Fearless (Elite Doms of Washington Book 5)

by Elizabeth SaFleur

Such direct words from the woman shook Steffan from his growing stupor as he realized her intent. Laurent had not been in such a daze, as he instantly let go and fell to his knees. He buried his face between her legs in a second. Her mouth dropped opened as he gripped her thighs and his mouth latched on to her. Wet, sucking sounds mixed with the rattle of the chains still swaying in front of him.

  Sarah stared at Steffan, her eyes glazing in pleasure as Laurent took his fill. Fuck him, he should be causing that reaction. He should be triggering that flush across her chest, her cheeks. He stalked forward, placing both hands on either side of her face, widening his legs so Laurent could continue his work below him. The rise in her chin, the challenge that filled her eyes, didn’t make him falter one bit. She turned him on. Not because he had an interest in being on the receiving end of her domination, but because she was so clearly unfettered in her power—something he’d always admired about women.

  He leaned in, fisting her hair and took her mouth. She opened to him. He savaged her lips, driven by greed and the need to claim, and she responded with equal ferocity. His groin ached from lack of contact as she met him with every bit of her power, dueling with him in something as simple as a kiss.

  Her hands yanked at his belt. When those soft hands met his cock, he moaned into her mouth. She drew him out, gentler than he expected given her assault on his trousers, and stroked. Her touches, her mouth, the wet sucking sounds below him, would drive any sane man mad. He had to have this woman underneath him.

  He released her mouth, both of them panting.

  “Come for me,” she said.

  “Not unless it’s inside you,” he told her. “Laurent, you heard your Mistress.”

  She pulled her hand free from him, and he heard Laurent’s guttural release below him. Only one of them took orders. It wasn’t him.

  He stepped backward and tucked himself into his pants. Laurent had sagged against her thighs, breathing heavily but not pulling back. She expertly slipped herself from both men. Laurent’s haunted eyes darted up to Steffan. Wet glistened on his jaw.

  After retrieving a towel, she crouched down to Laurent. He placed his hands on the towel before she could make a move to clean him up.

  “Mistress, may I please—”

  She placed a finger against his lips. “You did so well. Exactly what I wanted.” She then placed a kiss on his forehead.

  “But—”

  “Hush. Take the gifts I give you.” Her voice was steel.

  As she went to work cleaning him up, Laurent’s eyes flashed to him with a question. Sarah hadn’t orgasmed. Why did she deny herself?

  21

  He arrived at Sarah’s for work the next day, as promised. They didn’t speak about last night, and it had nothing to do with the fact that Madeline, Sarah’s assistant, was present. He didn’t know what to say—or ask. For now, he’d listen and look for the opening to talk to Sarah when alone.

  They’d stayed in the dungeon together for a grand total of ten more minutes after she denied him the pleasure of bringing her to orgasm. Sarah had gotten dressed. He’d gone to the bathroom off the dungeon to clean up, insisting he go alone. He’d meant to give Steffan and Sarah a chance to talk. It was the wrong thing to do, as he’d returned to find them snapping at one another.

  “This is all I can offer, Steffan. It really should be enough,” she’d hissed in a whisper.

  Steffan had turned to him, lips drawn tight. “Ready to go?”

  Sarah had hugged him, held his face and asked if he was all right. He’d been fine, god-damn-it. It was Sarah who hadn’t been fine. She asked him to come to work today, which he had done. Hell, he’d have done anything she asked—anything except dance around what had happened. Or, not happened. The three of them had played, and it had been glorious. She’d denied herself, which was her right, and Steffan just had to press her about it. He was so angry at Steffan, he’d barely spoken to the man.

  He’d spent a silent morning helping Sarah fit Jonathan for his wedding tuxedo—or tried to. Sarah’s mother’s constant stream of commentary considerably slowed down things.

  The instant Laurent had arrived, Claire Marillioux strode up to him in that horrid peach suit that had to be vintage Chanel, and introduced herself to him immediately. “I’m Sarah’s mother, Claire.” Her bleached hair had been processed so much it resembled blond cotton candy. Her eyebrows were penciled in hard. Paper-thin skin and cool pieces of metal met his hand in her handshake. She sported so many diamonds on her hands, he worried about Jonathan’s sleeve getting snagged, given she couldn’t stop picking off imaginary lint. Laurent had brushed the coats just that morning.

  “How women do this all day, I will never know.” Jonathan straightened his suit coat sleeves and stepped off the platform in the fitting room.

  “Oh, Jonathan, we don’t.” Sarah’s mother said. “Women don’t require as many fittings as men. We know our measurements by heart.”

  “My mother,” Sarah laughed. “She was born knowing if her thighs grew 1000th of an inch.”

  Laurent didn’t doubt it.

  “Laurent, why aren’t you one of Sarah’s models?” Claire smiled at him. She and Sarah had similar mouths, though Claire’s lift of the lips never reached her eyes, probably to avoid creating wrinkles in her new eye job—or at least Laurent guessed it was new by the tightly drawn skin. He normally didn’t think such uncharitable thoughts, but his insides were strung too tight over last night.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Brond, but I prefer to help Sarah in other ways.”

  “Where did you two meet again?” she asked, though he’d certainly not said where a first time.

  “Through a mutual friend.”

  “Oh really? How fascinating.” She turned to Sarah who was already saying her good-byes to Jonathan. “Jonathan? Are you done already? You seem as eager to leave this place as your fiancé.”

  His face hardened. “It’s hard to enjoy things when the details start to overrun the purpose. We won’t be doing this again, Claire. Dress fittings and changes are done.” He spun on his heel and exited.

  “You young people and your work,” she said. “There is so much else to life, wouldn’t you agree, Laurent?”

  “I would agree completely, Mrs. Brond. It’s important to know how to let off steam.” He was pressing things, but why not? Steffan had his way of pushing, but Laurent had his own way of forcing an issue. He gathered a pair of trousers, abandoned by Jonathan.

  “My God, Sarah. The man picks up clothes from the floor. Marry him.” Claire laughed.

  Laurent gave Sarah a smile that she did not return.

  Alexander stepped through the fitting room door and in a few short strides was centered on the dais.

  “Alexander, I do believe you could bring back the three-piece suit,” Claire circled him on the podium. “What do you think, Laurent?”

  “I agree completely.” The man could bring the Nehru jacket back in style.

  Alexander unbuttoned his jacket. “There was a time when men didn’t leave the house without one on.”

  “Nice,” Laurent let slip out.

  “Alexander, the fit is perfect,” Sarah said.

  “Agreed.” He stepped off the podium.

  “People move fast in this city, Laurent. Too fast if you ask me,” Claire scowled

  “I’m seeing you at Charlotte’s event, right?” Sarah took the jacket Alexander shrugged off.

  Laurent’s gaze shot up at the mention of Charlotte and her collaring ceremony, the “event” subterfuge necessary given the number of people in the room who were not associated with Accendos.

  “I wouldn’t miss it.”

  “Who’s Charlotte?” Claire asked.

  “A friend.”

  “Well, I’m glad you’re getting out. Really, Laurent, all my daughter does is work. Perhaps you could change that.”

  “I would love to change that.”

  Sarah inspected Alexander’s cuffs, likely to make sure they fell at the exact p
oint she desired. Her attention to detail rivaled Steffan’s attention to his cooking, which he seemed to be doing less of. He’d cooked the other night and baked a few pastries here and there, yet their kitchen counters remained wide open, appliances still boxed, and that gorgeous quartz-topped island was littered with too many take-out menus.

  “Hmm, we need the other cufflinks,” she said. “I’ll be right back.”

  Laurent jumped on the chance to follow her out—alone. As soon as the curtains closed behind him, she spun. “Laurent, what?”

  “I’m worried about you. Even your mother—”

  “The dynamic in our family has been long established.”

  Sadness crossed her face, but then she recovered. She swiped the curtain back and stepped back into the storeroom. Okay, that didn’t go as planned. He followed.

  “Sarah, dear,” her mother began. “The new suits are divine. It is the eleventh hour to change things, but—”

  “We can’t, mother,” Sarah said. “No more changes. It’s done.”

  She sighed dramatically and looked over at Laurent. “You’ll find my daughter is quite the stickler for schedules and such.”

  “I appreciate that.”

  “Ask her out anyway, if you haven’t already.”

  The icicles Sarah aimed at her mother impaled his heart.

  Alexander stepped forward. “Sarah, I’d like to see if my suit for that other event came in?”

  Sarah straightened. “Of course, Alexander. I completely forgot. Mother, you will be late for your lunch unless you hurry.”

  “Yes, I probably will be.” She also looked sad.

  Why did no one get what they wanted in this town?

  Sarah pulled out Alexander’s new black kilt and turned to find her mother had not left, but rather followed her into the storeroom.

  “I just need a smidgen of your time, daughter of mine.” She turned and yanked the curtains closer together. This was not going to be good.

  She strode over to Sarah. “Now, you don’t ever like hearing this from me—”

  “We are not changing another detail of this wedding, Mother.”

  Claire wrinkled her forehead. “I’m talking about Laurent. Now there is a man you could get used to. He is quite smitten with you.”

  “Smitten?” Sarah laughed.

  “What’s he going to school for? Fashion? Law school?”

  “Physical therapy. Mother, we are not doing this.”

  “Like I said.” She raised her hands. “You never want to hear this from me, but my God, Sarah, you attract men like flies. That one out there can’t keep his eyes off you. Why won’t you let go for once?”

  “Stop.”

  Claire nearly stepped backward at her tone—one Sarah normally used on bratty submissives. Before she could turn away, her mother grasped her arm with surprising strength. “Sarah. Please. I love you.”

  That did stop her in her tracks.

  “Mother, are you crying?” Yes, those were honest to god tears in her eyes.

  “I know this wedding hasn’t been easy on anyone. I want my children to be happy, and I know how regrets can take over your life—like you’re doing now.”

  “I don’t know what—”

  “It won’t happen again. I can assure you.” Her mother then did the inexplicable. She moved closer and took both her hands. Her voice in her throat. Affection wasn’t Claire’s strong suit.

  “Joshua Martin,” Claire said. “There. I said his name out loud. It’s time we finally did.”

  Sarah couldn’t breathe, but God help her if she fainted, she’d kill herself. No, first she’d kill her mother.

  The curtains parted, and Alexander strode in. “Claire, tell me you didn’t just say what I thought I heard.”

  So he’d overheard. He was one of the few people in the world who knew that name and knew what it would do to her to hear it spoken aloud. There wasn’t anything he could do, however, to lessen the impact of hearing the boy’s name she’d nearly been ruined over. There wasn’t anything anyone could do.

  Laurent’s arms were full of men’s jackets, still warm from being worn. He couldn’t help but sneak a peek inside the storeroom. Alexander’s face was as hard as his voice. So what, Laurent eavesdropped. He wasn’t sorry. He had to find out what was going on in Sarah’s head. Instead, he caught a name that drained all the color from Sarah’s face. Joshua Martin? Who was Joshua Martin?

  A second later, Sarah had rushed through the curtains without giving him a single look as she brushed passed. She’d gone straight to her office, the door clicking behind her.

  Alexander’s voice thundered through the curtain. “Claire, I’m appalled you would mention that name.”

  “She’s my daughter. I have an idea how—”

  “She doesn’t need your ideas, Claire. She needs your love.”

  Alexander swiped the curtain back, and Laurent stepped backward. He dipped his head. Alexander had just caught him snooping. He couldn’t look at the man.

  “Laurent.” Alexander stepped out and allowed a flustered Claire to slip by him. The woman picked up her purse and looked back at Alexander.

  “It’s time, Alexander,” she said.

  “I know.” His voice had softened.

  “Then do something. Please. You’re her closest friend.” Claire swallowed hard.

  Laurent, too afraid to look at Alexander, believed the man gave her some sort of signal because she smiled and nodded before she moved across the room and out the exit.

  A heavy hand fell on his shoulder. “Laurent, you overheard that.”

  “Who’s Joshua Martin?” He pried.

  “Someone from Sarah’s past. You’d be wise never to bring it up with her.”

  “He hurt her.”

  “Yes.”

  “What can I do? I love her.” There, he’d said it aloud.

  Alexander eyed him. “Some people in our world keep looking for their soul mate, the one who will answer all your dreams. Some find that. Take Jonathan and Christiana, for example. As for Sarah?”

  “She found the one and lost him.”

  “No, quite the opposite.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Not my story to tell. But she was devastated.”

  “So, now she won’t let anyone do that to her again?”

  “You’re quite perceptive, Laurent. But, not exactly. You want to know the key to Sarah? Give her more choices, not fewer.”

  “More.”

  “I think you know what I mean. Not everyone wants to be like a swan—tied to one person the rest of their lives.” The man took the armful of suits Laurent held, now wrinkled to oblivion, in his arms. Alexander hung them on hooks, one-by-one. “So many choices.” He stepped back and looked at the army of jackets. “Why should anyone have to choose just one?”

  “I agree.”

  After Alexander left, Laurent stood deep in thought for long moments. Finally, he pursed his lips and shrugged. “Why not? It should work.” He slipped outside to the parking lot, now dim in twilight, and pulled out his phone.

  “Steffan. I know what to do.”

  There was a moment of silence on the other end, but Laurent didn’t need to say “I know what to do with Sarah” for he doubted his friend could think of anyone else right now. He certainly couldn’t.

  “I’m listening,” Steffan said.

  Laurent told him about his mysterious, though enlightening, conversation with Alexander, and offered up a plan—one that would involve both of them. Choices, the man had said. Okay, they would give her just that.

  22

  Sarah stepped through the massive Gothic oak door of The Library into a fairy wonderland. They’d had to move Charlotte’s collaring ceremony inside due to rain, but the girl still got what she wanted.

  Tiny white lights hung in long drapes across the entire ceiling, creating a lower ceiling than normally existed. Through the lighted strands, she noted swags of white flowers hung on all the balconies of th
e upper decks—roses, gardenias, baby’s breath and more. The Library, normally dark and heavy, seemed bathed in moonlight. “So like Charlotte,” she said under her breath without an ounce of cynicism.

  “Sarah, I thought you were on vacation?” Carson strode over and pecked her on the cheek.

  “No, just work.”

  “Wedding crunch time? You know there is a reason why London and I eloped.”

  She laughed. “I can think of a hundred reasons why you’d want to now. But Jonathan …”

  “The romantic pussy,” Carson said.

  She laughed heartily for the first time in days. She’d forgotten how good it felt to be among friends. She had hidden away for the last few days and tried to catch up on sleep. How could anyone sleep after her mother dropped an explosive name from her past like it was nothing? Like it wouldn’t send her reeling from the memories evoked? She couldn’t bear to think of Joshua Martin and the string of broken hearts—including her own—he’d left. Now she was among her chosen family, and she needed to think of more important things like her friends.

  “Where is London?” she asked.

  “Ladies room with Christiana and the pack.”

  Carson called all the significant others of the Tribunal Council members, “the pack.” She supposed it was apropos given how they looked after one another, protected one another, and that included her. She’d remember that the next time her she was within a mile of the woman who’d given birth to her but clearly didn’t understand the definition of protection.

  Carson studied her. “How are you really, Sarah? You look tired.”

  “Insomnia, and, the melatonin I took gave me bad dreams.”

  “Well, remember about the candle that burned both ends.”

  “It made a sub very happy?” a female chirp asserted from behind her.

  “Exactly. Hello, wife,” Carson placed a kiss on London’s temple as the woman sidled up to him.

  “Hi, Sarah, love your shoes.”

  “Giuseppe Zapotti.” She cocked her ankle, showing off the Swarovski crystal hearts along the copper-colored straps. “Come by. I have a pair for you.”