Command (Changing Roles Book 1) Page 6

  I ignored him, choosing instead to stare at a spot over his left shoulder. I waited for him to pull his hand back before returning my attention to our small table. The thin line of his pressed lips told me I’d succeeded in frustrating him or annoying him. Either way, score one for me.

  He pressed his empty palm on the tabletop. “You’ve been away a long time, Kate Summers. I was wondering, what brought you back?”

  So he knew my name. He also knew of my absence. One more point for him. What else did he know?

  He hadn’t answered my question, so I asked again. “Why have you been following me?”

  “I told you. I thought we should meet.”

  My gaze flicked to his vest. What position did he hold at Stripes?

  “Why?”

  He pushed back the hair from his eyes, and I was able to see his pupils surrounded by a heavenly blue.

  “Your reputation is solid, and you’re skilled with a whip. People are whispering about you and how you manage your scenes. You’re a legend around here, with an uncanny knack for getting inside the mind of a submissive. People want to learn how you do it, and I’d like you to become a mentor here. Once you get your old groove back, that is.”

  He surprised me with that last comment. How had he known?

  I huffed a laugh, trying to play off his comment and buy myself time to recover. “Already got a day job.” He hadn’t mentioned a job, but I wondered if being a mentor was a volunteer position or paid.

  This guy had to be in management.

  His gaze seemed to soften, and the corners of his eyes crinkled. “We work at night. It doesn’t pay much—”

  “Sorry. Not interested.” I needed the money, but my day job often required me to work late into the evening. Besides, something told me I did not want to work for this man. His presence unsettled me in the wrong way.

  He thrust out his hand again, forcing me to take it or show my rudeness. “Jake Davenport, co-owner of Stripes. At your service.”

  Ah crap. I took his hand to shake. But being an owner didn’t earn him any points. No wonder he’d laughed when I’d threatened to have him thrown out of the club. Still, he needed to be taken down a notch.

  “Never heard of you. But you obviously know who I am.”

  His cheeky grin returned. His deep-blue eyes never shifted from my face, but they made slight movements as he watched my lips and followed the sweep of my lashes as I blinked. He was probably trying to determine the size of my pupils to see if I was as attracted to him as he was so obviously infatuated by me. Which, of course, I was.

  He saw into and through me as if I were a bug under a microscope. God forbid he ever learned my secrets.

  I retrieved my hand and placed it in my lap and away from his attentive gaze. “So, Jake. Do you routinely make it a point of stalking Mistresses?”

  He set my teeth on edge because he had my body thrumming with uncomfortable sensations, in particular a needy pulsation between my legs. Yet another thing I hadn’t felt in years.

  I placed my hands on the table in preparation to push away. “It has been a pleasure meeting you, but I have business to attend to.”

  “I take it that business has to do with the questions you’ve been asking?” He pointed to the photograph I had placed facedown on the table. “May I?”

  I pushed the picture over to him. “There’s nothing wrong with asking questions.” I held myself rigid, fighting the instinct to give ground and lean away.

  Wow, he smelled amazing: musky and woodsy and male. There went my eyes again, shifting down. I brought my gaze up and stared straight into his magnetic eyes. They were liquid pools of desire, the pupils blown with lust.

  “No, but you know how edgy folks can get.” He glanced at the picture, and his eyes darkened. The corners of his lips turned down.

  Mandy Middletown, a Domme I recognized, held her arms out as she approached our table with a beaming smile. “Kate. I’ve missed you.”

  “Mandy.” I rose and gave Mandy a hug.

  Jake’s gaze followed my every move. His scrutiny was unbearable, but my body soaked it up. I even found myself twisting to present my body’s curves in their best light to him. What the hell was happening to me?

  “It’s been too long. Does this mean you’re back?” Mandy pointed a finger at a submissive male passing by. “You, fetch me a chair!”

  “Yes, Mistress!” The man scurried to obey.

  Jake offered his chair to Mandy, but she waved him down with a flick of her fingers. “Sit, Jake.”

  His eyes narrowed at the thinly veiled command, but he sat.

  When the submissive returned with a chair, Mandy had him kneel a few feet away. “So, what brings you back?” Mandy always went for the direct approach, bullying her way to the heart of the matter.

  I glanced at Jake and decided he was going to find out soon enough. Out came the card Mrs. Westmoreland had found in Elizabeth’s backpack. “I’m working a case.”

  Mandy reached out to grab the card, but Jake intercepted. A sexy smile spread across his face as he read the card.

  “Oh, a case. That’s right; you’re a private detective now. One of your cases brought you here?” She clapped her hands, excited. “Oh, you have to spill the details.”

  “There aren’t many I can share; client confidentiality and all.” I gave a shake of my head and hoped Mandy wouldn’t press for more. “The card is all I have to go on. I’m trying to get myself an invitation to that club. I’m looking for…a girl. She was last seen at that club. Have you heard of it?”

  I wasn’t yet ready to divulge the details of her death.

  Jake put the card on the table and pushed it over to Mandy with a finger. “There’s no way you’re getting an invite to that club.”

  Mandy picked up the card.

  I knew what Mandy would read. I could recite it by heart.

  The Edge Founders would like to welcome you to:

  New Members Weekend, March 3-5

  Mandy placed the card down on the table. “He’s right, honey. No way are you getting in there.”

  My gaze flicked between them. “Why not? I have excellent references.”

  Jake crossed his arms. “They’re not letting you within ten miles unless you’re collared, chained, and attached to a Master. Your reputation as a Mistress guarantees you’ll never get past the door.”

  No way was I losing this case over a technicality. “I’ll speak to the owners and get them to make an exception. I just need to get through the front door.”

  Jake huffed a laugh. “You don’t understand how the Edge works.”

  “And you do?” I glared at him.

  He arched a brow in answer. “In fact, I do.”

  Chapter Five

  Kate

  The next morning I opened my detective agency focused on the case. Images of Elizabeth buffeted my mind: Her body strung up on a beam. Her skin bruised and welted with marks. Her face red and swollen from the belt used to strangle her.

  A gut-wrenching vertigo had the world spinning. I pressed my hands against my temples, fingers clutching at strands of my hair, trying to stave off the inevitable. Jabbing my thumbs against my ears did nothing to shut out the roaring as past collided with the present.

  An inky blackness swarmed from the edges of my vision, narrowing my focus down to a single dim point. My chest constricted, and I couldn’t breathe as the worst moment of my life assaulted me with a noxious plume of memory.

  I’d been seventeen, younger than Elizabeth by several years. I could smell his cologne—sandalwood and spice. Older and distinguished, he’d entered my life, and I’d fallen hard. My Master knew things, dark secrets that drew me. Using the power of his mind, the strength of his body, and the promise of his evocative words, he pulled me into his world.

  I had responded with an explosion of wanton desire with the application of the first blush of pain across my skin. The rapid strike of his hand had me begging with my screams. The solid slap of his belt dr
agged out my deepest lust even as I screamed my throat raw. The faintest scent of leather whispered past my nose.

  Such a powerful memory.

  He had always been able to read my body so easily and turn pain into blissful pleasure. My instinctual need to submit had me desperate to please, and like any addict, his approval became my fix.

  I fed off his need, and he devoured my willing surrender. I did everything to please him, pushing the boundaries of what was safe and sane.

  He had been a monster, but I didn’t care. I couldn’t see the depths of his evil because I valued his approval too deeply. Clarity came too late. I allowed him to bind me. After he had me helpless, he cut me.

  The coppery smell of blood returned to me, my life leaking out of my veins.

  Only he had died and not I.

  My father thought he had saved me. He believed until the day of his death a few short years ago that I’d been an unwilling victim of a psychopath. Little did he know how warped I had become, or what a mess I would later make of his legacy.

  I blinked away fiery-hot tears and swallowed past a scratchy throat. I hadn’t had a flashback in years. For this to derail my morning routine had me worried. I was stronger than that.

  The clock on the wall read ten minutes until nine. I needed to regain my center. I fell back on techniques my therapists had taught me. I breathed in, sucking in a deep lungful of air. Holding it, I counted and waited for my pulse to slow and my lungs to burn. A minute passed. Ten more seconds. I forced myself past the pain, denying myself breath. When the urge became unbearable, I blew out on a count of one, two, three. My heart rate stabilized, and I breathed. Sweet air surged into my lungs.

  I unclenched my fingers and rubbed sweat from my palms onto the fabric of my pants. I had this.

  Exhale. Even breaths now. Feel the heartbeat. Slow it down. Slower, slower…slow.

  Panic receded as my self-control returned. Good. I could focus again.

  The door chime announced my assistant’s arrival.

  Mitzy was late but with Starbucks in hand, so I wasn’t complaining. While I appeared composed on the outside, my stomach rolled with an unsettled, queasy feeling.

  She knocked on my office door and held up the coffee against the one-way glass. “Sorry I’m late. But I brought a gift.” Her singsong voice brought a smile to my face.

  The rich aroma of coffee swirled on the currents of stale office air and hit me with the promise of a pick-me-up. She joined me in my office, sitting in the battered metal chair.

  “Mitzy, you have no idea how wonderful this smells.”

  “Damn, boss lady, looks like you could use it. What happened?”

  What to say? I had a late night and trouble with a scene that didn’t go as smoothly as I planned? Or maybe I should tell her about the arrogant Dom who got under my skin. I certainly wasn’t going to expound on the nightmares about Elizabeth’s murder, a girl I identified strongly with, a girl I’d almost been. Those images had kept me screaming into my pillow until dawn. Or my reactivated PTSD, which threw me for a loop less than an hour ago?

  Maybe I should settle for something easy. I leaned back and sipped from my brew. “Nothing. Just didn’t sleep well.”

  “You look like crap.”

  “Thanks.” What was it with the honesty of youth?

  Her eyes brightened. “I’ve got just the thing.” She rummaged around in her overstuffed bag. “Ah, here it is.”

  She yanked out a white tube from the depths of her purse and held it aloft. “The perfect cure for an imperfect night.”

  Surely that wasn’t what it looked like. “Is that…?”

  “Hemorrhoid cream? Yeah.” Mitzy thrust it toward my face.

  I couldn’t help but jerk away from the butt cream. “I don’t know…”

  “Trust me. It’ll do wonders for those bags under your eyes.”

  “I don’t have bags under my eyes.”

  Mitzy twirled her finger in the air and pointed to the wall of glass. “Trust me, you do.”

  I peered into the reflective glass as Mitzy held out the tube. No denying it. The black circles underneath my eyes were a perfect match for my coordinating wardrobe of black shirt and matching trousers. I had my long hair pulled off my face, tied into a utilitarian ponytail, making me look even more severe than I intended. But I didn’t care. There was no one here I had to impress.

  “And this works?” I turned dubious eyes on my young assistant. Why would Mitzy need butt cream on her eyes?

  “Yeah. Try it.”

  Hemorrhoid cream to reduce the bags under my eyes? What did I have to lose? I applied the white cream, and the skin beneath my eyes tingled and tightened, erasing a restless night. Stuff smelled horrible, and I wrinkled my nose. Good thing I had the coffee to counteract the stench. Now for the caffeine to work on perking me up from the inside out, and I’d be all set.

  “Nice trick.” I handed the tube back to Mitzy. “Do we have any appointments today?”

  Mitzy took her coffee and walked into the outer office, where she checked the books. “No.”

  I cupped the hot coffee in my hands, inhaling the rich scent. I could barely smell the butt cream anymore. I caught Mitzy firing up her online gaming website out of the corner of my eye and shook my head. As the site loaded, Mitzy pulled out a bottle of furniture polish and a cleaning cloth. Orcs and elves might die by the thousands, but they’d have to wait until the office was squeaky clean.

  I shut myself inside my office, intent on tackling the stack of bills I’d ignored yesterday. The other task on my list was to look for information on the Edge, but I came up empty with my online search.

  The clock crept toward noon. The bell jangled, and two people walked in. Curious, I looked up from my computer screen and peered through my one-way window.

  The man who entered was beautiful, with stunning aristocratic features, olive skin, dark close-cropped black hair, and black hooded eyes. Young, in his early twenties, he was an exotic Middle Eastern specimen. His lips were set in a severe line, and he told Mitzy he was here on a serious matter.

  A woman joined him, standing slightly to the left and behind him where I couldn’t get a good look at her.

  The leather boots poking out from under his jeans looked expensive, and a flash around his wrist hinted at wealth. An unusual client for my business. But what struck me as odd weren’t the boots or even what I suspected was a Rolex on his wrist. It was the blonde beauty—head bowed, hand clutched in his, standing behind him—that had my alarm bells ringing. Around her neck a very distinctive piece of jewelry dangled.

  Mitzy greeted the couple. “There are a few forms to fill out. Then Miss Summers can meet with you.”

  She handed the man a clipboard with the standard new client intake forms.

  He scanned the questions and then placed the clipboard on the table. “I would prefer to speak with Miss Summers now, if that might be possible?” His perfectly articulated English held a hint of a British accent.

  The woman was the epitome of the all-American girl. Her wavy blonde hair was pulled back under a pink hairband, dipped down to her shoulder blades, and bounced like her perky double-D breasts. She had a narrow waist, wide hips, and a true hourglass figure any woman would envy. She gazed up at him through thick lashes with complete adoration.

  I remembered how that look felt. This was more than a simple relationship, as evidenced by the slave collar fastened around her petite neck.

  Having a dominant and submissive show up in my office the day after my visit to Stripes could not be a coincidence.

  I stepped into the waiting room. “Mitzy, it’s okay.” I turned to the man and gestured to my office. “Please.”

  Mitzy lifted the clipboard. “But he hasn’t filled out the paperwork.”

  I couldn’t help but smile. For the second time in two days, we’d had clients refuse to fill out our intake questionnaire. Mitzy’s obsessive-compulsive tendencies had to be firing overtime.

  “It�
��s okay, Mitzy. We’ll deal with the paperwork later.” I escorted the odd couple into my office.

  When I asked Mitzy to bring in another chair, the man closed the door, pulling it tight. He sat and pointed with a finger to the floor. The woman knelt beside him, gracefully leaning against his legs. I shook my head at Mitzy through the glass, telling her to forget the chair. I went around and sat down behind my desk.

  “Miss Summers,” said the man. “I prefer to get straight to the point. My name is Fahd Imman.”

  His eyes took in the details of my office, perusing with great interest the cheap government rejects I had purchased. The cookie-cutter paintings on the wall, which meant nothing and cost pennies, were there only because that’s what you were supposed to do with an empty wall. He paid them little mind.

  When he noticed the hanging bar, with the targets I used for whip practice, he rewarded me with a lifting of his brow. His attention returned by degrees as his assessment of my office, and by extension me, concluded.

  I hated the way he weighed and measured my worth by the sorry state of my decor.

  “I wish to employ your services.”

  I figured that part out. Question was how did this relate to my case?

  The woman at his feet opened her purse and pulled out a photo. She leaned forward and placed the picture on my desk. The man did not move.

  “This is a picture of myself and my Master with my sister slave, Elizabeth Westmoreland.”

  The photo depicted a staged photo shoot. Mr. Imman wore a sheik’s turban and a multitude of gold chains around his neck. Otherwise he was naked and very aroused. Thick ropy veins bulged over a moderately sized cock.

  The blonde knelt at his right, naked as well, with a golden band around her neck with rings at front and side. A thick golden chain ran from the front ring to his hand. A bodice made from golden chains fell from the collar, highlighting the swell of her breasts. Rubies pierced her nipples. An emerald pierced her belly button. She sat back on her heels with her knees spread. A clit ring glittered with diamonds.

  Elizabeth, by contrast, remained unadorned. No nipple rings. No clit rings. Not even a belly-button piercing. She bowed before him, a little to the side so as not to obscure his erection from the camera lens.