Strictly Pleasure: Hooded Pleasures, Book 2

by Sheryl Nantus

  It was better than whining to an empty room about her banning.

  She laid her head back and mentally went over the computer readouts she’d received before charging out on her fool’s errand.

  The first reports had come in about the new patio expansion at Java Jive—her coffee shop. It looked good, with plenty of new customers taking advantage of the extra space to sit and drink and eat and enjoy the experience out in the fresh spring air. There’d been a few bumps in the road and an emergency trip to the grocery store for extra half-and-half when three jugs had turned out to have turned bad, but it’d all gone fine.

  Unlike her evening.

  “All that damned money,” she muttered before taking another sip. “They’re fast enough to cash the check for my yearly membership.”

  She studied the amber liquid.

  All I wanted was a little fun. Now I’m a damned pariah.

  The knock on the front door startled her out of her annoyance.

  “Son of a—” Veronica put the drink down and pushed herself up from the thick gray cushions. She raised her voice as she headed down the hall. “I’m being quiet. I don’t even have the damned television set on.”

  She threw open the door, expecting to see short, stout Anderson, wheezing from climbing the stairs and ready to deliver another lecture on being a quiet tenant.

  Instead, she saw a stranger eyeing her with a smirk on his lips and curiosity in his stare. He wore a black leather jacket over a light-blue dress shirt and jeans, hands jammed in his pockets as he waited.

  She paused, sizing him up.

  He had short black hair and a whisper of beard on his chin, sapphire-blue eyes studying her as he waited for her to react.

  Possibly a good end to a crappy night, she mused.

  But first she’d have to figure out who this handsome man was.

  And if she could have him.

  * * * * *

  He’d checked the address twice after his driver pulled up to the curb. The row of two-story houses was duplicated on each side of the street, small homes with postage-stamp sized front yards and painted in a dizzying array of colors.

  Despite their appearance, he knew these to be expensive homes, their location near the subway guaranteeing a rising property value.

  And yet—

  “Stay here. I’ll be back soon.”

  The driver had nodded and settled in his seat, eyeing the lunchbox discreetly placed on the passenger-seat floor.

  Oliver walked up to the front door and studied the two metal envelopes working as mailboxes.

  K. Anderson.

  V. Locksley.

  The mailbox with her name on it had pointed him to the upstairs flat with a neon-red arrow made of tape.

  Interesting.

  Oliver opened the main door and stepped onto the landing. Steps led up to the apartment, while another door nearby indicated the ground-floor residence. Said door creaked open, revealing a wizened old man who peeked out into the dimly lit lobby. Oliver had given him a neutral smile and headed up the stairs.

  K. Anderson is a very curious man.

  He hadn’t been prepared for the blonde opening the door, matching the photograph save for her hair color. She looked shocked and angry, the blush on her cheeks pronouncing her emotions. Dressed in tight black leather pants and a white blouse, she looked as if she’d just come back from one of the clubs.

  Except he knew she hadn’t.

  “You’re not Anderson.” She put her hands on her hips and studied him, regaining her composure. Her lips curled into a smile.

  “If you mean your tenant downstairs, I’m not.” He extended his hand. “I’m Oliver Greenwood.”

  Her face twisted into a confused frown. “Who?”

  He dropped his hand to his side. “I work for HP.”

  There was no need to say the entire name. Shock dissolved to anger as realization of who he was and why he was there dawned on her face. She didn’t shake his hand. Instead she took a step back and turned away, allowing him entrance.

  Oliver walked in and closed the door before going down the hall and entering the living room.

  “Anderson’s not my tenant. I’m his.” She plopped herself on the couch and picked up her drink. “So you’re from HP. Come here to work your magic on me or something like that.”

  “Something like that,” Oliver echoed as he moved to stand by the couch. He gestured at the single matching gray chair. “May I?”

  She waved her hand. “Sure. Whatever you want.” She sipped the drink, and Oliver heard the underlying grumble. “You’re calling the shots.”

  He shrugged off his jacket. “Yes. Yes I am.” He watched her eyes widen as she realized he’d heard her.

  “So now what.” Veronica put the glass down. “You should have called.”

  “I did. I left a message I’d be visiting you.” He gestured at the phone lying on the table, the red light blinking for attention. “So either you didn’t get it or you didn’t care I’d be coming over.”

  Her scowl told him both options were true.

  You knew this wasn’t going to be easy, he reminded himself.

  You hoped it wouldn’t be this hard.

  Oliver pulled the jacket around and folded it in his lap. “Do you not care about getting back into Boots ’n’ Chains? Because if you don’t, then I’ll stop wasting your time and mine and go. Just say the word.”

  The emotions flashing over her face told the story.

  She didn’t want to do this. But she had to.

  He smiled, sensing her nervousness.

  “My name is Oliver, as I said before. I’ve been chosen by HP to be your Dom for the next six to eight weeks.”

  The scowl deepened as she absorbed the length of time.

  He continued. “I did my research on you. Veronica Locksley, owner of the Java Jive coffee shop. Moderately successful, holding your own against the larger franchises swarming around the downtown core.”

  “Very successful,” she corrected him.

  “Moderately successful,” he repeated. “With a great deal of future potential. But that’s not why I’m here.” He smoothed out a wrinkle in the dark fabric on his lap. “May I assume you don’t have a whole lot of privacy here?”

  “Little to none.” She placed the empty glass down. “This is an old house, and Mr. Anderson is a retired mailman with nothing to do other than visit the local Legion to drink with his war buddies and listen to me play with myself. I don’t bring men here either. Don’t want to give the old man a heart attack. I’m a bit of a screamer.” Veronica smiled. “With or without the real thing between my legs.”

  Oliver nodded.

  If you think that’s going to get under my skin, you’re so wrong.

  “So,” she kept talking, “since there’s no place here for you to do your thing, we’ll either have to go to a club or call the deal off. You sign the papers, and we’ll go our separate ways.”

  He cocked his head to one side. It was hard not to enjoy the power play when she was so bad at it.

  “I can’t take you to a club. At least not one I’d feel safe patronizing.” Oliver watched her for any reaction. “There are only three reputable establishments. I know—I have active memberships at all of them. However, my status isn’t the problem here. Your suspensions are still valid, and they won’t let you in the door even if it’s just to use the facilities.” He allowed himself a smirk. “You think I’ll sign off on your submissive training because you asked nicely?”

  Veronica smiled and spread her legs a little further apart. Even though she wore leather pants Oliver could see the toned muscles flexing under the dark material.

  “I can make you a much better offer than a few bucks from Matthew,” she purred. “How about six weeks of fun and we don’t tell if anyone asks?” She gave him
a sultry wink, running one finger over her lower lip. “You look like you’d be fun in bed. Six weeks, and you not only collect from Boots ’n’ Chains, but you get this”—her hand roamed across her front and unbuttoned the top of her blouse—“and we both win.”

  Oliver sat back in the chair. “Ah. So your counteroffer is to fuck like bunnies in secret, and you figure that’ll make your problem go away?”

  She shrugged and sat up. “Pretty much.”

  There was something wonderfully adorable about her attitude, something that appealed to Oliver more than the trouble it’d take to get through to her.

  Nothing good comes easy.

  Veronica licked her lips, and Oliver couldn’t help the flush of arousal singing through his veins. His pulse increased as he registered the effect she was having on him despite his refusal to play her game. Maybe he had been out of circulation too long.

  Still hot as a blonde. Maybe hotter than when she was a faux redhead—

  She’s going to be a handful and a half, his inner voice croaked. You’re going to have to work hard for this one.

  He couldn’t help grinning.

  I love a challenge.

  She stared at him, and Oliver realized he’d spoken the last sentence out loud.

  He got to his feet and put his jacket back on. “We’ll have to do the sessions at my place, then.” He fished out a business card and tossed it on the table. “This Saturday. Be there at two in the afternoon. Not one fifty-five, not two o’one. Two o’clock exactly. Wear something comfortable.” He studied her legs before dragging his eyes up to lock with hers. “Not the leathers.”

  If she could have shot laser beams from her eyes, he’d be a dead man.

  “That’s not right,” she sputtered. “That’s against the rules. That’s got to be against the rules.”

  “The ones you were ready to toss out a few minutes ago for a fast bang and me signing off on your deal?” Oliver couldn’t hold back a grin. “Consider this your first lesson.” He tapped his chest. “I’m the one calling the shots now.”

  Veronica bounced up from the couch and advanced on him, wagging her index finger. “No. I’m not going to be your little plaything.” She moved inside his personal space to stand toe to toe with him. “I’m not a submissive, and I sure as hell don’t want to play at being one,” she snarled. “No matter how cute you look.”

  He couldn’t help himself.

  His right hand shot out and grabbed the back of her neck.

  She froze in place.

  The soft silky skin yielded to his touch as he moved in on her, their noses almost touching.

  Oliver lowered his voice to a hot whisper. “You say you’re not. If you’re so confident in your knowledge as a Domme, then you won’t mind learning about the other side, since it’s where your shortcomings are being noted.”

  The flush in her cheeks wasn’t only from the alcohol. He saw her pupils dilate a fraction and noticed a hitch in her breathing, the nervous pant he knew all too well. She bent back into his grip, pressing against his fingers. Her hands remained at her sides as he studied her.

  The knowledge hit him deep in the gut.

  And lower.

  There was more under the surface than a bad Mistress who needed to learn when to back off.

  Veronica was a natural submissive masquerading as a dominant.

  She licked her lips again, and for a second, Oliver thought about kissing her, bending her to his will right here, right now.

  She blinked, and he saw the battle in her stare, the fight for control.

  You can’t have it, the silent taunt said. Not until you earn it.

  The standoff broke.

  Veronica laughed as she twisted out of his grip. She picked up her glass and tipped it up to try and drain the last few drops. He saw her hand shaking.

  “You don’t know me. You don’t know what I want or what I need. All you know is what Matthew told you, what HP has in that little file of lies they created to get you to take the job.” She laughed. “But I’ll play your game until you’ve had enough and sign off on this charade.”

  Veronica walked into the kitchen. “You can let yourself out, Mr. Greenwood. I’ll see you in a few days.”

  Oliver walked to the door, noting how she kept her back to him, hid herself away as quickly as she could.

  So it begins.

  A rush of excitement curled up in his belly.

  This is going to be—interesting.

  * * * * *

  The liquor splashed around the sides of the glass as she poured, the stream wobbling from side to side as her hand shook.

  That bastard. How dare he—

  Veronica felt the back of her neck burn, the skin tingling where he’d touched her.

  Where he’d grabbed her.

  Should have hoofed him in the balls. Should have headbutted him. Should have—

  She took a long drink and swallowed, feeling the whiskey burn all the way down her throat.

  Should have never screwed up in the first place.

  She flashed back to the last incident, the one that had broken Matthew’s back.

  The kid had no right to be in the club, no right to be there wearing a sub bracelet. He’d flinched at the first smack of the paddle and should have tapped out right then and there, used his safe-word to call her off. Instead, the little punk had waited until she’d halfway tanned his hide before weeping his way out with a few scratches and sores on his skin.

  Crybaby went straight to Matthew and ratted me out. As if I was responsible for him not knowing his own limits.

  She took another drink.

  Not my fault.

  Her scorched throat rebelled, and she coughed hard, leaning over the sink.

  You could always leave, she pondered between chest-tearing hacks. Go to Montreal, Vancouver or New York. There were plenty of clubs there that would take her in, no questions asked. A new start and no one would know or care as long as you were careful.

  Her stomach burned and not only from the booze.

  It’d cost too much even for one night. And it’d be one hell of a commute. Leaving the city isn’t an option.

  Everything she had was sunk into the café. All her savings, all her nickel-and-dime scrapings including the down payment for the house her father had given her upon graduation she’d put instead into the business.

  He’d been pissed as hell.

  She had added it to the list of things he’d disapproved of. It was pretty damned long by this point and getting longer every time he called and lectured her on how to run a successful business.

  The membership fees for the clubs were the only real luxury she allowed herself. That and her leathers, because no self-respecting Domme would ever show up in anything but.

  Veronica washed out the glass and filled it with water.

  Best not to get drunk too quickly. You have to find some way out of this.

  She drained the first glass and refilled it before walking back to the living room.

  The faint aroma of his cologne hung in the air, recalling his spirit.

  Veronica sighed. The man was handsome as hell, she’d give him that. Had that warrior look going on with the short hair and the chin stubble. Those eyes, those deep-blue eyes. She could easily fall into those and keep on going.

  He was in good shape as well. From the way the shirt sat on his shoulders, she guessed there was a fine set of abs underneath; the jeans—

  The jeans held all sorts of potential surprises. When he’d turned to leave, she’d had a great view of his ass.

  Definitely grabbable.

  And despite his refusal, she could see he’d been interested in her offer. The bulge in the front of his pants signaled she’d gotten through to him, even if he wanted to deny it.

  Delicious.

&nbs
p; She returned to the memory of his face, strong and solid.

  Love to nibble on that. Start at his jaw and keep on working my way around, up and down.

  She growled, remembering his reaction to her offer.

  Why couldn’t he go along with the game?

  It wasn’t as if they both wouldn’t enjoy the sex.

  Six weeks of guaranteed hot horizontal mambo, and he turned her down.

  Her.

  Who the hell is this guy?

  She glared at the business card lying on the table; the cream-colored rectangle a ghost against the black wood.

  Veronica reached over and slid it toward her with a single index finger, turning it to see the embossed dark letters.

  Oliver Greenwood.

  A phone number and address in smaller font; email address at the bottom.

  She frowned.

  Where have I heard that name before?

  She snatched up her tablet from the end of the table and flipped the protective cover over.

  God bless the Internet.

  The search results took only a few seconds.

  Oliver Greenwood.

  Greenwood Books.

  One of the up-and-coming bookstore chains, eating up the remains from the larger companies going under. Good books at good prices and the usual pithy sayings to draw the customers in.

  Very successful, if the financial stories were correct.

  He was, in a nutshell, darned well off. Not filthy rich, but he wasn’t having yard sales to pay for his club memberships.

  Veronica frowned as she studied the screen, flipping through the images.

  Why is this guy working for Hooded Pleasures? It can’t be for the money. This is a man who can pick out any woman he wanted to either at the BDSM establishments or at the fancy nightclubs. He can afford to fly to New York City or Los Angeles and buy a one-night membership at any club without blinking an eye.

  Why is he whoring himself out for HP?

  A series of taps on the screen brought her to the company web page, where Oliver preened in front of a variety of storefronts surrounded by happy, smiling employees.

  His personal history lay another few clicks away.