Enamored (14 page)

“Why did you have such a hard time the first time I wanted to dominate you?”

Lauren shrugged, like it didn’t matter. “Because I’m a Domme.”

“That’s only part of it, and you know it. Yeah, you’re a Domme. I get it. But you’ve proven to us both that you can enjoy submitting in the bedroom, with me at least. So why did you put up that shield before? Why keep me at arm’s length when all I wanted to do was lie on top of you and make love the other night?”

Lauren sat up. “We had a great time tonight. I don’t think we need to ruin it by talking about shit.”

And there it was, that shield again.

“What shit?”

“Come on, Marc,” she said, and suddenly she was no longer his submissive, no longer the woman who abandoned herself to his dominance mere moments before. “Let’s leave well enough alone.”

“We’ve been friends for a long time, and you’ve never told me what got you started in the scene. What made you want to dominate men, and women, too?”

“I could just as easily turn that question back on you,” she shot back.

Fuck. Fine.

“I’ve always been dominant by nature,” he said, shrugging, knowing she’d understand. “Even as a teen when I’d fantasize about the high school cheerleaders, I was imagining how they’d react if I snuck up on them in the locker room, pushed them against the wall, and kissed them until they begged me to fuck them. I fantasized about bringing them to my room and tying them up before we fucked. And to be honest, I’m not sure most teens think that way. Most are happy to make out in the backseat of their parents’ car on a Saturday night and get to second base.”

“Well, imagine if one of those girls in the backseat of that car didn’t just get to second base,” Lauren said slowly. “Imagine if she wanted to just take it slow and do what all the other cheerleaders did and make out with a hot football player after the movies.”

Marc swallowed. “Lauren, what happened to you?”

Chapter Seven

R
oman didn’t even feel the jet-lag of flying all the way to Tokyo from New York. He slept well on the red-eye flight, and the strong coffee served by the soft-spoken flight attendant helped re-animate him.

First things first, he had to meet with his investors and get business out of the way. Solving business problems was the second-best way for him to get his mind off of Elisabeth. He’d attend to the first-best way later that evening. In Japan, Roman had to take his time, respecting the culture and bowing in return as he shook hands with the current CEOs of the company the Brooks Wilde Chase Fund had recently acquired. They all exchanged business cards, as was custom, and Roman made sure to carefully appreciate each card handed to him before putting it in his wallet. When in Rome—well, Japan—Roman did the best he could to fit in, despite his intimidating height compared to the men surrounding him.

Sake was poured by quiet, small Asian secretaries who walked so silently one could almost pretend they didn’t even exist—except for their loveliness and simple servitude. The men made small talk before getting down to the heart of the matter. The company was in the red, and nothing they were doing was putting it in the black. Either money or cuts needed to be made.

Roman was grateful for his fluent Japanese, although many of the other men spoke in English to him, perhaps as a sign of a respect, or perhaps just to practice the language. He walked the halls of the building, pointing out inefficiencies without mercy. The men nodded and took notes, looking at the floor, as if ashamed to have their new investor see the true trouble they were in. By the time Roman left the building, he felt back to his usual self.

Confident. Dominant.

If the company did as he said, in the next three years, they’d not only be pulling a profit, they’d be pulling in enough money to make Brooks Wilde Chase look like geniuses instead of gamblers for their investment. It was all a gamble, though, was it not? It’s how they became billionaires, and how they made their own investors rich too.

It took a strong stomach to invest in their hedge fund, but those who did had learned to trust Roman’s gut when it came to foreign investments such as this one. The fact that he’d even fly to Tokyo to check in with the company in person would show everyone that he was on the ball. That his fail of a toast at Trevor and Elisabeth’s wedding had been an inconsequential incident. No big deal.

But it was a big deal.

Roman needed to get over Elisabeth, Marc was right about that. And he knew exactly the place to do it. Tonight, he’d visit Kabukicho, the red-light district of Tokyo. It didn’t have actual red lights with women in windows prostituting themselves—not like in Amsterdam, another of his favorite places to visit when his schedule or business allowed. No, in Kabukicho he could find exactly what he needed without even trying.

And what Roman needed that night was a beautiful woman who would let him practice his
shibari
, his Japanese rope-tying skills, on her and who would love every second of it as much as he did.

The hotel he stayed at was serene and decorated to increase the feng shui of the room, with a tiny waterfall trickling in one corner, and growing plants that were meticulously cared for by the well-trained staff. The bed was simple and modern, without the many places to latch a girl down as he had on his own bed at home in Westchester. Still, it would provide a nice place to rest, if he did indeed get any sleep tonight. Kabukicho wasn’t called the “Sleepless Town” for nothing.

His chauffer didn’t blink when Roman told him where to go. Where else would a single, American businessman in Japan go for an evening of entertainment? But he didn’t want a simple happy-ending massage or soap down, or even to watch a show.

He’d seen some incredible performance art done in the underground sex clubs in Kabukicho in the past, however. Women posed and tied in intricate, uncomfortable poses that suspended them from one foot, or that forced them to balance in such a way to avoid inescapable pain from the rough-hewn, thin hemp rope used to bind them until their breasts turned purple, their arms so tightly bound behind them that Roman had to wonder how they didn’t dislocate their shoulders.

The moans and soft pleading of the bound woman became a part of the performance, a part of the art. It was a beautiful sight to behold.

Tonight, however, he wanted one of those girls to himself. He envisioned a beautiful, naked Japanese woman kneeling before him, perhaps with one of those ropes tied tightly right over her clit. He could make her a dress out of rope and every step she’d take would be exquisite erotic torture, both for her, and for him. His own torture came from knowing that nothing she did would fill the hole in his heart left by Elisabeth choosing Trevor over him, permanently.

If he paid his Japanese escort, she’d do anything. And to get his mind off of Elisabeth, anything was exactly what he needed right now.

L
auren lay next to Marc in his bed, his question to her still lingering in the air like the scent of that moment in her past, the smell of sweat and fear. It was something she had no desire to return to. She’d long ago buried it and moved on. How, then, could she answer him when he asked her what had happened to her?

Lovers in bed told secrets, she supposed. Her submissives, the ones she became attached to or dated for a while often used her as their confessor, as if in hope she’d punish them and absolve them of their sins. But no one could remove her memories, and memories that hurt were what kept her strong when she felt weak. Right now, after finally fucking Marc the way he wanted to fuck her—

—the way she wanted to be fucked, too, at least in the moment—

 . . . she felt too open, too vulnerable. Was it any wonder that her shield, as Marc called it, had gone back up?

“Marc,” she whispered. “Let’s take this one step at a time. Tonight was a big deal for me. Letting go like that . . . it was a big deal. I’m thrilled I was able to do it. I’d do it again in a heartbeat—”

“Good,” he said. “Me too.”

“But we need to back up a bit. Having sex, having me finally bottom for you with none of the ‘who’s on top nonsense’ as you said, will have to be enough for tonight.”

“I just want to know more about you. Everything. I want to know everything.”

Could she give Marc everything? Her body, yes. Her mind, her soul?

No. Not yet.

“I’m not there, Marc. I can’t tell you everything, but someday, perhaps when we are back to being just friends and I no longer feel . . . like this . . . I can tell you about how I became a Domme.”

Marc frowned. “Damn it, Lauren, every time you talk about our time ending it feels like you’re the one holding the whip, and I’m feeling the lash. It hurts like a bitch.”

“I don’t want to hurt you. Well, I do, but not like that. Not your feelings. Please don’t take it personally.”

Marc rolled over in the bed, not looking at her. “How can I not take it personally?” he asked the wall.

“I can tell you part of the story, how about that?”

He rolled back over to her. “I’m sorry, baby,” he murmured. “I’m not trying to rush you into revealing things you aren’t ready to talk about.”

“Yes you are,” she teased, and tickled his neck, making him laugh despite the sincere worry on his face.

“Maybe just a little.”

“No judging me, that’s the rule, okay?”

“I don’t judge, but I also don’t like you making rules for me.”

She laughed. How easy it was to fall back into her old ways. Being Marc’s sub was still too new to her for it to come naturally. Of course she’d slip and start making rules.

“Sorry, sir.”

“Forgiven,” he said, kissing her forehead. Absolved of her first sin, she supposed. And she didn’t believe for a second that he wouldn’t judge her actions. How could he not? Just the fact that he was so excited about her being an anal virgin proved he still held some traditional beliefs about women and innocence.

Lauren hadn’t been innocent since that night, long ago. But skipping that, even then, she’d gone way too far. If they weren’t talking in bed, still in a state of post-coital harmony, it would be different. If he was the Marc she could talk to and tease as a fellow Domme, the story would be different. It would be funny, even, because she could make the most terrifying of stories amusing with simply her tone, her gestures.

She had none of that at her disposal now. How she wished they were back at WhipperSnapper, sitting in the dark at their booth, watching the dog-and-pony show as they shared conquests. If he had asked her this question a month ago, it would have sounded different. Felt different. Tonight, it sounded exactly the way her own experiences with hearing her subs’ secrets felt: like a confession. One she needed to be forgiven for.

She didn’t want forgiveness. She wanted to go back in time to before the bet, or fast-forward to next week so she didn’t feel like she was giving him a part of herself, a personal part that he would hold on to and remember forever, knowing Marc.

“Long story short,” she said, “I was a professional Dominatrix by the time I was eighteen. It’s what I did instead of going to college. And let me tell you, I learned a lot. The most important thing I learned is that when a man wants something from you, he has to earn it.”

“You’re mine, Lauren. I won the bet, doesn’t that count for earning it?”

“Apparently it does,” she whispered.

“So men paid you?”

“Yes. I didn’t sleep with them. Sleeping with your clients was like flushing your money down the toilet. They’d get attached, you’d get attached, you’d break up . . . and suddenly you were out of a paying client. So there was no sex involved. I worked at a club, I had a list of regular clientele. They came to me.”

“Sounds like your fantasy come true,” he said.

“I did a lot of drugs back then, Marc,” she admitted. “I self-medicated to stop myself from thinking about the things I was doing.”

He seemed taken aback by this. “You don’t do drugs now. You didn’t even take the pain medicine the doctor prescribed you when your back went out.”

“Yeah, just the muscle relaxers.” She smiled. “They’re good for a snoozle-nap, at least. This is why I don’t want to tell you this stuff, by the way.”

“What? Why?”

She laughed softly. “Because you remember everything. Everything I’ve ever done, ever said. Like an elephant.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” he said. “So . . . you quit?”

“Yes, I quit. And shortly after I quit doing drugs I had to quit working at the club and being a paid Dominatrix. I worked by the hour, Marc. I made a shit load of money. But without the haze, without the fog in my brain to keep myself from really seeing what I was doing, I couldn’t keep doing it.”

Marc held her, snuggled against her in his sheets. Being with him felt so good, sometimes. A lot of the time. And it scared the hell out of her.

“So what sort of things did you do, if you didn’t sleep with them?” Marc asked.

“Well, I don’t sleep with the subs I play with at WhipperSnapper, at least not while we’re there.” She frowned. “I’m not sure this is the best conversation to have. You’ll think less of me.”