Dom Vs: Domme: The Deluxe Trilogy: A Billionaire Romance (Dom Vs. Domme Book 0)

by Cynthia Dane

  Well, you know the rest.

  She’s grown quite a bit more since then. I daresay I barely recognize her. I only do because I have seen her off and on since that day. She’s taller now. Wider hips and bigger breasts she hides beneath designer pantsuits. Her stringy light-brown hair is now completely blond, sometimes bobbed above her shoulder, sometimes pulled back into a long ponytail, but today worn straight and long. Never seen it curled. Too high maintenance for a busy gal like Kathryn.

  Her face is thinner, more pronounced. She wears subdued makeup that pops out her features without making them garish. Yeah, lots of men notice those things. Including me.

  Because I look at Kathryn Alison. A lot.

  Not because I’m plagued with that ugly memory of losing my business before I could even stick it in her, but because she’s a beautiful woman. My exact type, honestly. Confident, blond, can hold her own in a conversation or regular argument…

  Fuck, she’s my perfect physical type. I can’t help but steal glances at her when we’re in the same room. Yes. Physical type.

  Emotionally? Ha. Hahahahaha. Ha!

  She may be hot, but we are as compatible as peas and gasoline. She was forward and domineering back then. Now it’s been amplified times ten.

  Shit. She didn’t tell you, did she? That she’s a Domme?

  Yup. Kathryn Alison, that pretty, feminine blonde sitting over there trying to clean up her coffee and not fuck up this deal is a Domme. Everyone who would know that, well, knows that.

  And I would know.

  Because I’m a Dom.

  So, you see, we’re not really… compatible.

  “Kathryn.” Neither Lana nor Ken is keen on holding her attention for much longer. No flirting with Kathryn Alison. Well, to be fair, she’s not the one involved with the buy, although my father is bringing her in for a part of our plan. It’s all our money going into the buy. Kathryn is here to help convince the Andrews to sell.

  It’s kinda funny. The Andrews are willing to flirt with me, but they completely overlook Kathryn. Guess I’m that irresistible!

  Sure enough, the four of us are cornered on one end of the table, our assistants perching with recorders and analog methods of note-taking. I don’t have my assistant here with me. Instead my dad and I are sharing his, a middle-aged woman named Bertha. I kid you not. My mother never allowed my father to have young assistants.

  And then there’s Kathryn Alison, sitting by herself – well, with her assistant – down at the far end of the table. It’s cute. They look like they’re having their own conference about butterflies and ball-cutting.

  “I hope you realize our hesitations,” Lana says twenty minutes into the meeting. Finally, we are cutting to the chase. “The Grand is a staple to the community. One of the reasons we haven’t done anything with it is because, quite frankly, we don’t want to deal with any backlash that comes with compromising a historical institution, no matter how much help it needs right now. Sure, we could simply sell it to you…” She leans back in her chair, cleavage on full display in her button up black blouse that isn’t really buttoned up. My father is looking. “Even if you screw it up, it’s our asses people will flay forever. For selling it to you.”

  “We completely understand.” My father, who thinks he’s Earth’s greatest diplomat, sits up straight and spreads out his hands. You think Kathryn told you that I have a smug face? Nothing compares to my father’s. Only he looks like a grandfather now, so people think it’s cute. I know the truth. Deep down, he’s as capable of being slimy and cunning as anyone else. Yes, even me. Well, maybe not slimy. “That’s why we’ve brought you the full proposals for you to take home and consider. Ian?”

  That’s my cue. In my briefcase I have the full proposals we and the team at my father’s offices put together over the past few weeks. I display them now, carefully, each sheet of paper impeccably laid out so both Andrews can see the full picture, so to speak.

  “As you can see,” I say, keeping my voice steady. “We have put every attention into the details. Wright and Co. are the designers we’re working with. Together we’ve concocted this historically accurate design. We don’t want to update The Grand. We want to take it back in time to its former glory.”

  The couple glances over the pictures. They exchange looks. Whatever they shared in that second… I have no idea. I don’t speak Couple, let alone Married Couple With A Business. It could be good. It could be bad.

  It’s probably something Kathryn should be paying attention to, but she’s knee-deep in her own briefcase looking for her part of the project. Before the Andrews can notice this, I lean in and put my elbow on the table, effectively blocking their view of her. Never say I don’t look out for her. Or my own ass.

  “These are lovely… sketches.” Pursing her lips as if I showed her a clown juggling a litter of puppies, Lana pushes from the drawings with a dramatic sigh. “Doesn’t really matter what we think, Mathers. What matters is what the public thinks. The community board.”

  “You have to admit that it’s very true to the original design of the building.”

  “Sure. And people thought we should bring back bell-bottom pants.” Lana shrugs.

  Her husband isn’t much more committal. “Besides, there’s another part to your plan, isn’t there? Something about a local museum. We have to take that into consideration as well. It sounds good on paper, but depending on how it’s executed…”

  “Ah, yes. I believe Ms. Alison is heading up that end of the bargain.” My father motions behind me to the young blond whispering to her assistant. The plain girl dressed in a plainer sweater dress lets out a squeak and starts searching through her own bags for whatever the fuck it is they’ve misplaced. Probably their designs for the museum, because of course.

  “Um…” Kathryn thumbs through a stack of papers but doesn’t seem to find what she wants. “Just a second…”

  My father has that look on his face. The fake look. The fake look that says, “Kathryn Alison, I’m smiling, but if you don’t get your shit together in two seconds I’m firing your ass.”

  “Wright and Co. is a spectacular design firm.” I point to the picture nearest me and make further comments on the aesthetic Houston Wright picked. Everything is decorous, with grays and beiges accentuating the true-to-time-period stone and woodwork that remains in the building. The wood will have to be replaced, since the inspector said there’s rot. The stone’s still good, but it was important to us that Wright understood to keep the old wood in the design anyway. It will be replaced. Copied, but replaced.

  Guests won’t know the difference. They think they will, but…

  “Found it!” Kathryn slaps a paper on the table. A single paper.

  Is she kidding us? She has to be kidding us. Did they even use a designer? It looks like a kindergartener scratched some shit together while waiting for its parents to pick it up from school. The lines aren’t straight. The shading is… nonexistent. I’m almost embarrassed for her. Except I can see a look of disappointment on her face…

  This is not what she’s supposed to show. This is probably the rough draft the designer provided, and either Kathryn or her assistant have botched bringing the real thing.

  I could scream at her. Except I don’t scream. I’ve picked up my parents’ ability to sit and silently judge with a single stare. I hope she feels it burning through her sinew.

  Because she might have fucked this all up for us.

  The corner of Lana’s mouth twitches. “How… quaint. I can really see the vision coming into play.”

  Oh, God.

  Kathryn Alison, I hope you can hear me right now. I hope you know how much you fucked up. I hope you can appreciate that I am sitting between you and my father right now. If my father was close enough to you? He would pull some 1960’s shit and snatch that crap you call a design draft, crumple it up in his hand, and force your incompetent assistant to eat it.

  I know you’re better than thi
s. I know what you did for that library out east. Or was it libraries? Doesn’t matter. Point is, I know you are better than this. You don’t forget things. You hold grudges and still judge a man for premature ejaculation ten years ago. You’re impeccable. You graduated at the top of your high school class because of how organized you are and how much attention you pay to details.

  So what the fuck is going on?

  And why am I so flustered?

  I get it! This is my ass on the line, and I’m embarrassed by extension. Embarrassed for you right now, and embarrassed for my father, who practically hired you through your father to make this happen. I’m embarrassed for your father. I’m embarrassed for my mother, and she’s not even a part of this right now!

  I’m embarrassed for everyone. What a way to go down, Kathryn. What a way.

  The Andrews are gracious people. They may be perverts, they may be flirtatious jerks, but hey, they’re gracious. They’re nice enough to overlook this for now, because they also know you’re better than this. Plus, they want to sell that property, and will give us a second chance.

  “Tell you what, Mathers,” Ken says to both my father and me. “We have to talk this over with the community council anyway. We’ll arrange for you to make a presentation.” He looks at the sorry excuse on the table. “A proper one. It’ll be two weeks from now. If they sign off on it, we’ll talk numbers.”

  My father contains a sigh of relief, but I can tell from his twitching arms that he’s shaking inside. Watch out, Kathryn. He might come for your throat at this rate. Me? I’m glad this is ending as well as it is. The Andrews are reasonable. They know this is a mistake. My father only sees incompetence.

  I’m going to have to talk him down from this, aren’t I? As soon as we’re out of here, he’s going to launch into a tirade about what a mistake it was to trust your father. You’re too young. You’re too inexperienced. Your father should be handling this, or at least one of his trusted employees. Not his daughter, who is only getting this job because of nepotism. Hey, it was true for me too, a few years ago. But I proved myself. I proved myself like you have yet to do.

  I would give you a hard time, Kathryn, because I love seeing you flustered and being reminded of how far you have to travel until you’re ready to play with the big boys. Yet I’m not going to. Not because I’m a better man or something, but because I can see in your baby blues that this is killing you inside. It doesn’t matter what I say. It doesn’t matter what my father says. We’ll only be reaffirming what you already know. You don’t need our punishment. Anything you do to yourself will be more than enough.

  Because you’re a Domme, aren’t you, Kathryn? You know how in control you’re supposed to be. That’s one thing I can sympathize with when it comes to you. So I won’t mention this. I will, however, make your life absolutely hell in the days leading up to the presentation in two weeks.

  Enjoy that. I will.

  Chapter 3

  KATHRYN

  I don’t know what the hell happened. I swear to God, I had my shit together this morning when I left home. I double-checked my bag to make sure that the papers I needed to bring were in there. My father called to make sure I didn’t forget anything. Even Anita had doubles of everything, and she couldn’t find a damned thing!

  I’m so embarrassed. In no way am I usually this disorganized. You should have felt my pulse when I realized I didn’t have those pictures. Those stupid pictures that I found on my dining table when I got home. Just laying there, mocking me, the woman who is supposed to be in control and on top of everything.

  The moment I saw those blasted things right there, I started crying. Not full-out sobbing, but there were definitely tears of frustration that I haven’t felt since I finished my last degree and pulled twelve-hour work days to make sure I graduated as well as I did. Sleep? What sleep?

  It’s impossible for me to tell you how much of a failure I feel like right now. The Mathers were counting on me. My father was counting on me to pull this off without a hitch. Not only did I botch it, but now I’ve been given a pity retry. Two weeks from now I will be presenting these images to the fucking council to get their approval. I’m not sure we need it, legally. The Grand may be a historical cornerstone of the community, but the property is privately owned and the Andrews can sell it to anyone they want. But I understand. The Mathers understand. Everyone’s reputation with the community is on the line. Community members we want to continue to do business with.

  Shit, will I even be able to do that?

  I can’t think like this. It’s a Friday night, and I need to unwind. So after a glass of wine to get me started at home, I texted my friend Eva and told her to meet me at The Dark Hour, the perfect place to unwind.

  Get drunk and unwind.

  I love The Dark Hour. It’s not just a sex club. It’s a place to live your lifestyle without the fear of shame or retribution. There’s an unspoken rule – actually, you a sign a paper swearing to follow it – that you don’t expose anybody there. So if I saw, say, Ian Mathers snorting blow and fucking a woman on a table, I’m not allowed to tell anyone about it. Like, you know, a reporter or something.

  I mention that because a couple years ago there was this guy who brought in blow and fucked someone. The blow got him in big trouble with the establishment. Sort of illegal, you know. The fucking? Oh, that’s common. From the moment you walk into the main room past a thousand bouncers and security guards, it’s a free for all. Guys getting their cocks sucked and women being fingered beneath tables.

  Mostly, though, it’s a bunch of drinking with friends and business associates. Doms and subs hook up, but aside from the exhibitionists, things are taken home or into private rooms that people reserve. The club provides implements in case you forgot yours at home. Isn’t that nice?

  I like the club because I feel like I can be myself. I can relax here, especially with my friend Eva, who is a Domme like me.

  A lesbian Domme, so, you know, she’s got a few more things to be wary about.

  “You need another one of these,” she says, holding up our empty shot glasses. She flags a server dressed in a tight leather skirt and a shiny tube top. Soon Eva and I are taking another shot. I don’t know what the fuck it is, but it burns my esophagus and numbs my brain. I’ve already told her about what happened today, and holy shit am I glad I have someone to unload on right now… and someone to load me up with alcohol.

  I don’t really want to get drunk. What I want is sex. That’s the high I prefer.

  Pretty sure though that Eva is here to get plastered. She’s in grad school, and taking it seriously so she can be like me and join her family’s business… and grad school is no joke. I don’t envy her. Like I said, the last time I cried like I did today was when I was in school. Eva doesn’t cry, though. She gets shitfaced.

  “This shit is great.” I turn down one more shot, but she gets another, downing it in one gulp before relaxing in her chair with a cigar. All right, I admit it. She’s damn hot, especially when she’s throwing her weight around and acting like a bigger big shot than me. Personality wise, that’s how Eva Warren is. Butchy, commanding, and not afraid to get in someone’s face if they give her shit for who she is. There aren’t many lesbians in our circles. Something she’s all too familiar with.

  I like her not because we’re similar in age, but because she’s hilarious and knows how to make a girl feel better after a shit day at work.

  “The Andrews will forget about it soon enough, Kat.” She’s the only one who can get away with calling me that. I’m pretty sure any lesbian can refer to me as a kitty and get away with it. I ain’t sleeping with them, but come on, what girl doesn’t like to feel special by non-threatening people? Eva kicks ass, but she’s one of the least threatening people I know. Well, as long as you’re not a man trying to fuck her over. “They know you’re good for it. As long as you don’t blow the public presentation, they won’t give a shit. Everyone knows they wanna sell tha
t place. Even my brother thought about buying it until he heard the Mathers were lifting their legs on that hydrant.”

  “Thanks for the visual.” Last thing I need to imagine is Ian unzipping his pants and pissing on the side of The Grand. Prematurely. “You don’t get it, though. It was so embarrassing. I don’t know how I left those papers on my table like that. I must have taken them out when looking for something else.”

  “Probably. When you get nervous, you can be forgetful.”

  “Aren’t most people?”

  Eva shrugs, lining up our empty shot glasses and counting them with her fingers. Over half of them are hers, because that woman can hold her liquor. Not me. I’m flushed after two shots and that glass of wine. Think I’ll order a martini to nurse for a while.

  “I know what you need.” Eva wags her finger across the tiny table. “You need a honey for tonight.”

  Well, duh, why does she think we’re here? We could get a drink anywhere. I could’ve driven to her family’s house out of town or to her in-town apartment if I wanted to shoot the breeze and drink. Instead we’re at The Dark Hour, because this is where people like us come if we want to take out our problems the healthy BDSM way.

  The place is crawling with men. Most of them, whether they Dom or sub, aren’t bad to look at. The Doms wear their cut suits made of fine Italian materials or shit as good. You can smell their cologne from a mile away, and it smells amazing. Their hair is pressed. Some of them are here with their lovers. I can see James Merange and his long-term girlfriend Gwen. They’re regulars here like me. They’re having dinner with another couple, but from my vantage point up in the balcony I can see Gwen’s hand making a run for James’s cock beneath the table.

  Dude’s got a nice one. I’ll give him that.

  There are a few other people I recognize from the rich world of the elite I was born into. Stock traders, bankers, businessmen, politicians, movie stars, pretty much anyone with the pedigree or paychecks to qualify for a place like this. The Dark Hour takes its safety and confidentiality seriously. You’re not getting in unless you make multiple zeros at the end of your bank account. Basically, not unless you’ve got some serious prestige to lose if word gets out. Collateral damage.