Crossing the Line: Without a Trace series, a contemporary erotic romance novel

by Bishop, Ally

  “Ian!” I smack his shoulder while hiding my face in his chest.

  “What? You’re captivating.” With a knuckle under my chin, he makes me look at him. “I love you, wife. You’re the most stunning, intelligent, sexy, captivating woman I’ve ever met.”

  “You forgot to mention ‘noisy,’” I say in grumpy tone, though I can’t deny being a bit thrilled when he calls me “wife.”

  “That, too.” He mock shivers. “I love that throaty whisper you make when you’re just at the edge, and when I touch you—“

  I cover his mouth with my hand. “I don’t want to know. Let me pretend that Tony couldn’t hear us. Please.”

  Amusement crinkles his eyes, and he chuckles when I finally remove my palm. “Oh, sweetheart, I promise he heard you. While they do soundproof these cars, they weren’t prepared for your fervor.” He traps me with his arms when I try to hide again. “And I love it. So be as loud as you want to.”

  “I will then, husband,” I tease, then kiss him soundly. “How long is the long way?”

  “We have plenty of time.” He turns me so I’m reclined against his chest, my legs stretched out on the seat beside him. “And I have a few more tricks up my sleeve—I should have told Tony to bring earplugs.”

  Before I can object, he captures my mouth in a searing kiss. And I don’t have much more to say after that. Nothing that involves actual words, anyway…

  “I’m not sure which was more amusing: when Noah dropped the ring, or when Mick tripped down the stairs.” Lux hoots at the memory, and I join her. It’s the wee hours of the morning, and we’re all seated around the head table. Rather than leave our guests, Ian and I chose to stay and enjoy their company. Our wedding was perfect: wildflowers and lace, interspersed with silver accents; Ian in a crisp, well-fitted tux waiting for me with a huge smile on his face; and my brother and Lux standing as my attendants, their happiness mirroring my own. Our reception took place at a small hotel on the Upper East Side—it’s an old library that’s been converted, rather perfect since I wrote a mystery just for today, which included intrigue, romance, and books.

  Despite all the perfection, there were a few faux pas.

  “I think I’ve got a nasty bruise forming on my ass,” Ian bemoans, then winks at me.

  “That’ll teach you to slide across the dance floor in your socks,” I return, leaning into his side and enjoying his warmth. My wedding dress—which I’m still wearing—leaves me a bit chilled now that the revelry has subsided.

  He dips down to press a kiss against my forehead. “Where’s Evan?” Ian looks at Lux.

  She’s resplendent in a fuchsia dress, a simple cut that emphasizes her curves. She lifts a shoulder slightly. “We broke up.”

  The merriment of the moment evaporates, and I sit up. “What?”

  “Don’t be upset. It’s been a few months. With the wedding and how busy you are, I didn’t see the point in bringing it up.” She meets my gaze, pleading for understanding.

  Noah’s surprise indicates he didn’t know either. Of course, there’s been a lot less partying with the increase of Elementary’s business.

  “Are you okay? Is it—”

  “I’m fine. Really. Evan’s a sweetheart. We’re just not the right fit. Not like you two.” She covers her emotions with a beaming smile, just a bit too forced to be real. “And it’s too beautiful of an evening to waste it on sad news. And I’m fine, really. I promise.”

  We let it go, but a bit later, when we head to the restroom to freshen up a bit, I lay a hand on her shoulder. “You just haven’t met the right guy yet.”

  She snorts. “Oh honey, I’m not sure I’m designed for true love. Besides, I like playing with others a bit too much to settle down.” But there’s sadness in her eyes, and I’m surprised when she meets my gaze, letting me see it. “You and Ian are perfect. I’m so happy for you.”

  I hug her hard. “I am happy. And I want that for you, too, whatever that might entail.”

  When we pull away, her eyes are glossy with emotion, and she runs her finger under each one. “Sounds good. But enough of that. We have, what, two more hours until the sun comes up? And since you and Ian won’t leave to go consecrate your marital bed…”

  My cheeks flame with heat.

  “Oh. My. God. Did you two do it in the bathroom?”

  “No!” Though that does bring to mind another time that we did… “But we might have told the limousine driver to take the long way here.”

  Lux squeals with laughter. “Always the quiet ones.”

  “We’ve decided to stay awake until our flight, where we can pass out for the zillion hours it takes us to get to Italy.” Our gift from Ian’s mother and aunt is a month-long tour of Europe, something I’d never imagined I’d get to experience.

  “I’m going to live vicariously through you.”

  Back at the table, while Noah teases Ian about his lack of basketball ability and Mick joins in, I realize that for the first time, I have exactly what I’ve always wanted: a family. Maybe not in the traditional sense. But in the ways that matter. And Ian’s family has welcomed me with open arms. Life doesn’t get much better.

  “Are we ready for a new adventure?” Ian asks as we get in our taxi that will take us to the airport.

  “With you? Absolutely.”

  THE END

  The first book in the Without a Trace series,

  available on Amazon!

  Who am I if I surrender to him?

  Worse yet, who am I if I don’t?

  What happens in love might destroy you...

  Or remake you altogether.

  I make a living offering men and women their ultimate fantasies…as submissives of the mysterious Mistress Hathaway.

  I’ve never surrendered to anyone. That’s not the way it works. Or rather, not the way I operate.

  But when the gorgeous Fin MacKenzie shows up in my life, he throws everything out of balance.

  Now I’m not sure who I am anymore, and I’m questioning everything.

  What woman can turn away from a gorgeous Scotsman, especially when he sets her body on fire and her heart ablaze?

  I have to stop it…us. I can’t keep going like this. It will ruin everything I’ve worked so hard to build.

  Who am I if I surrender to him?

  Worse yet, who am I if I don’t?

  Inside the Lines take place after the prequel

  Crossing the Lines, so read on for a sneak peek into Lux’s sexy adventures with a hot Scot...

  Inside the Lines

  CHAPTER ONE

  NO NAUGHTY DEED GOES UNPUNISHED

  This isn’t my usual client.

  Normally, they come to me. It’s discreet and makes everyone’s life easier. But for certain people, you make exceptions.

  In the back of a sleek Lincoln Town Car, I relax into the leather as we enter the tunnel, heading for the famous Ritz Carlton. The car and driver are a courtesy of the client, and while it’s not the first time I’ve had such treatment, I always enjoy it.

  Deprived of scenery, I mentally review my gear, ensuring nothing is left to chance. Leather crop, purchased several years ago from a tack shop. Restraints in the form of scarlet cotton rope—silk ties are for movies and books. Entirely too slippery and time consuming. The usual detritus: blindfolds, clamps, rubber whips that range from noisy to pain-inducing. Sultry music, though I also brought a selection of classical entries on my iPad.

  A quick check in my compact mirror assures me that the deep red lipstick I’ve fallen in love with provides the right contrast to my long, jet curls. My suit—pinstripe, skirted—fits my curves like a glove. Beneath, a dark leather and crimson corset meets a matching g-string, finished off with garters and stockings. Red stilettos complete the ensemble. The things I do for clients...

  As we surface, I take a calming breath. There’s always a bit of nerves right before an introductory scene. This client is new, and while I have a website with a photo gallery and specialties listed
, each person’s sexual desires are like snowflakes: while similar in appearance to others, each has their own unique intricacies.

  Topping—or playing the Dom—requires you to know your bottom, or submissive. You can’t push too hard or too far, as you risk injuring not only your client, but also the relationship, that’s tenuous at the beginning. At the same time, if you go too light, or God forbid, too slowly, you lose future profits and referrals.

  A balancing act. That’s the best way to describe it. Sometimes, I wish I could be a submissive. A friend who enjoys playing the slave once told me that she loves turning inward, focusing on her own interests and pleasures, while the Dom does all the work. God, I wish I could let someone else run the show. But that’s not the way it works. Or rather, not the way I operate.

  Traffic in New York City is always brutal this time of day, but the driver gets a few lucky breaks. As he navigates the crowded streets, I go over my notes, replay my client’s application video on my phone, and try to gauge his personality and true desires.

  Creating—or recreating—someone’s fantasies requires imagination and research, but it also relies on innate skills. For this client, I have a pretty good idea of what he wants.

  Who am I kidding? I know exactly what he wants. Because in reality, all of my clients want the same thing.

  To let go. To be in the moment. To escape life.

  Sounds amazing, doesn’t it? I envy them in so many ways.

  The driver drops me off at the entrance. The Ritz Carlton isn’t your average hotel — I probably don’t have to tell you that. The lobby defines elegance, with sleek lighting, antique furniture with a modern flair, and a quiet confidence that bespeaks the well-to-do that venture here.

  I visit the concierge on duty and receive an envelope from him. The elevator doors snick shut behind me, and I slip behind the crowd, falling against the back wall and closing my eyes. For once, my outfit doesn’t draw hushed comments, as besides the skirt that barely covers my ass, I’m pretty low-key in a city of models and movie stars. Okay, maybe the shoes stick out a bit, too.

  The elevator is empty by the time I reach the top public floor. Penthouse access requires a special passkey, and I extract mine from the envelope and slide it into the card reader. Then I wait while the elevator’s silken glide ferries me to the penthouse floor.

  Stepping onto the lush carpet, I have two doors to choose from. I feel a bit like Alice in Wonderland until I remember the room number the client texted me earlier today. With the Pixies’ “Where Is My Mind?” forming an earworm in my brain, I knock.

  A delicious man opens the door. Thick, dark hair, lightly threaded with silver, strong jaw with an aquiline nose, sultry eyes that take in the length of me. He wears an exquisitely tailored suit that cuts across his impossibly broad shoulders in a mix of elegance and power. When he smiles, even my jaded heart quivers a bit.

  “Mistress Hathaway. A pleasure.”

  I level a gaze at him, knowing that my raven curls and gray eyes captivate my clients. “The pleasure will be mine, Charles. Naughty boys have to be punished.”

  As a professional Dominatrix, I follow three rules:

  1. Never let them disobey you.

  2. Never let them touch you.

  3. Never have sex with them.

  At least, I used to follow them...

  Technically, that’s the end of the sneak peek, but I couldn’t leave you hanging without letting you get a glimpse of the sexy Fin MacKenzie.

  So here’s Chapter 3, too, so you can meet our red-haired Scot who just might be able to handle Lux’s heat...

  You are never going to believe me when I say that I work out of a dungeon space I keep on reserve, but I swear that’s usually the case. But in this specific situation, I am, once again, going to the client. Tonight is a very special evening.

  I arrive at the Parisienne Hotel, one of the newest hotels in Soho. This evening’s client wanted something romantic and chic, and the Parisienne Hotel fits the bill, while not breaking the bank.

  Everything about the hotel is European, from the creamy decor to the extravagant chandeliers that line the ceiling. I’m early, as intended, so I check-in and head for the far alcove. My stomach drops in time to the quick lift of the elevator, and I swallow hard. While I usually have a bit of nerves before a scene, this one comes with complications.

  I wasn’t kidding about my three rules. They’ve served me well. Somewhere along the way, though, I started breaking the last one. Fuck it; I’ll be honest. It happened after my relationship with Evan ended. He was—and is—a sweetheart. Good looking, submissive, kind, loving, talented...the list goes on. He’s what every healthy, normal woman wants in a really nice guy. It wasn’t enough for me. I wanted it to be—so badly, I wanted it to be enough. But I couldn’t do it. He deserved someone who loved all of him, completely. And I couldn’t do that. So I let go of him. Pushed him away, really, because he’d wanted to continue dating.

  Something about that experience angered me. It created a resentment that’s hard to describe. So when a long-time client of mine booked me to join him in a scene with another couple, I did something I never do: I got involved sexually. It was delicious, and I had an amazing time. Limiting your sex life to only what you can create with one lover when you consistently create sexual energy for others is draining. And that experience reminded me that I had this raw need inside, and that it could be sated.

  The downside: I had sex with several people. And got paid for it. I didn’t like the way that part made me feel. That hasn’t stopped me from doing it again and again. With only a select few clients, of course. I’m not a prostitute, for fuck’s sake.

  But then...what am I?

  The candescence of pink light softens the room. The hazy glow turns the blood red decor into a deep maroon. This hotel made a splash because of its “red suites;” they’re swanky and beautifully styled. And for this evening’s pleasure, they seemed like the perfect fit. I’ve remade the suite’s bedroom with the softer bulbs, draping scarves, red boas, and a few well-placed, cotton restraints.

  Someone knocks, and I hope it’s Stephen. But when I open the door, it’s Ari.

  “Oh, God, am I too early?” Her blue eyes go round as she takes in my cut up t-shirt that falls artfully, exposing my shoulder, and stops just shy of my wine-colored skinny jeans.

  “Well, it’s not quite—” I check my phone for the time but also see a missed text, which makes me frown. “What the...” Apparently, I nudged the ringer off, and with setting up and moving around, I missed the vibration of a new text. One that says Stephen can’t make it. “Un-fucking-believable. You asshole.”

  Ari stares at me, wide-eyed. Her white-blond hair shimmers in a short, wispy cut that frames her heart-shaped face. A professional dancer, Ari has the slight build of a ballerina, but with more softness and curve.

  I shake my head. “Not you, love. Come in. You’re about a half hour early, so I haven’t changed yet. Come in,” I say again when she pauses at the door. One of the ongoing problems with Ari is her hesitance. It’s taken me nearly six months to get her to this point. I’m going to kill Stephen for ruining it.

  I check the text so I can read the whole thing.

  Sry, dove, I’m sick. And u don’t want my snot ruining a sexy scene. Found a replacement, tho. Fin. Trust me, u will luv him. xoxo.

  I receive a second text as I’m standing there.

  Hi. It’s Fin. Stephen sent me. I’m here at the hotel. What room?

  Un-fucking-believable. I text him the floor and say I’ll meet him. Then I return Stephen’s message: you better die of this illness. Or I promise, you’ll wish you did.

  “Ari, I’ll be right back. Make yourself comfortable. Remember what we talked about. Deep breaths, center yourself—”

  “Envision, and repeat mantra.” Ari’s light voice finishes for me. “I know.” She smiles, but the corners of her mouth flicker with nerves.

  Inwardly, I sigh. Then I shower her with smilin
g confidence and step into the hallway, closing the door snugly.

  When the elevator opens, another couple gets off, wheeling luggage behind them. The doors start to shut, but then a strong hand holds them open. The man that steps off is very tall, well over six feet, and when his aquamarine eyes meet mine, he grins.

  “Lux, I take it?” His deep voice holds a heavy Scottish burr. He wears jeans and a nondescript black t-shirt under a black leather jacket, and if I weren’t so mad, I’d be swooning. Dear God. His shoulders and chest are broad, but not thick. He’s built more like a soccer player, with wavy auburn hair with hints of chestnut. He has a crooked smile, and when I stand there staring for a moment, I get a glimpse of perfectly straight teeth and a dimple.

  Holy Christ. Stephen sent me an underwear model.

  “I know you. You’re the guy from that ad. Th-the new Monsieur line. You’re on the goddamn billboard in Times Square in bikini briefs.” Monsieur is a male clothing boutique on Fashion Avenue; they’ve been making quite a stir with their advertising of everyday men—e.g. not celebrities or models, though you’d be hard-pressed to find one that isn’t ripped— wearing their new underwear line.

  His cheeks blush, which on him, is highly attractive, and I get more of that uneven grin. “Aye, well, that might’ve been me.” He scratches the back of his neck. “Stephen said ye needed a bit of help tonight.”

  And with that, I remember how pissed I am. “Stephen is a goddamn asshole. Do you even know what you’re doing here tonight? Did he give you the details?” If there is one thing I’m sensing, it’s a distinct lack of kink. Fin looks like he should have a blonde wife, 2.5 kids, and a house with a white picket fence.

  “Well, he wasna very specific with details, but he did mention that ye needed a cock.” His eyes crinkle even more at his bald language, his face turning brighter pink. “Seein’ as which I have one of those, I should be able to help ye.” His brogue thickens with his embarrassment.

  “Christ. I’m glad Stephen narrowed the whole evening down to a male organ.” I glare at Fin. “Men.” I turn and storm away, leaving Fin to follow. I feel like I have an enormous shadow behind me, and I realize I have to have this conversation away from the room’s door, or Ari will hear it. So I turn on my heel and confront him mid-hallway.