Willing Sacrifice
Page 8

Going over all this in his head, he wryly concluded he’d done more intel gathering on her than he’d admitted to himself, and the rate of it had increased since that day in the limo. She’d probably chastised herself for her meltdown in the hospital restroom, but that would have been unjustified. When it counted, she’d been as firmly in control as she was at command central—what the staff called her desk, set smack in the middle of the top floor between all five executive offices. She’d kept Savannah focused, moving them forward toward a common goal. As far as how she’d been with him, they’d clicked together as seamlessly that day as SEAL members who’d trained together. That didn’t happen unless there was a solid connection there.
He recalled her standing in the bathroom, the imprint of the blood on her skin, her bra. When something triggered a memory that took over everything else, he knew what that looked like on a person’s face. She’d been staring in the mirror, but her eyes had been a million memories away, a whimper stuck in her throat, her fingers clutching the sink to keep herself from being whirled down the rabbit hole, back to whatever awful thing all that blood had summoned to her mind.
As he’d washed it off her, he’d noticed the softness of her skin, how firm her body was beneath it. Not too firm though. The woman was in good shape, but her ass had a nice roundness to it. He liked that about women in their forties, when only the most fanatical workouts in the gym could keep the curves at bay. She was a few years older than him, but not enough to be a cause for concern for either of them. Women were more worried about that than men, anyhow.
When he’d lifted her up onto the hood, he’d wanted to keep his hands on her. He’d wanted to see if she closed her eyes when she kissed, if the sharpness of her face softened, if the rigid, straight line of her body would become more curved, melt into his. She hadn’t closed her eyes, and her body hadn’t softened, but the lips had, and he’d felt her quiver under his touch. The day he’d held her in the bathroom, she hadn’t relaxed either, but today he’d felt the hint of what it would be like if she fitted herself to a man’s angles and curves, let him palm that sweet ass and pull her closer, against a cock that was more than eager to show her pleasure.
Was he ready for such a step? It’d been awhile for him. Yeah, he’d indulged the occasional sexual release with the right woman in the right moment, all fun and games, no harm, no foul, but this wouldn’t be in the same realm, he was sure of that.
What he was contemplating might go so bad, the mission should be aborted before it even started. It seemed like they were both interested enough to give it a try though, so he’d take responsibility. If it went sour, he’d be the one who’d leave. It was clear she had a family here. Max viewed them that way as well, but he could maintain that without the work itself, whereas he perceived she needed that structure to stay connected. He’d back off, move on, if needed. He wouldn’t shit where she lived, so to speak. Or if he did, he’d clean it up by clearing out.
He had a weird urge to seek Matt’s permission to court his secretary, but he saw no graceful way to do that. Plus, Janet would likely jam her stapler up his ass if he tried. Wondering if K&A’s generous benefit package covered such an injury, he grinned.
* * * * *
Friday night. There was no doubt in Janet’s mind about going to Club Progeny. Her body had been on turbocharge since her visit with Max in the garage earlier in the week. That faint brush of lips across her mouth had stuck with her, as powerful as if he’d lifted her up against a wall and fucked her brainless, so she needed some perspective, some balance. It was like they were engaging in a rumba, everything powerfully suggestive, filled with overwhelming potential, but still confined within the careful boundaries of the dance.
He was being just as cautious as she was, which meant they both understood the consequences of taking it into uncharted territory. She hadn’t realized a man who evaluated things so thoroughly beforehand could be so damn sexy. She guessed it was because of the barely restrained passion behind it. A powerful warrior more than ready for the heat and passion of the battle, but he was going to make damn sure he had it won before he even stepped on to that ground. Brawn and intelligence—how could a woman resist?
Tonight would be helpful to clear her mind, figure out a counter strategy that would be an adventure for both of them. She had no doubt the ballet class would provide an intriguing neutral ground for them, full of more pleasurable innuendo. So far her interactions with him had been like the slow consumption of a flawless chocolate mousse, made perfect by the defined, precisely spaced experience of its taste and texture.
Pulling into the club parking lot in her red classic Mustang, she was intrigued to see Max’s truck. She could hardly mistake it, because there were very few older Ford Rangers maintained in such pristine condition. As she circled closer to it, her lower extremities coiled up in anticipation.
Maybe I’ll come in sometime…Just see if you’re there.
Getting out of her car, she locked it, shouldering her garment bag and makeup case. Once inside the club, she didn’t look around. She showed her membership card and went straight to the women’s changing area. She had a different goal tonight. If Max was in the coffee shop and happened to see her, that was fine, but it was too soon to engage. In fact, maybe she should use a private room tonight. She needed to focus, balance. But that was weak. Finding her focus in a public arena was a challenge, requiring discipline, and she liked to stay sharp.
Slicking her hair back with sculpting clay, she made sure her topknot was secure. She’d chosen a pencil skirt that zipped up the side, the zipper starting at the top of the high slit. A tight black blouse went over the skirt, the blouse sheer enough to show the black bra beneath it. She pulled on tight boots that etched out her calves like a second skin, as well as a pair of elbow-length gloves that had the same supple fit. She took a look at herself from all angles before locking up her personal belongings. Carrying the bag of items she might desire to use on her chosen sub, she headed out to the public floor.
She remembered the first time Matt had brought her to this type of club. After what she’d been through, she thought he was insane for thinking such a place would intrigue her. She’d been tense, only her trust and respect for him keeping her sitting on the bar stool rather than heading back out to the parking lot. Then he’d told her to close her eyes.
Listen, Janet. Really listen.
She knew what it sounded like, the thud of objects hitting flesh. Fists, belt…baseball bat. It made the bones in her face ache. I broke my doll, but see…I have the power and money to put her back together, make her beautiful again. That’s why I know you’re mine, querida, my sweet ballerina.
Matt had brought her back from that with another touch, repeating his gentle admonishment. “Hear the differences.”
And finally, she had. With a Dom and sub, there was a rhythm to it, one that was wholly absent when the striking was done in violence. That kind of beating was more chaotic, like white noise. This was like a mesmerizing piano concerto, the rise and fall of emotion, of action and reaction. It made her open her eyes. She’d rested her attention on a Mistress flogging a male who was on his elbows and knees before her. When she bent to lay a kiss on the reddened expanse of one quivering buttock, he’d begged her to let him press his lips to her shoe.
What seemed an act of humiliation on its face had been anything but. Janet had registered the absorbed look on the Domme’s face, the adoration on the sub’s. She felt a sudden desire to be standing in that Domme’s shoes, to prove…what wielding power should be. To feel what it could be like to wield such power. She hadn’t had much luck in getting close to men since Jorge, but maybe this way, she could. Within prescribed boundaries, holding the reins, she could find something her body still ached to have. The arousing, respectful touch of a man. Maybe she wasn’t ready for passion—it was too close to violence—but this she could have.
That feeling brought her back again and again to this environment. A sense of being safe, of being at home. Max or no Max, she could anticipate what the night would bring like a kid at a carnival, no worries that any of the monsters would follow her home.
She saw several of her regulars here, occasional playmates. Harris came to her with a smile, dropping to a knee before looking up at her with pleased affection. “May I serve you tonight, Mistress?”
“I’m in the mood to be harsh, Harris. Over your limits. Maybe another night. Who would you suggest?”
He covered his disappointment with a respectful nod, glanced toward the floor. “Thor.”
“A sub with the name Thor?” She shook her head. “Does he know how that sounds?”
Harris gave her a grin. “Like a slave needing punishment for getting above his station. You said you were in the mood to be harsh.”
“Good point.” She touched his hair in fond acknowledgment. “Send him to me, and I’ll look forward to taking you in hand another night.”
“I’m always eager to serve you, Mistress.”
As Thor came toward her, she studied him critically. She’d seen the brawny male before. He was pleasing to the eye, well-muscled and clean shaven, with dirty-blond hair trimmed in a military cut. She hadn’t played with him directly, but had seen he straddled a good balance. Not too willing to please, because he sought a Mistress with a firm hand, but once he found one, he accommodated what both Mistress and sub were seeking. That level of subtle cooperation was something she enjoyed. His powerful form, height and breadth reminded her just enough of someone else. Yet he was different enough she wouldn’t get confused, depriving him of his just due by getting lost in her head. The sessions were about an equal give and take, and she was a fair Mistress.
Of course, fair or not, no matter who she chose tonight, a great deal of her energy was going to be driven by the memory of another man’s hands, his mouth. Well, if the sub got a pleasurable ride from her frustrated desire, she expected he wouldn’t complain. Such was the nature of her restricted interactions in the club. They knew what they could expect from her—and what they couldn’t. Until a few days ago in a garage parking deck, she would have said that was enough for her.