by Chloe Cox
Holt looked down as he pulled out and slid back into her, almost experimentally, lazily. The sight of her wetness on his swollen cock made him laugh. Fuck it. This was his sub. And he’d fuck her for his own pleasure before he gave her the discipline she needed, because he could. It was his right.
“Look at me,” he said as he pumped languidly into her, just keeping time. He knew she couldn’t turn much—he’d cuffed her. But she could make eye contact.
And she did.
Fuck.
He could see it in her eyes. She didn’t know what was happening. Neither did he, and he was the damn Dom. Whatever was between them was riding them both.
Holt would let it, for now. Because he wanted to see where it led.
“You can come once,” he said. “But only if you do it quietly. And you know what will happen if you don’t.”
Then he grabbed hold of the cuffs holding her wrists together like reins and drove into her, hard. He fucked her hard, plunging into her until his head hit the top of her cervix, his tight, aching balls slapping into her clit with every stroke, her hips bucking up into him. He fucked her the way he knew only he could, and he did it because he knew she would really try her best to be quiet, because she was that much his sub. Even though she’d want whatever he’d do to her if she couldn’t keep quiet, she would try her hardest, because it was what he wanted.
And Holt knew he could fuck the scream out of her anyway.
And that’s what he did. Because she needed to know that her body really belonged to him. He was in charge, because he could make it do whatever he wanted. But when she couldn’t fight it anymore and cried out in an orgasm so powerful it milked his cock dry, he collapsed on top of her, stunned.
He’d never remembered it like this. She contracted around him until he was half hard again, and when he finally pulled out and uncuffed her, carefully massaging her shoulders as he did so, she was still shaking. Still shuddering.
He had to pick her up off the hood of his own truck. And when he did, gathering her up close in his arms, her face nuzzled in his neck while her hands gripped at his chest, he felt it so much it almost hurt him. When he held her in the cab of his truck until she came back down, it ached, deep down, in the middle of his chest, where he hadn’t even been sure he could feel anything anymore.
He didn’t know what it was about this woman. He never had, not really. He just knew what he was like when he was around her. What she made him feel. What he aimed to make her feel, one day.
She reminded him that he could love.
He owned her body. Did she know she owned his damn heart?
12
Holt walked out to his driveway, saw his dirty old truck next to his government vehicle, and smiled to himself. He hadn’t had occasion to take the truck out since that night he took Simone to the Shack. If he looked close, he could still see where she’d pressed herself against the metal.
It was about time to see her again. He’d given her some space after that night. After the Shack, he’d taken her to the club and he’d teased her all night with that plug while he caught up with the guys, and then he’d flogged her into a haze with a Hitachi magic wand strapped between her legs. After that he’d barely had to touch her to make her come, and he’d enjoyed figuring out exactly where that threshold was, over and over again. If it were anyone else, he’d be able to say he’d taken his fill. But it was Simone.
He could never get enough.
To tell the truth, he couldn’t stop thinking about her. Just like before, when they’d been in it—in a scene, in the middle of a D/s dynamic—the connection between them was like nothing else. It fucking glowed. Everything else had disappeared.
Even the past had disappeared, if only for a moment.
He shook his head and put the government car in gear. He had work to do. Had a case to close—Mrs. Greenfield. But his detective instincts wouldn’t let go of Simone. There was something about the restrictions she’d put on their arrangement, about not letting it get personal. It was like the larger rules of kink—you put down rules and constraints so that you could be free. Now that Simone said she wasn’t his, heart and mind, she was free to give herself up to him, body and soul.
He’d never seen her like she had been that night, not even when they were in love. Vulnerable. Raw. He’d always marveled at the strength it took to be a submissive. The bravery. Simone had always had it, but now she had it in goddamn spades, and she was showing him more every time he saw her.
And it was making him fall even more deeply in love with her.
So why the hell did she think they didn’t work?
Holt was frowning on that when his phone rang. He eyeballed the number at a light—blocked. Not many people would call him at seven thirty in the morning.
“Manning,” he said the instant he answered it.
“It’s me,” said a familiar voice. Only Gavin Colson would feel he didn’t need to introduce himself with a name. Besides owning the club, Gavin was Club Volare’s most experienced Dom. Holt had arrested mob bosses with less confidence. “Good news—Simone’s PR campaign is going great as far as I can tell. Bad news, she’s about to meet a reporter at Club Volare. He’s on his way in now.”
Holt’s mind snapped into focus like a cold steel trap.
“Now?” he said.
Seven thirty was long before Club Volare’s typical operating hours—or long after, depending on how late Club Volare activities kept a guy awake.
“Simone’s idea,” Gavin said. “She said it protects member privacy and gives the reporter a chance to see things for himself in a controlled setting. And she’s right.”
Yeah, no kidding. At this hour there wouldn’t be anyone there but Simone and Cave Johnson.
“What about Simone’s safety?” Holt growled.
“That’s why I’m calling you,” Gavin said. “I’ll be around, but it’s not a job I can do.”
There was a pause. Holt knew what that meant. Gavin cared for Simone like an older brother, so of course he was on edge about Simone putting herself in a position where she could be hurt. And there wasn’t anything that had the potential to hurt her more than the rumors that had swirled around town—and that had gotten the gossip rags involved—after Simone had her stomach pumped right before shipping off to rehab. In fact, Gavin had been the one to find her, that night she’d ended up in the hospital. Because she’d called Gavin. Not Holt.
But she wasn’t Gavin’s responsibility. Truth was, she wasn’t anyone’s responsibility but her own. But that didn’t mean she had to do everything on her own. Especially not put herself at the goddamn mercy of a predatory gossipmonger who would probably have only one thing on his mind.
Even if he’d wanted to, Holt wasn’t sure he could keep himself from being there to protect her.
And he sure as hell wanted to be there.
This time, he would be there.
“Understood,” he said. “Thanks.”
“Yup.” And Gavin hung up.
Holt knew all about reporters. You worked law enforcement long enough, you learned that they didn’t get ahead by considering people’s feelings when deciding what to write. He didn’t trust them as a breed. Especially when the stakes were high. And especially not one named ‘Cave.’
He called in to the office, and then turned the big car around. His sub was doing something that could put her at risk, so there was only one place he was going to be.
Club Volare.
That didn’t mean that Simone was happy to see him.
“What are you doing here?” she hissed as he closed the door behind him.
She was standing there in the middle of the great room, the dark finished wood setting off her yellow dress and blue eyes. She had her briefcase, her papers, all that, and somehow she still looked stylish. Like a little girl’s fantasy of what a professional woman could look like every day, but no real woman ever managed. Somehow Simone pulled it off.
She was also pissed.
&n
bsp; “I said—”
“I heard what you said.” He cut her off. Then he cut the distance between them. The color in her cheeks darkened as he got closer, but only someone who knew her body as well as he did would have seen the signs of distress. “Is he here yet?”
Simone glared up at him, trying to cover the fact that she was happy to see him. Well, still pissed off. But happy, too.
“No, Cave’s late. How did you find out about this?”
“How do you think?”
“Because Gavin doesn’t think I can take care of myself,” she said, bitterly. “That’s how.”
“Come on, now, you know it’s not that simple,” Holt said. “This isn’t just happy-time frolics, what you’re doing today. This is heavy.”
Simone paused. And then she did that thing she did. The one that got to him, every time. She let herself feel a whole mess of things—relief, anger, doubt—just a whole stew of stuff more complicated than that gumbo, and then she looked up at him with clear blue eyes that let him see it all. She didn’t hold anything back. That’s why she got hurt all the time.
“Do you think I can take care of myself?” she asked.
“I already told you I do,” he said. “But you know that you’re gonna be this guy’s angle for his story, not the club.”
“Yes, I know, thank you. I’m not stupid,” she said. “This is actually my job. And I am actually good at it.”
“And this is still heavy stuff,” Holt said easily. Simone was wound up. Had been before he got there. “So I’m just going to be in the background. That’s all.”
“Just in case it gets too heavy for me?” she said, and walked away from him, to a bunch of low leather chairs and a table in one of the corners of the lounge. Good place for an interview, but it was because she didn’t to show her face to him anymore.
“There’s nothing wrong with needing help, Simone.”
She laughed, but it wasn’t a happy sound. When she turned, her face was hard.
“Isn’t that the only time it matters whether you can carry your own weight?” she asked. “When it’s heavy?”
Holt frowned, the frustration rising in him. She always could talk circles around him. More often than not she talked herself into something that had nothing to do with what was actually going on.
And what was actually going on was some guy was about to show up for the express purpose of getting Simone Delavigne to relive her worst memories and freak the hell out so he could write a juicy story.
“I don’t know about that,” Holt said, finally. “But I do know I’m gonna be here to help you if you need it.”
Simone’s eyes softened, but she made a fist with her hand. Took a deep breath.
“Did it ever occur to you that you’re the last person in the world I want to help me with this?” she said.
It had, actually. But he didn’t get a chance to tell her she was dead wrong about that.
The front door opened, and Cave Johnson walked in.
Simone heard the big front door open somewhere behind her, and closed her eyes.
Perfect.
Cave had arrived just in time to make this as awkward as possible.
It wasn’t just that this whole interview had her twitchy and on edge, just waiting to be triggered into looking for the nearest bar. Which it did, of course. Obviously Cave Johnson was going to try to get her talking about her past, and the messier it got, the better for his story. She knew her job, and she knew she was going to have to offer up a little blood to a guy like Cave in order to get Club Volare the good press it deserved. And that was a sacrifice she was willing to make, because it was her screw-ups that had given Club Volare a reputation as a place that hurt people in the first place.
So she’d put on her big-girl panties and suited the eff up. She’d steeled herself every way she knew how, knowing that Cave was going to walk in and push every single one of her “drink now” buttons. She was determined to prove she could do it.
But with Holt here?
Simone took a deep breath in the single second she had before everything went pear shaped. Then she opened her eyes and caught Holt’s gaze.
“I need to do my job,” she said. And she turned around.
Cave Johnson didn’t look anything like he sounded, a man with a wiry frame and glasses to match. He had an expression of what she could only call bemused curiosity. And as he caught sight of Simone, a smirk spread across his face.
Simone put on her game face and waved him over.
“Cave, it’s so nice to put a face to the voice,” she said. “You’re so much younger than I expected.”
Cave grinned back, raising an eyebrow. “I’ve got old-man voice?”
Simone laughed. “Distinguished, more like,” she said. “Authoritative.”
Cave nodded, taking the compliment. Then he turned to look at Holt, who was…
Well, he was looming. There was no other way to describe it. Just…looming. Like a suspicious and silent thundercloud.
“Who’s this?” Cave asked.
“Call me Holt,” Holt said, and stepped in to shake Cave’s hand. Somehow he made it clear that no last name would be given.
Cave nodded in a manful sort of way, and put out his hand. Holt shook it. Simone could tell from the way Cave’s forearm flexed that the reporter was squeezing hard, metering strength in the way that men liked to do.
Good luck with that, Mr. Reporter.
After a moment, Holt smiled. Cave looked like he might faint.
Simone rolled her eyes. Great start.
Cave cleared his throat, flexed his hand, and looked from Holt to Simone. “So who are—”
“I just work here,” Holt cut him off. “She’s the boss.”
Simone almost smiled at that. Almost. It was probably the one time in her life that she would hear Holt Manning declare that she was the boss. And Holt only worked at the club in one very limited way—as a Dom and club monitor, or, apparently, as her guard dog. On the other hand, publicity tours generally didn’t go well when the person getting the tour was constantly afraid that a human-shaped Doberman was going to tear his throat out, so there was that to contend with.
As though today wasn’t going to be tough enough already. Simone had been prepared to be pushed to her limit. She wasn’t really prepared to do it in front of the guy who’d dumped her for not knowing her limits in the first place.
“You ready?” she asked Cave in the sweetest, most deferential tone she could manage.
“Yes, I think so,” Cave said, trying to regain some of his dignity.
And they were off. Simone, a guy who wanted to see all her dirty laundry, and Holt.
Fantastic.
13
“So where does the sex happen?” Cave asked.
Simone laughed. She had started the tour in the foyer, which had a bunch of antiques and cool wooden pieces that Gavin had built himself, but, well. Yeah. Of course Cave wasn’t interested in any of that. Cave was here for the sex.
Well, so were most people, when you got right down to it. It was Simone’s job to show that there was more to it than that. And that was, to her increasing embarrassment, harder to do than she thought.
How was she supposed to show a family? How was she supposed to show the difference between the love and support you got at a place like this, versus…not?
Well, maybe the sex stuff would help.
“Ok, you’ve been patient for all of five minutes,” Simone said with a grin. “I’ll take you upstairs.”
Cave waggled an eyebrow at her for about a second—right up until Holt loomed out of the shadows.
The reporter cleared his throat.
“Lead on,” he said.
Simone was wary. Cave was charming, that was for sure. Simone could be charming when she had to be for her job, too, so she recognized all the signs, which was how she knew it was superficial. That was how you got to be a good gossip columnist—you basically had to be an information broker. And for that you
needed people to be comfortable sharing their secrets with you.
But there was something else, something that put her on edge. Some mercenary glint to his smile. He was charming her for a reason.
Well, Simone could guess what that was. It used to be that an encounter with someone like Cave, who was all fake, toothy smiles as long as she had something he wanted, would remind her of all the reasons she used to drink. Hell, he wasn’t the first person to see her as something to score points off of in some way rather than, well, as a person. Her father was definitely the king of that, and she’d grown up with people who only valued money and social status and never bothered to get to know each other at all, and then there had been a string of guys who only wanted arm candy and got upset if she tried to be an actual human being. Simone couldn’t remember being actually close to anyone besides Charlene and Gavin until she’d joined Club Volare.
But that wasn’t what had always sent her looking for a good buzz. It was because all of that would make her feel like there was something wrong with her, and then, after feeling sorry for herself for a while, she’d realize she was literally the poor little rich girl and her problems were basically ridiculous compared to most people’s. So then she’d think that maybe those people who didn’t love her or want her for who she really was had an actual point, and she was just broken and unlovable, or maybe she was just an absolutely worthless piece of crap.
Then she’d drink.
But not anymore, Cave. Not anymore.
Let’s do this.
She took one last deep breath and smiled.
“So this is where the private rooms begin,” Simone said as they reached the second floor landing. “Lots of sex here.”
Technically sex happened pretty much everywhere in the club—like, say, the dining room—but she didn’t feel like opening the door to that much personal detail.
Cave looked around, unimpressed. “Like theme rooms?”
Behind him, Holt snorted.
Simone shot him a look. So far Holt had managed to be pretty freaking good at being unobtrusive while he followed them around at a distance, considering his size and sheer intimidation factor. Maybe it was some sort of detective skill, or something. The ability to fade and observe. He somehow gave Cave the impression that he really did just “work here,” and so Cave had mostly ignored him, as though he were unimportant. Which meant that Simone could just do her job.
