Oliver cut one of the red potatoes in half, watching her struggle with the mitts.
He’d only used them a few times with Melissa. She’d hated them, and while he was her Master, he wasn’t a sadist.
He also didn’t like sleeping on the couch.
Veronica licked her lips, and he could see the machinations in her mind spinning and turning to try and get around the obvious truth. The leash strung through the ring in her collar was securely fastened to the chair back, immobilizing her.
This was a battle of wills he had to win.
She struggled against the leash, testing the flexibility.
Close to none. He’d made sure of it.
She placed her arms on each side of the plate and tried to lift it up by hooking the expensive china on the metal rings that would usually be used to clip the mitts together.
Persistent. Innovative. Stubborn.
He frowned as the plate lifted a half inch into the air before crashing down on the table.
She shuddered. Whether from fear of breaking the plate, upsetting him or frustration, he couldn’t tell.
He continued to eat, watching her out of the corner of his eye. The chicken was fork-tender, the vegetables perfectly cooked. The garlic butter sauce tickled his senses, and there was no way she couldn’t be hungry—he’d heard her stomach growl during the minutes they’d been sitting there.
A sip of ice-cold water had him smacking his lips in appreciation. He’d told her white wine would usually accompany this, but sometimes you needed a nice glass of—
“Sir.”
The whisper was so faint he had to strain to hear it.
Veronica cleared her throat. “Sir.”
Oliver put down his fork. “Yes?”
“Can you please help me?”
There.
Was that so hard?
He got up and went to her, knowing it had been damned hard.
Oliver picked up her knife and fork and stood by her. He leaned in and sliced up the meat and potatoes into small bite-sized portions.
“There.” He speared a piece of chicken. “Now—”
He turned and froze.
A single solitary tear trickled down her left cheek.
It took all his self-control not to flip the plates over, unlock her mitts and pull her into his lap, throw the session’s work away.
“There, there.” He hummed as he picked up the napkin to wipe the tear away. “What’s that for? You haven’t even tasted it yet.”
He offered the forkful of food to her.
She opened her mouth and took it, her eyes brimming with tears.
Think about it, Roni, he pleaded with her silently.
Think about this.
She stayed silent as he fed her the rest of the chicken, the potatoes, the carrots and peas, and helped her sip water at intervals he chose.
Finally, he placed the silverware on the empty plate, crossing the knife and fork.
“Thank you,” she said quietly.
He nodded and returned to his own chair.
Veronica swallowed hard as she stared at the table.
“I think—” She paused and looked at him.
He nodded, giving her permission to continue.
“I think I understand,” she started. “I need you to feed me in this situation. I give you the power over me willingly.” Veronica held up her hands. “I could safe-word out of this, but I’m not. Because it’s sort of sexy to have a man serving me.” She licked her lips. “And you like it. I’m sort of turned on seeing you getting off.”
Oliver didn’t say anything.
He didn’t have to.
“I have the power because I’m letting you do this. And you have the power because you did this. It’s a give-and-take deal where neither one is better than the other.” She frowned. “Does that make sense?”
He got up again and went to her, his heart filled to bursting with emotion.
“Yes.” Oliver kissed her forehead. “You have some of the power, and I have some. And it’s only in what we both give each other that creates what happens between us, what makes a Dominant/submissive relationship work.”
She smiled as he undid the leash.
“Except you forgot one thing.” Veronica rolled her neck around, and he flinched at hearing the bones pop and crack. “Your food’s cold now.”
The mischievous smile sent a warm rush to his groin.
“That’s a price I’m willing to pay if it helps you figure this out.” He returned to his chair. “But thanks for reminding me.”
He stabbed at a piece of chicken. “But while we’re figuring things out—I want to know why you assumed you were a natural Domme.” He waved the fork around. “I know there are no questionnaires, no tests you can take online that will tell you what you’re predisposed toward—at least nothing reliable.” He pointed the slender chicken slice at her. “Why did you think you were a Domme?”
Veronica frowned.
Oliver continued to eat. The dish wasn’t bad cold other than the congealing garlic sauce, and even that tasted wonderful.
He didn’t press. This was something she needed to figure out on her own.
Veronica lifted her mittens and looked at them. She rotated her hands, studying the stitching and the black leather.
Oliver concentrated on finishing up his meal.
“My father—” She stopped. “My mother died when I was sixteen from pancreatic cancer. It was a long, horrible death we tried to avoid using every method we had. We flew in specialists, we went to private clinics in Mexico, and it all meant nothing in the end.” Veronica drew a shuddering breath. “She died at home in the middle of the night while I napped on the sofa and my father in a chair by her bed. The night nurse woke us when she came in to check on her.”
Oliver felt like he’d been punched in the chest. He laid down his silverware and crossed his hands in front of him on the table.
“My father cursed like a sailor at her funeral. It made the priest blush.” She gave a wistful smile. “He was mad at the world. He’d worked his way up to a powerful position in the company and thought he could buy anything, fix anything. He couldn’t.”
Oliver pushed his chair back and got up.
“He raged for days about how powerless he felt about her dying. All that money, all that power, and one little cancer cell beat him. Beat her. Beat us.” She sighed. “He told me it wasn’t my fault when I started blaming myself. He was good about that.”
Oliver stopped behind her. He reached over and undid the buckle on her left hand as she kept talking.
“He told me to never let go of anything, never give an inch. I think he thought if my mother had been stronger, she might have beaten this.” Veronica bit her lower lip. “I watched him grow tougher, more demanding, more—” She smiled. “More controlling. And I saw being in charge meant you never had to show your emotions, never be exposed. Never be vulnerable to anyone. Anything.”
He slid the left mitten off.
Her hand rested on the table, fingers curled into a fist.
“When I was at that frat party I knew I couldn’t be on my knees for anyone. I couldn’t give up that control.”
Oliver tossed the mitt to the side and worked on the right hand.
Her eyes brimmed with tears again. “My father told me to give up control was to be weak, a doormat for others to wipe their feet on. I couldn’t imagine letting anyone do that to me.”
He yanked the glove off and threw it across the room, barely containing his anger.
Veronica looked down at her hands, still curled into fists. She turned them over and slowly straightened out her fingers.
Angry red crescents marked her palms, showing where her nails had dug into her skin.
“There was no way I could see myself as a s
ubmissive.” She turned to him. Tears streamed down her cheeks. “I’m still not sure what I am.” Her voice cracked. “But I know I’m an awful person for what I’ve done in the past.”
The confession broke the last of Oliver’s resolve.
He crouched beside her and pulled her off the chair into his lap, curled around her protectively as she sobbed uncontrollably.
“No,” he said, forcing himself to sound calm. “You are not a bad person. You’re lovely and strong and wonderful and a good woman. You got on the wrong path, and no one bothered to put you right. Until now.” He dropped kisses into her hair until the shuddering had stopped and her breathing returned to normal. “But we’re going to fix that and make you the best you can be. The best you should be.”
Chapter Ten
Oliver held back the shakes until the car had turned out of sight at the end of his driveway.
He closed the door and rested his back against it, gritting his teeth.
Dear old Daddy.
He was familiar with the ways family could screw you up—he could write a book on the games his own relatives had played over the years.
But this—this wasn’t deliberate and yet enough to scar her psyche.
I can’t be a submissive because I can’t relinquish control.
It was so simple and yet so complicated, her misstep screwing up not only her life but those of the submissives she’d dealt with who hadn’t understood that deep inside, she was one of them.
He rubbed his face with both hands, trying to vent his anger.
And his desire.
The more he knew about Veronica, the more he wanted her.
My Roni.
* * * * *
The next week went by in a flurry of public relations promoting the reopening. She’d wrangled a spot on the local television station’s morning show, and between the advertising blitz and supervising the final bits and pieces of renovation, Veronica was beyond exhaustion by the time Saturday morning came around.
She’d considered calling off the session until an enigmatic email arrived in her inbox at noon.
Wear clothing you won’t mind having destroyed. Car will be there as usual. You’ll be safe.
She’d tried not to think about Oliver all week, resisted the urge to walk around the corner and see if he were in the bookstore nagging the staff or micromanaging the store.
For his part, he’d stayed clear of Java Jive, this email the only communication between them. She was halfway through her prescribed sessions, and even though she had to admit progress, she didn’t want to take any time off that could be spent on one last promotional push.
But her curiosity got the better of her, and she ended up standing in her bedroom, gazing into her closet.
What the hell does he mean—destroy?
Even at her nastiest, she’d never actually ripped off anyone’s clothing. She’d pushed the limit with their bodies, but never had she trashed someone’s shirt or pants to send them back out in a crazy walk of shame to scamper back to the locker room.
Veronica walked into her bedroom and put her hands on her hips, scowling as she surveyed the closet.
Screw it. I’m not wearing anything I can’t afford to lose.
Veronica couldn’t help smirking as she dug in her closet for her old workout clothing.
Let’s see how sexy he can make it when I’m wearing these.
Oliver paced around the playroom. The leather collar was in his hand, wrapped tight around his fingers.
I don’t know if she’s ready for this.
His thoughts warred with each other for dominance.
You won’t know how far you can push until you do it. She won’t know either. But if she breaks too soon, if she safe-words out—you’ll know her limits.
As will she.
You took on the job, the challenge. Now let’s see if you can live up to your promises.
He glanced at the clock and headed for the front door.
Two minutes to two o’clock.
Oliver’s gaze landed on one of the wall pictures.
He and Melissa at a campground, laughing as they held up burned marshmallows.
I miss you.
The color image smiled back at him, and for a second, he thought he heard her soft whisper.
Help her. Help yourself.
He stopped and lifted his empty hand to brush over the glossy photo.
A knock came at the front door.
Oliver smiled and advanced on the entrance.
Veronica dropped her hand down by her side after knocking on the door.
She wasn’t sure why she was there.
She didn’t need the club that badly.
Sure you do, the smug voice said. Don’t lie to yourself.
You need this.
She sighed and brushed invisible lint off her shirt front.
We’ll see what I need.
A kernel of fear churned in her gut, one that had been growing since she’d left her flat.
What is he going to do today? What can he possibly do to me, do for me that we haven’t done yet?
Her mind spiraled into different scenarios, ones she’d either done herself or seen done to other submissives.
The anticipation grew, feeding on her fear.
An underlying sense of desire trembled to life inside her as well, keeping pace with the fear.
The door opened, and she was struck dumb.
Oliver stood there, bare-chested and in the same leather pants she’d seen before. He didn’t look any different—except for his eyes. Those deep-blue eyes.
They were…solid. Strong.
In control.
She forced herself to stay still.
“You’re on time. Good.” He pivoted on his heel and headed down the hall. “Close the door and come with me.”
Veronica did so. She had to run to catch up with him, dashing past the images on the walls.
He led her to the sitting room they’d used before.
“In here.” Oliver closed and locked the door once they’d entered. “All the staff is gone as usual. No one can hear you. No one will help you even if they did.” He turned and faced her, arms crossed. “Give me your purse.”
She did so and watched him toss it into a corner of the room.
“You won’t need that.”
Veronica glared back at him. She’d worn a ratty old black T-shirt dug out from the bottom of her closet and a pair of gray track pants stained with paint from a previous café renovation.
He stretched out his hand, revealing the collar.
“Put it on.”
She paused.
His voice rose in both intensity and volume. “Put it on.”
Veronica plucked it from his hand and wrapped it around her neck. She fumbled with the buckle, feeling his disapproving stare boring holes in her as she stared at the floor.
“Good,” he said as she put her hands down at her sides.
She took a deep breath and felt the leather dig into her skin. It was suffocating her, choking the life out of her.
Her fingers went up to pull it loose.
A few steps brought Oliver close. He grabbed her wrists and pulled them down.
“What’s wrong?”
“It’s too tight. I can’t breathe.” The panic attack started in her chest, threatening to overwhelm her.
“You’re fine. It’s the same one you wore last week.” His voice dropped to a low steady tone. “Roni. Look at me.”
She dragged her eyes up to meet his.
“It’s the same one. I wouldn’t change it to hurt you.” He stared at her. “Trust me.”
He released her hands and reached up to stroke her cheek. “You have to trust me.”
Veronica took a staggered breath and nod
ded, forcing the panic down into her belly.
“I trust you,” she murmured.
“Good.” He spun her around to face the chaise lounge. “Because I’ve got plenty planned for you today.”
She stared at the various toys laid out on the plush furniture.
All for me.
Nipple clamps, floggers, thick wooden paddles—
Oh God.
She felt faint and must have wavered, because suddenly he was behind her, his arms wrapped around to hold her steady.
“I won’t push you beyond what you can take. Believe me.” He loosened his hold as she regained her balance. “But first—” His hand landed on her left shoulder. “This will have to go.”
Veronica flexed her fingers in preparation for the order to take off her shirt.
“Don’t move.” Something cold touched the back of her neck. “I don’t want you to hurt yourself.”
The sensation startled her into immobility.
Scissors.
He’s cutting my clothing off.
The cool trickle ran down her spine, and the shirt loosened around her.
“You’re doing well,” he murmured.
The chilled touch vanished.
“Take your running shoes off.” There was a hint of laughter in his voice. “I don’t think the scissors will survive those.”
She leaned over and untied them. The remnants of the shirt fell along her arms and she let it fall to the ground, exposing her breasts.
She hadn’t worn a bra.
Veronica paused for a second, wondering if she should pick up the torn fabric.
“Don’t touch it,” he warned.
Her question answered, she toed off the shoes and peeled the socks free.
As she stood back up, his hand landed on the back of her neck again.
“I could cut those pants, but they’re ugly as sin, and I’m not going to ruin my scissors by touching them. Pull them off. Slowly.”
She felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end as she wriggled out of them.
He’s watching me.
Evaluating me.
A flash of insecurity dug into her mind.
How do I stack up to his other women?
She’d never worried about her appearance before.
Suddenly, it’d become very, very important.
Strictly Pleasure: Hooded Pleasures, Book 2 Page 12
