Broken Rules

by Michaela Grey

  Table of Contents

  Blurb

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Author’s Note

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  More from Michaela Grey

  Readers love Broken Halo by Michaela Grey

  About the Author

  By Michael Grey

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  Copyright

  Broken Rules

  By Michaela Grey

  A Mended Hearts Novel

  Sanyam Desai is a Dom, a master of his craft. He knows exactly how to make a person beg, and he does it for a living, but he has no idea how to be in love.

  Sterling Reynard is in desperate need of manners and someone who cares enough to take him in hand, but he knows he’ll never be loved.

  When Sterling’s world crumbles around him, he turns to the one person who’s never asked for anything from him but his trust. But their relationship is built on quicksand, and one careless word will bring the whole thing down.

  For Aaliya. We’ll always have Pine nuts.

  Acknowledgments

  THANK YOU to everyone who read the first draft(s) and asked for more. Special thanks to the lovely and talented Saumya, for the Hindi phrases Sanyam uses and giving me valuable insight into Sanyam’s world. Any mistakes are mine.

  Author’s Note

  THIS IS not a how-to manual for BDSM. If you’re interested in exploring the lifestyle, please consult a professional, and always kink responsibly.

  Chapter One

  “I’M JUST saying, I would bang that like a screen door in a hurricane.”

  Sterling flinched and covered by reaching for his whiskey as Jackson grinned at his companions around the table. Their waitress retreated. She’d almost certainly heard him, although she gave no sign.

  “Classy, man,” Colby commented.

  The dancer on the stage a few yards away spun in place, the lights reflecting off her dark skin in rainbow fractals. The music was a heavy, insistent thump Sterling could feel in his teeth.

  He hadn’t wanted to come, not really. But given a choice between sitting at home in his sterile apartment or being distracted from his brain by going out with friends, it hadn’t been that difficult to decide.

  Jackson was laughing, arms slung over the back of the low couch, head craned sideways to ogle their waitress as she returned to the bar with their latest drink order.

  “You telling me you wouldn’t? Fox, man, tell me you’d hit that.”

  Sterling hunched his shoulders and took a sip of whiskey. “She’s pretty,” he hedged.

  “Pretty,” Jackson echoed. “That ass should be in a museum! What’s wrong with you, man, you can’t appreciate art?”

  “I appreciate art just fine,” Sterling snapped. He entertained the thought—however fanciful—of telling Jackson he preferred a set of broad shoulders and maybe some stubble, but dismissed it with an internal shudder. All hell would break loose the second he did. “She’s just not my type.”

  “She’s my type,” Jackson said. He licked his lips as the waitress came back with a full tray.

  There was tension all through her slim body as she set the tray down and handed out the drinks, and Sterling accepted his fresh whiskey and avoided her eyes.

  “When do you get off work, sweetheart?” Jackson asked.

  Sterling took a long swallow and turned away. “What are you doing this weekend?” he asked Colby.

  Colby shrugged. His blue eyes were troubled, watching Jackson over Sterling’s shoulder. “Anneliese wanted to go to the market, I think. Our anniversary’s coming up, you know. What about you?”

  “Same thing I always do,” Sterling said, stretching elaborately. “Enjoying not having a nine-to-five job, the usual.”

  The waitress hurried off to another table. Jackson said something, and Braden laughed, that nasal snigger Sterling loathed.

  “Your dad still hasn’t got his hooks into you?” Jackson asked, leaning forward.

  Sterling pretended to shiver. “The day I set foot inside my father’s brokerage with gainful employment in mind is the day I’m given a lobotomy.”

  “She’s coming back,” Jackson said, nudging Braden as the waitress approached again. “Watch this.”

  Sterling stifled a sigh and stared at the dancer onstage.

  Chapter Two

  SANYAM DESAI loved destroying people. Hearing the sobs, the pleas, running a hand over skin and feeling it quiver beneath his palm—he lived for it.

  His target right now was a middle-aged woman. She knelt in the middle of his room, hands clasped on her nape and eyes downcast demurely as he’d instructed, but twitchy, looking for a reason to disobey, to be punished.

  Well, Sanyam could oblige. He paced around the small room, the floor cool beneath his bare feet, running the cat-o’-nine-tails through his hand.

  The swish of the leather made the sub shiver, but she didn’t move. Sanyam took another turn around her. He undid the top button of his shirt, exposing the brown hollow of his throat, aware that her attention was on him, hungry and wanting, as he moved.

  The room was empty, just the two of them, alone and secure in a safe space where no one could see or hear them.

  Sanyam passed behind her as she knelt, clad in nothing but sheer satin panties and bra.

  What was her name? Eleanor, right. Sloppy, Sanyam chided himself.

  He ran a hand across her shoulder blades, scratching lightly with one nail so that a faint welt appeared, and she shuddered.

  Trinity’s music from the main room was a steady thump and growl filling the space, but Sanyam barely heard it, focused on Eleanor.

  She had love handles, stretch marks on her thighs, and a little belly. From the way she hunched her shoulders and tried to curl in on herself, she was self-conscious about her appearance. Sanyam needed to work on that before he went any further.

  He dropped the whip, catching a handful of hair and tilting her head back so that her neck was exposed, wrapping his free hand around it. Eleanor swallowed, her brown eyes huge, and Sanyam squeezed, just enough that her air was briefly restricted.

  “You are beautiful,” he said.

  Eleanor shook her head, silently refuting his words, and Sanyam released her, picking up the whip to strike her sharply across the buttocks, just once. She cried out in shock as the welt rose, but didn’t move.

  Sanyam caught her chin, forcing her gaze up. “Rule number one—never argue with your Dom.”

  Eleanor nodded fractionally, eyes on Sanyam. He let go and paced around her again, considering.

  The hard floor had to be hurting her knees by now, but she made no noise of complaint, not even shifting her weight. Sanyam’s estimation of her rose.

  Her friend had knocked on his door and pushed her f
orward. “There will be no fucking,” Sanyam had told her bluntly after the door closed. “I do not have sex the first time someone subs for me, and I do not fuck women in any case. Do you still wish to continue?”

  Eleanor had gulped but clutched her handbag and nodded earnestly. “That’s fine,” she’d said, her voice so quiet Sanyam had to strain to hear it. “I just want….” Her voice had trailed off, and Sanyam had felt a rush of pity for her.

  “Strip,” he’d said, and turned away.

  “What do you want?” he said aloud, moving around in front of her again.

  Eleanor dropped her head. “I want… I need to be punished. Spanked.”

  Sanyam arched a brow. “What have you done that is so heinous?”

  At that, Eleanor tucked her chin into her chest. “I—” She squeezed her eyes shut. “My husband left. It was my fault.”

  “Get up,” Sanyam ordered. He made a selection from his wall of toys and sat down on the couch opposite the door as Eleanor stood, awkward and crossing her arms over her stomach.

  Sanyam patted his knees. “Facedown.”

  Eleanor’s eyes shot wide. “Oh… I’m too heavy—”

  Sanyam let his expression speak for him, and Eleanor gulped and moved awkwardly toward him. She settled herself over his knees, all breathless apologies and hands fluttering unhappily, and Sanyam shut her up by smoothing a hand over the curve of her ass.

  Eleanor squeaked and stopped talking, across his lap with her face in the couch cushions.

  Sanyam picked up the whip and trailed it across her thigh. “Do you have children, Eleanor?”

  Eleanor’s face was still buried in the couch, but she managed a nod. “Three.”

  “How old are they?”

  “The youngest is… twelve,” she said faintly. “Oldest is sixteen.”

  “Why did your husband leave?”

  Eleanor tensed. “I—he met someone else. Someone… prettier.”

  “And so it is your fault,” Sanyam said, understanding dawning. “Because you are not the perfect size four he married, is that it?”

  “Size two,” Eleanor mumbled into the cushion, and Sanyam fought a smile.

  Without warning, he struck a blow, the thin satin of her underwear no protection at all against the sting of the leather.

  Eleanor bucked and cried out, and Sanyam steadied her with a hand on her thigh.

  “That is for aging,” he said.

  He hit her again.

  “That’s for the stretch marks.”

  Eleanor’s body was tense, and Sanyam rubbed a gentle palm across the weals.

  He struck her three more times in quick succession.

  “The children you bore for this man.”

  Eleanor sagged and began to weep, her shoulders shaking.

  Sanyam swung the whip again, then again, the harsh cracks loud in the small room even over the music.

  “For not being perfect,” he said between swings. Crack. “For having a mind of your own.” Crack. “For wanting more to your life than serving him.”

  Eleanor was limp across his knees, her body wracked with sobs, and Sanyam hesitated, whip raised.

  “For being human,” he said softly and brought the crop down.

  He tossed the whip to the side and pulled Eleanor upright, her tears still shaking her frame, face red and eyes puffy. Sanyam thumbed a tear off her cheek.

  “You are not to blame,” he said, looking into her eyes. “Do you understand me?”

  Eleanor choked on another sob but managed a nod.

  Sanyam patted her shoulder. “Get dressed. Scene over.”

  He waited, back turned to give her privacy, as she struggled into her clothes, but shook his head when she reached into her purse. “Pay Kimi in the main room, behind the bar,” he said. “She handles that.”

  “What about tipping?” Eleanor asked.

  Sanyam smiled. “She’ll take that too, if you’re so inclined. It’s not necessary, but it is appreciated.”

  Eleanor opened her mouth, shutting it again abruptly. “Can I—would you—can I see you sometime? Not… here? I know you said you don’t… see women, but—”

  Sanyam smiled, letting her down easy. “It is against club policy to date clients, but I am flattered.”

  “They wouldn’t have to know,” Eleanor pointed out. She looked shocked at her own audacity, and Sanyam’s smile widened.

  “I like your spirit, Eleanor,” he said, taking her by the shoulders. “Get someone to rub some cream into those welts, if you can. And you may experience a sub drop at some point over the next few hours or even tomorrow. Stay hydrated, make sure you eat something, and if you get terribly irritable or depressed, reach out for help to someone you trust. Do you have one such?”

  Eleanor nodded. “My best friend, Nanette. She’s—this was her idea. She’ll… stay with me.”

  “Good.” Sanyam opened the door and ushered her through. Shutting it behind her, he leaned against it for a minute and took a deep breath.

  Finally, he could go home.

  He’d been at the club all evening, seeing client after client, and he was exhausted. All he wanted to do was go home, change into comfortable clothes, and not have to deal with people again for at least a full day.

  He stepped into his shoes and slung his coat over one arm, leaving his shirt loose at the collar. The music hit him like a physical blow in the hall outside his room, and he grimaced.

  There weren’t many people in the hall, and all were clients, meaning no one made eye contact, too embarrassed by the reality of where they were and what they were doing to actually look at Sanyam as they scurried past.

  That was just fine by Sanyam. Human contact was the last thing he wanted at the moment.

  He turned down the hall toward the back entrance and swore under his breath as he remembered that the bartender had sent a message that she wanted to talk to him after his shift.

  Two minutes. Then he was gone.

  Even at 4:00 a.m., the main room of the Honeytrap was full of people, crammed into booths, sprawled on long, low sofas, many of them casually making out in various stages of dishabille. Trinity was onstage, finishing up her last set, long legs made even longer by the six-inch heels and general lack of clothing.

  Sanyam threaded his way through the crowds, ignoring the gazes trained on him. He knew he was eye-catching. He didn’t particularly care.

  He spotted his friend Farid lounging in one of the booths, foot up on the seat and arm on his knee as he watched the customers. A young man was on his back, head in Farid’s lap, eyes closed as Farid ran fingers through his hair.

  Sanyam lifted a hand, and Farid smiled at him but didn’t invite him over. That worked for Sanyam, who was far too tired to be sociable, even with one of the few people whose company he actively enjoyed.

  Kimi was at the bar, deftly stirring, mixing, and pouring drinks. Her long black hair was pulled up in a knot at the back of her head, held there by hairpins that could be—and had been, on more than one occasion, she’d told Sanyam—used to fend off overzealous admirers.

  She was wearing a black leather corset that looked painted on and matching leather pants. How does she breathe? Sanyam wondered briefly.

  Kimi glanced up and saw him, a smile lighting her slanted eyes. “Drink?” she asked, gesturing to the stool.

  Sanyam shook his head but sat down. “Soda is fine.”

  “Give me a second,” Kimi said, sliding a Coke down the mahogany bar toward him. “Gotta deal with the preppy brats down there.” She gestured with her chin. “They’re handsy, the assholes, and they’d better tip Delfia like it’s their last night on earth or I’ll castrate them myself.”

  Sanyam popped the tab on the Coke and took a long drink, unfazed. He watched out of the corner of his eye, elbows on the bar, as Kimi took the drinks to Delfia, the diminutive Cuban beauty who had just been hired the week before.

  Delfia dimpled at Kimi and scooped the tray up onto her shoulder. Kimi turned back t
o Sanyam, a blush staining her burnished skin, and propped her elbows on the bar.

  “So. Been thinking.”

  “Dangerous habit,” Sanyam observed over his drink.

  Kimi threw a peanut at him. “Shut up, talking.”

  Sanyam muffled a snicker in his soda and waited for her to continue.

  “How are you enjoying your job so far?” she asked.

  Sanyam lifted a shoulder. “It’s fine. A few hiccups here and there, nothing to complain about.”

  “You’ve been here, what… a month?”

  “Five weeks,” Sanyam said.

  “Canada’s pretty different from India, huh?”

  “Did you call me over for small talk?” Sanyam asked.

  Kimi bristled. “I’m being nice, asshole. I’m told that’s what people do.”

  “When they want something, perhaps. What do you want, Kimi?”

  Kimi propped her elbows back on the bar. The light glanced off her high cheekbones as she tilted her head. “Those hiccups you mentioned.”

  Sanyam said nothing. Shouting reverberated through his head. The man who’d claimed he wanted to sub but refused to submit had fought Sanyam at first mentally and then physically, until security had to be called.

  He touched the spot under his eye. It was still tender where the man’s fist had connected.

  “It happens,” he said. “He won’t be back.”

  “No, but someone like him might. Here’s what I’m suggesting. Crap—hang on.” Delfia was back with another order, and Kimi swung into action, mixing and pouring while Sanyam waited.

  Delfia was tiny but voluptuous, dimples and dark eyes and heavy black hair, and Sanyam could see why Kimi was so enamored. If he was attracted to women, he might be too.

  Delfia loaded her tray with drinks, and Kimi turned back to Sanyam.

  “Sorry about that. So what I’m proposing is this—I vet your clients for you.”

  Sanyam raised an eyebrow.

  “Hear me out!” Kimi said. “I’m in the perfect position here. I’ve talked to Delfia, and she’s in, she’ll be my eyes and ears on the floor. We’ll find you subs who want to sub, who’ll take what you give them and not fight you. And who’ll tip like it’s going out of style.”