by Eden Bradley
As besotted as a teenage boy, that’s what you are.
It was true. But it was also true that he would have her. He’d damn well find a way.
• • •
YOU IDIOT!
She’d thought she could go face-to-face with Duff Stewart, but Jesus fucking Christ—he had been so much more than she’d bargained for. He hadn’t been in New Orleans more than a couple of months, but he’d already developed a reputation as a bit of a man-whore, so she’d written off what she’d heard about him being a natural Dominant who made all the submissives swoon. That fact had only fueled her fire—she wasn’t about to be looked at as anyone’s plaything, damn it!—and she’d come storming into his shop, guns blazing, only to discover the man was the real thing, wearing his dominance like a second skin. And only to have her body completely betray her in the face of his linebacker build, his ridiculously handsome face and what she was having a hard time denying was charm. And the Scottish damn accent! Why was an accent always so sexy? She’d been on the road for a full ten minutes, but even the purr of her beloved ’66 Mustang had done nothing to soothe her. If anything, the rumbling vibration of the big engine she could feel against the backs of her thighs—and elsewhere—was making things worse. Or better. Depending on how one looked at it.
Stop it.
“Okay,” she muttered to herself over the music blasting from her stereo, “he may be the most insanely desirable man I’ve ever seen, but I have enough self-control to ignore that. Don’t I?” She hit the brakes just in time to prevent herself from running a red light. “Damn it.”
She gripped the steering wheel, trying to calm her buzzing body, every nerve on high alert. But all she could think of was his wicked, sensual mouth. The spectacular, strong bone structure set off by his shaved head, the muscular breadth of his shoulders, his hazel eyes glinting with a dangerous metallic gleam, gold and silver simultaneously. She’d never seen eyes like that on a man, framed in dark, sooty lashes. And Jesus, dimples on a man like that were simply not fair.
The light changed and she hit the gas a little too hard. She eased off so she wouldn’t get a ticket, then cursed again and grabbed her cell phone from her purse, hitting the button that dialed her best friend.
“Allure Salon,” her friend answered in her soft Southern drawl.
“Kitty, it’s me.”
“Hi, honey. What’s up?”
“Do you have a client in the chair? Can you talk?”
“I’m in the middle of a highlight. Can I call you back in . . . No, I’m booked for another hour after that. Are you okay? You sound funny.”
Layla sighed. “I feel funny, and not in the ‘ha-ha’ kind of way. Can you meet me after work?”
“Oh crap, hon—I can’t today. You know I’d drop anything for you if I could, but I’m teaching tonight at the beauty school. One of their instructors is on maternity leave. I’m sorry.”
“Tomorrow night?” Layla asked, taking a deep breath. She’d just have to handle things by herself until she had a chance to talk to her friend.
“Of course. Our usual place?”
“Sounds good.”
“Okay. See you there about five thirty. You gonna be all right until then?”
“Yep. I always am. I’ll see you when you’re done with work tomorrow.”
They hung up, and Layla headed toward the Pontchartrain Expressway to catch the 10 out of town—hitting the road hard for a while would cool her off. It was either that or go home and pull out her collection of vibrators and spend the next two hours coming as hard and as many times as she could.
“This is ridiculous.” She accelerated onto the on-ramp, the big engine picking up speed with a satisfying rumble. “I am in control,” she reminded herself. “I am in control,” she repeated, hoping to convince herself of the blatant lie.
The long, fast drive along with some blasting music and a firm talking-to with herself finally helped to calm her down. She kept driving, taking the 10 through Baton Rouge, moving with the music, letting her car take her down the highway. She was most of the way to Lafayette when she realized she’d better head home. By the time she got there, she was exhausted. With driving. With thinking. With the sensual rage simmering in her body.
She didn’t dare go to bed—bed was too tempting. Instead, she flopped down on the big white sofa in her living room, tossing some of the exotic brightly colored pillows onto the floor as she reached for the TV remote. Flipping through the channels, she settled on an old romantic comedy, scooting aside a small bronze sculpture of the Hindu god Kali—one of her own pieces—to rest her feet on the edge of her coffee table, which was a slab of thick glass framed in reclaimed barn wood.
“This movie sure as hell couldn’t be further from my life,” she murmured to herself, settling back into the pile of cushions.
She’d never had a “normal” life, certainly not according to her father. She’d grown sick and tired of hearing him ask why she couldn’t get a normal job, like a secretary or a schoolteacher. Why she didn’t do what he felt was a woman’s duty in life and settle down with a good God-fearing man, get married and have babies. Those ideas had been shoved so hard down her throat, she’d gotten into the habit of rejecting them purely because they were his—that and his lack of expecting anything else from her—anything more—because she was female.
Most of her thirty-one years had been spent fighting those ideas, first by dating musicians and losers, then, in a more positive effort, by becoming a strong, self-supporting woman. She’d built that strength like a shield around her. And now Duff was trying to get in.
It was not happening. Even if every inch of her skin ached for his touch. Even if her stomach fluttered every time she let his name roll through her brain.
Not. Happening.
She massaged her forehead, flipping the channel until she found an action film, and lost herself in flying bullets and speeding cars. And to the sound of ringing gunshots, she fell asleep.
• • •
TUESDAY MORNING AND afternoon dragged as Layla tried to busy herself with packing up some new pieces of sculpture to ship to a gallery—she’d been making her living as a full-time artist since her early twenties—but finally it was time to meet Kitty at The Ruby Slipper Café on Magazine Street.
They’d been going to the café since meeting there five years earlier while waiting to get in for Sunday brunch, chatting until their friends showed up. Then a few months later she’d run into Kitty at The Bastille. Kitty had been new to the kink life at the time, and Layla had taken her under her wing, mentoring her, and they’d become fast friends.
Layla pulled open the door to the café, and the hostess greeted her, along with the homey scents of good, strong chicory coffee and grilled food—comfort food.
“Hi there, Layla. Kitty’s in the back.”
“Thanks, Rochelle.”
She moved past the high polished-steel counter that made a U-shaped curve in the middle of the café, seeing Kitty’s pale blond head bowed over the menu at a table by one of the tall windows. Kitty looked up as she approached, the sun lighting her blue eyes.
“Hey, honey.” Kitty stood and gave her a quick hug before settling back into her chair. Her friend was a gorgeous, proudly curvy girl who always wore corsets to accent her hourglass figure at the club, but today she was dressed in work attire: black slacks and a sleeveless pink silk blouse.
Layla sat down across from her. “You’re looking at the menu? Don’t we both have it memorized by now?”
“Of course I do, but I always like to think I’ll order something different than my usual barbecued shrimp and grits and some iced coffee. What about you? You having that salad you like?”
Layla shook her head. “It’s a bananas Foster French toast kind of day.”
Kitty put down her menu. “Uh-oh. That can only mean you either have something to celeb
rate or something bad has gone down, and I take it from the tone of your phone call yesterday this isn’t celebratory French toast.”
“It’s not.” Layla looked out the window at the traffic going by, at a woman walking a dog past the café. “I don’t even know where to start.”
“Honey, you start at the beginning, right? I’m not going anywhere.”
Layla sighed out a long breath. “Okay. You remember that night a while ago when that guy—that big Dom—first showed up at The Bastille with Jamie?”
“The Scottish Dom? How could I forget? That man fills up a room like another wall, only more solid. And that black kilt was just hot. Isn’t he Jamie’s cousin?”
Layla nodded. “Well, I’ve run into him a few more times, and, Kitty, I swear he stares at me like he can see under my clothes or something.”
Kitty shivered. “Was he wearing the kilt again?”
“At the club, yes, every time. He looks just as good in jeans.”
Her friend shook her head. “Now, that’s just not fair. I saw him staring at you. And personally, I don’t think I’d mind that one little bit.”
“I mind. I mind it a lot.”
The waitress stopped by their table, interrupting the conversation, and they gave her their orders.
Kitty leaned into the table. “Layla, why on earth would you mind a hot man being interested in you?”
“Because I’m a Domme, which is obvious to anyone who’s been at the club for more than five minutes. He’s watched me play. Watched me. It’s unnerving. And poor protocol.”
“Is it really poor protocol, honey? Or is there some other reason why it bothers you so much? Either way, I still think it’s flattering.”
“It might be if I were a bottom.”
Kitty was quiet a moment. “Layla, let me ask you this. You’re pretty much straight, right? Not into girls?”
Layla shrugged. “Pretty much, yeah. I mean, you know I only play with girls these days, but it’s not about sex for me.”
“But if a woman came on to you, you’d still be flattered, wouldn’t you? Even if she knew you didn’t swing that way?”
“I guess so. Yes. I would be.”
“Why is this any different?” Kitty asked, her blond brows arched.
“It just is,” Layla insisted. The waitress returned with their iced coffees, giving her a minute to think about Kitty’s reasoning. “Maybe you’re right, Kitty, but he just . . . pisses me off. I can feel his eyes on me at the club. It’s so intrusive.”
“Does he stand there and watch you while you’re in scene? Is he stalker-y?”
“No, that’s not it. He goes off and does his own thing. It’s hard to explain.”
“Apparently,” Kitty teased, pouring milk into her coffee and taking a sip.
“Yeah,” Layla agreed, busying herself with her own coffee, adding milk and more sugar than she usually allowed herself—she needed it today. She stirred it with her straw, watching the milky swirls disappear into the dark coffee. She caught herself and looked up at her friend. “I’m sorry. I’m brooding.”
Kitty smiled at her. “Yes, you are. You gonna tell me what’s really going on?”
Layla sighed. “In retrospect I sort of can’t believe I did this, but I went by his motorcycle shop yesterday and told him off. Or tried to.”
Kitty’s brows raised. “You did what?”
Layla wrapped her fingers around her glass, keeping her gaze on the moisture clinging to the sides. “Jamie’s a regular at the club, and everyone knows he owns SGR Motors, and that his cousin is here to open a motorcycle branch. It was easy enough to find him.”
“You know that wasn’t what I was asking. What did you do, exactly?”
“When he suggested I bottom for him, I kind of told him . . . to fuck off.”
Kitty laughed. “Oh my God. Really?”
“I’m afraid so.” Layla looked up, leaning in and keeping her voice down. “And here’s the thing. I realize I’m annoyed because Duff got to me. That’s why I went to see him, and it was even worse after. I feel like such a fool, but he hit a sore spot.” She sat back in her chair, shaking her head. “You know my history, Kitty—you’re one of the few people I’ve ever told the whole story to. Adrien and Marcel. Vincent. And Jimmy . . . Fucking Jimmy. You know why I can’t get involved with a Dom, why I pretty much swore off men almost a year ago. It’s been eleven and a half months since I did anything more than fuck some guy for my own pleasure—and that was just the one guy right after things ended in that shitstorm with Jimmy. I sure as hell haven’t submitted to anyone. I can’t do it. I can’t. Never again.”
She hated the tears burning behind her eyes. She hated that her long string of bad boys—her long string of mistakes—still had some power over her.
Kitty reached across the table and laid a hand on her arm. “Honey, are you trying to convince me or yourself?”
“Both?” Layla blinked hard. “I don’t know. This guy has my head spinning. He’s arrogant and sarcastic and . . . fucking gorgeous. And I can feel the power in him. As soon as I was in the same room with him, up close, it was as if there was something drawing me in. It wasn’t simple chemistry. And as hard as I fought it, I couldn’t—not entirely. I had to get the hell out of there. I had to catch my breath. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
“I don’t think there’s anything wrong, hon. Maybe you’ve just finally met your match.”
“Oh!” It came out on a puff of air, forced from her throat by shock and the realization that Kitty could be right, as much as she hated to admit it.
The waitress stopped at their table to deliver their food, giving her a chance to calm down a bit.
As soon as the server left, Kitty leaned across the table toward her. “I am about to tell you something important, Layla Adele Chouset. There is not a damn thing wrong with giving in, with giving yourself over. Isn’t that what you told me when you were holding my hand through my early days in kink?”
“But you’re submissive.”
“Yes. But it’s more about the connection than anything else, isn’t it? Who we are, the good and the bad, goes into making the connection and the energy people generate between them. That’s my understanding of what you told me power exchange is about. Did I get it wrong?”
She huffed out a breath. Kitty was simply parroting the words she’d said to her when she’d been mentoring her friend through her introduction to BDSM, but she didn’t want to think about it now, not applied to herself. Instead of addressing the issue she said stubbornly, “I haven’t known him long enough to establish a connection. I don’t know him at all.”
“Maybe you should. Connection can sometimes start as powerful chemistry. And I’d say you two have it in spades, because I have never seen you like this. Never.”
Layla shook her head, her cheeks going hot. “I do not want to deal with this . . . this situation, chemistry or not.”
“I think you’re gonna have to, honey. This Duff guy is setting down roots in our town, establishing himself at our club. Sooner or later you’re going to have to deal with whatever it is between you two. I think you’re going to have to face your response to him. Something this powerful? It can’t be ignored forever. Especially when you’re bound to run into him.”
She was afraid Kitty was right, afraid of what Duff brought out in her. Long-buried feelings were rising to the surface, reminding her of times that were better forgotten. People who were better forgotten.
But Duff . . . what was it about him that put all her issues with men in her face? Just another bad boy. Just another Dom. Except no one could ever say Duff Stewart was “just” anything.
He was exasperating. Irritating. And she didn’t owe this man a single thing, but maybe she owed herself.
Fuck.
“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I probably ne
ed to apologize to him. No, I know I do. As a Dominant myself I should have more self-control. I should be able to exercise better manners. I’ll have to swallow my pride and go see him again.” She rubbed her forehead. “Goddamn it.”
Was it pride that was making her behave like such a bitch? And had she been hiding behind the title of Domme to allow herself to be bitchy with him? Despite the fact that they’d just met—had one conversation!—Duff was making her look at herself and discover some things she didn’t like. She could cuss him out all she wanted—to his face or in her own head—but the fact was his mere presence had made her see she still had issues to deal with. And first on the list—always—was personal responsibility for her behavior.
“Kitty, I have to go. Will you forgive me?”
“Of course. Especially if I can have your French toast. Right now it’s looking a lot more tasty than my shrimp.”
Layla smiled. “It’s all yours. Pour some extra syrup on for me.” She stood, dropping some cash on the table before leaning over and kissing the top of Kitty’s blond head.
Her friend looked up, blue eyes wide. “You sure you’re gonna be okay? Because I don’t care if the man is nine feet tall and the scariest Dom alive, I will kick his tight, muscular ass into next week if he messes with you.”
Layla cracked a smile. “I know. Thanks for having my back, but I’ll be okay.”
“Just sayin’. I’ll let you know how the French toast is. You let me know how the scary-hot Dom is.”
Layla shook her head as she made her way toward the door. No one could cheer her up like Kitty. But the smile her friend had put on her face was temporary, at best. She had some big stuff to deal with, and she didn’t mean Duff’s unusual size.
