would do nothing for any type of figure, come to think of it.

  I looked at Thorn again, wondering who on earth he hired to design the school uniform.

  “Why this?” I asked plaintively. “Why not a white blouse and a blue jumper? Or a plaid skirt? You know, regular private-school clothes.”

  He shook his head.

  “This isn’t a private school, Miss Evans. This is a reform school. This place is meant to make troubled teens into better citizens. We’re not here to educate prissy rich girls, we’re here to contribute to society. But if you’re interested in private school, I can always let your father know your desire to transfer.”

  I wasn’t interested in a private school. I was more interested in screaming Thorn’s name in pleasure. I was interested in his lips on my exposed skin, kissing me with fiery passion. But that was wrong. I couldn’t voice these thoughts. Nor was it something I was even supposed to imagine. So I crossed my legs tighter, feeling the wetness drip from my core.

  “I’m not interested in private school,” came my meek voice. “I want to stay here.”

  And the headmaster nodded his head approvingly.

  “Good,” he growled. “Because reform schools aren’t meant to have fashionable uniforms. The uniforms are meant for discipline.”

  My head jerked up, meeting that blue gaze. Discipline? What in the world? How did jumpsuits lead to better discipline?

  But I guess it made sense in some way. After all, jails use jumpsuits right? And those places were all about discipline and keeping prisoners in line.

  So I nodded. But one last protest made its way to my lips.

  “But we’re not prisoners, Headmaster Thorn,” I said. “Or are we, Headmaster?”

  I had no idea why I asked that question. Was I pushing all his buttons to see how the alpha would react? Was I purposefully putting myself in the path of a lion, only to be devoured like a meek lamb?

  But Headmaster Thorn only looked at me, blue eyes intense. That gaze alone had my heart beating wildly, fast enough that it almost flew out of my chest cavity. There was magic in the air. Somehow, this man had me wrapped around his finger within fifteen minutes of meeting.

  It was crazy.

  I wasn’t supposed to be here.

  I wasn’t supposed to want to be here.

  And yet, suddenly my stay at Forest Hills took on new dimensions.

  Exciting ones that made my body hum.

  The Master didn’t say anything though, merely looking over my curvy form over while tapping thoughtfully at the desktop with one blunt finger. I waited a minute longer to see if he would answer my question but nothing was forthcoming. It was a sign to leave.

  “Thank you for your time, Sir.”

  And the headmaster nodded, handsome face impassive. Grabbing the stupid jumpsuit, I rushed out of his office and back into the safety of the hallway. Oh god. Once the door swung shut, I leaned against the wall, heart thumping like galloping hooves, so loud I was sure anyone could hear.

  But no one was around, and quickly, I glanced back at carved wooden door to Thorn’s office. My mind raced back to our conversation, trawling over the details.

  Discipline was important, he’d emphasized.

  Pleasure was paramount.

  A mix of the two, blending together into one.

  What did that mean?

  And unbidden, a shiver ran through my form. Because suddenly … I had to know.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Thorn

  The moment the door closed, a long exhale escaped my chest. Shit, I didn’t expect the girl to look like that. When Pat Evans called about wanting to send his daughter up here, I expected a troubled teen sporting colored hair, a lip ring and goth makeup. So I googled that shit, doing some online research.

  But Minnie wasn’t that girl. She wasn’t trouble. The female wasn’t a rebellious teen, up to no good. Nor did she look like a bad girl wannabe. Instead, her beauty was simple. Curly red hair, natural and loose. A light layer of make-up at most, nothing like what she did on her friends. Sure, those other girls were gorgeous, made up to the nines. But my new charge kept things simple, with a beautiful peachy pout and sparkling brown eyes.

  So why would Pat want to send his daughter to reform school? Minnie clearly didn’t belong here. Not getting straight A’s doesn’t exactly qualify you for Forest Hills.

  But she was here.

  Under my hand.

  Ready to do my bidding.

  And I was going to make the most of it.

  But when Minnie walked into my office, I was caught off-guard. Because the female was even better in real life. Curves in all the right places, with giant, luscious Double Ds. And those wide, swinging hips were meant to tantalize men, to bring us to our knees.

  Frankl
y, the female would look amazing in that gray jumpsuit. She wouldn’t look like a prisoner at all because nothing could hide those generous hills and valleys. For a brief moment, I was glad this was a school for girls. The thought of other men seeing her enraged my soul.

  Besides, the jumpsuits served a function. Putting on a show was important, and nothing screams reform school like a gray jumpsuit. When parents see it, they open their wallets, convinced that this place is going to make a difference. They think their girls are going to change and become model citizens overnight. So the uniform was a marketing tactic, a costume for our audience.

  “Mr. Thorn?” a receptionist’s voice burbled from the intercom.

  Sighing, I pressed a button.

  “Yes?”

  “Your father would like to speak to you.” Her voice was quiet. She knew how much I hated speaking to my father. “He says it’s urgent.”

  Urgent meant that it was something about my brother. Urgent meant that my brother needed help. And help meant money. You see, Adam would never approach me personally. I was supposed to be a loser, the other brother, but instead I’ve built an empire. And Adam hated that because he was supposed to be the one on top, a corporate titan with anything and everything at his fingertips.

  Life is so ironic.

  Because it never turns out how you expect.

  Memories of my brother razed my mind.

  “Checkmate,” Adam grinned wolfishly from across the chessboard. My brother was the walking embodiment of a preppy college jerk. From the carefully waxed black hair, shining blue eyes and smarmy smile, down to the khaki pants, button-down shirt, and perfectly polished shoes.

  I sighed. I didn’t like playing chess with him. I wasn’t even remotely good at the game.

  “Can we play Monopoly now?”

  I was nine at the time, my brother ten years older. And yet he smirked and ‘tsked’ once more.

  “Little bro, I told you, we’re not playing Monopoly until you beat me in chess.”

  I clenched my jaw. Adam didn’t want to play Monopoly because he knew I’d win. It was sad. He couldn’t beat a nine year-old. So instead, we had to play chess over and over again.