Strictly Pleasure: Hooded Pleasures, Book 2

by Sheryl Nantus

  “This Saturday will be your third visit.” He rocked back on the chair’s thick wooden legs, balancing his weight. “I need to assess your progress.”

  “Do you get to stand in front of Matthew and give a report? Like you’re in high school, licking the teacher’s shoes?” The sarcasm whipped across her face.

  “No. But I don’t want to fail you,” he said softly and watched the shock register.

  Veronica looked down at the tabletop. “What do you mean by that?” She’d lowered her tone so they were both talking in whispers.

  “I want you to be able to go back to the club and find happiness.” Oliver looked around the café. “You love this. You can survive this setback. But you need balance for your life; otherwise, you’ll be eaten up by the business.” He couldn’t hold back the emotion in his words. “My father let his company devour him heart and soul. My mother had a loveless marriage and died alone and sad. I don’t want that for you.”

  She raised her head. “What about you? What about your balance?”

  For a second, he heard Melissa in her voice, the same concern and emotion.

  How can you do that with a single sentence?

  Get inside my heart and soul.

  The wooden legs creaked in protest as Oliver moved forward. “That’s not important. That’s none of your business.”

  “Of course it is,” she protested. A twinkle appeared in her eyes, a mischievous spark pushing the earlier concern out of the way. “Got to make sure I’m getting the proper return on my time investment.”

  Oliver’s hand shot out and took hold of hers. “You’re being a smart-ass.”

  Her lips curled up into a grin.

  “You know what happens to smart-asses?” He gave her hand a squeeze before settling the chair back down and standing.

  “What?”

  “They get spanked. Don’t be late on Saturday. We’ll be dining, so don’t bother to eat lunch.” He turned and walked out before she could reply.

  Before he showed his pain.

  The trip around the corner took only a few minutes, and he found himself back in the familiar surroundings of his bookstore, the floor already busy with customers seeking out new books for their libraries.

  Oliver forced a smile as April approached, the day manager.

  “Mr. Greenwood. Can I help you with anything?” It was obvious from the way she wetted her lips and batted her eyes she’d be willing to help with a lot more than running the store.

  “I’m fine. Just stepping in to see how things are going.” He didn’t feel like putting up with her flirting today. The woman was one hell of a good manager, and it’d been those skills that kept her employed despite her urge to slide up the corporate ladder on her back.

  Oliver didn’t think she’d be with Greenwood Books for much longer. He saw it in the way she walked, the way she talked when she thought no one was around. References to how she’d change the company, how she’d grab power in the boardroom and bend the other executives to her will.

  If April couldn’t get it from fighting her way up the ranks, she’d get it by marrying into the family and ruling from within.

  Only problem was, Oliver wasn’t interested in her other than her business skills, and that was nothing to build a relationship on.

  He doubted she’d want it anyway—he couldn’t offer her the standard happy married life, at least not what she’d want or expect from him.

  He wondered what April would think of him standing over her, flogger in hand.

  She’d cut and run, he mused. He was a pretty good judge of character and suspected there was nothing more daring than maybe flavored condoms in April’s bedroom drawer.

  There was nothing wrong with that, but if he were ever to consider opening his heart to another, it’d have to be someone familiar with his particular tastes.

  He flashed to the recent memory of Veronica on her knees in front of him, seconds away from pushing him over the edge. It’d taken all his willpower to move her hands off his knees and refuse her offer.

  Position four.

  He could guess what position he’d like her to take next.

  Oliver bit down on the inside of his cheek.

  The woman doesn’t know what she’s got inside her. Such strength. Such power. Wasted as a Domme. But perfect for a submissive. If only she’d figure that out for herself.

  To justify his presence, he circled the floor a few times to check on the book placement and make sure the shelves were well stocked. April hovered nearby but stayed silent, picking up on his need to be left alone.

  Oliver opened up the renovation plans on his tablet. Adding more open space and comfortable chairs to one corner of the store would offer the customers some quiet time, part of the ongoing plan to keep new people coming in and make the regulars happy.

  I need to do something more.

  I just can’t think of what.

  The ongoing fight with the larger stores had gone from a spark to a full-fledged conflagration with the proliferation of online ordering—you didn’t even need to go into a store to view a book; it could be delivered to your front door or your computer with a touch of your finger on the keyboard.

  The harsh truth was Greenwood Books had to offer more than just the bestsellers and author signings. Otherwise he’d be headed down the route to extinction.

  Oliver watched a mother and her daughter, all of eight years old, pick out a book from the children’s section and sit down in the play area to check it out.

  I want to keep this alive.

  He pulled out his phone and called his driver back from his break. One last circuit of the store, and he gave April a final nod and stepped outside.

  He frowned as he waited for his car, caught between his urge to go back to Java Jive and continue the conversation or going home.

  She won’t listen to you.

  You can’t make her believe. All you can do is show her the truth and hope she realizes it.

  Oliver smiled, remembering the proverb about leading a horse to water.

  There’s more than one way to lead a woman to her true nature.

  A breeze brought the smell of fresh paint, and he knew around the corner, almost within reach, was a submissive dying to be released.

  Saturday couldn’t come fast enough.

  Chapter Nine

  It’d been a long and frustrating week, and Veronica wanted nothing more than to curl up in bed with a good romance novel and a bottle of wine. It might be only Saturday afternoon, but the appeal of staying in bed with nothing but her imagination and alcohol had a definite appeal.

  She wouldn’t even have to dress for the part.

  Instead, she had to deal with Oliver and the halfway point of this ridiculous deal.

  As she stood in the shower, she went over the positive accomplishments she’d pulled out of this hellhole of a week.

  Smoke damage repaired.

  Insurance company agreed to pay more than what they’d first agreed to after listening to my argument.

  City inspectors gave the all-clear to reopen the café.

  She’d set the big day for a week from tomorrow to catch the brunch crowd. Jane was eager and Dan chomping at the bit to get Java Jive back on the map, and they’d put out the money for some local advertising to try to recoup their losses. It hurt her to put it so far ahead in the calendar, but her staff agreed they needed to put the word out and it would take time—they couldn’t risk reopening and have no one show up because no one knew they were open.

  Jane had agreed to stay on for another three months before making the decision whether to stay or go. She didn’t want to leave Veronica in the lurch and had faith it would all come together.

  It’d almost brought Veronica to tears as she thanked the barista and promised to do the best she could for Jane, Dan and the café
.

  All in all, the week had gone as best as it could have.

  Now there was this—interrupting her precious free time.

  Veronica turned the water off and reached for a towel.

  Stupid deal.

  She’d spent the morning nitpicking around the café, digging into the corners and griping about the tiniest details. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust her staff to run the place, but she wanted everything to be perfect.

  And perfection also extended out to what to wear to Oliver Greenwood’s house for this meal.

  It didn’t take much time to pick out an outfit for this session—a simple white blouse and jeans along with her running shoes.

  She paused upon seeing the leather jacket hanging by the door.

  You could wear it to annoy him.

  Or you could do the right thing and let it go.

  Veronica ran her hand over the soft leather.

  It’s not like he won’t find something to punish you for, she reminded herself.

  But let’s not give him another reason.

  She slipped on a pastel blue windbreaker, the thin fabric settling easy on her skin.

  The cab dropped her off at the front door as usual and sped away, the driver having better things to do than watch her stand there studying her watch.

  1:59 p.m.

  Veronica raised her hand to knock, waiting until the last minute.

  2:00 p.m.

  She rapped on the door.

  It opened to show Oliver standing there in his usual uniform of black T-shirt and leather pants.

  Her pulse skipped a beat as he smiled.

  “Right on time.” He motioned her in. “Thank you.”

  She stepped into the hallway.

  He closed the door behind her. “I hope you’re hungry.”

  “I—” Veronica froze as the collar went around her neck, the cool leather settling against her skin.

  Her mind went blank.

  “I had the chef prepare a lovely meal for us. One of my favorite dishes.” He moved back into eyesight and offered his hand.

  She took it, the butterflies in her stomach drowning out her hunger.

  “We’re going to be in the dining room today, so I’ll be letting you keep your clothes on.” He winked. “For now.”

  Veronica nodded as he led her down the hall.

  What sort of game is he playing now?

  Oliver had given strict orders to his staff to lay out the food and leave the premises, giving them total privacy. They’d done so as they had so many times before, their paychecks enough to buy their silence if not curb their curiosity.

  The chef had been a bit more brazen, her French accent caressing his ears as she’d tried to unsuccessfully interrogate him.

  “A lady? Here for lunch?” She smiled and waved a fork in his direction. “It’s good to see this.”

  Marie had been with him for as long as he could remember, part of his inheritance from his father. She was short and stout and had slipped easily into his household when he’d bought his own dwelling.

  “It’s not a date,” Oliver protested. “It’s business.”

  “Business of the heart, I say.” Her wide smile made him grin as well. “I would like to have another woman around the house. It’s been too long for you.”

  The reference to Mel snapped his good mood.

  “It’s business. Nothing more,” he muttered. “Nothing more.”

  Her shrug cut him more than if she’d stabbed him with the fork. “What you say. But I see you much happier after these Saturday meetings.”

  Before he could reply, she’d returned to chopping vegetables, ignoring him.

  He led Veronica into the dining room. The smell of the waiting food was almost intoxicating, the simple dish enough to make him drool.

  He had no doubt it was having the same effect on the woman beside him.

  Not to mention the room.

  It reminded him of an old medieval scene, the thick oak dining table ready to be used as a battering ram if necessary. The wooden chairs set around the long table were made of the same strong wood, the dark red leather seats setting off the tapestries hanging on the walls.

  Mel had chosen three from the famous The Hunt of the Unicorn series, the reproductions helping set the scene.

  The irony didn’t evade him.

  “Sit here.” He led her to the chair at the end of the table.

  Veronica laid her purse down on the floor as she seated herself.

  “Your jacket, please.”

  She took off the windbreaker and handed it to him.

  Oliver picked up her purse and placed both on an empty chair.

  As he returned, he saw the tension in her neck muscles, the anticipation holding her stiff.

  You don’t know what’s going to happen.

  Good.

  The stainless steel domes covering their plates reflected her face as she waited.

  Oliver walked around the table to his own seat and picked up the gloves.

  She frowned, obviously confused.

  “Put out your hands.”

  She hesitated.

  “Put out your hands, or I swear I will strip you naked and put you outside in the rose bushes,” he growled.

  Veronica placed her hands on the table.

  “Good. Make a fist and lift the left one.” He slipped the leather mitt on and fastened the buckle at her wrist.

  Her eyes widened as he gestured for her to raise her right hand for the same treatment.

  Oliver stepped back and allowed himself a private smile.

  You didn’t expect that.

  Veronica glared at the two black blobs that had previously been her hands.

  “Now.” He reached over her and lifted the plate cover. “Let’s eat.”

  Veronica looked at her plate and saw it contained small roasted red potatoes in a garlic butter sauce, mixed vegetables and a lovely piece of chicken prepared with some sort of paprika recipe.

  Her stomach rumbled, reminding her she’d followed Oliver’s instructions to the letter.

  She studied the silverware carefully laid out on each side of the plate.

  How am I supposed to eat?

  Her nails dug into her palms as her temper flared.

  What am I supposed to do, beg?

  That’s not going to happen in my lifetime.

  The heat rose in her cheeks as Oliver filled her water glass and then his own before returning to his seat.

  Son of a bitch expects me to beg him for help.

  Frak that.

  “The chicken is my chef’s own creation. A bit spicy, but I know you can handle it.” He lifted his own plate cover to reveal the same dish. “Usually I have this with a lovely white wine, but in this situation, I don’t allow alcohol. Let me know what you think.”

  He picked up his own knife and fork and fell on the meat and vegetables.

  Veronica stared at him for a full minute before realizing he wasn’t paying attention to her.

  What the hell—

  She studied the mittens on her hands. They reminded her of the ones she’d worn as a child, but adult-sized and made of leather.

  With no thumbs.

  The thick padding made it impossible for her fingers to force any sort of control through the leather, her hand balled into a fist. It wasn’t uncomfortable, but she knew there was no way she was going to be able to pull these off on her own.

  She’d seen these in use by other Doms and Dommes, but she’d never thought of using them herself.

  Some sort of mind game.

  Make me ask for help.

  She ground her teeth together.

  I’m not in the mood for this today.

  She experimented with pushing her for
k around, finding no way to get any purchase on the silverware. There was a small ring at the bottom of each mitten, and she used the one on the right hand to lift up the fork from the table.

  It clattered on the fine china as she moved her hand over the plate.

  Damn.

  She placed her bare forearms on each side of the plate and pulled it closer.

  Maybe—

  She lowered her face and snatched one of the red potatoes, just the right size to fit in her mouth.

  Veronica sat up with a grin as she chewed.

  There.

  Take that you, power-hungry punk.

  She looked over at him.

  No reaction.

  Veronica finished off the potato and went in for the chicken. It was messy, and she only got the slender edge in a tiny bite, but she felt like she’d scored a major victory.

  She licked her lips, pulling in the sauce smeared on her face.

  Damn good.

  Oliver dabbed at his mouth with a napkin and got up. He moved behind her, and for a fleeting second, she thought he was leaving.

  Suddenly his hand was on the back of her neck, squeezing tight.

  “You are not an animal,” he said in a low, steady tone. “I could put your plate on the floor, but I just had the carpets cleaned.”

  She froze as he picked up the napkin and wiped her mouth.

  “If you want to be a dog, I can treat you like a dog.” The heated whisper sent a tremor through her skin. “But you are a smart, beautiful young woman who I want to behave. And if I have to do this, I will.”

  His other hand snaked around and grabbed hold of the ring at the base of her neck, hanging off her collar.

  She could barely see out of the corner of her eye as something brushed her shoulders, a thin band pulling on her blouse.

  “There.” The triumphant tone gave her goose bumps.

  Oliver returned to his chair and resumed eating.

  Veronica tried to lean forward but couldn’t.

  He just tied me to the chair.

  She pressed her fingers into the palms of her hands, trying to control her anger.

  Son of a—

  Her stomach was rumbling again, demanding more.

  She stared at the plate.

  She’s strong. Have to give her credit for that.