Command (Changing Roles Book 1) Read online

  There seemed to be no running from Jake Davenport. His determination to pursue outweighed my ability to evade. There was just one problem: he didn’t understand the depths of my fear, or how deep my scars cut.

  I tapped my cell phone and put the time for the meeting with the police on my calendar. Then I dialed Pete.

  “Lawry.” His brusque voice clipped through the phone.

  “Hey, Pete. I just got your message.”

  “It’s after midnight, girl. Kind of late to be calling.”

  “Well, I just got home from the club. I hope you don’t have a problem staying out late. Tomorrow you need to plan on being out until at least two, maybe later.”

  His end of the phone went silent. I could almost imagine him swallowing through an uncooperative throat. Pete was very much an alpha in the regular world. A true all-American male, he’d recently found himself turned on by the world of submission. He was so green. So perfect and wonderful.

  “Pete, are you there?” The silence stretched. I let it hang, allowed him to come back to me.

  He found his voice, although it cracked. “I’m here.”

  “You said you’ve been doing some research. Does that mean you’re ready for this?”

  “I’ll never really be ready. But if I don’t try it, I’ll never know. You’re not going to think any less of me, are you?”

  I sighed. This was the best part of the whole process, seeing the walls go up only to see them crumble ever so gently with the right hand. “Don’t worry. I found a Mistress, and she’s perfect.” I pulled out my laptop and e-mailed several files to him. “I’m sending you a limits list. You need to fill it out. I can help…if you want.”

  “Hang on. Let me get my computer up. Are you sending it now?”

  “That’s what I said.” He was definitely nervous, but I was happy to work through it with him. “We’ll talk about her requirements.”

  “Her what?”

  Confusion edged his voice, but it was laced with an eagerness I was glad to hear. “What to wear and how to prepare yourself.”

  A choked cough came through “Are you going to see me naked?” He cleared his throat.

  “Probably. Maybe more.”

  “What do you mean, more?”

  “Well, naked for sure…if she whips you or fucks you— If you’re not into exhibitionism, you need to let her know. Mistress Mandy likes the public play spaces; she rarely uses the private rooms. So, if you have sex, you’ll have an audience…”

  “Whoa, wait… If there’s any fucking going on, I’m the one who’s doing it.”

  So hard not to smile at his outburst, but I quelled the laughter burbling up. He flinched at the getting fucked part but not at the exhibitionism. I filed that fact away. “Well, maybe we should look at the limits list?”

  “Okay,” he said. “I got the file.” There was a moment of silence, then a clearing of his throat. “Holy crap. Um, you do all this stuff to guys?”

  “I do,” I murmured as I settled on the couch. “And they really like it. I think you will too.”

  “No way in hell am I doing this gay crap,” he said in a huff. “Putting something up my butt. Hell no!”

  This time, I couldn’t help the laughter.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “How do you know? Have you ever tried it?”

  A growl sounded through the phone. “It’s not happening. She’s not fucking me with a dildo.”

  “It’s up to you, but a lot of guys like the stimulation. They say it makes their orgasms more intense.”

  “I’m not a lot of guys. Hey, how do I do this? The soft and hard? Is that what you were saying earlier about something being a ‘no’ but not really a ‘no’?”

  “Yes,” I answered.

  He asked more questions, and before long I found myself clicking through the list, filling it out for myself…for Jake.

  “Well, I’m not going to let her fuck me,” he said with disgust.

  I laughed. “With the right Mistress, you’ll be surprised exactly what you’ll be willing to do. Don’t say yes to anything you know you don’t want to do, and expect your soft limits to be pushed and challenged. That’s the function of a good Domme—to explore all those taboos in her quest to fulfill you. Hard limits are nonnegotiable. No Domme will ever push you to break a hard limit. Don’t let them, and if they do, you run! The only person who can break your hard limit is you.”

  Disparaging remarks worked their way through the phone when he came against a limit he was unsure about. All male bravado, the fight of a man against his inner submissive. Pete’s darkest desires warred with his innermost fears. He wanted this but had yet to accept his fantasies could become real. Marking his limits down uncovered his eagerness to me. I paid attention to the strain in Pete’s voice. Mandy would appreciate knowing what excited him and what turned him off.

  He had a healthy outlook and was willing to be open about it. I’d give him space but would be there to mentor as needed. Our discussion continued, and as it did, a different worry grew within me having nothing to do with Pete. My thoughts turned toward Jake.

  His reputation was solid within the local scene. Although I didn’t know any of his submissives, I wasn’t aware of any who spoke ill of him. He was known as a matchmaker, keeping no long-term commitments, which frightened me.

  When I dominated, I didn’t form connections with the men. The same was not true when I submitted. Granted, my experience encapsulated the sum of the one Master I’d had in my remote past, but what I did know was that submission messed with my mind. I bonded hard. “Know your enemy” as the saying went, and I knew my mind well.

  The submissive carried the power in the relationship. The basic tenet of this lifestyle. Without a submissive’s willingness to surrender, impotence defined the dominant. It’s what I was trying to get Pete to understand, but it had not been what I had followed for myself. I had given up all power to my Master. What I feared most was making that same mistake again.

  When I handed over my list, the fear of losing myself would frame my every move. Fingers trembling, I pressed the Print button, and the printer spit out my list in black-and-white.

  Tomorrow, I’d hand power over to Jake. God help me to retain control.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Kate

  Getting ready to visit my old precinct meant dressing for confrontation. I’d worked with the men inside, lived and breathed both the good and the bad of our job. We’d once been close, sharing pictures of children, vacations, and pets. Once a month someone threw a backyard barbecue. We’d mingled our lives in and out of the job until the day they all had turned into spineless, cowardly bastards.

  Being outed as the Mistress of Pain had strained relationships past the breaking point, snapped and severed them all. Like cockroaches, my so-called friends had taken their worthless asses and scurried for cover while my life fell apart. Except one man. Although Pete had never once left my side, there was little he could do to salvage my career.

  I dressed to remind them who and what I was, but most importantly, I wanted them to know I hadn’t been defeated. Black dress, knee-high black boots, and a dark-emerald silk scarf matching the exact shade of my eyes hugged my curves. The dress swept my figure, stretched around my breasts, narrowing at my waist, and flaring at my hips. It screamed femininity, and the black color said I was serious. I wore minimal makeup, dark-brown eyeliner, and a light blush on my lips. My long auburn hair fell freely down my back in sexy waves. Less in this case was definitely more.

  I’d planned every detail to declare the power of female sensuality to the men gathered inside.

  It had been a couple of years since I’d seen my former colleagues. They waited to judge me and see how I’d kept myself in the intervening years. They were going to see power walk through those doors: strong, female, unstoppable confidence. They didn’t need to know how close I teetered to collapse, or that I now lived paycheck to paycheck.

  I snorted a laugh,
thinking about my clothes. I rocked my white leather outfit as Mistress of Pain, but a little black dress? I lit a room on fire, especially a room full of alpha males. Let them fist their cocks, fantasizing about me later tonight. I had no doubt most of them would.

  A smirk teased the corner of my mouth. It would have been so much fun to trail a bullwhip in this getup. It would have accessorized my outfit perfectly.

  A young officer met me inside and introduced himself as Macias, my designated escort. He helped me check in and saw me through security. Once I’d cleared the metal detectors, he led me through the busy precinct. He snaked through the maze of desks, walking beside me, his gaze gravitating unerringly to my breasts. Men were so predictable and so much fun.

  I stopped, and he came to a halt. I reached out and dug my fingernail into the soft flesh under his jaw. “My eyes are up here.”

  A beat cop lounging behind the desk to my right let out a snort and turned away, suppressing a laugh.

  Macias blushed three shades past scarlet. His gaze lifted to my eyes, bounced back to my breasts, then snapped back up. “I wasn’t…”

  I released him. “Yes, you were.”

  The beat cop snickered, and I tapped his shoulder. “I wouldn’t laugh if I were you.” He’d stopped working to watch me approach, and I’d bet a thousand dollars he had no idea what color my eyes were or even the color of my hair, but he’d guess my bra size without difficulty. He turned a deeper shade of scarlet than Macias.

  Macias coughed. “The bullpen is just up here.” He avoided looking at me by walking two steps in front as he directed me toward the conference room. I didn’t need him to show me the way. After all, this had been my home for eight wonderful years. But today I was a guest consultant. Not one of them.

  Busy as always, the place hopped with the fever of athletic men in blue keeping the city safe. Some not so athletic. Like Pete, they needed to spend more time on their beats and less time parked outside the doughnut shop. There was the obligatory sprinkling of women among the mix. Most wore blue uniforms. Women struggled to gain rank in this male-dominated field. I didn’t see a single female detective.

  The hierarchy of cops extended before me. Closest to the metal detectors, street cops sat at battered desks and processed ragged individuals confused, or angry, as to how the cops had won this round. The middle rows of desks corralled investigative officers busy tapping at their screens, filing reports, making calls, looking up from their work to stare as I swept by. One woman sat with that group. She glanced up and went straight back to work. Unlike the men, I was invisible to her.

  The last group of desks, larger and topped with faux-wood, belonged to the detectives. Less than half were occupied. They were all probably gathered in the bullpen, waiting for me. I glided past the desks and ignored the nervous feeling brewing inside me.

  Officer Macias guided me right past my old desk. My stride faltered, and I couldn’t help but stop and linger over what had once been the center of my life. Pictures of a man’s family decorated the space. Case files littered the surface. His IN/OUT baskets were as empty as his desk was full.

  My eyes closed. I took a deep breath. Irritation, anger, frustration, and a general sense of the unfairness of the world washed through me. I allowed the swirling emotions to rush past, not engaging in a rehashing of what was and wasn’t fair. This was no longer my world, and I’d moved on. Maybe not to a better place, but my PI business was something I made. It belonged to me. With enough time and patience, I’d build it into something I was proud to have my name on.

  Young Officer Macias directed me toward the bullpen, and even more years of memories assaulted me. Briefings of previous murder cases scrolled through my mind with each step forward. I shut the memories down.

  My old captain leaned against the doorway, irritation framing a heavyset jaw. I’d arrived fifteen minutes late. A tactical move in that it forced those inside to wait for me. Pete would call it a pissing contest. In this case, he’d be 100 percent correct.

  Captain Marshall spoke to someone inside the bullpen, the low, throaty grumble of his voice vibrating through the air. He glanced at his watch and frowned. His severe buzz cut carried over from his days in the marines, as did his impressive build. Fit and trim, he remained a fighting machine. Everyone respected him. At one time, so had I. The click-clack of my heels carried over the hubbub of the office, announcing my arrival. His head swiveled, and his eyes popped as he took in my appearance. Unlike Officer Macias, Captain Marshall’s eyes locked on my face. To the marine in him, a soldier was a soldier, no matter their sex. He brought the same nondiscrimination into the public sector.

  “Kate,” he said with a smile. “Thanks for coming.” He stretched out a hand the size of a bear-paw and folded it around my much smaller hand, careful not to squeeze too hard. His broad shoulders filled the doorway, blocking my view of those gathered inside. “When the mayor mentioned you might be helping out, I was skeptical you’d agree. Although considering the subject matter, I’m glad you did.”

  I stepped into his personal space, wondering if he would find me intimidating in my outfit. I wasn’t one of his soldiers anymore, and he couldn’t deny who I was or why the mayor had requested my presence on the task force.

  He took a step back.

  “What about the subject matter?” One hip cocked forward emphasized the curve of my hips.

  He cleared his throat. “It’s just…you know—”

  “Kinky fuckery?” I arched a brow.

  A cough and a glance away. “That’s not how I would put it.”

  Bastard couldn’t look me in the eye. He’d led the charge to get me fired, something I’d always thought odd. A hardened marine surely would have seen his share of freaky sex during his time in the service. Of all the people I’d worked with, he’d been the last man I expected to want me gone. But he had, and I’d never forgiven him.

  “Well, that’s what I’m here for, because I know all about perverts. Right, Randy?”

  He gave a start at the use of his first name. Honestly, it felt funny saying it. I’d only ever called him Captain Marshall, but I no longer worked for bible-thumping, puritanical Captain Randolph Marshall. I was going to call him whatever I damn well pleased.

  “You ready to get started?”

  I tapped his shoulder and pushed my way past the man who’d ended my career, and came to a sudden halt midstride.

  Jake Davenport?

  What the hell was he doing at a strategy meeting?

  Jake glanced up, his dark hair scattered over his crystalline blue eyes. Our gazes locked, and I found myself pinned in place under the intensity of his stare.

  And there was Pete, standing beside Jake, acting like this was all perfectly normal. Pete held a doughnut in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other.

  His partner, Janice Townsend, the severe woman who never smiled and the only other female in the room, stood on the other side of Pete, arms crossed, looking pissed as hell. She glanced at her watch as I stuttered to a stop.

  Pete waved the half-eaten doughnut in the air. “Hey, Kate.”

  Captain Marshall went to the head of the table, his spot. He pulled back the chair and gestured for me to have a seat. “Okay everyone, now that Detective…um, Ms. Summers has arrived, we’re ready to get started.”

  “Yeah,” said Janice. “About fucking time. You’re late.”

  What had I ever done to that woman to make her so disagreeable toward me? We definitely weren’t destined to be BFFs, not that I cared. Other than Mitzy, I kept a solitary life. Clearly, it would remain so.

  Pete jabbed Janice in the ribs. She shoved him with her hip, and the two of them scowled at each other.

  Besides Randy, Janice, Pete, and Jake, a handful of other men stood sipping coffee and eating doughnuts or sat at the table with their pens and pads of paper.

  Introductions were made. While I knew most of those present, there were a few new faces, like the man who had claimed my old job. I felt lik
e I knew him from the pictures decorating his desk. Detective John Watts had a smiling wife and two kids. His boy was in T-ball. The girl played soccer. Both took karate. And the family had a dog with a spot over his eye. John Watts earned himself a gold star because he was the only one of the lot to stand and shake my hand. When Randy Marshall introduced Jake, my stomach churned.

  “In addition to Ms. Summers, we’re pleased to have Jake Davenport consulting on this case. The mayor felt their expertise would be useful.”

  I crossed my arms over my chest, drawing unnecessary attention to my cleavage. I didn’t feel so confident in my black dress with Jake in the room. He held my gaze with the power of promise and challenge. After our talk last night, I knew what he wanted, making me suspicious of his purpose here today.

  Jake’s smooth-as-silk voice reached right across the bullpen and yanked my mind back to the meeting at hand. “Good morning.”

  My heart lodged in my throat. I’d been caught daydreaming. “Good morning.”

  His eyes narrowed the distance between us until we were the only two people in the room. “Miss Summers, I look forward to working with you. I think we’ll make a great team.”

  “Don’t ‘Miss Summers’ me, Jake Davenport.”

  Really? He was going formal? What I wouldn’t give to have looked up his middle name. A twinge of guilt pulled at me. I actually had dug a little. He’d never had a mother to call out his full name—the most effective attention getter in the world. We shared more than growing up without our mothers. He’d lost his father a couple of years ago and a twin brother. We were both bereft of our loved ones.

  “And what exactly do you bring to this case?” My challenge hung in the silence of the room, demanding an answer.